A Murder in Time(122)
Kendra hesitated, glancing at the anxious faces around her. “Keep thinking about the last time you saw Rose—if you saw her with anyone, or if you noticed any strangers around the castle,” she told them, and then broke away to join the housekeeper at the door.
“The carriage is ready,” Mrs. Danbury said quietly.
Kendra nodded, but when she tried to move past her, the housekeeper caught her arm.
“You will find the girl, won’t you?” For once there was no suspicion or contempt or dislike in the other woman’s gaze. There was only fear, and a terrible need. Like the others, Mrs. Danbury seemed to think she could actually do something.
“I’m . . . I’m going to try.”
Mrs. Danbury nodded. “Then, go. Please, go find her before it’s too late.”
Kendra managed a nod, but there was an icy lump in her throat. The last time anyone had seen Rose was eleven that morning.
It might already be too late.
49
Time was the enemy in every missing person case, every kidnapping, every homicide. There was always a phantom clock ticking in the background, counting every second.
Darkness had fallen, and Kendra was reminded again of how much she took for granted in her era. Something as simple as street lighting would be a blessing. Here, they relied on the moon—and thank God there was a moon that night—and the carriage’s brass lanterns, which were, she supposed, a precursor to headlights.
As the carriage made its now familiar lurch forward, she clenched her hands on her lap in an attempt to alleviate the unbearable tension twisting in her gut.
“’Tis hazardous to travel at night,” Aldridge said mildly, recognizing her anxiety. “London recently acquired gas lighting on its streets, but the countryside is a far different matter. We must proceed more cautiously.”
She’d already figured that out, but she nodded anyway. They lapsed into a grim silence that was only broken by the clatter of horses’ hooves, the rhythmic turn of the carriage’s wheels and the crunch of gravel, the occasional squeak of leather. Kendra tried to clear her mind, to compartmentalize her thoughts, but horrifying images of Rose kept intruding, expanding the icy ball of terror that had become permanently lodged in the pit of her stomach.
Is Rose alive? Or were they racing around like rats in a maze for a hopeless cause?
The ride felt like hours, but it was actually only fifteen minutes before the vehicle swayed to a stop outside the vicarage. The Duke dispensed with the calling card ritual, opening the carriage door himself and jumping down. He waited only to assist Kendra, then hurried up the flagstone path to bang on the door.
“We need to speak with your master, my good man!” he said when the butler opened it.
The servant gaped at him, completely taken aback by someone as important as the Duke of Aldridge appearing on the doorstep with no announcement. “S-sir? Your Grace. Mr. Harris and Mrs. Harris only sat down to dine. I shall inform them of your presence at once!”
“No need.” Aldridge shouldered his way past the man, moving down the long, skinny hall to the stairs. “I know where the dining room is.”
Kendra followed.
“Sir!” The butler finally had enough presence of mind to race after them, but by the time he caught up, Aldridge was already opening the door to the dining room at the top of the stairs. Kendra caught the gleam of dark mahogany paneling, and the warm, buttery glow cast from wall sconces, the fireplace, and a scattering of candles on the table. Harris was sitting at one end of a long table, his hand poised to spear a boiled potato from the serving dish that a maid was holding in front of him; Mrs. Harris sat primly at the other end.
The vicar glanced in their direction, frowning at the unexpected intrusion.
“What the devil—?” Seeing the Duke, Harris’s eyebrows hiked and he dropped the fork, rising to his feet.
“The Duke of Aldridge,” the butler announced belatedly behind them.
The Duke strode forward. “I beg your pardon for interrupting your meal, Mr. Harris, ma’am.” He gave a nod at Mrs. Harris. “We’ve come on a matter of great urgency. One of my maids has gone missing.”
Harris frowned. “I don’t understand, sir. Your maid is missing, and you are under the impression that she is here?”
Kendra studied him closely, couldn’t see anything beyond his confusion—or the appearance of confusion. Serial killers were chameleons. They adapted to whatever the situation called for, and lied without batting an eyelash.
“Where were you today, Mr. Harris?” she demanded bluntly. She’d be damned if she’d waste time being polite. Time. They were running out of it.
Harris flicked her a haughty look. “Are you accusing me now of murdering your maid, Miss Donovan? It wasn’t enough for you to insult me yesterday by suggesting that I went about murdering whores?”
“I want to know where you were today. I’m not too concerned if that insults you or not.”
Red tinged his cheekbones. “Your Grace, surely—”
Aldridge cut him off, his tone sharp. “I shall apologize for any insult, but please answer the question, Mr. Harris. Time is a factor here.”
The vicar gave a put-upon sigh and shrugged. He wouldn’t challenge Aldridge, Kendra knew. “I worked in my study in the early morning hours, and then rode over to the King’s Head, where I indulged in a pint. Mr. Hawkings can attest to my whereabouts if my word isn’t good enough for you.” He let that hang for a moment, but when no one contradicted him, he continued, his tone becoming even more brittle. “I returned home, had my midday meal. Later, I went riding.”