A Murder in Time(126)
“Rose was seen upstairs either at nine or nine-thirty. Around ten, she was asked to bring in vegetables from the garden. At eleven, she gave bread and cheese to Thomas.” She underlined that time. “Unless someone else comes forward, that’s the last time she was seen. Molly said she was supposed to help with the linens at one o’clock, but never showed. That’s a two hour window for her to disappear.”
Rebecca frowned. “The girl must have been taken right here in the castle. How the devil is that possible? Surely someone would have seen one of our suspects loitering about? The servants know Mr. Morland, Mr. Dalton, and the vicar. They would have seen them!”
“It’s more possible than you realize.” Ted Bundy had kidnapped women in the middle of busy parks and crowded beaches. No one expected a predator to be in their midst, especially if a predator so fully blended into his surroundings.
“I, too, am finding it difficult to believe,” Aldridge admitted.
Kendra asked, “Did you notice Lord Sutcliffe when we arrived in the stable yard?”
He raised his brows. “Of course.”
“Why?”
“Why? I’d recognize my own nephew, Miss Donovan!”
“Would you recognize him if he was dressed as the gardener? We were in the kitchens for a few minutes before you realized Lady Rebecca was there. We see what we expect to see. There’s a lot of extra help around, and some of the guests brought their own servants. If the unsub dressed the part, he may have gone unnoticed.”
How many serial killers did exactly that by wearing a uniform? A repairman, a postal worker . . . a policeman.
“Yes. I recognize what you are saying, Miss Donovan,” Aldridge said slowly. “And you are quite right. ’Tis a technique employed successfully by spies during war, to infiltrate enemy territory. Of course, not without considerable risk. He is bold.”
“Yes, he’s confident,” Kendra agreed, “and we may use that to our advantage, because confidence breeds arrogance. And an unsub who becomes arrogant tends to slip up.”
And he would slip up, she was certain. But would it be in time to save Rose?
Kendra had never felt so helpless. In all the investigations she’d been involved in, she’d been an outsider, brought in to review the evidence with a cool head and an even colder eye. She hadn’t been emotionless. She’d felt pity for the victim, for the victim’s family and friends. It was impossible to be part of something like that and not be touched by the fear and grief. But the source of her personal terror had always come from not doing her job properly, from missing a vital piece of evidence that could lead them to the victim—or, after the victim was found, to the killer.
For the first time ever, she was fully invested. Her fear was twofold: the gnawing anxiety that she was missing something, and for Rose herself. She could imagine all too well what the girl was going through. She’d seen the killer’s work with Lydia. She paced the room, made notes, circled back to reevaluate the old notes.
Despite the pots of coffee she had consumed, Kendra could feel exhaustion creeping in. Rebecca had tried to persuade her to go to bed, but had finally given up. After Rebecca had left, the Duke had added his voice. “You need to sleep, Miss Donovan. You can do nothing more here. You will make yourself ill.”
But it wasn’t until around two in the morning, when the words blurred on the slate board, that Kendra conceded. She needed sleep. She would start fresh in the morning.
The castle’s corridors were silent as she walked down them. The silence pressed heavily against her chest. She carried her own candle to light the way up the backstairs to the bedchamber. Inside that shadowy room, she simply stood and stared at Rose’s empty bed.
Her eyes burned with tears. She set the candle down and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyelids. Jesus. She was so damn tired.
Why the hell am I here? If I can’t even save Rose, why the f*ck am I here?
She began undressing, her movements robotic. Shoes first, then the tights. The dress was another matter. The buttons were down the back. She could reach some of them, but not all. It was why she and Rose had always helped each other.
After a moment of consideration, she finally unpinned the fichu, unfastened the buttons she could reach, and then pulled the dress over her head. It took some wriggling. There was no spandex in this era. Without that stretch, Kendra could feel the seams strain, and half expected them to rip apart. She finally managed to pull herself free of the gown, which she tossed on the floor. Next, she rid herself of the shift and chemise, and slipped into the shapeless white nightgown that had been part of the wardrobe Rebecca had ordered for her. The gyrations loosened her hair. She removed the pins, and used her fingers to comb the thick mass before climbing into bed. Blowing out the candle, she yanked up the thin blankets.
Despite her fatigue, she found herself studying the shadows and moonbeams that dueled across the slanted ceiling. Nighttime noises in the overall quiet screamed at her: a light wind rattling the windowpanes, the faint creaks and low groans as the ancient fortress settled. But she was keenly aware of the absence of sounds that she’d grown accustomed, Rose’s light breathing from the narrow bed next to her and the rustle of blankets as the tweeny shifted in sleep.
Kendra’s throat tightened, and tears began to trickle hotly down her cheeks. With a moan, she curled into a ball beneath the covers, and thought of the irony of crying for a girl who’d already died more than two hundred years before she’d been born.