A Murder in Time(47)

Kendra let out the breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. He wasn’t calling her crazy. Yet.

That test would come when she told the Duke what she knew, what she suspected.

She could only pray that he’d believe her.



Kendra hung back while they discussed where to bring the body—the castle’s icehouse was the final consensus. Then they had to figure out the best way to get her there. It was finally decided that a couple of footmen would carry her to the clearing, and a wagon would transport the victim the rest of the way to the castle.

The process was cumbersome. First, the remaining footmen were squeamish about touching the body any more than they had to. They balked at her suggestion that they relinquish their fancy livery coats to wrap around the victim, and only did so after Alec ordered them.

Kendra couldn’t really blame them. Hell, she wasn’t happy with the situation either. It didn’t matter that this wasn’t the kill site, or that the body had been washed thoroughly by the river and lake, or the fact that even if she could find some trace evidence, she didn’t have the equipment or forensics experts to give her the answers that she needed. She still kept track of every forensic violation that was made.

“We must summon the local constable,” the Duke said as they began their trek back through the forest.

Alec snorted. “Much good that’ll do. The worst Roger Hilliard has had to face is catching a poacher now and then, and breaking up fights between farmers, because a cow got into somebody’s field and ate their bloody grain.”

“So . . . in terms of law enforcement, you only have a local constable?” Kendra asked, the sinking feeling in her stomach getting worse.

“Morland’s the magistrate,” someone pointed out.

Alec scowled. “You don’t have any experience in this matter either, Morland.”

Kendra caught the flash of anger in Morland’s eye. Alec wouldn’t win points for diplomacy, but she silently agreed with him. None of them had any experience in this matter.

Except for her.

“What do you suggest, Sutcliffe?” the other man challenged. “Bring in a Bow Street Runner?”

Alec’s jaw tightened. “Perhaps.”

“I don’t like bringing in someone from the outside,” Morland scowled.

Both the sentiment and the sour tone nearly made Kendra smile. It was almost exactly the same words, certainly the same inflection, that she’d heard from countless cops when the FBI was called in to investigate homicides. Maybe things weren’t so different here after all.

Then she remembered what Morland had said to the Duke. You can’t expect us to swallow such a preposterous tale. And from a mere servant . . . a woman.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t faced discrimination before. But dealing with a stubborn local sheriff or a surly police officer who resented the FBI’s input—whether she was a woman or not—was a far different situation than this. She shivered suddenly, rubbing her arms.

“Are you all right?”

Kendra glanced up at Alec, surprised by the concern she heard in his voice. “I’ve had better days.”

His mouth curved at her dry tone, but the smile was fleeting. He reached out automatically to hold the tree branches back from slapping her in the face. The action was surprisingly chivalrous.

“There’s no need to be afraid, Miss Donovan,” he assured her, surprising her even more. “You’ll be safe at the castle.”

Kendra blinked. He was, she realized, actually trying to be nice. Except he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

Some things weren’t so different in this time line. In fact, some things, she thought, never changed. Like murder. And monsters.

“You’re wrong, you know,” she said solemnly. “We should be afraid . . . because it’s going to happen again.”





13

The icehouse was a large, low, windowless building of gray stone, with its entry point—thick oak double doors—facing north. The squat appearance was deceptive, Kendra realized, as they went through another set of doors that led down, below ground level. It was clever, making use of the earth to keep the temperature cool. There were four rooms, the largest being where the ice itself was stored, giant slabs that had been cut from lakes and ponds during the winter months and carted here to be stored year-round.

The other three chambers had a variety of uses. Two were used for storing perishables like milk and butter, and vegetables. The third, the one they crowded in, was obviously where the fresh game hunted on the estate was skinned and deboned. A handful of pheasant and quail, and several rabbits hung by their feet on hooks in the ceiling, near the white tiled wall at the far end of the room. Though lanterns had been strung around the room, thick shadows seemed to crouch and wait in the corners. The air smelled of smoke, earth, gamey meat, and raw blood.

Dalton tossed a coarse wool blanket over the long worktable in the middle of the room before the girl was laid on it. Kendra unbuttoned and unwrapped the footmen’s livery, leaving the girl exposed, her flesh no longer marble-white, but artificially golden in the lamp-lit room, the bruises and cuts on her body appearing darker, more grotesque.

Alec was surprised at the flicker of embarrassment he felt. He was no stranger to a woman’s body, albeit they’d all been very much alive when he’d viewed them. He’d also seen his share of death during the bloody campaign waged against Napoleon. But this seemed . . . wrong. Kendra Donovan’s presence seemed wrong.