A Murder in Time(51)
“Are you listening to me, Aldridge?” She paused, settling her hands on her hips, glaring at him.
He sighed. Caro only called him by his title when she was in high dudgeon. “I’m listening, my dear. But I fail to see why Miss Donovan should be dismissed.”
“For heaven’s sake. She said that girl was murdered! In front of everyone. She ruined my nuncheon!”
“I suspect the dead girl did that.”
“Don’t be flippant, Bertie!”
Instantly, the Duke sobered. “You’re absolutely correct, Caro. This is not amusing. However, Miss Donovan had the right of it; that poor girl was murdered. If you only knew what had been done to her . . .” His eyes darkened as he remembered the bruises, the cuts . . . the bite mark. What sort of vicious animal were they dealing with? Abruptly, he stood and put his hands on his sister’s shoulders to still her agitated movements. He stared down into the blue eyes so similar in shape and coloring to his own. “It’s not for a lady’s ears. Suffice to say, the girl deserves justice. She most likely has a family out there. They need to know what happened to their girl.”
“Oh, Bertie!” Lady Atwood’s anger evaporated, replaced by a flood of sympathy. Because she knew he wasn’t only thinking of the girl in the lake.
Recognizing the concern, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, squeezed her shoulders once, then let her go. “I’m sorry, Caro. I know this is unfortunate timing with your party. But we cannot ignore it. I’ve sent for a Bow Street Runner.”
“A Runner!” She put a hand to her throat, appalled. “Whatever will our guests think?”
“I’m certain they will be deliciously entertained.”
“They will not!” Yet she couldn’t meet her brother’s eyes, because she suspected that he was correct. Even now, she knew, many of the women were comfortably ensconced in the Chinese drawing room in the guise of working on their needlepoint, gossiping over what had happened down by the lake. Even that silly chit, Georgina, who’d discovered the body, seemed to be enjoying her newfound celebrity, repeatedly sharing her shock and horror. Lady Atwood was well aware that she’d given at least three different versions of the story; each time, her fear had magnified and the description of the dead girl had become more grotesque.
“And the woman—the maid. What did you call her? Kendra Donovan—Irish.” Her lip curled. “Little wonder she’s a troublemaker!”
“Actually, she’s an American.”
“Good heavens—that’s even worse! How can she be so vital to your investigation? An American. A mere servant. A woman!” She sounded incredulous. “’Tisn’t natural!”
“What are you objecting to, Caro? That Miss Donovan is an American, a woman, or a servant?”
The countess’ mouth tightened. “Be reasonable, Bertie. If that girl was murdered—and I’m not so certain that she was—how can Miss Donovan possibly help you?”
“She appears to have some experience in these matters.”
“How can that be? She can hardly be educated, given her station in life.”
Aldridge pursed his lips as he considered what he knew of Kendra Donovan. “I don’t believe we ought to underestimate Miss Donovan,” he said slowly. “You must trust me in this matter, my dear.”
“Bertie—”
“I shall be requiring Miss Donovan’s assistance.” He hesitated, then said, “And for the duration of this party, Caro, I’d prefer it if you didn’t go about the park unattended.”
That surprised her. “I’m a bit old for a chaperone, Bertie. And as I’ve been married—God rest Atwood’s soul—I don’t need one.”
“Nevertheless, I must insist.”
Lady Atwood felt a chill race up her arms that had nothing to do with the drafts in her family’s ancestral home. “What’s this about, Bertie?” she demanded, alarmed by the look in her brother’s eyes.
Aldridge recalled Kendra Donovan’s words. I can tell you two things: this isn’t his first kill, and he will do it again.
He believed in trusting his instincts, but he was also a man of logic. An enlightened man. Was he mad for listening to the woman? Or would he be mad not to?
His stomach clenched as he thought of the dead girl. Mother of God, she’d been bitten, beaten, strangled. He looked at his sister now, his expression grim. “’Tis a nightmare, Caro,” he said quietly. “A nightmare like I’ve never seen.”
15
Maybe she was crazy. Maybe at this very moment she was locked in some psych ward in London, having succeeded in her attempt to kill Sir Jeremy. Or maybe she’d never recovered from the gunshot wound to her head. Maybe she was . . . somewhere else.
No! Kendra wasn’t going to go down that road again. She didn’t know what was happening, but she refused to believe that this wasn’t real. That girl on that wooden table in that odd, old-fashioned building had been real. At the very least, the revolting paste made out of water and ash that she was now using to polish the silver teapot in her hand was all too real.
Frowning, she rubbed harder. Her distorted face was reflected back at her in the silver surface, unfamiliar because of the mop cap on her head. Mrs. Danbury had stuck her in one of the backrooms of the kitchen, helping Rose and another tweeny named Molly with the household silver. No doubt she’d meant it as a punishment, but it wasn’t so bad. The work itself was kind of soothing. And it gave her the opportunity to question the girls about life in the castle, and, more importantly, the nineteenth century.