A Murder in Time(52)

She broached something that had been puzzling her. “Simon Dalton—he’s not a doctor?”

“Mr. Dalton? Oh, nay. ‘E’s a surgeon,” Molly supplied.

“A surgeon, but not a doctor?” She set the teapot down. “What’s the difference?”

Molly blinked at her. “A doctor is ever so much more important! ‘E wouldn’t think ter poke around in somebody’s innards like a sawbones!”

“That’s a bad thing?”

They looked at her like she was crazy. “’Tisn’t proper,” Rose said, “’Course, Mr. Dalton ain’t a sawbones now. ’E resigned ’is commission in the army when ’is aunt, Lady ’Alstead, cocked up ’er toes. Now ’e lives at ’Alstead ’All.”

“Doing what?”

Rose shrugged. “Being gentry.”

Kendra supposed that meant he either rented out parcels of land to local farmers or he hired locals to tend to the land he’d inherited.

“The Duke seems . . . nice,” Kendra remarked casually, picking up a pair of serving tongs to polish.

“Oh, ’e’s an oak. And ever so clever. ’E’s always up on the roof, studyin’ the stars and such. ’Tis a shame w’ot ’appened with ’is wife an’ child.”

“What happened?”

Rose said, “’Twas before I was born, but me ma told me ’ow the Duchess took the wee one sailing. Davy Jones’s Locker got ’em, ’e did. ’Twas a clear day. No one knows w’ot ’appened, but ’is Grace found ’is wife on the beach; Lady Charlotte forever swept out to sea.”

That explained Aldridge’s strange behavior with the victim in the water, Kendra thought.

Molly shivered. “Oi ’eard that ’is Grace went mad.”

“Aye,” Rose agreed in a hushed voice as she buffed and polished. “’E’s always ’ad strange notions—speakin’ no disrespect. But me ma said ’e locked ’imself in ’is study. The only one ’oo could ’elp ’im was the marquis.”

“The marquis?”

“’Is Grace’s nephew—Alexander Morgan, the Marquis of Sutcliffe. An’ ’e was only a young lad.”

“Ooh. ’E’s a fine-looking bloke, ain’t ’e?” Molly sighed.

“’E’s far above your touch, Molly Danvers!”

“Oi didn’t say ’e wasn’t. But Oi got peepers, don’t oi?”

Kendra changed track. “Have either of you heard of any girls from around the area who have gone missing?”

They exchanged nervous glances. “Do you think the monster lives around ’ere?” Rose asked.

“I don’t think anything yet.”

“Nay. Jenny went off ter Bath, but Oi dunno anybody missin’,” Molly whispered.

They lapsed into an anxious silence. Kendra regretted being responsible for the fear she saw on the tweenies’ faces.

At five-fifteen, Kendra excused herself to go to the chamber she shared with Rose. She washed her hands and face, and used the chamber pot. As an afterthought, she took the mop cap off her head, tossing it on the bed, before heading to the Duke’s study.

The Duke, Morland, and Dalton were seated, along with another man. Alec had taken up his familiar, negligent position, leaning against the fireplace. Each man was holding a heavy lead crystal glass filled with brandy. The candles had been lit, a fire crackling in the grate. They stood as she entered, a courtesy that she only sometimes received in the twenty-first century.

Aldridge smiled. “Miss Donovan, allow me to introduce you to our constable, Mr. Hilliard.”

Kendra surveyed him as she stuck out her hand. Fortyish, she judged, with thinning brown hair, a round, florid face, stocky build. He seemed a little bewildered, but she wasn’t sure if that was because he was surprised to shake her hand, or because he was being introduced to a servant, or because he was in the Duke’s study, drinking brandy. She suspected the last was not a usual occurrence, noting that the man’s clothing was inferior to the other men in the room. In social ranking, Hilliard was well below the titled gentry. But, Kendra reflected wryly, probably still several tiers above her current position.

“Miss.” He nodded diplomatically.

“Mr. Hilliard.”

Aldridge asked, “Would you care for a drink, Miss Donovan? Perhaps sherry?”

“No, thank you.” She could hear the disapproval in her voice, and had to remind herself that she wasn’t standing in an FBI war room surrounded by professionals. God help her. This was long before the vast network of specialized law enforcement agencies would spring up to protect its citizens. In fact, there wouldn’t be any true concept of a police force here in England for another fourteen years, not until Sir Robert Peel introduced the Metropolitan Police Act in London. Centuries later, tourists to England might not have heard of Robert Peel, but they would know the police who’d been nicknamed after him—Bobbies.

“We’ve sent for a Runner. He ought to be here tomorrow morning.” Returning to his seat behind his desk, the Duke picked up his pipe, but didn’t make any attempt to light it. “Miss Donovan, please sit down. We ought to begin.” He waited until Kendra had taken a seat on the sofa next to Hilliard. “Mr. Dalton, what are your findings?”