A Murder in Time(54)

“She was not a street prostitute,” Dalton went on. “She was too . . . soft, I’d say. Streetwalkers are tough and rough. No sign she relied on the drink—or anything else for that matter.”

“Could’ve only begun plying her trade,” Alec suggested. “She’s young enough.”

“By my estimation, the scarring from the pregnancy and abortion is at least two years old.”

“She’d have been only thirteen,” murmured Kendra.

“She probably worked in an academy,” Dalton said.

Kendra looked at him. “An academy?”

“Ah, it’s um—”

“A brothel,” Alec said impatiently. “Or she was some man’s mistress.”

Kendra decided not to comment on what she thought of a man taking a thirteen-year-old mistress. Instead, she said, “Okay, we’ll go with the assumption that she worked as a prostitute. This is as good a starting point as any.” She paused, a little surprised that what she said was actually true.

She had very few expectations when she’d first entered the study. Certainly she wouldn’t be able to rely on her usual arsenal of tools—forensics, FBI databases. Even the media. While the latter could be annoying, it served a purpose—photos of victims could be released in the hope that a John or Jane Doe would be identified.

Her eyes fell on the portrait of a woman and child above the fireplace. An idea occurred to her. “Is there any way we could have someone make a sketch of the victim?” she asked. “If we did that, maybe we could get it to the local newspaper. Someone might recognize her, come forward.”

“Lady Rebecca—” Dalton began.

“Impossible.” Alec gave him a quelling look. “She’d have to view the body to sketch it.”

“Who’s Lady Rebecca?” Kendra asked.

Alec scowled. “A Lady.”

Kendra frowned, although she knew his attitude was the norm in this world. Women of rank were treated little better than china dolls. She remembered reading once that it was not unheard of for ladies to be banned from attending funerals, for fear their delicate sensibilities would shatter.

“That is neither here nor there,” said Aldridge. “No reputable newspaper would publish a sketch of an Unfortunate Woman. We shall have the Runner take the girl’s description and make inquiries around London.”

“Assuming the whore was from London,” Morland pointed out. “London is scarcely alone in having brothels. She may have come from an academy in Bath or Manchester or Glasgow.”

“London is the closest city,” Kendra pointed out. “Why would he search farther for his victim?”

Morland eyed her over the rim of his brandy glass. “If we should discover the chit’s identity, pray tell, how will that help us identify her murderer, Miss Donovan?”

Kendra gave a slight shrug. “It’s a lead. If she belongs to an . . . academy, he may be a client. Someone else at the brothel might know who he is.”

The Duke’s gaze was troubled as he met hers. “And you really believe he will kill again?”

“I know he’s killed before. I know he’ll kill again. And . . .” she hesitated, and licked suddenly dry lips. She couldn’t tell if he—if any of the men—accepted what she was telling them. The next bit, she knew, would be even more difficult. “And,” she said firmly, “you probably know him.”

She didn’t have to wait long for a reaction. Morland looked indignant. “That’s preposterous!”

Hilliard gaped at her. “I say!”

Even Dalton shook his head. “No . . .Whoever did this is a . . . a . . .”

“A madman. A monster. Yes, we’ve already been over this,” she said impatiently. “I told you: he’ll be quite ordinary. You could talk to him, and never really know him. His nature. What he’s done. He most likely lives in the surrounding area, or at the very least, he’s familiar with it.” She saw their disbelief, and couldn’t really blame them. Hell, the idea of having a serial killer living in one’s community was difficult to digest even in the twenty-first century.

Everyone was silent, staring at her, at each other.

The Duke sighed, then stood. “Well, you certainly have given us much to consider, Miss Donovan. The Bow Street Runner ought to be here tomorrow.”

Aware that it was a dismissal, everyone stood. Aldridge came around the desk and laid a detaining hand on Kendra’s arm as all the men, with the exception of Alec, filed out of the room.

When the door had closed behind them, Alec lifted his glass in a mocking salute. “Well, Miss Donovan, you do liven up what would’ve been an otherwise tedious house party.”

She shot him an exasperated look, and then turned to the Duke. “Do you believe me?” she asked bluntly.

“I don’t want to,” he admitted. “But I saw what was done to that girl. I cannot disregard what you have told us. We shall see what the Runner has to say.”

Kendra frowned, and wondered what that meant. Would the Duke turn the entire investigation over to the Bow Street Runner? A detective, perhaps, but a nineteenth-century detective.

Her stomach clenched. There was still one thing she could do.

“Do you have a chalkboard, by any chance?” she asked.