A Murder in Time(64)
She paused, leaning back to glance at the drawing she held, comparing it to the body. “There are no cuts on her arms, and only a few on the legs, confined to the upper thigh area. The majority of injuries were inflicted below the breast but not on the breast.”
“That is incorrect. Her arms and legs have cuts.”
She glanced up, looking vaguely startled, as if just remembering he was there. “Those weren’t caused from a knife. They’re lacerations—postmortem. Probably caused by the river’s current and rocks. Her inner thighs are bruised, most likely from when he raped her. I need to turn the body over.”
Ironically, it was Alec who had no trouble touching the dead girl. Kendra was the one who had to swallow hard when she reached out to grip a shoulder. The flesh felt cold, waxy. Unfortunately, the victim was no longer in rigor mortis, leaving the body flaccid, and more difficult to turn over. As soon as it was accomplished, Kendra wiped her hands against her apron, feeling queasy.
Kendra studied the deep purple blotches that marred the flesh at the small of the girl’s back and thighs. “She was lying on her back when she was murdered. This is lividity. When the heart stops, blood begins pooling at the body’s lowest points.”
Alec stared at her. Who the hell is she? If she hadn’t been a woman, he’d have thought her a sawbones.
“He didn’t bother to cut her here, either.”
Alec pulled his eyes off Kendra to survey the lacerations on the dead girl’s back and buttocks. “Those are from rocks, I assume.”
“Yes.” She returned to the girl’s head, threading her fingers through the hair as she peered closer. Although she still wished that she had latex gloves, this didn’t make her feel so queasy. Human hair, after all, was dead protein, even on a living person.
“There are scrape marks on the scalp consistent with where the hair has been cut. Looks to be postmortem, given there are no contusions in the scalp area. He wasn’t careful, but this wasn’t part of his need to inflict pain,” she said quietly. “She was already dead. She had no more meaning to him. He was done with her.” She made more notes on the sketch paper. “We can turn her back now.”
They rolled the body over, and Kendra was wiping her hands on her apron when someone knocked at the door. Alec barely had time to toss the blanket over the dead girl before the door flew open. A boy of about ten stood there. His round eyes immediately went to the corpse. He looked disappointed that the body was covered.
Alec narrowed his eyes when he recognized him. “Dammit, Will! When you knock at a door, you need to wait until someone bids you to enter.”
“Oh. Sorry, gov—er, me Lord. Oi was told ter fetch ye.” The kid’s eyes shifted from the covered body to Alec. Kendra caught the sparkle of excitement. “The thief-taker . . . Oi mean, the Bow Street Runner—’e’s ’ere!”
19
“You think the dead lass was a bit o’muslin? Beggin’ your pardon, m’Lady . . . ma’am.” Sam Kelly, the Bow Street Runner, shot Rebecca and Kendra an apologetic look. If he thought it odd that two women, one a Lady and one a servant, were allowed to sit in on what must be considered an improper discussion, he didn’t show it.
Kendra hadn’t known what to expect from a nineteenth-century detective, but Magnum, P.I. he was not. He was a short plug of a man, with muscular arms and legs that strained the seams of his dusty gray topcoat, black waistcoat, and breeches. His face, framed by a mop of curly, reddish-brown hair and iron-gray sideburns, looked almost elfin, with turned up features that seemed incongruous on a man his age, which Kendra estimated to be early forties. His eyes were light brown, almost gold, and as expressionless as his face. Cop eyes, Kendra thought with a jolt of recognition.
“Should we summon Mr. Hilliard and Mr. Morland?” Rebecca asked from her seat on the sofa.
Sam glanced at the Duke. “Mr. Hilliard and Mr. Morland?”
“Mr. Hilliard is our local constable and Mr. Morland holds the position of magistrate—a mere formality, as the Duke is the largest landholder in the area,” said Alec. “Neither gentleman has experience with anything like . . . this.”
“I agree.” Aldridge considered what Miss Donovan had written on the slate board. “’Tis no insult to the gentlemen in question, but we ought to keep our speculation amongst ourselves. Do you have any objection, Mr. Kelly?”
Sam considered the matter. The gentry were an odd lot. But the Duke of Aldridge was his client and paying the blunt. He shook his head. “Nay. Not a one.”
“Excellent. As for the girl, we suspect she worked at an academy. Most likely London.”
Sam glanced down at the sketch he held. It had been a clever idea to make use of Lady Rebecca’s artistic talents in such a manner, he thought. It would make his job easier—if knocking on more than a thousand brothel doors in London Town could be considered easy.
“You found the lass in a local lake?” He lifted his gaze. “And you believe she was murdered?”
“She was murdered,” Kendra answered. “Specifically, strangled. Before that, she was held for a period of time. The abrasions on her wrists are consistent with being restrained. Metal, not rope. She was strangled repeatedly. Raped repeatedly. And cut repeatedly. The latter were shallow cuts, nothing mortal. He wasn’t trying to kill her, just hurt her.”