A Murder in Time(71)
“I’d think that it would be even more troubling to find another dead girl.”
He gave her a wry look. “Rest easy, Miss Donovan. I have no intention of turning a blind eye.”
“Good, because once we have the list of suspects, we’ll need to interview them. Find out if they have an alibi for the night the girl was murdered.” Basic police work, she thought again.
“Hmm. And if they do, we will be able to cross them off our list, I assume?”
“Yes.”
The Duke’s expression turned thoughtful. “’Tis a logical approach—if, that is, your assumptions are correct.”
“They are.”
He had to smile. “You are very confident.”
“In this, I know what I’m doing.”
“Interesting. That implies in other things, you do not.”
“Well, I don’t know how to peel a potato. At least not as fast as Rose.”
“You surprise me, Miss Donovan.”
“It’s a lot harder than it looks.”
He smiled. “I shall take your word for it. Sit down, Miss Donovan. Let us begin that list, shall we?”
The Duke identified at least two dozen men in a ten-mile area who fit the broad description of being affluent. They whittled that list down by eliminating men who rarely ventured outside the area. Jane Doe wasn’t a local. Another handful of names were crossed out because the men were traveling abroad.
It was a tedious process, especially since she was the one writing the names down in a ledger by dipping pen in ink. She refused—absolutely refused—to think about her kick-ass laptop back in the twenty-first century.
By the time the Duke left for dinner, they had eight names, including Dalton and Morland. She noticed that his nephews, Alec and Gabriel, were absent from the list. There were all sorts of blind eyes, she thought.
Still, eight names wasn’t a bad starting point.
Alone, she turned her attention to the two crude drawings she’d made yesterday. The marks she’d made depicting each wound couldn’t begin to convey the horror that had been inflicted on Jane Doe. Without that brutal overlay to shock and distract, she could get a sense of the wounds themselves.
Unfortunately, there appeared to be no discernible pattern: fifty-three stab wounds in total. Usually a number that great would indicate a frenzied attack, with the blades puncturing the flesh in what was often a simulated sex act. But not in this case. This, as she’d told Sam Kelly, was methodic cutting. Terrible control and a terrible desire to inflict pain.
Did he do it to punish someone—ex-girlfriend, wife, mother—or simply because he was a sexual sadist? Or both?
She glanced up when the door swung open, and Lady Rebecca came into the room. The Lady was already dressed for evening in an empire-waisted blue gown with tiny pearls sewn into the bodice. The skirt was narrow, but that didn’t stop Lady Rebecca from making brisk strides to stand before her. She carried an ivory fan that she thumped against her open palm in what Kendra could only conclude was a sign of extreme irritation.
“You think Alec is a murderer!”
Carefully, Kendra slipped the drawings into the ledger. “He told you that?”
“He finds it amusing. I do not!”
“I can see that. Look, whatever—”
“I shall tell you a story. I expect you’ve wondered about my face.”
“What? No,” Kendra said. “I mean, I assumed you had smallpox.”
“Yes. I contracted the affliction when I was seven.” She wandered around the room as she told her story, picking up and setting down objects she found. Nervous energy. “I am certain my parents measured me for a shroud. Many children of the same age died, you see. I don’t know why I did not.” She fell silent, and shook her head. “I lived—but not without repercussions. As you can see.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I am not asking for your sympathy, Miss Donovan. Or pity.” Rebecca set down the figurine she held and deliberately moved over to where one of the oil lamps was burning, positioning herself so that the light slid mercilessly over her disfigured face, so that she was grotesque.
“Children can be cruel. I may be the daughter of an earl, but that doesn’t guarantee friendship. It did not stop the teasing and name-calling. Alec defended my honor with his wits and sometimes, his fists. It did not stop the viciousness when he was absent, but he was my white knight.”
Kendra remembered the first morning, when Sarah had talked about getting sick because she had to sit opposite Rebecca. She suspected that the cruelty hadn’t stopped with childhood, it had just become more underhanded. Human beings had an almost limitless supply of malice.
“I understand how protective you must feel toward Lord Sutcliffe,” she said slowly.
Rebecca waved that away impatiently. “Mayhap I do feel the need to come to his defense as he always came to mine. But that is not why I’m telling you this. A young lad—Alec was sixteen at the time—who has the compassion to rescue a little girl from the evil taunts of her playmates, to spend time with her to alleviate her loneliness, could never grow up to be the man, the monster, you have described.”
She walked to the slate board and stared at it for a few minutes before turning to look at Kendra. She used her fan as a pointer. “This is a man who hates women. This man could never have been the boy who provided succor to a young child in need.”