A Murder in Time(88)

There was a moment of silence. He glanced up, and shrugged. “Seems a wee bit of a coincidence ter have so many lasses missing who could’ve been sisters, if you take my meaning.”

“He has a type.” Kendra set down her coffee cup and stood up. She went over to the slate board. “He’s not picking these girls at random. He saw these girls; he wanted them.”

“But . . . why?” the Duke asked, perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

Kendra admitted, “I don’t know. It could be anything—something in his past, a real or perceived injustice by a woman who looked like our victim—victims.”

Alec shook his head. “You’re assuming these other women are dead. They’re Birds of Paradise—fickle creatures, at best. They may have left their academy. They may have found a protector or a more generous abbess. They may have wanted to become a brothel-keeper themselves. Or, devil take it, they may have married the bloody butcher down the street! Any number of things could’ve happened other than murder.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, milord, but these bits o’ muslin didn’t just leave,” Sam argued. “They went missing. Not a one gave their notice or talked about finding a protector. Cartes blanches offered by buck-fitches are usually brokered by the abbess, so she can get her cut.

“No, sir. These lasses haven’t been seen hide nor hair of since the day they disappeared from their bawd house.”

Rebecca shivered. “How many, Mr. Kelly? How many girls have disappeared?”

Sam hesitated, and the look in his eyes had Kendra holding her breath.

“Eleven, Lady Rebecca. Eleven lasses have simply . . . vanished.”





30

Numbers had power. One dead hooker versus almost a dozen girls who’d vanished without a trace—though the first was a certainty, Kendra didn’t have to ask which number carried more weight. She saw it in the shock that registered on the faces of Rebecca and the Duke. Alec hid it better, but even he appeared nonplussed by the information, frowning darkly into the coffee cup he held.

In the silence that followed, Kendra picked up a piece of slate, and added under the Victimology column: “Missing London Prostitutes; dark brown/black hair; brown eyes; petite . . .” She glanced at Sam Kelly, who was studying the board with a frown. “How young, Mr. Kelly? What’s the estimated age range?”

“Fifteen to eighteen, or thereabouts.”

“Similar to our victim.” She nodded, and wrote the additional information on the board. “What was the time frame that the girls went missing?”

“The first bit o’ muslin went missing four years ago. The most recent was two months ago.”

“What months?”

Sam stared at her. “Why would that matter, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

“Details, Mr. Kelly. Every detail is important. It could move us closer to identifying the unsub or at least—”

“What’s an unsub?” the detective interrupted, perplexed.

The Duke answered. “Unknown subject. Is that not correct, Miss Donovan?”

“Yes.” She had to smile. There was no denying the Duke’s intelligence. “As I was saying, gathering details about the victims will help us establish the killer’s patterns. Eleven girls in four years—does that mean three girls a year? How long between disappearances?” Kendra scanned her audience. It wasn’t just Aldridge; they were all intelligent. But how much to say? How much would they accept?

“It’s typical of this type of killer to have a cooling-off period,” she said finally. “They’ve satisfied their need . . . but it’s temporary.”

There was a short, stark silence as they absorbed that implication.

Sam lifted his brows. “You mean ter say that after the villain has killed, he takes his time before he kills again?”

“Yes. And he will kill again. He has to.”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“There are many theories.” Too many, she thought. “Suffice to say that we could argue endlessly as to why he does what he does. Point of fact is that he does it. We need to stop him before he can do it again.”

“Patterns,” murmured Aldridge. “If determining his pattern will assist us in stopping this monster, we are obliged to do so. Proceed, Mr. Kelly.”

“Aye, sir.” He drew out a sheaf of papers from the pocket of his overcoat, unfolding them across his lap.

“Yvette—I doubt that’s her real name, mind you—was the first lass ter go missing, in—let’s see—February 1812,” he read, and his eyes narrowed. “She was fifteen. Then Sofia, also fifteen, in June of that year—Saturday, the thirteenth. Mary, seventeen, disappeared in October, around the sixteenth. In 1813, Clara, eighteen, vanished in February—Friday, the twelfth; Elizabeth, fifteen, June the thirteenth; Matilda, seventeen, on October eighth. Not another chit until the next February—Saturday, the twelfth, and . . . by God . . .”

He scanned the papers he held and then lifted his gaze to Kendra. “They’re all in those months. Every disappearance. February, June, and October. What does it mean?”

“Patterns,” Aldridge repeated softly.

“The madman is taking a girl every four months!” Rebecca’s eyes darkened with horror.