“Hmm. The timing is interesting. He came here right around the time of his wife’s death. Right before the prostitutes began disappearing.” She glanced at Aldridge. “Do you believe that he doesn’t know how his wife died?”
“No. But there are many reasons why a man would lie about a runaway wife.”
That was probably true, Kendra reflected. Still, she wasn’t convinced that was why Dalton was lying, though. She went onto something else that troubled her. “He never asked who April Duprey was.”
“I’m cognizant of that fact, my dear. However, he knew a woman was found this morning. Most likely he made the connection.”
“Maybe.”
They lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Aldridge was the first to break it. “You appear to feel that the death of Mr. Dalton’s wife could have transformed him into this fiend who kills prostitutes for pleasure.”
“Not transformed. The unsub was . . . warped a long time ago. He had dark fantasies. As a child, he probably tortured and killed animals. Maybe even set fires. He was destructive. And then something set him off, a trigger of some kind that pushed him into making his terrible fantasies real.”
The Duke gazed at her, troubled. “How, Miss Donovan? How does a man become a monster?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. And she didn’t. Were serial killers born that way, or did they become that way? Scientists had uncovered the Monoamine oxidase Agene on the X chromosome—also known as the “Warrior Gene”—which was believed to predispose men toward violence. But not everyone who had the defective gene exhibited violence. There were also plenty of examples of serial killers who’d been abused, physically and mentally, during their formative years, yet not all children who suffered horrific abuse turned into serial killers. It was quite a conundrum.
“If Mr. Dalton is the fiend we seek, wouldn’t his wife’s infidelity and abandonment actually have been the thing that pushed him? Why would he wait two years until her death to become a monster?”
Kendra felt a shivery sensation, like the brush of a bony finger against her nape. “There’s another possibility,” she said slowly. “Mr. Dalton was in the army. He said he lived in Dover. We need to check with authorities there to see if any young girls went missing. If Dalton is our killer, London might not have been his only hunting ground.”
41
“Is this about the harlot in the forest?”
Kendra exchanged a glance with the Duke, before giving Harris her full attention. Moments before, the butler had escorted them into Harris’s darkly paneled study. The vicar had greeted Aldridge enthusiastically and offered the usual refreshments. The Duke had declined, explaining that they were not making a social call, which had prompted Harris to ask the question.
“Who told you about the woman in the forest?” Kendra asked carefully.
He’d been ignoring her presence, but now the vicar gave her a condescending look. “Why, everyone is talking about it. ’Tis the news around the village.”
“What exactly are they saying?”
“That another whore has been slain.” He shrugged. “And the Bow Street Runner is investigating, although he has returned to Town.”
Aldridge shifted in his seat. “Miss Donovan and I are assisting Mr. Kelly in his investigation.”
“Indeed? How so, sir?”
“Please don’t take offense, Mr. Harris, but we need to ask you about your whereabouts yesterday—and last Sunday evening.”
“I do not comprehend, sir . . .” Harris’s jaw loosened, and he regarded the Duke in astonishment. It was, Kendra thought, becoming a familiar look. “Are you, perchance, trying to connect me to the death of these whores, sir?”
“We’re not making any connection. We are conducting an investigation,” Kendra corrected. “It’s standard procedure to question anyone who may have had the means to commit the crime.”
Kendra remembered Harris’s stare—like she was a peculiar creature that had crawled out from beneath a rock—from the first dinner she’d attended with the gentry. “That is very insulting, Miss Donovan,” he said.
“It isn’t meant to be.”
“Why on earth would I do such a thing? Murder a whore?”
Kendra didn’t like how he kept calling the victim a whore. It might simply be the manner of speech particular to this era, but there was an undertone of contempt, like she’d been less than human. Though prostitutes, regardless of era, didn’t generate a lot of respect from their fellow citizens.
“You haven’t answered our question,” she pointed out. “Where were you yesterday?”
He looked down his nose at her. “I was writing my sermons, Miss Donovan. And I returned correspondence with my father. He is the Earl of Clarendale, you know.”
It was a reminder. He wasn’t a lowly vicar. He had connections.
“You were not at home when my nephew and Lady Rebecca came to call yesterday afternoon,” Aldridge put in, drawing the other man’s gaze.
Harris frowned. “No. They called in the afternoon. I was out riding. I often ride in the afternoon.”
“But not this afternoon?”