“Yes. Comparing the two types of wounds, there appears to be more of a frenzy to the stabbing lacerations. I cannot determine whether those wounds were inflicted postmortem or before.”
Kendra raised her brows. “Why do you think those wounds would be postmortem?”
“Because, Miss Donovan, I believe the girl died before the perpetrator could do his work.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She died from trauma to the brain.”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Alec broke it. “She didn’t die from strangulation like the first victim?”
“She was strangled repeatedly like the first victim. She was also sexually assaulted. The rest you know from your own visual examination—the bite mark to the left breast and abrasions on her wrists indicating she was restrained.” He stood up, clasping his hands behind his back as he addressed the room. “However, this victim received a head injury. Possibly from a rock, or a cudgel of some kind, although I found no wood slivers or particles in the wound.
“The blow fractured the girl’s skull, causing epidural hemorrhaging,” continued Munroe. “The blood clotted, putting immense pressure on her brain. She would have lived for several hours after the blow, but the head injury is the cause of death.”
“A rock suggests that this was a crime of opportunity,” Kendra said. “She wasn’t targeted, per se. Not like the other girls.”
Kendra turned to study the slate board, although the words were now burned into her brain. “Control is important to the unsub. But he’s been losing that control ever since the first victim was found. Part of his need to engage us is to reassert his control. If . . . if Rose . . .” the name lodged in her throat. “If she died prematurely, he would have been enraged. That would explain the postmortem stabbing frenzy.”
“Like a child having a temper tantrum,” Rebecca said softly, and shivered.
Munroe said, “One more thing of note. I discovered small wool fibers on the body, embedded in the wounds. With the aid of the Duke’s microscope, I’ve determined that the source of those fibers come from a coarse wool blanket, rug, or sack.”
Rebecca gave him a look. “How can you be so precise in your determination, sir?”
“’Tis simple, my Lady. The fibers lack what is known as crimp. The more crimp a wool fiber has, the finer the material it is spun into. Conversely, the less crimp in the wool fiber, the more coarse the material.”
“Someone—one of the boys who found her—put a wool coat over her,” Kendra reminded him.
“The skin would have to come in close contact with the material—the body wrapped in the wool coat, for instance—to get the degree of contamination that I observed.”
Aldridge frowned. “It would make sense for the fiend to have transported her away from the castle in a sack.”
“He’s bold and quick,” Sam said.
“And now he’s frustrated,” Kendra said quietly. “His fantasy was disrupted.” They stared at her, and she added, “You might want to speak to your sister about ending the house party early, Duke. There’s no predicting what the unsub will do.”
55
The Duke followed her suggestion, and spoke to Lady Atwood about ending the house party early. The guests’ planned departures for the next day resulted in a flurry of preparation—clothes and linens had to be laundered, pressed, and packed into trunks—but it couldn’t dispel the somber mood that had invaded the castle.
By evening, the ancient fortress had settled into a calm. Dinner was a simple affair, followed by cards rather than dancing. Unable to go through the pretense, Kendra stole a bottle of brandy and a glass from the Duke’s study and crept up to the roof.
The night air chilled her skin, but by her third glass, she didn’t notice. The alcohol ensured she didn’t feel the cold as she sat huddled halfway up the stairs that led to the battlements. Above her, the clouds of the day had thinned to reveal a handful of stars and the moon, which spilled icy light across the roof.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Kendra stiffened, glancing down as Alec materialized out of the shadows. She lifted her glass. “You should be a detective.”
He frowned. “You missed dinner.”
“I brought my own.”
He watched her toss back the brandy in one gulp. “You are abusing good brandy, Miss Donovan,” he said gently. “’Tis meant to be sipped, not swilled.”
“Well, thank you, Miss Manners. If you’re going to criticize, go find your own party. I didn’t invite you.”
Sighing, he removed his coat. “You are not only foxed, Miss Donovan, you must be frozen.”
“Actually, I’m quite warm, thank you very much.” Still, she didn’t protest when he climbed the steps to drop his coat around her shoulders. “And I’m not drunk. Yet.”
“Getting drunk will not help you.”
She poured more brandy into the glass. “Right now, it’s not hurting either.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said softly, “It is not your fault, Miss Donovan.”