Dalton tossed a coarse wool blanket over the long worktable in the middle of the room before the girl was laid on it. Kendra unbuttoned and unwrapped the footmen’s livery, leaving the girl exposed, her flesh no longer marble-white, but artificially golden in the lamp-lit room, the bruises and cuts on her body appearing darker, more grotesque.
Alec was surprised at the flicker of embarrassment he felt. He was no stranger to a woman’s body, albeit they’d all been very much alive when he’d viewed them. He’d also seen his share of death during the bloody campaign waged against Napoleon. But this seemed . . . wrong. Kendra Donovan’s presence seemed wrong.
The Duke apparently felt the same way, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Mayhap we ought to put a blanket on the poor girl, Miss Donovan, to preserve her modesty.”
Kendra looked up with a frown. It took her a moment to realize the expression that she saw on their faces was discomfort. She correctly surmised that most of the men’s unease came not from the dead girl in the room, but the living one. If she was going to be involved in the investigation, she needed to set the parameters now. “She’s beyond modesty,” she said flatly. “Right now, the truth is more important.”
“The truth?” Alec raised his brows. “Such as your pronouncement that whoever did this will kill again? Pray tell, how could you possibly know that, Miss Donovan? Do you have the sight?”
“The sight?” Then she understood. “Oh. Like being psychic . . . or a soothsayer, you mean?”
“Yes, Miss Donovan.” Impatience thinned his lips. “A soothsayer. Someone who claims to know the future.”
Kendra was instantly struck by that notion. She did know the future. Their future was her past . . . or, rather, her history. It was an odd thought. And a distracting one. She pushed it aside.
“I must agree with Lord Sutcliffe,” Morland put in, stepping near the table so that the lamplight limned his features and brought out the red highlights in his hair. Suspicion glinted in his eyes. “How can you possibly know the future, pray?”
Kendra hesitated. This was the tricky part. In seventy-three years, Jack the Ripper would hold London in thrall with his brutal slayings of five prostitutes, but the term serial killer would have little or no meaning to the public-at-large until the 1970s. By the time the twenty-first century rolled around, people would not only know about serial killers, society would practically celebrate them in prime-time shows, made-for-TV movies, feature films, documentaries, and a slew of books devoted to the subject.
“Well, Miss Donovan?” Alec raised his brows.
She shifted her attention to the Duke. He was the one with the power, she knew. In this society’s pecking order, he was the one she needed to convince.
“Where I come from . . .” she began, then paused, frowning slightly as she tried to organize her thoughts. Even in her own time, one dead body wouldn’t bring in the FBI. The magic number was three. That proved a pattern, that was the formula suggesting a serial killer was on the loose. Yet what she saw here on the victim was compelling evidence suggesting that was exactly what they were dealing with.
“We . . . we’ve dealt with murderers like this one. They’re not normal.” Clumsy, Donovan, she thought, as Aldridge’s eyebrows shot up. “I know that murder is not normal. But there’s often a motivation. Profit or greed. Anger or jealousy. But this . . . this is more.” God, she was bungling it. A more pragmatic approach was required. “Look at the wound on her left breast.”
Aldridge frowned, then leaned forward for a closer inspection. “A bruise.”
“No. Look closer.”
“Ah. A bite mark.”
“Yes.”
“An animal of some sort,” Dalton suggested, frowning. “A wild dog, mayhap.”
“No. If you look at the impression, it’s not canine. They’re human.”
Morland stared at her. “You cannot know—”
“Yes, I can.” Her eyes flashed impatiently. “Can anyone tell me what animal would take one bite and leave the rest of the vic alone?”
“The vic?” Alec wondered.
“Victim. The girl.”
The Duke straightened. “Miss Donovan is correct. If an animal did this, she’d have been mauled. A wild beast would not leave one single bite mark.”
She moved down the victim. She wasn’t a medical examiner, but she knew what she was viewing. Would they see the same thing?
“She has contusions and cuts around both her wrists.” Although she wished she had latex gloves on, she picked up a hand and ignored its cold, waxy feel as she studied the fingers and then palms. “No visible defensive wounds. Under attack, human beings will instinctively defend themselves. We put up our hands, try to return the attack.” She scanned the circle of skeptical faces. “This woman did not. She was held immobile throughout the attack. Based on the lacerations on her wrists, I’d say it was metal, most likely handcuffs. Rope would have created more of an abrasion.”
“Good God.” Aldridge’s eyes filled with horror. “What are you saying?”