They lapsed into an anxious silence. Kendra regretted being responsible for the fear she saw on the tweenies’ faces.
At five-fifteen, Kendra excused herself to go to the chamber she shared with Rose. She washed her hands and face, and used the chamber pot. As an afterthought, she took the mop cap off her head, tossing it on the bed, before heading to the Duke’s study.
The Duke, Morland, and Dalton were seated, along with another man. Alec had taken up his familiar, negligent position, leaning against the fireplace. Each man was holding a heavy lead crystal glass filled with brandy. The candles had been lit, a fire crackling in the grate. They stood as she entered, a courtesy that she only sometimes received in the twenty-first century.
Aldridge smiled. “Miss Donovan, allow me to introduce you to our constable, Mr. Hilliard.”
Kendra surveyed him as she stuck out her hand. Fortyish, she judged, with thinning brown hair, a round, florid face, stocky build. He seemed a little bewildered, but she wasn’t sure if that was because he was surprised to shake her hand, or because he was being introduced to a servant, or because he was in the Duke’s study, drinking brandy. She suspected the last was not a usual occurrence, noting that the man’s clothing was inferior to the other men in the room. In social ranking, Hilliard was well below the titled gentry. But, Kendra reflected wryly, probably still several tiers above her current position.
“Miss.” He nodded diplomatically.
“Mr. Hilliard.”
Aldridge asked, “Would you care for a drink, Miss Donovan? Perhaps sherry?”
“No, thank you.” She could hear the disapproval in her voice, and had to remind herself that she wasn’t standing in an FBI war room surrounded by professionals. God help her. This was long before the vast network of specialized law enforcement agencies would spring up to protect its citizens. In fact, there wouldn’t be any true concept of a police force here in England for another fourteen years, not until Sir Robert Peel introduced the Metropolitan Police Act in London. Centuries later, tourists to England might not have heard of Robert Peel, but they would know the police who’d been nicknamed after him—Bobbies.
“We’ve sent for a Runner. He ought to be here tomorrow morning.” Returning to his seat behind his desk, the Duke picked up his pipe, but didn’t make any attempt to light it. “Miss Donovan, please sit down. We ought to begin.” He waited until Kendra had taken a seat on the sofa next to Hilliard. “Mr. Dalton, what are your findings?”
“Miss Donovan was correct.” He gave her a slight nod to acknowledge that fact. Kendra was aware of the veiled looks from everyone but the Duke. “The female had a crushed hyoid bone, thyroid, and cricoid cartilage. There was no water in her lungs. She died of strangulation, not drowning.”
“Strangled repeatedly as Miss Donovan suggested?” Alec asked, although he’d viewed the evidence with his own eyes.
“My findings support Miss Donovan’s theory. Although it’s impossible for me to determine the exact time of death, based on the degree of rigor mortis, I believe she died in the early morning hours, sometime between three and four, but that is only conjecture. Her stomach was empty; she hadn’t eaten for hours before that.
“I counted fifty-three cuts on the girl’s torso. Based on my measurements, we’re dealing with four different knives. And all fifty-three wounds were inflicted premortem.”
“Holy Mother of God,” Hilliard breathed.
“Whoever did this must be utterly mad,” Aldridge said, looking shaken.
“Yes and no,” Kendra said quickly. “His psychosis—his madness is internal. To all outward appearances, he will appear normal.”
Mr. Hilliard’s eyebrows rose. “How’d’ya know that?”
“Because . . . he’s organized. He’s done this before. He knows how to blend in.”
“We’ve never found a girl dead like this,” Morland protested.
“He may have worked outside this area. Or we were never supposed to find this girl.” She thought back to when she first came to the castle—a couple of centuries in the future—and the surrounding geography. “The ocean is, what? Two miles from here?”
Alec surveyed her with hooded eyes. “Thereabouts.”
“You said this area is a watershed. The killer could’ve dumped the body in the river, expecting the current to take it out to the ocean.”
“That was rather careless of him, wasn’t it? Why not bury the girl? Dispose of her in some way where she would not be found?”
“I don’t know.” And that bothered her. It was careless. “The unsub may be—”
“Unsub? What is an unsub, pray tell?” Aldridge eyed her curiously.
Oh, God. In spite of everything, she’d forgotten where she was. When she was. “Unknown subject,” she identified. “The murderer. He may be getting complacent. Or he may have wanted her to be found.” She looked at Dalton. “Was she raped?”
He flushed, unable to meet her eyes. “Yes.”