Pretty as a postcard—too pretty to carry the ugly stain of murder.
Impulsively, she clambered up a grayish-brown boulder the size of a Fiat. Sitting down, she leaned back on her elbows, tilting her head and closing her eyes to drink in the warm rays of the sun. A light breeze stirred the grass and branches around her, fluttered the leaves. Birds called to each other. Sometimes she’d hear weird clicking noises.
She could almost fool herself into thinking she was back home, lazing down by the community pool in her Virginia apartment complex. Except there was no squeal and splash from the neighborhood children. And she was wearing a maid’s uniform. And she was in the freaking nineteenth century.
Sighing, fantasy destroyed, she sat up, and pulled the apples from the pockets that she wore. They did not look like the apples she’d buy at the store. They weren’t as big or red or as perfect. But they were pesticide-free, so she didn’t have to worry about washing them. She polished them up before biting into the fruit, using the apron as a napkin to blot the excess juice that dribbled down her chin.
She caught a flash of brown and white, and turned her head to observe a rabbit sprinting across the clearing. Not a white rabbit, but she felt like Alice in Wonderland.
Alice in Wonderland—which wouldn’t even be written for another fifty years.
Instead of falling down a rabbit hole, she’d fallen through a wormhole. While wormholes were really her mother’s area of quantum physics, Kendra knew some of the theories. One of the more recent ideas floated in scientific circles was that the universe was filled with tiny wormholes that popped up and winked out of existence all the time. Of course, with her, it would’ve had to be a big wormhole.
But it was pointless to panic or speculate on how she’d got here. Better to concentrate on solving the murder, which, in her mind, had become linked with her bizarre situation.
Kendra knew her profile was weak, but it was a starting point. Every investigation needed one. And while Lady Rebecca might not like it, she stood by her profile that they were dealing with someone from the upper class. The good news was that the pool of suspects was considerably less than the working class. Maybe only a dozen or so men in the area, depending on how wide a net she wanted to toss. The unsub would also have to be familiar enough with London that it would be part of his comfort zone. But he lived locally, she was sure. Or at least he had a private place here. Privacy was essential to do what he needed to do.
Kendra would need help coming up with a list of suspects. They’d have to be interviewed, their alibis verified—basic, old-fashioned police work.
Sighing, Kendra finished off the apple as she surveyed the countryside from her perch—a haphazard patchwork of rolling green hills seamed with hedges and clusters of trees. From this vantage point, she could see Alec was right; the river wasn’t a single flowing stream, but several branches. No telling where the girl had been dumped initially. The current should have carried the body downstream toward the ocean. It was just dumb luck that she’d been swept into the tributary that fed the lake.
She spotted a small stone building in the distance, next to the river. A mile or two north, chimney stacks rose above the treetops, indicating other houses. Simon Dalton and Kenneth Morland, she remembered, owned neighboring estates.
They fit the profile. So did Alec, for that matter. He’d been with the Duke on the night Jane Doe was murdered, she knew. It was unlikely that he’d slipped out of the castle to wherever the girl had been held afterward—unlikely, but not impossible. Could you slip out of a household like this without a servant or someone in the stables seeing you?
It was another avenue to pursue, she decided as she pushed herself to her feet and tossed the apple core down for the ants to feast upon. Jumping off the boulder, she began to retrace her steps down the hill, back to the castle.
Her mind circled back to the discovery of the body. Careless or uncaring? she wondered again. The more she thought about it, the more she suspected the latter. This was an age when people spent time outdoors. They weren’t sitting in front of their televisions, computers, or Xboxes. The chances of discovery were high.
That boldness worried Kendra. Contrary to their portrayal in the media, most serial killers preferred to work in secrecy, never seeking notoriety from the press or police. Few escalated to the point where they wanted to share their work.