Aldridge frowned. “I fail to see what we can do until the Runner returns.”
Panic tickled at the back of her throat. How long, she wondered, would it take the Bow Street Runner to conduct his inquiries? Days? Weeks? Months? London’s population, even during this time period, had swelled to more than a million.
“We have a general sense of who this guy is. We know that he’s either a member of the gentry or, at the very least, he’s affluent. He lives in the area or is familiar with it. We also know the general time that Jane Doe was killed.”
“What do you propose?”
“First, we need to come up with a list of suspects.”
“Suspects,” Aldridge murmured.
The way he said it, the word sounded ugly. She had no doubt that the Duke wanted the killer caught. But it was amazing how many people got downright pissy when their friends and family were questioned by the authorities. “Yes. Men who fit the profile. Is that a problem?”
“’Tis troubling to look at neighbors, acquaintances, perhaps even friends with suspicion.”
“I’d think that it would be even more troubling to find another dead girl.”
He gave her a wry look. “Rest easy, Miss Donovan. I have no intention of turning a blind eye.”
“Good, because once we have the list of suspects, we’ll need to interview them. Find out if they have an alibi for the night the girl was murdered.” Basic police work, she thought again.
“Hmm. And if they do, we will be able to cross them off our list, I assume?”
“Yes.”
The Duke’s expression turned thoughtful. “’Tis a logical approach—if, that is, your assumptions are correct.”
“They are.”
He had to smile. “You are very confident.”
“In this, I know what I’m doing.”
“Interesting. That implies in other things, you do not.”
“Well, I don’t know how to peel a potato. At least not as fast as Rose.”
“You surprise me, Miss Donovan.”
“It’s a lot harder than it looks.”
He smiled. “I shall take your word for it. Sit down, Miss Donovan. Let us begin that list, shall we?”
The Duke identified at least two dozen men in a ten-mile area who fit the broad description of being affluent. They whittled that list down by eliminating men who rarely ventured outside the area. Jane Doe wasn’t a local. Another handful of names were crossed out because the men were traveling abroad.
It was a tedious process, especially since she was the one writing the names down in a ledger by dipping pen in ink. She refused—absolutely refused—to think about her kick-ass laptop back in the twenty-first century.
By the time the Duke left for dinner, they had eight names, including Dalton and Morland. She noticed that his nephews, Alec and Gabriel, were absent from the list. There were all sorts of blind eyes, she thought.
Still, eight names wasn’t a bad starting point.
Alone, she turned her attention to the two crude drawings she’d made yesterday. The marks she’d made depicting each wound couldn’t begin to convey the horror that had been inflicted on Jane Doe. Without that brutal overlay to shock and distract, she could get a sense of the wounds themselves.
Unfortunately, there appeared to be no discernible pattern: fifty-three stab wounds in total. Usually a number that great would indicate a frenzied attack, with the blades puncturing the flesh in what was often a simulated sex act. But not in this case. This, as she’d told Sam Kelly, was methodic cutting. Terrible control and a terrible desire to inflict pain.
Did he do it to punish someone—ex-girlfriend, wife, mother—or simply because he was a sexual sadist? Or both?
She glanced up when the door swung open, and Lady Rebecca came into the room. The Lady was already dressed for evening in an empire-waisted blue gown with tiny pearls sewn into the bodice. The skirt was narrow, but that didn’t stop Lady Rebecca from making brisk strides to stand before her. She carried an ivory fan that she thumped against her open palm in what Kendra could only conclude was a sign of extreme irritation.
“You think Alec is a murderer!”
Carefully, Kendra slipped the drawings into the ledger. “He told you that?”
“He finds it amusing. I do not!”
“I can see that. Look, whatever—”
“I shall tell you a story. I expect you’ve wondered about my face.”
“What? No,” Kendra said. “I mean, I assumed you had smallpox.”
“Yes. I contracted the affliction when I was seven.” She wandered around the room as she told her story, picking up and setting down objects she found. Nervous energy. “I am certain my parents measured me for a shroud. Many children of the same age died, you see. I don’t know why I did not.” She fell silent, and shook her head. “I lived—but not without repercussions. As you can see.”