A Murder in Time (34 page)

That, Kendra decided, was as good an opening as any. “Actually, you can. We're questioning men in the area. Where were you on Sunday night and early Monday morning?”

He stopped walking and stared at her. If she'd stripped naked and sang “Yankee Doodle,” she doubted if she could've surprised him more. “Me? Are you . . . are you, perchance, asking me if
I
killed that girl, Miss Donovan?”

“Please don't take offense, Mr. Dalton,” Rebecca said hurriedly. “As Miss Donovan stated, 'tis a question we'll be asking everyone.”

He blinked, then shook his head. “I am not certain that lessens the insult, my Lady.” He was quiet for a moment, glancing down at the hat in his hands. “I attended Lady Atwood's dinner party, if you recall. It was the first evening of the house party.”

“What time did you leave the castle?” Kendra asked.

“I don't know whether to be amused or insulted by this line of inquiry, Miss Donovan.”

“Try to be understanding. We just buried that girl over there. Questions need to be asked.”

His eyes darkened. “I saw what was done to that girl, Miss Donovan. I conducted the postmortem. I don't know if I can be so indulgent when you clearly think I am capable of that atrocity.”

“That's one way to look at it. Or you might try looking at it from a different angle—we're trying to eliminate you from being suspected of that atrocity. It would help matters if you had an alibi for the time in question.”

He frowned. “I cannot accommodate you. I returned home and retired for the evening to my bedchamber. I was asleep when the wh . . . that Unfortunate Woman was being viciously murdered.”

“You don't have anyone to verify your whereabouts?”

“No.”

“What about your valet?” asked Rebecca. “He must have assisted you before you retired.”

He flicked her a glance. “As I was uncertain when I'd return, I told Roberts not to wait for me. I spent many years in the army, your Ladyship. Unlike the gentlemen of the Ton, I am not as reliant on the services of a valet. Now, I must take my leave. Lady Rebecca, Miss Donovan.” He gave a slight bow, before walking quickly away.

Kendra watched him for a minute, then looked at Rebecca. “How unusual is it for a gentleman to tell his valet not to wait up for him?”

“It's not unreasonable to be considerate of one's servants, Miss Donovan. And he explained that his years in the army have given him a different sort of disposition.”

“Yes. He did, didn't he? Without any nudging, too.”

Rebecca frowned at her. “You make it sound as though he did something wrong. Mayhap Mr. Dalton was simply being helpful.”

“Hmm.”

Rebecca gave her an exasperated look. “Would you prefer that he be evasive and unhelpful?”

“I prefer he had an alibi.”

Kendra liked Simon Dalton. That didn't mean he wasn't a murderer.

Some of the most notorious serial killers had been well-liked until their crimes had been uncovered. Ted Bundy, handsome, charming, who even worked on a suicide-crisis hotline, had been the model of decency. A mother, Kendra was sure, would've been thrilled if her daughter had brought him home to dinner, would never have suspected that he had killed more than thirty women and young girls. John Wayne Gacy, not so handsome but equally popular in his neighborhood, had been a successful entrepreneur who entertained sick children by dressing up as a clown—until he was caught and convicted of murdering thirty-three teenage boys and men. More than one unsub, even on cases Kendra had been involved in herself, had turned out to be the grandfatherly figure down the street, the helpful neighbor, the good-looking doctor.

Whoever had said that appearances were deceiving was only partially right; they could also be deadly.

For a second, the image of Terry Landon blowing off Daniel Sheppard's head flashed through her mind. She'd worked beside him for eight months and hadn't realized he was a traitor, she reminded herself bitterly. And she hadn't really even liked him. Dalton she liked, but damned if she was going to trust him.

Despite the castle's enormous size, Kendra felt stifled after returning. The overcast skies and cold temperature of the day brought everyone indoors. The ladies were in the drawing room, embroidering and gossiping. Kendra had no desire to join them, and suspected they had no desire for her company either. Rebecca was spending the afternoon painting in the conservatory. The men were in another room playing cards, with the exception of the Duke, who was in his laboratory.

Kendra went to the study, but instead of reviewing her notes, she found herself pacing restlessly. She was in a weird no-man's-land. Her promotion had catapulted her above the servants, so she was no longer allowed below stairs. They regarded her with varying degrees of distrust. Rose was the only one who hadn't changed. Then again, it was hard to be distant with someone with whom you shared a chamber pot.

Deciding some fresh air would clear her head, Kendra headed out of the castle. She forgot to grab the cape she'd worn earlier, and regretted that when the chilly wind speared right through the thin muslin of her walking dress. Still, she hurried on, up the hill and into the forest, which was even more mottled beneath the slate gray skies.

She again walked the lake where the body had been found, then followed the river to where the stone hut stood. Smoke, slightly darker than the sky, curled out of the stone chimney, she noticed as she approached. The small patch of ground near the building resembled a junkyard. Wooden crates were stacked on top of each other, chest high. Glass jars, some broken, some just cracked, were tossed to the side. Earthenware bowls, jugs, and tin cans were jumbled in random piles. An iron tripod over a circle made out of stones, its interior covered with cold gray ash, indicated Thomas the Hermit cooked at least some of his meals outside. Clearly, Thomas wasn't a neat freak.

She'd encountered people who lived like this in her own time line. Some had fallen on hard times or gotten involved with drugs. Some liked living off the grid. Others had mental illnesses. But this guy was a professional—he got
paid
to live like this.

From inside, she thought she heard a shuffling movement. It was either Thomas, or he had some really big rats. She couldn't rule out the latter. She stepped up to the door and knocked. Sudden silence. Not a rat.

“Thomas? It's Kendra Donovan. I want to talk to you.” She waited and banged again on the door. “I know you're in there!”

It still took several more minutes before the door cracked open an inch. The smell hit her first, strong enough to knock her back a step. The hermit peered out from the gloom.

“What'dya want?”

“I told you. To talk.”

She didn't wait for an invitation, drawing in a deep breath and pushing her way into the small building. A stone fireplace took up one wall. A small fire was crackling in the hearth. There was a single cot, the wool blankets balled up on top of a straw mattress. Dozens of canvases were stacked against another wall, half covered by coarse blankets. A small table was littered with unlit candles and pots of dried paint and paintbrushes; a wooden cupboard held a dented, bronze teakettle, iron pots, and utensils. A trunk was wedged between the bed and the cupboard. A crude easel had been set up next to that. On it was a canvas that had been painted blue except for the beginnings of a featureless, ghostly shape lying horizontal in the center.

The shape, though, was decidedly female.

The single window was shuttered, leaving the interior in premature twilight. A lit oil lamp was in the middle of the dirt floor. Kendra's gaze shifted to the tools next to the lamp, including the bamboo pipe that was fitted to a clay cup: a primitive bong. Well, that explained the glazed look to his eyes, and the sweetish scent that cruised above the primordial smells of earth, sweat, linseed oil, and grime.
Opium.

“Not your day to terrorize ladies, Thomas?” she asked casually, toeing aside the drug paraphernalia to stand before the easel.

He frowned. “I do what I'm hired to do.”

“You should ask for a raise.”

“Eh?” Bafflement.

“Never mind.” She turned to face him. “I wanted to ask you again about the girl who was killed. Did you see anybody or hear anything unusual Sunday night, early Monday morning?”

Instead of answering, he dropped down in the middle of the floor, near the opium pipe. He regarded her sullenly. “I already told you—I don't know nothin'.”

There wasn't much space in which to move around. Four steps to the cupboards. Two steps to the easel. She moved in the direction of the blue canvas. She studied it for a long moment, letting the silence pool, before glancing back at him. “You see, Thomas, there's a problem with that. I don't believe you.”

Absently, she picked up a paintbrush. Like everything in this time line, it was homemade, just a thin stick of wood that had twine and wire wrapped around the base to keep the bristles in place. Thumbing the soft dark hairs, she glanced back at the hermit. “Nothing to say to that, Thomas? No denial?”

He was staring at her as though mesmerized.

Christ.
Higher than a kite
, she realized.

“You get paid to be a hermit. To run around the forest. To watch for people. Like the other day when you saw me.”

He was silent.

Impatiently, she tossed the paintbrush on the counter, moved around the easel, and squatted down so she could look him in the eye. “You're not in trouble, Thomas. I just want to know if you've ever seen anybody down by the river. One of the gentry.”

“Nay.”

“Maybe you want to think about that for oh, I don't know, a second or two longer.”

The glazed look became a glare. “I don't know nothin'!”

“I'm not asking you what you know. I'm asking if you
saw
anyone.”

“Nay.”

She still didn't believe him, but she eased back, tried another tactic. “Okay, Thomas. I'd appreciate it if you kept an eye out, let me know if you see anyone hanging out by the river or the lake. Gentry. Do you understand?”

He just stared at her.

“The Duke will give you a coin or two for your help.” Kendra wasn't entirely sure about that, but bribery, in her experience, usually worked with the indigent in the twenty-first century. She saw no reason that it wouldn't work just as well here.

She regarded him closely, and thought she saw a flicker of interest in his eyes. Or it might've been a trick of light inside the shadowy hut. She got to her feet. Thomas stayed exactly where he was.

It had been impulse to approach the hermit. Her gut told her that he was hiding something, that he knew more than he was saying. Still, it couldn't hurt to encourage him to keep a look out. It wouldn't be the first time a murderer returned to the scene, even if it was to make sure he hadn't left anything behind.

She let herself out, grateful for the fresh air after the putrid stench of the hut. Surveying the ominous gray clouds gathering overheard, she began walking fast. And hoped she'd make it back to the castle before it began to rain.

Alec stared out at the distorted view of the gardens and green hills as the rain struck the arched windows, rattling the glass and running down the panes in silvery streams. In contrast, the small drawing room he was standing in was warm, with a cheery fire crackling in the hearth. Candles had been lit, their glow playing over the Sheraton tables, tufted settees and sofa, the rosewood chimneypiece. A perfectly normal day in the English countryside.

Except that morning he'd attended the funeral of an unidentified dead girl who'd most likely been a whore, who most likely had been murdered. And, if Kendra Donovan were to be believed, she'd been murdered by somebody he knew. It was madness.

He frowned, his mind shifting to the American. She was an enigma. She wasn't a Lady, although her table manners, as he'd observed last night, were flawless. He'd made a point of observing. She'd known which spoon and fork to use for each dish. She'd known, as she'd told him pertly, not to drink from the finger bowl.