A Murder in Time (56 page)

An hour later, Alec dismissed his valet and sat before the fire in his bedchambers, contemplating the glass of brandy in his hand. He wondered yet again in less than a fortnight if Kendra Donovan was mad, or if he was mad to listen to her. Her story of vortexes and wormholes—devil take it, of being from the
future
—it was ridiculous. Utterly preposterous.

And yet his mind continued to flash back to the first night, after she'd stumbled through the passage. He remembered how she'd stared at the candles like she'd never seen such a thing before. And the Ming vases.

Two hundred years old—more like over five hundred years old!

He thought of how she'd subdued the hermit with those odd moves. She was a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation; she hunted serial killers. Dear Christ, what kind of woman did that? Although, if she could be believed, women's role in society would shift significantly. Becca, at least, would be ecstatic to hear that.

He shook his head, unable to figure out his own emotions. Did he believe her? Who could invent such a tale if it weren't true?

She'd spoken so blithely about Jane Austen, the authoress of
Pride and Prejudice.
He'd thought she must have some connection to the writer, and had immediately posted a note to the publisher. He had yet to receive a reply, and now wondered how he'd feel if the answer seemed to confirm Kendra's wild tale.

He couldn't bring himself to believe that these were the ravings of a lunatic. But she'd been foxed. Could he convince himself that it was a story spun by someone who'd imbibed too much strong drink? Perhaps.

Alec was torn between disbelief, denial, and a strange sort of wonder. Slowly, he finished the brandy and set the glass aside. He moved to the bed, shrugging out of his banyan. He blew out the candle and, in the darkness, he slid beneath the crisp sheets and bedding. Stacking his hands beneath his head, he contemplated the light and shadows that danced across the painted ceiling from the glow of the fireplace.

The Duke would be interested in hearing Kendra Donovan's story, as peculiar as it was. But he'd promised to keep quiet, and he intended to keep that promise. A time traveler deserved a little consideration, he supposed.

56

She'd told Alec that she was from the future.

The memory came flooding back in horrifying clarity as soon as Kendra opened her eyes the next morning. She'd drank a lot—could still feel the aftereffects of the brandy, the way her head swam just a bit woozily as she pushed herself to a sitting position—but she knew she hadn't imagined her conversation with Alec.

What would he do? She suppressed a panicky shiver, and considered all the angles. If he told Aldridge, the Duke would . . . what? He'd always been surprisingly accepting of what he undoubtedly regarded as her eccentricities, but there was a big difference between thinking someone odd, and thinking them
certifiable.
Really, Aldridge had known her less than two weeks. If the positions were reversed, she knew she'd be calling for a psych evaluation. Could she blame him if he called in a shrink—a
mad-
doctor? Even the name made her shudder. Like the insane asylums of this period, it conjured up primitive, torturous conditions and ignorance. She'd never survive it.

But what recourse was open to her? Here, she was a servant. Although she wasn't familiar with this era's laws regarding mental disorders, she knew her voice would never be heard over the powerful Duke of Aldridge's.

Of course, there was another possibility. He might actually believe her. Could she get that lucky?

She thought of her life so far: involuntarily sucked through a vortex, stuck in the nineteenth century, her one friend murdered. No one would consider her lucky. But everyone's luck had to change sometime.

She didn't know how long she sat there, fighting panic and waves of nausea, until a soft knock at the door roused her. She glanced up as Molly poked her head in. Her eyes, Kendra noticed, were still red and puffy.

“Oi came ter see if ye need 'elp dressin', Miss. Are ye ill?”

“I don't feel so hot.”

“Aye. There's a chill in the air.”

“No, I mean—forget it.” Kendra slid out of bed, then hesitated, a lump forming in her throat. “I'm sorry, Molly. About . . . about Rose.”

New tears shone in the maid's eyes. “'Tisn't yer fault, miss. It's the bastard 'oo done that to 'er. We'll catch 'im and 'e'll 'ang from the gallows. And Oi 'ope 'e rots in 'ell!” She sniffed, and bent down to pluck the dress and spencer that Kendra had discarded on the floor the night before, tossing both on the bed. “The gentry are leavin' terday,” she said in a quieter tone.

“Yes. I know.” Kendra hastily donned her underwear.

“A funeral needs ter be planned.” The tweeny dashed the tears from her eyes as she opened the wardrobe. “Do ye 'ave a preference for w'ot ye be wearing terday?”

“No.”

Molly brought over a pale lavender gown, and helped Kendra into it. “Oi'll pin up yer 'air, miss.”

Kendra nearly groaned out loud. Her head ached without having heavy pins stuck in it. “That's not necessary.”

“'Tis no trouble, miss.”

“Honestly, I don't—”

“Oi'd like ter do it. For Rose, miss.”

Put like that, Kendra couldn't deny the tweeny. She sat down on the bed as Molly retrieved the brush and pins.

“She wo'nted ter be a lady's maid, ye know,” Molly said softly.

“I know.” As the tweeny brushed her hair, her mind flashed to the question Alec had asked last night.
Your hairstyle . . . is this typical of women in the future?

“Rose taught me ter do this.” Molly twisted Kendra's hair into a low coil, and then pushed the long hairpins in place to anchor it. She took a step back to admire her handiwork. “Ye look right proper, miss.”

“Rose would be proud of you, Molly.”

“Thank you, miss.” Blinking back tears, Molly retreated to the other bed, picking up the gown and spencer. She started toward the wardrobe, but paused. “Oh. Ye're dress 'as got a stain. Oi'll take it down ter Mrs. Beeton ter scrub it out. Ye've picked up a bit of dirt on yere spencer, too. W'ot were ye doing yesterday—?” she broke off, her expression stricken as she remembered what everybody had been doing.

“It's my laundry,” Kendra said, walking toward her. “You shouldn't have to do extra work, Molly. I'll take it to Mrs. Beeton.” She lifted the jacket out of Molly's hands.

“'Tisn't any trouble, miss. ‘Tis good to work.” The tweeny was reaching for the clothes, but stopped when she noticed Kendra's expression. “W'ot is it, miss?”

Kendra's eyes were on the brownish gray stains. “I'm not sure.” Was she imagining the similarities?

“Miss?” Molly asked uncertainly when the silence lengthened.

Heart pounding, Kendra carefully inspected the smears running across both the gown and the spencer. They looked the same, but it didn't make sense. “Have I been mistaken?” she wondered, frowning.

“Mistaken 'bout w'ot?”

Kendra came to a decision. She thrust the bundle of material back into Molly's arms as a sense of urgency came over her. “Do me a favor, Molly. Take these clothes to the Duke and Dr. Munroe. Tell them to compare the stains to the one on April Duprey's coat.”

The tweeny eyed the smudges dubiously. “W'ot is it?”

Kendra hurriedly slipped on her shoes. “I'm not sure, that's why I need the Duke to look at it under his microscope. But I think it might be potash.”

“W'ot does that mean?”

Kendra paused at the door as she met the maid's confused gaze. “It means that I've been wrong, Molly. Wrong about everything.”

57

No smoke was curling out of the chimney of the hermit's hut today. Of course, the abandoned feel of the place meant nothing; the appearance was easily deceptive.
And Thomas may have already deceived me
, she thought as she approached the door.

Kendra paused to listen intently, but heard nothing but birds trilling from nearby trees and the soft whisper of leaves and grass, stirred by the breeze.

She pounded on the door. “Thomas? Thomas, I need to speak to you!”

Silence.

She pounded again. “C'mon! Open up!”

Nothing.

She tried the door. She hadn't noticed any lock when she'd been in the place earlier, so she wasn't surprised when the door swung inward easily.

The room was empty. The shutters were still open, the sunshine seeping weakly through the greasy panes, limning the clutter inside. If possible, the stench seemed even worse than before.

Look around, then get out
, she decided. Although she wasn't entirely sure what she was looking for. She spotted the cupboard that she'd bumped into yesterday. Jars, pottery, and paintbrushes still littered the surface. Her hands, she noticed, were smeared with grayish dirt about two seconds after coming in contact with the containers. Was it potash? Or plain dirt?
How the hell am I to know?

Without a fire in the hearth, the room was as cold as a tomb. Kendra shivered slightly as she rifled through the cupboards. There was no way Thomas had used this place for torture, but he could've stashed April Duprey here before he dumped the body on the path. And Rose . . . yes, he could've kept her here too, as everyone searched—as
he
searched. Who better to know when they had finished searching the area near the lake than a volunteer in the search party?

She paused, tension prickling along the back of her spine. Was that a noise? A scrape and shuffle outside? She held her breath and listened. No, nothing. Except for the thudding of her heart.

Trying to shrug off her tension, she resumed her search. Her hands were filthy as she opened jars and containers. She would need a bath afterward, even if it meant hauling up the buckets of water herself.

Her eyes narrowed on the top shelf of the cabinet, noticing the wooden container. It wasn't dust-free, but it seemed less grimy than everything else in Thomas's shack. It also struck her as too ornate for the hermit. She reached up, bringing the container down. It was eight inches high, six inches wide, and about ten inches in length. The wood looked like mahogany, the lid hand-carved with a floral design. Balancing it in the crook of her arm, Kendra lifted the lid, and frowned as she saw skeins of yarn inside.

Puzzled, she reached in. Her fingertips had touched the soft filaments before she realized what it was. In revulsion, she gasped, lurching backward and falling hard against the cupboard. The box toppled out of her arms, hitting the dirt floor and splintering. The contents spilled out.

Not yarn . . .
hair.

Human hair.

58

Gabriel wanted a drink badly. His hands shook with the wanting. He clenched them into fists and thrust them into his coat pockets. He gritted his teeth together. His head was pounding; his stomach twisted into knots. Though he'd had a bath that morning, he could smell his own sweat, a pungent odor that added to his misery.

He'd dismissed his valet earlier, not wanting anyone's eyes on him. He had to be alone as he fought against the demon whispering seductively in his ear, urging him to end the pain that was eating him alive.
Take a drink.

God Almighty, he hadn't touched a drop since he'd heard the maid had disappeared from the castle, since he'd heard that she'd resembled the first whore. Even now, he remembered the gut-clenching horror that his madness might be spreading.

How many months had he woken up, unable to recall what he'd done the night before? The yawning black stretches in his memory frightened him more than anything, and he'd submerged his growing fear with more whiskey. It was only when the whore had been found in the lake that memory had floated up like bits of flotsam, disjointed images that had sent a thrill of horror through him: big brown eyes, Cupid's bow mouth—smiling and alive.

He'd tried desperately not to think of it. Kendra Donovan had pushed and pushed him, until he'd lost his temper. Jesus, he would have throttled her, if she hadn't fought back. The Duke was right; he was a monster.

Yet when the maid had went missing, he hadn't lost his memory. He'd been here, confined to his room since Kendra had nearly blinded him. A recluse. Yes, he'd been drinking, but not enough to forget. And to satisfy his own peace of mind, he'd asked Finch, who'd confirmed his presence in his bedchamber.

The maid's disappearance had galvanized the household. It had galvanized
him
. He'd spent the last forty-eight hours in agony—
sober
agony. As a search had gone out for the maid, he'd sweated and cast up his accounts until his stomach and throat were raw. When news came that the maid's body had been found in much the same condition as the whore in the lake, he'd been sober, and an emotion had seized him was one that he hadn't felt in a long time
—hope.

59

Kendra stared in horror at the ropes of human hair at her feet. Some had been braided and tied off with twine, she saw now. Others had simply been tied off, like hair extensions used in high-priced salons. There were dozens of them, dark brown and black except for one that was golden blond
—April Duprey.

Thomas had been collecting the girls' hair like scalps. As souvenirs?

Not exactly. The truth hit her like a punch to the gut, and she glanced at the paintbrushes scattered about. Slowly, she picked one up, staring at the soft bristles, and remembered how Thomas had appeared mesmerized as she'd thumbed the bristle. She attributed his behavior to his opium use. But now . . .

Shuddering, she dropped the paintbrush and stepped back.

Art requires sacrifice.