“Okay, asshole! Who the hell are you?” she shouted, adrenaline rushing through her veins. She jerked his arm up higher, twisting it near his shoulder blades until he screamed in pain. “Why are you following me? Tell me! Tell me or I’ll—”
“Miss Donovan!”
Her head snapped around. Alec was standing about twenty feet from her, having come from the direction of the castle. His expression was indecipherable as his gaze traveled from her to the man who was now whimpering on his knees before her.
“What, pray tell,” he drawled finally, “are you doing to the hermit?”
21
“Hermit?” Kendra repeated stupidly, not sure she heard correctly. “You have a hermit?”
“Not I. The Duke. All the best households have them.” Alec lifted one brow. “Mayhap you ought to unhand him. If you break his arm, he won’t be able to fulfill his duties.”
“Duties?” Was he serious? “You have a hermit. And he has duties.”
Alec grinned suddenly, and it occurred to Kendra that this was the first genuine smile she’d ever seen from him. If she wasn’t already feeling like someone had kicked her in the head, that might’ve done it. “I believe most hermits are required to leap out of bushes, frighten the ladies. Being ferocious and uncivilized, or brooding and poetic. Whatever the advertisement stipulated. I must say, you failed miserably with the ferocious part, Thomas. At least with Miss Donovan.”
“She’s breaking me bleeding arm!” the man cried out, sobbing.
Kendra let him go. He scrambled to his feet, eyeing her warily as he rubbed his arm.
“You actually advertised for a hermit?”
“Again, not I. Thomas is an ornamental hermit. The countess acquired him for the house party. It’s quite the thing.”
“It’s absurd,” she muttered. But was it any more ridiculous than millions tuning in to watch Jersey Shore or the Kardashians? Or cats on the Internet? People were freaking nuts, regardless of the century.
“The Ton delights in the absurd.”
Kendra eyed the strange man. If you looked beyond the matted hair and filth—good God, he stunk to high heaven—she saw that he was young, probably no more than twenty-two or twenty-three. “You actually get paid to skulk about the forest and terrorize women?”
“I don’t skulk. And the ladies want to be terrorized. I add a bucolic charm, the countess says. I’m an artist.”
“Of course you are,” Kendra said dryly. “Where do you live?”
He frowned, eyeing her suspiciously. “Why?”
“I’m curious.”
He hesitated, then gave a jerky shrug. “In the stone hut near the river.”
“Did you hear about the dead girl found in the lake?”
Thomas stepped back, his face becoming wooden. “Nay.”
“That’s odd. Everybody’s talking about it.”
Something flickered behind his eyes, then was gone. “Aye. Aye, I remember now. Word gets around.”
“So you did hear about it?”
He wiped his palms on his grimy beige homespun pants, looking nervous. “Aye. Mayhap I heard something. About a doxy being found in the lake. I dunno anythin’. I had nothing to do with it.”
“I didn’t say that you did. But you live near the river. Somebody dumped the body in the river. Maybe you saw something, someone in the area.”
“Nay. I don’t know nothin’.”
Alec considered him carefully. “If you did know something, Thomas, you would tell me or His Grace, wouldn’t you?”
“Aye.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “May I go, sir? I know nothin’.”
Alec exchanged a look with Kendra, then nodded. “All right, Thomas. If we need you, we’ll send for you.”
He didn’t wait, bolting back into the forest.
Kendra stared after him. “He’s hiding something.”
“Most likely the lice in his hair.” Alec lifted a mocking brow. “I thought you were of the mind the murderer was one of my ilk? Not our poor hermit—and when I use the word poor, I mean it most literally. Thomas doesn’t have two coins to rub together. And while I suppose women are sometimes drawn to the brooding artist, a Bird of Paradise has, shall we say, a bit more pragmatic disposition.”
“I’m not saying he killed the girl. I’m saying that he’s lying now. Or holding back.”
“Why would he lie? If he saw something, why not tell us? I gave him the opportunity.”
“In my experience, people like Thomas often don’t like to get involved. Especially if it’s his word against . . . one of your ilk.”
“Exactly what is your experience, Miss Donovan?”
Instead of answering—and what could she say, really?—Kendra swung around and began walking. She was caught off guard when Alec grabbed her arm. He looked grim.
“You haven’t answered my question. What do you have to hide, Miss Donovan?”
Oh, just a little thing like dropping in from the twenty-first century, she thought, and had to squelch the bubble of hysterical laughter that rose in her throat. Instead, she said in her most neutral tone, “I know what I’m doing. You need to trust me.”
“As you trust me? You think I could be a murderer.” He laughed without any amusement at her start of surprise. “You said the murderer was someone in my class, someone familiar with the area, someone who has the means to hire a London light-skirt and bring her to the country.”
“I never accused you.”
He gave her a wry look. “Not out loud, no. But you’ve certainly considered the possibility, have you not?”
Kendra stared at him warily.
His mouth twisted, and he lifted a finger, skimming the silky wedge of hair that swung against her jaw to the delicate jaw itself.
Kendra forced herself to stand still, again taken aback by the awareness that hummed between them. This was far more dangerous than if she thought him a murderer—a murderer she could handle.
“Tell me, Miss Donovan. Isn’t it rather perilous for you to be out here with me, in the woods all alone?”
“I can take care of myself.” She was pleased her voice was steady. Her knees certainly were not.
He smiled slowly. “Yes, I saw that myself. Who taught you that little trick you used on poor Thomas?”
She didn’t know how to respond to that. It was a relief when she heard approaching footsteps. Alec heard them too, and dropped his hand, his expression once again becoming indecipherable as Kenneth Morland came along the path.
He hesitated when he saw them. “Ah, Sutcliffe . . . I was told you’d returned to the lake. I didn’t realize you were here with Miss Donovan.” He flicked a look at Kendra, then dismissed her. “Did you discover anything else?”
His question was directed at Alec, but Kendra answered. “I found a hermit.”
Morland shifted his attention back to her. “A hermit, you say?”
“Miss Donovan had an encounter with the countess’ ornamental hermit. He attempted to terrorize her, but she ended up terrorizing him.”
“I didn’t realize his job was to leap out of bushes,” she muttered.
Morland laughed. “Oh, I see. All in good fun, of course. My mother had a fancy for one years ago, but my grandfather refused. Not that it’s easy to hire one. Not a lot of hermits lying about, you understand. Especially with all the stipulations imposed on them.”
Kendra had to ask, “What sort of stipulations?”
“I heard when Sir Jeremy Pellman hired an ornamental hermit for Pellman Park, he was required to grow out his hair and fingernails and to restrict his speech to growling and cursing at the guests. Sir Jeremy promised to pay him seven hundred pounds if he lasted the length of the contract, which, if I am not mistaken, was seven years. I heard Sir Jeremy sacked him after two months, when he learned his hermit spent his afternoons in the village pub.”
“You’re joking.”
“I most certainly am not!”
“After our hermit encountered Miss Donovan, he ought t
o think twice about leaping out at the ladies. She may have quite ruined him,” Alec drawled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “But my aunt has less stringent requirements for a hermit than Sir Jeremy, so Thomas, I daresay, will stay on.”
Morland gave them both an uncertain glance. “Aside from the hermit, have you discovered anything in regards to the doxy, Sutcliffe? I was told the Runner has been and gone.”
A sour note crept into his voice. As magistrate, Kendra realized, he was the local law. And even though it appeared the role was more ceremonial than functional, Morland seemed to have the same territorial instincts as everyone she knew in law enforcement. Or maybe it was just the male ego. Either way, it was clear that Morland was not happy about missing the Bow Street Runner.
“As Mr. Kelly will be required to scour all the brothels in London, Duke thought he ought to begin his task immediately.”
“’Tis an enormous task for the Runner. Do you think he will accomplish it?”
Alec shrugged. “Mr. Kelly seemed a competent sort.”
“Then we’re at a standstill until the Runner returns.”
“The thief-taker’s already gone?” a new voice demanded to know.
Kendra glanced at the two men striding down the hill. She recognized both from yesterday’s nuncheon. The shorter man had a round, almost babyish face with wispy blond hair and blue eyes. The other was the good-looking young man who’d been drinking out of a flask. By the look in his bright eyes now, she suspected he was drinking again today. Or maybe he’d never stopped.
“Gabriel.” Alec’s voice was ice-cold. “What are you doing here?”
The good-looking man—Gabriel—scowled and threw out his arms. “You are not my keeper, Sutcliffe. Until His Grace cocks up his toes, none of this is yours yet. I am free to go where I please.”
“You’re bossy, as usual,” Alec snapped.
“Gabe.” The other man laid a hand on Gabriel’s arm, shooting Alec an uneasy glance. “Mayhap we ought to return to the castle.”
“Listen to Harcourt, Gabriel. And go easy on the port.”
Gabriel flushed and shook off his friend’s hand. “I suggest you mind your own bloody business, my Lord.” His chin jutted out belligerently, his gaze hot. He took a step forward, and for a minute Kendra wondered if he was going to take a swing at Alec. Then Morland intervened, stepping forward and clapping a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “I’ll walk with you back to the castle, my boy.” He had a forced jovial note in his voice. “’Tis too fine a day to be shadowed by bickering.”
In an adroit maneuver, Morland and Harcourt flanked Gabriel, hustling him back up the footpath. Kendra glanced at Alec.
“What’s going on between you? It’s clear that the guy hates your guts.”
Despite the grimness he was feeling, Alec smiled. “Miss Donovan, ladies do not mention one’s innards.”
“I’ll make a note.” They began following the trio at a more leisurely pace. She slanted him a curious glance. “Who is he? Jealous rival? Longtime enemy?”
Alec’s smile faded; his face became shuttered.
“You might say that,” he finally answered. “He’s my brother.”
22
Apparently families were as screwed up in the nineteenth century as they were in the twenty-first. Kendra wondered if simple rivalry was at the root of Gabriel’s animosity. Or if there was something more, something even darker, more twisted than jealousy.
By the time the Duke sent for her, she’d gotten three blisters on her fingers from cutting vegetables. The wounds reminded her of Jane Doe’s soft hands. Definitely not a servant.
She walked into the study, and stopped when she saw the slate board.
“Few people venture into the schoolroom, much less that wing of the castle, but I see no need to incite hysteria in anyone curious enough to go there,” Aldridge said, rising from his chair and coming around the desk. “I thought it best to bring the slate board here.”
She nodded. “That’s a good idea. Some of the staff have already begun thinking gypsies are responsible. In fact, you might want to warn them. There could be trouble.”
“No need, Miss Donovan. The Romani are gone.”
She raised her brows. “You already told them?”
“Alec and I rode out to their camp, but they had already departed.”
“How—”
“The Romani have been persecuted their entire lives, Miss Donovan. Whenever something befalls the countryside—a cow becomes ill, a field is devastated by blight—they are the first to be blamed. Despite our modern age, many fall back on superstition. The Romani are a pragmatic and clever people; they will leave at the first sign of trouble.”
“Well, that’s one less thing to worry about, I suppose.”
He was silent as he surveyed the shadows beneath her eyes. “I can see that you have been worrying,” he finally said.
Kendra shrugged. “There’s a lot to worry about.” Time travel. Serial killers. An attraction to a man who’s more than two hundred years older than I am. She glanced at the slate board. “He’s out there, you know. He’ll kill again.”
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.”
A Murder in Time Page 21
