A Murder in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “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 n
ews 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.

  Kendra glanced at the canvases stacked against the far wall. Her skin crawling, she forced herself to move toward them, to drag off the dirty wool blankets. The first row was benign landscapes: the river, the forest; local scenes.

  She flipped those back to reveal the second row, and these were far different from the pretty landscapes. There was nothing pretty about the ghastly images Thomas had painted, young girls shackled and screaming.

  Art requires sacrifice.

  She turned and ran outside, drawing in deep gulps of fresh air. Leaning over, she put her hands on her knees and tried to get a grip on the emotions swirling through her. Something flashed in her peripheral vision. She didn’t even have time to turn before pain exploded in her head, driving her to her knees.

  And into darkness.

  60

  “Is something on your mind, my boy?”

  Alec glanced at the Duke, who was studying him over the rim of a teacup. Dr. Munroe was also eyeing him, apparently finding him more interesting than the carefully ironed newspaper in his hand.

  “Pardon?” Alec replied.

  “You seem a bit blue-deviled. What is troubling you?”

  Alec was at loss for words. What could he say? You have a woman living under your roof who is from the future—or, at least, believes that she is. In truth, Alec wasn’t entirely certain which he’d prefer. He was not a natural philosopher like his uncle. His own interests tended toward the pragmatic: business, finance, investments. Having Kendra Donovan claim she was from another time period was disturbing on a fundamental level. He damned well didn’t like the idea of . . . what had she called them? Wormholes. After all, if she could unintentionally fall into one, what would stop anyone from following suit?

  He glanced uneasily at the tapestry that hid the stairwell. How many times had he used the passageway in his lifetime, first as a boy, with a boy’s natural curiosity, and later because it was the most expedient route to the Duke’s laboratory? How many times had his uncle walked that same route? What if one day they went in and never came back out? It was too incredible even to contemplate.

  But he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Kendra Donovan was mad. Nor could he quite convince himself that she’d been foxed, her mind flooded with fantasy after drinking half a bottle of brandy.

  “Alec?”

  He became aware that he hadn’t answered his uncle. “’Tis nothing, Duke. The maid’s death has left a pall on the castle.” That much was true. He needed to speak with Kendra again, before he spoke to the Duke about her unusual circumstance. If some madness had seized her mind, his uncle was in the best position to help.

  A knock at the door interrupted his morose thoughts. Relieved at the interruption, he crossed the room, opening the door to a young maid, who stood uncertainly, clutching a bundle to her chest.

  “Yes?”

  The girl dropped into a hasty curtsey. “Yer Lordship. Oi . . . ah, miss asked me ter give this ter ’is Grace and the sawbones—er, Oi mean, the Doctor Munroe.”

  “What is it, pray tell?” Aldridge set down his teacup and came forward. They all watched as the maid shook out the material.

  “That’s the gown and spencer that Kendra—Miss Donovan wore yesterday,” Alec identified with a frown.

  “Aye.” The maid gave him a nervous look. “Miss said ye were ter look at the stains. Said it mebbe potash, sir.”

  “Potash?” Munroe questioned, coming forward. He took the dress from the girl, scrutinizing the smears. “’Tis possible. They have a similar look. I would need your microscope, Your Grace, to be certain.”

  “Of course.”

  “Where is Miss Donovan?” Alec asked sharply.

  “Oi dunno. She said she’d been wrong.”

  Icy fear had Alec grabbing the girl’s arm. “Did she leave the castle?”

  “Oi dunno, ye Lordship!”

  “Alec, you’re frightening the girl.”

  “Devil take it!” Alec glared at his uncle, but let go of the maid. “I told her not to go anywhere alone!”

  Aldridge frowned, glancing at the maid. “You know nothing of Miss Donovan’s whereabouts?”

  “Nay, sir!”

  “You may go.” Once the maid had left, Aldridge turned to Alec. “Calm down. Miss Donovan is no fool.”

  Kendra’s words came back to him in a terrifying rush. “Dammit. We need to find her!”

  Aldridge moved to the bellpull. “I shall summon Rebecca. If Miss Donovan isn’t with her, she most likely will know where she’s gone.”

  I hunt serial killers.

  But that was the thing about hunting a wild beast—desperation made them more dangerous. Kendra may think she was hunting the killer, but Alec knew, a chill deep in his gut, that the situation could easily be reversed. The fiend could be hunting her.

  61

  Kendra did not have a first conscious thought. She only felt pain. It radiated from the top of her skull all the way down to her toes. Slowly, she became aware of two other things: she was lying on her back, and her hands were pinioned above her head. She tried to move her arms, and felt the pinch of metal against her wrists.

  Panic jolted through her like an electrical current. Visions of other wrists rubbed raw flooded her mind. She opened her eyes, barely noticing the shadowy ceiling above her as she thrashed around, rattling the chains. The sour taste of terror invaded her mouth.

  She stopped her frantic movements, concentrating instead on subduing the blind panic. She closed her eyes. Breathe in; breathe out.

  As the fear receded, her senses expanded. The air was cold and dank. She could smell beeswax and mildew. And something else that nearly broke her control again.

  Blood.

  It took every ounce of willpower to keep calm. She opened her eyes. Golden light flickered over stone walls—a building of some kind, or a basement . . . no, a cave. One in the network of caves that Rebecca had mentioned. Which also meant it would be impossible to find.

  “You’re awake.”

  The voice was close, startling her. She cut her eyes to the source, the movement causing greasy nausea to roll through her. Thomas was sitting in the corner of the room, staring at her. In the candlelight, his eyes glowed like a demon.

  “What the fuck did you hit me with?” Her voice was unsteady.

  He stood and came over to her. “You were where you didn’t belong.”

  “Story of my life.”

  “You will be punished now.” The hermit giggled.

  Kendra squinted up at him. Even in the dim light, she could see the unnatural shine in his eyes. Madness or narcotics? Maybe both.

  “He’s coming,” whispered Thomas. He was close enough for his stale breath to fan across her face.

  She stared at him, trying to make sense out of his words. “Who? Who’s coming?”

  “My master. He’s coming for you.”

  62

  “I have not the faintest idea where Miss Donovan is,” Rebecca confessed. Her eyes darted between the Duke and Alec, her brow puckering
. “Why? What has happened? Should I be concerned?”

  Aldridge hesitated. “I am certain she is about. We simply need to locate her.”

  Rebecca wasn’t fooled. “Do not treat me as though I have cotton for brains. She is my responsibility! I demand to know if something is amiss.”

  “My dear—” Aldridge began, but he broke off when the door to the stairwell opened, and Munroe stepped into the room. “Ah, Doctor, what have you learned?”

  “Lady Rebecca.” Munroe nodded by way of greeting. He looked at the Duke and Alec. “I have finished my examination, and can conclude that the discoloration on Miss Donovan’s dress is indeed potash. I cannot determine whether it is the same substance that contaminated April Duprey’s pelisse, you understand.”

  Rebecca frowned. “No, I do not understand. What is this about potash on Miss Donovan’s dress?”

  “It would seem Miss Donovan acquired potash on the dress she wore yesterday. The question is, where did she come into contact with the substance?”

  Alec straightened suddenly. “We visited the hermit yesterday.”

  Aldridge’s gaze shifted automatically to the slate board. “Thomas? But he does not fit Miss Donovan’s profile at all.”

  “The maid said Kendra had been wrong,” Alec reminded him, his expression grim.

  “Potash . . . The hermit claims to be an artist, does he not?” Rebecca asked.

  “’Twas one of the requisites that my sister wanted in an ornamental hermit. Why?”

  She looked at the men. “Potash is used by artists. If you mix it with animal oils, it creates Prussian blue. ’Tis often used by those who do not have the coins to buy paint supplies commercially. I have mixed it myself when my supply has run low. Dear heaven.” Rebecca put a hand to her throat, looking stricken. “When potash was mentioned before . . . it simply did not occur to me to mention this use. I had not thought of Thomas.”

  “Surely Miss Donovan would not be so unwise as to confront the hermit alone?” Munroe said.