A Murder in Time(137)

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.