A Murder in Time(20)

Her stomach, which had been settling, lurched up again.

Forty-eight hours, and her life would change forever.



Kendra had always considered herself sophisticated and well-traveled, but her breath caught in her throat at her first sighting of Aldridge Castle. Maybe it was the contrast of the velvety green lawn and the craggy gray rock of the ancient fortress beneath silky blue sky. Or maybe it was its shocking size. Hell, she’d been in towns smaller than the castle, with its raised central tower, uneven castellated chimneys, and turrets that stabbed into the heavens.

The original tower, she’d researched, dated back to the time of William the Conqueror. Throughout the centuries, a series of wings had been cobbled onto the original structure. The effect was moody and magnificent, pulsating with prestige and barely-leashed power.

A gravel road, pale as moon rock, cut across the huge park, which was shadowed with trees and topiary. The automobiles parked in a gleaming queue along the curb were a stark divider between past and present.

Carefully, Kendra wheeled the Volkswagen Golf she’d rented that morning onto the drive, hearing the crunch of pebbles as she found a parking space. If her fingers trembled a little when she shut off the ignition, she chose to ignore it. Just as she ignored the acrobatic butterflies that invaded her stomach.

Slinging her big purse over her shoulder, she made her way toward the crowd of people standing in front of the stone steps that led to the castle’s entrance hall. Most were young. Many, she knew, were professional actors. A nomadic group, which suited her purpose very well.

A ruthlessly efficient-looking woman was pacing the stone steps. Holding a clipboard in one hand, she pointed her pen like a stiletto in the other, the object of her ire being a man standing in the front row.

“Mark, you bloody chav, I told you to shave that silly patch on your chin.” Disapproval rang in her voice. “You’re to play a f*cking footman—not some gangster rapper.” She dropped her hand, tucking the clipboard under her arm and clapping briskly. “Oy, everybody! We’ve got three hours to get dressed and into our roles before the toffs arrive. They want realism! Now, follow the signs to the servant’s hall, and get dressed!”

Kendra waited until the throng dispersed. The woman glanced up as she approached, scowling. “Who are you?”

“Cassie Brown,” Kendra lied. “I’m sorry I’m late—”

“Those gits! I told them not to send me anyone with short hair.” Scowl deepening, the woman began tapping the clipboard with her pen. “We need Sherlock Holmes—not Katie Holmes!”

“I thought this was a costume party for the early 1800s.”

“Yes. What of it?”

“Sherlock Holmes wasn’t created until the late nineteenth century.”

“Well, aren’t you bloody clever. And a Yank, too.” Disgust replaced anger. She stopped tapping and rolled her eyes. “What were they thinking? They say they want realism, then they send me an American who looks like a bloody flapper. Oh, f*ck it!” She gave a disgruntled shrug, and flipped through several sheets attached to the clipboard. “We’re still short on lady’s maids.” Briskly, she scribbled a note and tore off a slip of paper, handing it to Kendra. She pointed toward the departing crowd. “Follow that lot there to the servant’s hall. Heaven knows what they’re going to do about your hair. We’re trying to create a mood. Stark Productions should never have given you the assignment.”

Before the woman could change her mind, Kendra hurriedly joined the others trudging along the path. A young woman with long red hair tossed her a sympathetic look. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Don’t let that old cow bother you. You look fab. I’ve been wanting to get my hair styled like that for ages.”

Kendra lifted a hand to her hair, which swung in a thick ebony sheet below her jawline. Her mouth tightened involuntarily as her mind flashed to the reason she had this particular style.

“I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you,” the girl continued, misunderstanding her expression. “Mrs. Peters has been nattering on all morning about our roles. She’s been positively batty about it. But these wankers aren’t coming for realism. They want to spend the weekend playing dress-up and getting smashed. They’ll not care whether your hair is short or long. The men certainly won’t. They’ll be more interested in shagging you.” She grinned at Kendra. “I’m Sally, by the way.”

“Cassie.”

“Are you an actress?”

“You could say that.”

Sally didn’t hear the irony. “Me, too. I’ve done the Shakespeare festivals. You Yanks love the Bard. And I was a tavern wench last summer at Littlecote House.”

That remark drew the attention of one of the young men walking ahead of them. Turning, he gave Sally a lascivious grin. “Ah, Sally me girl, you can serve me anytime!”

“Cheeky bloke!” Sally laughed, and did a couple of skips forward to punch him good-naturedly on the arm. “This idiot’s Ian, Cassie. And don’t believe a word he says. What’s your role here anyway?” She looked at him. “Court jester?”

“You’re a saucy wench!” Ian looked over at Kendra. “American, eh? Hollywood? You’ve got the bone structure for the big screen, to be sure.”