A Murder in Time(56)

“That kind of originality is nothing to aspire to, my dear.”

She grinned. “If not an Original, what then?”

“Minx.”

She hesitated, and her smile vanished. “Sutcliffe, there is something else being said.”

“Yes?”

Instead of answering immediately, she shifted her gaze to the familiar faces circulating around the ballroom that had been redesigned by none other than the great John Nash himself. An inexplicable chill danced up her arms.

“’Tis being said that the murderer is someone we know,” she said slowly, and then looked up at the marquis, her gaze troubled. “That must be a Banbury tale. Is it not, Sutcliffe?”

“It certainly sounds ridiculous enough to be a Banbury tale.”

“That is not a definitive answer.”

Alec sighed, and wished, for the first time, that she wasn’t so bloody perceptive. “There’s the rub, my dear. I have no definitive answers. I have only many questions.” Beginning, he thought grimly, with Kendra Donovan.



By eleven-thirty that night, Kendra decided that being a servant in the nineteenth century was damn hard work. All her muscles were throbbing like she’d undergone a week’s worth of workout sessions with the Terminator in one day. She estimated that she’d probably logged ten miles sprinting up and down the backstairs, restocking guest rooms with supplies and hot water for bathing, and later bringing up platters of food for the liveried footmen to serve during the dinner at eight.

Two hours later, she was one of the team of maids that cleared the table and cleaned the dining room, after the guests had moved to the ballroom for dancing. The only servants who had it worse, she believed, were the scullery and chambermaids. The former were required to scrub the giant pots, pans, and plates used for the evening, their hands left raw and red, and the latter had to collect, dump, and replenish all the chamber pots in the castle.

Earlier, she’d learned that the castle’s garderobes, or privy chambers, still functioned, but for some reason, everyone seemed to prefer the chamber pot. The Duke, she’d been told, had begun installing Bramah’s closets, which, she deduced, were primitive toilets that had actually been invented years before. Still, those closets had yet to make an appearance in the servant’s quarters. And Rose was just fine with that, viewing the contraption with a great deal of suspicion.

Of course, the only plumbing that Kendra would’ve been really interested in at the moment would be a Jacuzzi.

“You’re not human, Rose,” she groaned as they climbed the stairs. “My muscles are screaming.”

The tweeny giggled. “’Twas a normal day, miss. I expect you, ’avin’ been a lady’s maid, ain’t used to it.”

“Yeah. I’m not used to it—any of this.”

They were both holding candles, the light bouncing madly against the wall. Even though she was bone-weary, Kendra paused when they reached the first floor, which, by American labeling, would be the second floor.

“Rose, where’s the schoolroom?”

“The schoolroom? W’otever for, miss?”

“I need to work.”

“But we finished our work!”

Kendra smiled weakly. “I need to organize my thoughts, and I’d like to use the slate board to do it.”

“Is this about the murder?”

“Yes.”

Rose hesitated.

“The Duke gave me permission,” Kendra pressed.

The tweeny shrugged. “Come along then.”

The schoolroom was located in the east wing of the castle, down a little-used corridor that didn’t even have the benefit of wall sconces to light the way.

“There ’aven’t been any wee ones in the castle since Lady Charlotte,” Rose whispered. “There’s the nursery and the governess’ room.” She pointed to two closed doors, and then opened a set of double doors. “’Ere’s the schoolroom.”

Four ceiling-to-floor multi-paned windows graced one wall. The moon loomed high, its rays strong enough to bathe the room in an icy light. Otherwise, Kendra suspected, their meager candles would never have penetrated the thick shadows.

She saw five desks, four child-sized and one adult. Bookshelves lined another wall, opposite a fireplace. There was a sturdy wood table and an assortment of other objects around the room, including a globe, several yellowed maps, an empty easel, and paintbrushes and small pots. Hanging on the wall behind the larger desk was the chalkboard—slate board, Kendra corrected herself.

There was a musty scent in the air and a general aura of disuse. Kendra felt as though she’d found the toy of a child who’d long since grown into adulthood. It had that same sad, abandoned feel.

Rose shivered beside her. “Some of the servants ’ave said they’ve ’eard the sound of a child weeping when they pass by this ’ere room late at night.”

Kendra paused in picking up one of the jagged, thumb-sized pieces of slate, and glanced over at the young girl. “It’s probably the wind, Rose. Or their imagination.”

“Aren’t you ’fraid of spirits, miss?”

“Can’t be afraid of something you don’t believe in.” Experimentally she drew a line on the board. The result was similar to what chalk would have produced.