A Murder in Time(82)
Kendra went to the study, but instead of reviewing her notes, she found herself pacing restlessly. She was in a weird no-man’s-land. Her promotion had catapulted her above the servants, so she was no longer allowed below stairs. They regarded her with varying degrees of distrust. Rose was the only one who hadn’t changed. Then again, it was hard to be distant with someone with whom you shared a chamber pot.
Deciding some fresh air would clear her head, Kendra headed out of the castle. She forgot to grab the cape she’d worn earlier, and regretted that when the chilly wind speared right through the thin muslin of her walking dress. Still, she hurried on, up the hill and into the forest, which was even more mottled beneath the slate gray skies.
She again walked the lake where the body had been found, then followed the river to where the stone hut stood. Smoke, slightly darker than the sky, curled out of the stone chimney, she noticed as she approached. The small patch of ground near the building resembled a junkyard. Wooden crates were stacked on top of each other, chest high. Glass jars, some broken, some just cracked, were tossed to the side. Earthenware bowls, jugs, and tin cans were jumbled in random piles. An iron tripod over a circle made out of stones, its interior covered with cold gray ash, indicated Thomas the Hermit cooked at least some of his meals outside. Clearly, Thomas wasn’t a neat freak.
She’d encountered people who lived like this in her own time line. Some had fallen on hard times or gotten involved with drugs. Some liked living off the grid. Others had mental illnesses. But this guy was a professional—he got paid to live like this.
From inside, she thought she heard a shuffling movement. It was either Thomas, or he had some really big rats. She couldn’t rule out the latter. She stepped up to the door and knocked. Sudden silence. Not a rat.
“Thomas? It’s Kendra Donovan. I want to talk to you.” She waited and banged again on the door. “I know you’re in there!”
It still took several more minutes before the door cracked open an inch. The smell hit her first, strong enough to knock her back a step. The hermit peered out from the gloom.
“What’dya want?”
“I told you. To talk.”
She didn’t wait for an invitation, drawing in a deep breath and pushing her way into the small building. A stone fireplace took up one wall. A small fire was crackling in the hearth. There was a single cot, the wool blankets balled up on top of a straw mattress. Dozens of canvases were stacked against another wall, half covered by coarse blankets. A small table was littered with unlit candles and pots of dried paint and paintbrushes; a wooden cupboard held a dented, bronze teakettle, iron pots, and utensils. A trunk was wedged between the bed and the cupboard. A crude easel had been set up next to that. On it was a canvas that had been painted blue except for the beginnings of a featureless, ghostly shape lying horizontal in the center.
The shape, though, was decidedly female.
The single window was shuttered, leaving the interior in premature twilight. A lit oil lamp was in the middle of the dirt floor. Kendra’s gaze shifted to the tools next to the lamp, including the bamboo pipe that was fitted to a clay cup: a primitive bong. Well, that explained the glazed look to his eyes, and the sweetish scent that cruised above the primordial smells of earth, sweat, linseed oil, and grime. Opium.
“Not your day to terrorize ladies, Thomas?” she asked casually, toeing aside the drug paraphernalia to stand before the easel.
He frowned. “I do what I’m hired to do.”
“You should ask for a raise.”
“Eh?” Bafflement.
“Never mind.” She turned to face him. “I wanted to ask you again about the girl who was killed. Did you see anybody or hear anything unusual Sunday night, early Monday morning?”
Instead of answering, he dropped down in the middle of the floor, near the opium pipe. He regarded her sullenly. “I already told you—I don’t know nothin’.”
There wasn’t much space in which to move around. Four steps to the cupboards. Two steps to the easel. She moved in the direction of the blue canvas. She studied it for a long moment, letting the silence pool, before glancing back at him. “You see, Thomas, there’s a problem with that. I don’t believe you.”
Absently, she picked up a paintbrush. Like everything in this time line, it was homemade, just a thin stick of wood that had twine and wire wrapped around the base to keep the bristles in place. Thumbing the soft dark hairs, she glanced back at the hermit. “Nothing to say to that, Thomas? No denial?”
He was staring at her as though mesmerized.
Christ. Higher than a kite, she realized.
“You get paid to be a hermit. To run around the forest. To watch for people. Like the other day when you saw me.”
He was silent.
Impatiently, she tossed the paintbrush on the counter, moved around the easel, and squatted down so she could look him in the eye. “You’re not in trouble, Thomas. I just want to know if you’ve ever seen anybody down by the river. One of the gentry.”
“Nay.”
“Maybe you want to think about that for oh, I don’t know, a second or two longer.”
The glazed look became a glare. “I don’t know nothin’!”
“I’m not asking you what you know. I’m asking if you saw anyone.”
“Nay.”
She still didn’t believe him, but she eased back, tried another tactic. “Okay, Thomas. I’d appreciate it if you kept an eye out, let me know if you see anyone hanging out by the river or the lake. Gentry. Do you understand?”