Kendra watched him for a minute, then looked at Rebecca. “How unusual is it for a gentleman to tell his valet not to wait up for him?”
“It’s not unreasonable to be considerate of one’s servants, Miss Donovan. And he explained that his years in the army have given him a different sort of disposition.”
“Yes. He did, didn’t he? Without any nudging, too.”
Rebecca frowned at her. “You make it sound as though he did something wrong. Mayhap Mr. Dalton was simply being helpful.”
“Hmm.”
Rebecca gave her an exasperated look. “Would you prefer that he be evasive and unhelpful?”
“I prefer he had an alibi.”
Kendra liked Simon Dalton. That didn’t mean he wasn’t a murderer.
Some of the most notorious serial killers had been well-liked until their crimes had been uncovered. Ted Bundy, handsome, charming, who even worked on a suicide-crisis hotline, had been the model of decency. A mother, Kendra was sure, would’ve been thrilled if her daughter had brought him home to dinner, would never have suspected that he had killed more than thirty women and young girls. John Wayne Gacy, not so handsome but equally popular in his neighborhood, had been a successful entrepreneur who entertained sick children by dressing up as a clown—until he was caught and convicted of murdering thirty-three teenage boys and men. More than one unsub, even on cases Kendra had been involved in herself, had turned out to be the grandfatherly figure down the street, the helpful neighbor, the good-looking doctor.
Whoever had said that appearances were deceiving was only partially right; they could also be deadly.
For a second, the image of Terry Landon blowing off Daniel Sheppard’s head flashed through her mind. She’d worked beside him for eight months and hadn’t realized he was a traitor, she reminded herself bitterly. And she hadn’t really even liked him. Dalton she liked, but damned if she was going to trust him.
Despite the castle’s enormous size, Kendra felt stifled after returning. The overcast skies and cold temperature of the day brought everyone indoors. The ladies were in the drawing room, embroidering and gossiping. Kendra had no desire to join them, and suspected they had no desire for her company either. Rebecca was spending the afternoon painting in the conservatory. The men were in another room playing cards, with the exception of the Duke, who was in his laboratory.
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?”