Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “Yes, thank you, sir,” Matthews put in, and gave an abbreviated bow.

  The Duke inclined his head. “Certainly. I believe this movement is beginning to weaken, but England cannot be held hostage by those bent on destruction, regardless of the cause.”

  Jameson and Matthews left the parlor, brushing past Mrs. Bolton as she arrived with bowls and silverware. She was followed by a serving girl juggling a large cast iron pot and a silver platter bearing thick brown bread and a dish of yellow butter.

  “Would you like more brandy, sir? Miss?” Mrs. Bolton glanced at them as she set the table. “We also have wine, if you prefer that with your meal. Or ale.”

  Aldridge smiled. “Do not trouble yourself, Mrs. Bolton. We shall serve ourselves.” He eyed the dishes that the girl had set on the table. “The stew smells delicious. Convey my deepest appreciation to your cook.”

  “I shall, your Grace. Mrs. Platt will be most pleased. We have never had a Duke visit the Green Maiden before. This is my granddaughter, Tessa—she made the bread.”

  The old woman smiled at her granddaughter, who looked to be about fifteen. Tessa exuded a wholesome prettiness, with her sandy blond hair and bright blue eyes.

  “Tessa and her sister, Lizzie, live here now with us and help with the inn’s work. If you need anything, they will be happy to assist.”

  The young girl gave a quick smile and curtsy.

  Kendra returned the maid’s smile. Bread, made from scratch, had become her greatest weakness.

  Mrs. Bolton retrieved the bottle of apricot brandy from the sideboard. “Your servants have finished preparing your rooms, and are taking their meal in the kitchen. Your coachman is having his dinner in the tavern.” She waited until they sat down at the table before refilling their glasses, then cut a sideways glance at the Duke. “Did Constable Jameson and Mr. Matthews help you, your Grace?”

  “Yes.” The Duke lifted his glass, pausing. “I suggested that they inspect the mill. I believe we crossed paths with men involved in the Luddite movement.”

  The hand holding the bottle of brandy gave a small jerk. Mrs. Bolton hurriedly set it on the table. “Forgive me, your Grace.” She rubbed her palms down her apron in a nervous gesture.

  “You have nothing to fear, Mrs. Bolton,” the Duke assured the innkeeper’s wife in his most gentle tone. “I’m certain the ruffians are gone, regardless of what happened at the mill.”

  Mrs. Bolton lowered her gaze. “Yes, of course. I’m being a silly old woman.”

  The Duke said, “I cannot hold with their destruction of property, but I have not heard of any incident where the Luddites have targeted citizens specifically for violence.”

  “You are right, of course,” she said, and curtsied. “Enjoy your supper, your Grace . . . Miss Donovan.”

  Once alone, Aldridge looked across the table at Kendra and smiled, lifting his glass in a silent toast. “I imagine our excitement for the evening is over.”

  Kendra would remember those words—and how wrong they were—thirty minutes later, when they heard a shout from the foyer, and raised voices. Surprised, the Duke lifted his brows. Kendra looked in the direction of the commotion.

  “I wonder what’s amiss?” The Duke set down his fork and knife, and picked up his napkin to pat his lips quickly before rising from the table.

  Kendra shoved herself to her feet and joined him as they left the private parlor, venturing down the hall to the foyer. Mr. and Mrs. Bolton and three other men had gathered around the new arrival, a skinny kid of about twelve. He was trying to talk and suck in great gulps of air at the same time.

  As they came closer, Kendra heard him say, “. . . smashed, they were. But Mr. Stone . . . Mr. Stone . . .” The kid lost his breath.

  “Out with it!” snapped a lanky man wearing a knit cap. “What about the bleedin’ bastard? Did one of the Luddite’s draw his cork?”

  “Nay.”

  “Well? What about him then?”

  The boy’s chest expanded as he drew in air before announcing, “’E’s dead!”

  The news was met with a stunned silence. Mrs. Bolton’s hand flew to her throat, and she shot a glance at her husband.

  “Dead?” she echoed. “Dead. But . . . how?”

  “Probably had a seizure when the Luddites arrived,” a shorter man muttered, not looking too concerned about it. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, that’s what I say!”

  “Nay!” The kid shook his head, even as his voice rose to a squeak. “Ain’t no seizure that stopped ’is claret. ’Twas murder! Somebody done beat ’is soddin’ ’ead in!”

  3

  Aldridge took a step forward. “Murder? Are you absolutely certain?”

  Everyone in the foyer swung around to stare at him, surprised by the interruption. Or more likely, Kendra thought, surprised that anyone who belonged in the higher circles of society would be interested in a conversation between common folk.

  The innkeeper was the first to collect himself. “Oh, nay, sir. I’m certain it’s a mistake—”

  “Ain’t no mistake,” the boy piped in. His nose had begun to run, and he wiped it with the sleeve of his threadbare wool coat. “Oi told ye. Mr. Stone got ’is ’ead walloped good. A right bleedin’ mess it is too! The constable and Mr. Matthews are at the mill. Matthews cast up ’is accounts. Constable Jameson wants me ter tell the menfolk ’ere so they can go after the Luddites!”

  “How do you know that the Luddites killed this man, this Mr. Stone?” Kendra asked, drawing the boy’s attention.

  “Gor! Oo else do ye think it would be? They smashed up the mill’s machinery jest like they done Mr. Stone’s ’ead! The constable says ter round up men ter find the fiends and we’ll ’ave a ’anging!”

  “No!” Mrs. Bolton yelped. She frowned, her gaze darting to her husband, the boy, and the men. “No. I—I cannot countenance that the Luddites would have done such a thing.”

  One of the men gave a contemptuous snort. He was tall, with a broad, rosy face and salt-and-pepper hair. “They’re a bunch of ruffians, Mrs. Bolton. Likely murder us all in our sleep, they will, if we don’t stop them.”

  “Aye. They murdered that mill owner only a couple of years ago,” said the man wearing the knit cap.

  “I read about that incident,” Aldridge put in, his expression concerned. “Three men, if I recall correctly. The authorities managed to capture and hang them.”

  “The mill owner had cheated them out of their wage,” Mrs. Bolton protested. She looked as though she wanted to say more, but her husband pressed a hand on her arm.

  “Laura,” he said, giving her a look, and his wife subsided.

  Salt-and-Pepper’s eyes narrowed. “Your brother used ter work at the mill, didn’t he, Mrs. Bolton? Until he had a fallin’ out with Mr. Stone.”

  Mrs. Bolton’s fingers nervously plucked at her apron. “That was ages ago.”

  “Oye!” the boy cried impatiently, drawing everyone’s attention again. “Are ye gonna go after the Luddites, or not? Oi need ter get Dr. Poole and bring ’im ter the mill!”

  “Aye, we will,” said Salt-and-Pepper. He glanced at the other men beside him. “Let’s round up some men ter go after the fiends!”

  “Wait!” The word was out before Kendra could stop herself. But she was bothered by the lynch mob mentality thickening the air around her; she recognized too well the whiff of blind violence in the mix. “What about an investigation? There might not be any correlation between the murder and the Luddites other than bad timing.”

  Salt-and-Pepper stared at her, eyebrows raised. “Don’t be daft. ’Course they killed ’im.”

  “Ah, Freddie . . .” Mr. Bolton cleared his throat, and cast an uneasy glance at the Duke, probably trying to gauge his reaction to hearing his ward being called stupid. “This is Miss Donovan. She’s the Duke of Aldridge’s ward.”

  Freddie’s lip curled as he studied Kendra. “Ye’re not from around these parts, Miss Donovan. And ye sound like a Yank. Ye don’t know who the Lud
dites are and w’ot they’re about.”

  “I know exactly who the Luddites are, and what they’re about,” Kendra shot back, keeping her tone cool and measured even though she could feel her temper rise.

  In the twenty-first century, it was common to call anyone who was against or unfamiliar with technology a Luddite. But those involved in this era’s Luddite movement weren’t against technology per se. Most were actually highly skilled men—craftsmen and machine operators—fighting against the technology that had begun taking away their jobs and depressing their wages.

  Kendra had to shake off the sense of déjà vu that crept over her. It was impossible not to think about her own era’s protests and fights over stalled wages and lost jobs to technology and artificial intelligence. Economist Joseph Schumpeter called the cycle Creative Destruction. Industries were destroyed, but new ones were created. Autoworkers decried automation, but forgot that their industry had wiped out the livelihoods of blacksmiths, saddle makers, and stable hands. Progress was never easy, especially if you were the one losing your job.

  She kept her gaze on Freddie. “There’s a big difference between destroying property and killing a human being.”

  Mrs. Bolton spoke up. “They only desire a decent wage to feed their families.”

  The old woman shot her a grateful look, but Kendra felt uncomfortable. Jumping to conclusions without any sort of examination was anathema to her, but she wasn’t a big fan of coincidences either. The Luddites being at a factory around the same time a man was murdered didn’t look good.

  Freddie studied the old woman with suspicious eyes. “Ye sound like yer a sympathizer, Mrs. Bolton.”

  “We don’t hold with the Luddites,” her husband put in quickly.

  “I believe we ought to go to the mill, and assess the situation ourselves,” said the Duke. He hadn’t raised his voice, but Kendra saw the impact his announcement had on those in the foyer. Shock rippled across their faces. Even Mrs. Bolton appeared disconcerted.

  “Why would ye be wantin’ ter do that, your Grace?” Mr. Bolton said. “Luddite or not, it is murder, sir. ’Tis unseemly fer a gentleman such as yerself ter become involved in such a dreadful thing.”

  Aldridge smiled slightly. “I am aware that it’s unorthodox, Mr. Bolton. But it is not the first time my ward and I have become involved in such matters.”

  “But yer a duke—” Mr. Bolton began, and then did a double-take as the Duke’s words hit home. His gaze cut over to Kendra. “Ye ward?” He appeared uncertain, as if he doubted he’d heard correctly. “Miss Donovan? Or do ye have another ward?”

  And by that, Kendra knew, the innkeeper meant a ward who was male.

  “I speak of Miss Donovan,” the Duke said firmly. “Her services are invaluable in these matters, I assure you.” He met their dubious eyes, and shrugged. “She’s an American. They have different sensibilities than we have here in England.”

  Kendra managed to keep a straight face, even as she came under inspection. When no one said anything, she decided to move things along. Georgian police procedures were basically nonexistent, and God only knew what the constable was doing right now to destroy the crime scene.

  “We’re wasting time,” she said firmly. “We need to go.”

  The Duke nodded. “You are quite right, Miss Donovan.” His gaze traveled back to the innkeeper. “How far is the mill, Mr. Bolton?”

  The innkeeper seemed a bit bewildered by what was happening, so his words came slowly. “Ah . . . half a mile, no more.”

  Aldridge pointed at the child. “You, boy—what’s your name?”

  The kid swiped at his nose again. “Andrew, sir!”

  The Duke said, “I will hire you to escort us to the mill.”

  “Ye will? Oi mean, aye, sir! But w’ot about Dr. Poole?”

  Mr. Bolton recovered from his shock, and said, “I’ll have one of the stable hands fetch Dr. Poole.”

  “Hold on! Yer goin’ ter the mill?” Freddie stared at the Duke. “Ye and the gentry mort?”

  “We are,” the Duke said.

  Mr. Bolton said, “I’d loan ye a gig, sir, but with the fog, ’tis best ter walk. I’ll send a couple of me stable lads ter accompany ye with torches.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the Duke replied. “The torches will be most welcome. I shall have my own whip take the journey with us. Mrs. Bolton, please inform my servants that Miss Donovan and I will return in due time.”

  “Yes, of course, your Grace.” She made a brief curtsy, the worried look still on her face as she hurried down the shadowed hall.

  Kendra followed the Duke into the private parlor, where they put on their coats, gloves, and hats. Kendra picked up her reticule, automatically checking the muff pistol. Satisfied, she replaced the weapon inside the pouch, making sure the strings were loose enough for easy access. She looked up to find the Duke’s eyes on her.

  “Hopefully you shan’t be required to shoot anybody this evening, Miss Donovan,” he said, his mouth lifting into a small smile.

  Kendra considered his words, then shrugged. “Hope is good. Being prepared is better.”

  Bancroft Mills rose up in the foggy night like an ancient dragon’s lair straight out of the pages of a Grimm fairy tale. In the flickering torchlight and swirling mist, Kendra got the impression of the mill’s massive size: almost as long as a football field, with its height staggered between four and six stories, and topped by a slate-covered, gambrel-styled roof. Two enormous smokestacks thrust upward from the center of the building, lost in darkness and fog. Nearby, she heard the rush of water—a river. They were essential sources of energy, she knew, feeding the factories during the early Industrial Revolution.

  As they entered the mill’s graveled courtyard, their footsteps crunching on the tiny pebbles, Kendra paused to glance upward. Small bits of white fluff were spinning in the night air. Perfect . . . snow, was her first thought. It certainly felt cold enough for snowfall. Only when she lifted one gloved hand and watched the white bits land on her outstretched palm without melting did she realize that she was actually seeing bits of cotton fiber floating on the night air.

  Kendra caught the Duke’s frown as he stood regarding the mill. Benjamin’s eyes darted around uneasily, but his hand remained steady on his blunderbuss. Kendra understood his apprehension. The lanterns and hissing torches did little to combat the thick shadows and fog around them. Her own neck tingled with the sensation of watching eyes. She wished that she was holding one of the FBI’s kickass LED tactical flashlights instead of a sputtering oil lantern.

  The kid—Andrew—was the only one who didn’t seem affected by the atmosphere, racing up the steps with youthful exuberance. The door must have been well oiled, because it only made a whispering sound as Andrew yanked it open and disappeared inside.

  “’Ere now, wait fer us!” Freddie called out after the child, a quiver of nerves in his voice. He’d insisted on accompanying them to the mill instead of joining the band of men who were now pursuing the Luddites. If she had to guess, Kendra thought curiosity had motivated him over anything else. She wondered if he was regretting his choice now.

  She hesitated, then gave in to instinct, dipping her hand into her reticule and closing it over the muff pistol’s small grip. It made her feel marginally better as they resumed walking, following in the boy’s wake.

  The spooky vibe wasn’t any better inside the building. Their footsteps echoed in the cavernous space, and the scent of wood, dust, and linseed oil was thick in the air. The glow from their lanterns and torches bobbed through the darkness, touching briefly on the wreckage caused by the Luddites.

  Kendra sighed quietly. I can’t believe I’m dealing with freaking Luddites.

  They continued forward, down a short, wide hall and up a flight of stairs. A glass window ran along one side of the hallway, allowing anyone standing there to observe the workers in the factory below. On the other side of the wall were two open doorways.

  Kendra ignored the first darkened r
oom, hurrying to the one from which light spilled into the corridor. She caught the murmur of voices inside. Her stomach tightened as the distinctive meaty scent that marked fresh death hit her nostrils.

  Kendra hung back near the threshold as the men moved inside. First impressions were crucial in investigations, and so she scanned the room carefully. Every wall sconce had been lit, including two lanterns on the desk, revealing an office larger and more luxurious than she’d have expected to find in a textile mill. In fact, it reminded her more of a gentleman’s study, with gleaming mahogany furniture, including a credenza with decanters and crystal tumblers arranged on top of it. A single hat dangled from one of the hooks of a rather ornate coat stand in the corner, next to the door. Bookshelves lined three walls. Here was her second surprise. Instead of books, the shelves were filled with porcelain figurines—all cats.

  Kendra forced her gaze to move beyond the unusual display, surveying the two gold-and-brown damask-upholstered sofas that sat facing each other; the heavy leather club chairs; and the massive oak desk. Her mouth tightened as she studied the area. Blood was splattered on the desk, the ceiling, and the wall behind the desk. Her eyes lowered to the floor, where a chair was turned over; a man’s boot extended beyond the desk leg and overturned chair. Mr. Stone, she presumed.

  Near the desk stood Constable Jameson and another man, the latter wearing a dirty coat and smock, and a hat that had lost its shape a long time ago. Matthews, Kendra noticed, was standing on the other side of the office, as far away from the corpse as he could get and still be in the room. His complexion had a greenish tinge, and he was pressing his lace-trimmed hankie to his nose. She caught the hint of vomit in the air, and traced it to another corner of the room, and what she assumed was left of Matthews’s dinner.

  At their entrance, Jameson barreled forward, his hand raised like a police officer on traffic duty. “Wot—your Grace! Hold! Don’t come any closer, sir. There’s been a murder.”

  “Yes,” Matthews spoke up from the back of the room. His voice quivered. “It is . . . it is quite dreadful.”