Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “I believe Miss Donovan proved it last night,” the Duke said, his tone cool and razor-sharp. Under the nobleman’s regard, Jameson’s face reddened. The earl’s dark eyes regarded them without expression.

  Matthews spoke up. “As you are aware, my lord, my father is incapacitated at the moment.”

  Bancroft’s thin mouth twitched. “Still has the gout, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir. I am acting as magistrate until my father recovers. As such, I have given leave for the Duke to make inquiries.”

  “I see.”

  Kendra eyed Bancroft. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, even though he didn’t seem particularly upset over Stone’s death. When he said nothing, she asked, “How long did you know Mr. Stone?”

  “He has worked for me for twenty years.”

  “Were you close?”

  “No.”

  She had already suspected as much. She glanced at their audience, then looked back to Bancroft. “I will need to speak to you. Perhaps somewhere more private?” She needed to keep the interviews separate, the statements uncontaminated.

  “I’m afraid I cannot accommodate you at the moment, Miss Donovan. Mr. Stone’s death and the blasted Luddites have left me with a bit of a mess.” He picked up the gloves, tugging them on. “Work must be done.”

  Kendra stared at him in disbelief. “So does an investigation, sir,” she said. “You do want to find out what happened to an employee who worked for you for twenty years, don’t you?”

  His thin lips curved into a smile, although Kendra wasn’t sure what he found funny. “I do. Certainly, I do. I shall make myself available for you to quiz me later. I would be delighted if you . . . and your Grace”—he paused, and inclined his head to include Aldridge—“would come to dine with me and my daughter tonight at Falcon Court.”

  Kendra didn’t like how Bancroft had taken control of the situation, but the Duke was already nodding. “Thank you, sir. What time shall we arrive?”

  “We dine at seven.” Bancroft picked up his hat and walking stick. “I can send my carriage for you.”

  “Thank you, but I have my own carriage,” said Aldridge.

  A gleam of amusement came into Bancroft’s dark eyes as they shifted from the Duke back to Kendra. “I shall look forward to our evening together, sir. Miss Donovan.”

  His gaze lingered for a moment on Kendra, then he turned abruptly, the movement sending the three capes on his greatcoat fluttering as he disappeared out the door.

  7

  Kendra wasn’t sure what to make of the Earl of Langfrey. He gave her what one of her colleagues in the Bureau would call the heebie-jeebies. She hadn’t expected him to break down in tears over his employee’s death, but his utter lack of distress struck her as odd. Of course, some people reacted to trauma in different ways, and, in all fairness, he’d had a couple of hours to absorb the shock before coming to the mill. Maybe that accounted for his cold behavior. Or maybe he was just an asshole.

  Bancroft reminded her of other suspects she’d encountered who were wealthy and well-connected. They were the ones who always thought they could charm, manipulate, or maneuver their way out of any situation. And if that failed, they’d pull out their checkbooks. Or, worse, they’d call in their lawyers. In the twenty-first century, people like Bancroft always employed a battalion of sharp-eyed, nattily dressed, high-priced lawyers, whose sole purpose in life was to block inquiries from anyone and everyone in law enforcement.

  At least here—and she nearly smiled at the thought—she wouldn’t have to worry about lawyers. Lord Bancroft wouldn’t be inviting his legal team to dinner tonight. The earl wasn’t the only one who was looking forward to the evening.

  But for now, Kendra would settle for talking to Biddle. She swung around to face the assistant manager. He was nervous, she could see, fiddling with one of the gold buttons on his waistcoat.

  She glanced at the Duke. “Your Grace, perhaps you, Mr. Matthews, and Constable Jameson could begin interviewing the workers downstairs? Find out when they last saw Mr. Stone alive, and if they knew of anyone who threatened him.”

  Jameson glared at her, and Kendra realized that she was taking control of the situation, much as Bancroft had. She couldn’t blame the constable for being angry. It didn’t mean she was going to back off though.

  “And w’ot are you gonna be doing?” Jameson asked.

  “I’ll be interviewing Mr. Biddle.”

  “But—”

  “’Tis a sound plan,” the Duke interrupted briskly, aware of the rising tensions. “It will go much quicker if we divide the workers amongst ourselves, gentlemen.”

  The Duke maneuvered the two men out of the room, although not before Jameson shot Kendra a last, enraged look over his shoulder.

  Biddle remained standing, still fiddling with the button on his waistcoat.

  “Why don’t we sit down, Mr. Biddle?” Kendra suggested. She didn’t wait, parking herself in the one chair facing the desk. He hesitated, then shrugged and lowered himself into the chair behind the desk.

  “How long have you worked with Mr. Stone?” she asked, eyeing him as he ran an agitated hand through his hair.

  “Nineteen years,” he said. “Forgive me, Miss Donovan. But this is such a shock.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure it must be. Are you from East Dingleford?”

  “No. Wardle.” He dropped his hands to the desk, and laced his fingers together. “’Tis a village a mile outside Manchester. In fact, I was working at a mill in Manchester when I saw Lord Bancroft’s newspaper advertisement for the assistant manager position here.”

  “Lord Bancroft interviewed you and hired you? Not Mr. Stone?”

  “No. I mean, yes. The earl hired me,” he clarified. “Why is that significant?”

  “It might not be.” She summoned a smile, even as she studied him. Some people were just anxious during interviews. Others were anxious because they had something to hide. She wondered which category Biddle fell into. “Tell me about Mr. Stone.”

  “What do you wish to know?”

  “Did you two get along?”

  “Yes.”

  “No disagreements? No arguments? That has got to be some kind of world record—nineteen years working for someone, and not one disagreement.” She let that hang for a moment, then pressed, “Especially someone like Mr. Stone. We’ve heard that he wasn’t a pleasant person. He was even accused of cheating at cards, which, I’ve been told, is a serious offense.”

  Biddle licked his lips. “I suppose we had a few disagreements, but . . . he was the mill’s manager. I reported to him.”

  “You’re saying that you were business associates, not friends?”

  “Yes. That is exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Okay, then what was he like to work for? Was he even-tempered, or did he come to work in a bad mood?”

  “He could be even-tempered, and he could be in a foul mood.”

  Kendra sighed. “Mr. Biddle, do you want his murderer caught?”

  “Of course!”

  “Then build me a picture. Don’t lie or soften it. What was Mr. Stone like?”

  He was silent for a long moment, staring at his tense hands. “Mr. Stone was complicated,” he finally said. “He could be in a jovial mood . . .”

  “But,” Kendra prodded.

  Biddle took the bait. “But his jovial mood often came at the expense of the mill workers.”

  “How so?”

  Biddle unlaced his fingers and spread his hands on the desk. “He was the manager of Bancroft Mill. We employ nearly three hundred workers, Miss Donovan. It’s the largest mill in the area.”

  “I see. In other words, he held a lot of power.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “And how did he use his power?”

  Biddle pursed his lips as he considered the question. “He . . . he enjoyed threatening workers with dismissal—without references. His humor could be cruel.”

  “Cruel to you?”


  “No.” He met her eyes, and shrugged. “I served a purpose, Miss Donovan. I handle the day-to-day operation of the mill, something which Mr. Stone had no interest in doing. He would never have dismissed me.”

  Kendra wondered if that was true. No one was indispensable. And if Stone turned on his assistant of nineteen years, what would Biddle have done?

  She asked, “Did he threaten to fire workers, or did he actually fire them?”

  “Both. We’ve had to dismiss workers with the addition of new frames.”

  “That must have angered a lot of your employees.”

  “Yes, but Lord Bancroft was the one who made the decision to order them, not Mr. Stone. It is essential for progress, you must understand.”

  “How many workers were fired recently?”

  Biddle hesitated. “Seven.”

  “We’ll need you to give us the names of all the workers who were dismissed. Did any of them threaten Mr. Stone, or seem particularly angry after they were let go?”

  “I can’t say that I recall a specific threat, but all the workers are angry, Miss Donovan. As the ward of someone like the Duke of Aldridge, I suppose you don’t see it.” His lips twisted, and something flashed in his blue eyes. It took her a moment to recognize it as bitterness.

  “Most of the people in this country are angry,” he continued. “At the government. At the Prince Regent. At our world.” His hands curled into tight fists. “Our betters have become blind to the difficulties of the common folk. The Corn Laws and Enclosure Act have made life difficult, if not impossible, for many, while the Prince Regent depletes the royal coffers on such extravagances as Brighton Palace!”

  He thumped his fist on the desk, and Kendra revised her opinion of Biddle. He no longer appeared to be one of the nameless people languishing in mid-management, a cog in a wheel to clock in and out. In his unremarkable face, she saw the kind of passionate fury that, if multiplied, could seed insurgencies.

  “Vive la révolution,” she murmured softly.

  The rage died instantly, leaving Biddle pale and shaky. “No. No, I do not speak of revolution—”

  “Hey, my country was born out of a revolution,” she reminded him, summoning what she hoped was a soothing smile. But inwardly, she metaphorically kicked herself for not keeping in mind the sensitivities of this era. Even though France had ended its bloody revolution sixteen years ago, she knew that the British government still feared the possibility of England following a similar path and overthrowing the monarchy. To keep tabs on any populist sentiment, the English government had been known to plant spies throughout the country, listening to conversations in taverns, inns, coffee shops, and public squares, the nineteenth century version of the NSA. No wonder Biddle looked a little nervous.

  “I would never advocate revolution,” he said quickly. “Or the fall of the monarchy.”

  “I don’t really care.” She didn’t. Maybe I don’t care because I know that the British monarchy is still going strong more than two centuries from now, she thought.

  Biddle blinked at her in surprise.

  She shrugged. “What I do care about is who killed Mr. Stone. Can you think of anyone who might have killed him?”

  “No.” He shook his head vehemently. “Mr. Stone was not well liked, but, as I already told you, there were no recent threats against him.”

  “What about not-so-recent threats? We heard about a farmer who accused Mr. Stone of cheating at cards. Did Mr. Stone tell you about the incident?”

  “I think you are under a misimpression, Miss Donovan. Mr. Stone was the mill manager, but he rarely came to the mill. I am involved in the day-to-day operation, not Mr. Stone. He and I had very little to do with each other.”

  Kendra allowed her gaze to travel around the office, again noting the sheaves of foolscap and stacked ledgers. Silently, she compared it to Stone’s office, which was all for show, definitely not for work. Apparently the only work Stone had done was as the hatchet man, firing employees. He enjoyed the rush of power it gave him. What a guy.

  She looked at Biddle. “Why did Lord Bancroft keep Mr. Stone on if he didn’t do his job?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “What was their relationship like? Were they friends?”

  He shook his head. “No. I . . . No.”

  Kendra waited. Silence was as powerful a tool as asking the right question or applying the right pressure. Most people rushed to fill the void with words.

  Biddle swallowed, and his gaze bounced nervously around the room. He looked back at Kendra. “I don’t precisely know how to describe their relationship,” he finally said. “His lordship is not a man to be trifled with, and yet I felt Mr. Stone took liberties.”

  “Liberties? How?”

  “It’s difficult to explain, but Mr. Stone wasn’t as deferential to the earl as he should have been, given his station. There were times when he even appeared to mock him. Not overtly, but . . . I cannot explain it. Perhaps I imagined the slight.”

  “I see.” She regarded him closely. “Let’s say you didn’t imagine it. How did Lord Bancroft react to Mr. Stone when he wasn’t being . . . respectful?”

  Biddle rubbed his jaw. “He didn’t really react. His lordship ignored him.”

  “Maybe Lord Bancroft didn’t want trouble.”

  He frowned at her. “Perhaps.”

  Yet the way he said it sound like he couldn’t imagine such a thing. Kendra understood. In this world, Bancroft wasn’t only Stone’s employer, he was an earl. That meant something. For him to ignore Stone’s insubordination would be unusual.

  She said, “Tell me what happened yesterday at the mill, Mr. Biddle. What time did Mr. Stone arrive?”

  Biddle blinked at the sudden change of subject. “Ah . . . I think it was half past twelve.”

  “You said that he doesn’t often come to the mill. Why did he come yesterday?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Kendra stared at him. “Mr. Stone didn’t give you a reason why he decided to come in yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “What was his mood like?”

  Biddle hesitated. “I don’t know. He seemed . . . preoccupied.”

  “Over what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay. He arrived at half past twelve. Then what did he do?”

  “He went into his office.”

  “Did he stay there?”

  “Yes. I didn’t see him again until two. Perhaps half-past two? It’s all so muddled.”

  “You saw him—how? From a distance? Did he speak to you?”

  Biddle interlocked his fingers again, and stared at them intently. “He came into my office because he needed to speak to me. He informed me that he would be away for a few days.”

  Kendra raised her brows at the news. “He was leaving town?”

  He shrugged. “He told me that he would be traveling to Manchester. This was not unusual, Miss Donovan. I believe he found East Dingleford quite dull.”

  “Leaving you in charge,” she remarked.

  “Also not unusual.”

  Kendra tilted her head to the side as she surveyed him. “Will you become the mill manager now, Mr. Biddle?”

  “I do not know Lord Bancroft’s plans.”

  “You ran the mill, really, but Mr. Stone held the higher position. That must have been annoying. But his death sort of clears the way for you, doesn’t it?”

  He drew in a sharp breath. “What are you suggesting? That . . . that I wanted Mr. Stone dead? I may remind you, I have been the assistant manager for many years. I am quite content.”

  Kendra shifted gears again. “Is that all he wanted to tell you? That he was going to Manchester?”

  Biddle frowned and looked away. “We spoke about business: buying more frames, cotton prices in America.”

  “How long was he in your office?”

  He glanced up at her, beginning to look annoyed. “I don’t know. I wasn’t looking at the clock.”

  “Guess.�
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  He gave a put-upon sigh. “Possibly fifteen minutes.”

  “That’s a lot of conversation for fifteen minutes.”

  “Perhaps it was twenty. Why does it matter?”

  “What did you do after he left?”

  “I returned to business.”

  “And Mr. Stone?”

  “I assume he returned to his office.”

  “And you were in your office? Was your door open or closed?”

  “I understand what you’re getting at, Miss Donovan. The killer would have to walk by my office to get to Mr. Stone’s next door. But my door was closed. I didn’t see anything.”

  “What were you working on?”

  Another flicker of annoyance. “New shipment routes, invoices. There’s quite a lot of paperwork in running a mill.”

  “Did you hear anything? As you said, your office is right next to Stone’s.”

  “Have you ever been in a cotton mill when the machinery is in operation? The noise is ear-piercing. In fact, many workers on the floor become deaf over a period of time if they don’t stuff their ears with bits of cotton fluff. I heard nothing.”

  Kendra nodded. “When did you leave the mill for the day?”

  “The mill closes at half past five, but we closed the mill earlier yesterday, at five.”

  “Why?”

  “We rely on sunlight to work profitably, and the fog made it impossible. It was cheaper to close the factory early than to spend the money on oil lamps and tallow candles.”

  “Did Mr. Stone make the decision to close the mill early?”

  His hesitation was so brief, she probably wouldn’t have caught it if she hadn’t been staring at him so closely. “I did.”

  “Did you tell Mr. Stone what you were doing?”

  “No.” Another hesitation, this one longer. “His door was closed. I thought he must have already left.”

  “But you didn’t know? You didn’t check?”

  “If he was still in his office, I did not want to interrupt him. He does not like to be disturbed. We had already settled our business.”

  It was possible, Kendra supposed. There’d been a couple of supervisors in her early days at the FBI who were such hard-asses that she’d tiptoed by their offices if their doors were closed. Why invite trouble? Maybe that kind of caution was how Biddle had lasted nineteen years working for a man like Stone.