“What do you know about Mr. Stone cheating at cards?” she asked suddenly, circling back to the earlier subject. He seemed lost in the topic change, which is what she intended. Set a rhythm, and then change it up.
“I told you, I don’t know anything.”
“But you wouldn’t put it past him?”
“No,” he admitted at length. “That is just the thing that would have amused Mr. Stone.”
The door opened behind her, and she glanced up as the Duke and Matthews walked into the room. She stood to greet them. “Where’s Jameson?”
“He left to see my father,” Matthews said.
Kendra said nothing, but suspected the constable went to the magistrate to complain about her interference. She suppressed the flash of irritation, keeping her face neutral as she turned back to Biddle. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Biddle.”
He was already standing. “We’re finished?”
He looked a little bewildered. She made sure their eyes met as she smiled. “We’re done. For now.”
Kendra waited until they were outside and walking toward the gig before she asked, “Did you learn anything?”
Matthews said, “Everyone said that it was a normal day, except for the fog. Mr. Biddle let them go home earlier than usual.”
Kendra nodded. “Biddle said he made the decision to close early. It’s reasonable, I suppose.”
“I heard a lot of speculation as to why Mr. Stone came in yesterday,” said the Duke. “Apparently, he did not make a habit of it. According to the mill workers, they believe that Mr. Stone spent more time at another kind of mill—boxing mills—and in various acts of dissipation.”
“Mr. Biddle said that Stone came in yesterday to tell him that he’d be leaving for a couple of days.” She determinedly clamped down on her nerves when the Duke helped her into the gig and then settled beside her. “We’ll see what Mrs. Stone has to say—” She broke off when Matthews cracked his whip, and the gig jerked forward.
“Did you learn anything of value, Miss Donovan?” Aldridge asked.
Kendra had a feeling that the Duke had asked more to distract her from falling off the gig and breaking both her legs rather than from any immediate interest. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I found out the same—Mr. Stone was not a conscientious boss, he left Mr. Biddle to shoulder most of the responsibilities of the mill. However, he did like to come in personally to fire workers. Apparently he found that quite entertaining.”
The Duke frowned. “He sounds like a thoroughly reprehensible gentleman, to play ducks and drakes with people’s livelihoods.”
“Thoroughly reprehensible, yes. Gentleman, no. Makes you wonder why Lord Bancroft kept him on. According to Mr. Biddle, Bancroft and Stone weren’t friends.”
“Lord Bancroft had another manager before Mr. Stone,” Matthews spoke up suddenly. “An Aminadab.”
Kendra leaned forward to curl her fingers around the seat to give her some semblance of control. She looked over at Matthews. “A what?”
The Duke answered, “A Quaker.”
“Mr. Murray. An excellent manager, from what I recollect. Pious. A hard worker.”
“What happened to him?” Kendra asked.
“I don’t rightly know. My father never understood it. By all accounts, the mill was successful because of Mr. Murray. He was the manager when it opened in 1789.” Matthew shook his head, puzzled. “Never made much sense, to dismiss Mr. Murray in favor of a man of Mr. Stone’s character. One can only assume that Lord Bancroft and Mr. Murray had some sort of altercation.”
“Interesting,” Kendra murmured.
They’d entered the village and were traveling slower, so Kendra unclenched her hands from the seat and straightened up. “Did anyone give a time on when they saw Mr. Stone last?” she asked her companions.
The Duke shook his head. “Everyone was focused on their jobs. ’Tis dangerous work, and distraction could cost a finger or toe—or worse.”
“I was told Mr. Stone came in around one o’clock, and went upstairs to his office. No one remembered seeing him after that,” Matthews said.
“That tracks pretty much with what Mr. Biddle said,” Kendra said, nodding. “It appears that he was the last one to see Stone alive. Except the killer, of course. They might be one in the same.”
Matthews seemed startled by that comment. “Do you truly think Mr. Biddle could have done such a horrendous act against Mr. Stone?”
“Biddle really did Stone’s job, for nineteen years. And Stone was a bastard who enjoyed exerting his power over people. I don’t know if Biddle was compensated fairly for his work, but it’s something to find out. He wasn’t promoted.” Her heart leaped into her throat as the gig swayed around a corner, and she clutched at the seat again. She found her voice again after a moment and added, “Where I come from, that would tick off anyone. Yet Biddle says he was content with the status quo.”
“You don’t believe him?”
Kendra met the Duke’s eyes. “Nobody’s that content.”
8
Someday East Dingleford would be swallowed up by Manchester’s urban sprawl. But in 1815, the village was larger than Kendra had first realized, dominating the countryside in its own right. From a distance, as they approached, she could see a haphazard collection of gray stone buildings tilted over narrow, twisting streets and pretty whitewashed, thatched cottages mixed with buildings that probably had been new two centuries ago. Ivy, still green and lush, crawled across stone walls and climbed up buildings. Rising above vivid red and gold treetops was a church spire on one end of the village and the crenellation of an ancient Norman church on the other.
The vibe of East Dingleford reminded her of Aldridge Village. The sunshine and daily routine brought the villagers outside. Women wearing plain dresses beneath wool coats and mop caps on their heads stood in doorways chatting with each other. Many had large straw baskets hooked over their arms. Five boys and one girl, ranging in age from about seven to twelve, laughed as they chased each other and several squawking chickens down a narrow lane. The last time Kendra had seen a bunch of kids together in her era, they’d all been on their phones, their thumbs a blur as they texted. She wondered what these kids would think of their future counterparts.
Kendra clutched the seat as the gig bounced along the cobblestone streets. She heard the clang of metal on metal from somewhere nearby, and figured that she’d be able to trace the sound to the blacksmith shop. If it had been a normal day in East Dingleford, untainted by murder, that’s where she’d have found Jameson. Instead, he was likely filling the magistrate’s ear with poison against her.
She drew in a deep breath. The air was crisp, with a vague scent of manure—as common in this time as the whiff of diesel and gasoline in her own—and the more pleasant odors of grass and sunshine-warmed earth. East Dingleford wasn’t prosperous, but it didn’t look poor either. At least there wasn’t the grinding poverty that she’d witnessed in London the month before.
Matthews finally stopped the gig at the end of a narrow lane, in front of an Elizabethan-styled house with a deeply slanted slate roof, traditional, half-timbered stucco on the upper level and red brick on the ground level. The house was set off the street, larger and more private than the other houses in the neighborhood. The gardens surrounding it were overgrown, a variety of bushes and flowers opening up to a grassy field, dotted with cows, and in the distance the forest and river.
After climbing down from the gig they followed the flagstone path to the door. Matthews made use of the heavy brass knocker. It took several persistent knocks before the door finally creaked inward. A dour-looking, middle-aged woman in servant’s garb glared at them.
“’Ere now, what’d ye want, then? This ’ere ’ousehold is in mournin’. Mr. Stone done cocked up ’is toes.”
Matthews eyed the servant with disapproval. “We are aware of Mr. Stone’s demise, Mrs. Trout. We have come to speak to Mrs. Stone. Please announce us—Mr. Matthews, the Du
ke of Aldridge, and Miss Donovan.”
Kendra had met her fair share of butlers and housekeepers in this time period, but she could honestly say that Mrs. Trout was unlike any of those upper-class servants. In truth, she was unlike any servant Kendra had met in this era, period. The general rule for the hired help was to be acquiescent when dealing with their so-called betters. Apparently no one had told Mrs. Trout the rules.
The housekeeper huffed out her cheeks in a sign of extreme aggravation. “I suppose ye be wantin’ tea too. I’m busy in the kitchens, ye know, dyin’ Mrs. Stone’s dresses in ter proper mournin’ colors.”
“Your duties are of no concern to me,” Matthews snapped. “Now please let your mistress know that she has callers waiting.”
“If you would give your mistress my card”—Aldridge produced one of his embossed calling cards, and handed it to the housekeeper—“I would be appreciative.”
She eyed the card suspiciously. “Yer truly a duke? Don’t reckon I can recall a duke ever vistin’ East Dingleford in all me time ’ere.”
Amused, Aldridge inclined his head. “I am the seventh Duke of Aldridge, madam.”
Mrs. Trout finally seemed impressed. “Oh, my, yer Grace,” she said, and even attempted a curtsy. Halfway down, she clutched her back. “Ooh, this cold weather ’as me joints seizing up somethin’ fierce!” She straightened with a scowl. “C’mon, then. I’ll get ye settled in the drawing room before I fetch the missus.”
The servant led them down the narrow hall to an arched doorway. The drawing room was small, but strangely ornate, with a preponderance of marble and gilt. The sofas and chairs were tufted red silk. The patterned red, white, and gold wallpaper reminded Kendra a bit of a tacky Las Vegas hotel. Yet what really drew Kendra’s attention were the shelves. Like the office, these were filled with a variety of porcelain cats.
She walked over to survey the astounding collection. Some were beautifully carved and high in quality, while others looked like cheap prizes handed out at traveling carnivals.
“Mr. Stone was a cat lover,” she remarked, eyeing one figurine that was about the size of a man’s shoe, a cat curled into a sleeping position. In college, she’d participated in a study group at the home of her criminology professor whose wife had been a huge collector of Hummel figurines. They’d been everywhere in the house, even on the vanity in the bathroom. It had kind of creeped her out. Stone’s collection reminded her of that.
“Bah! Not that I ever knew. ’Twas one of the master’s peculiarities.” Mrs. Trout scowled at the figurines. “Terrible things ter tidy up around.” She paused, looking at them. “I suppose I should be takin’ yer coats.”
“If you would be so kind.” Matthews’s tone was like acid.
“Well, then, ’and ’em over.” She waited impatiently as they divested themselves of their outerwear, then stomped out of the room.
“Can you countenance such a creature?” Matthews complained, glaring after the woman. “She is truly one of the most uncouth females I have ever encountered. She didn’t even invite us to sit down.”
The Duke said, “Mrs. Trout is rather odd, I must say. Wherever did Mr. Stone find her?”
“Mrs. Stone brought the creature with her when she married Mr. Stone,” Matthews remarked, and added darkly, “Mrs. Trout reflects her mistress in many ways.”
A moment later, Lavinia Stone swept into the room. Trophy wife was Kendra’s first thought. The widow had to be at least forty years younger than her late husband, which put her somewhere in her early thirties. She was tall for this era, maybe five-ten, with a lushly curved body that she’d displayed to her advantage in a hunter green silk gown. The rounded neckline showed off both her décolletage and an emerald teardrop pendant nestled between her breasts. The bodice glittered with delicate beadwork. Her long sleeves were edged with French lace. More French lace was sewn at the bottom of her skirt in a two-tiered ruffle.
She was very pretty, with a triangular face dominated by light sea-green eyes, and even features. Her hair was flaxen, and pulled into a loose topknot. As an added decorative touch, she wore a green velvet bandeau around her head.
Aside from her relative youth, the most startling thing about Mrs. Stone was her obvious use of makeup. Her cupid’s bow mouth was painted crimson, her face was powdered white and rouged, and her brows and lashes were noticeably darkened. None of that would have earned a second glance in the twenty-first century—or even in the eighteenth, for that matter—but the trend now was toward a more natural look. Some older women, like the Duke’s sister, might judiciously apply a bit of rouge and powder, but society frowned upon younger women using cosmetics. Women who broke that taboo were considered brazen. Kendra got the feeling that description might not be too off the mark with Mrs. Stone.
There were no telltale sign of tears on the other woman’s face, Kendra noticed. No red, puffy eyes or blotchy complexion beneath the powder. If the housekeeper hadn’t mentioned dyeing gowns for the imposed mourning period, she might wonder if Mrs. Stone had been notified of her husband’s untimely death.
A marriage of convenience? Kendra knew that was normal for the time period, but usually among the upper classes. And marriages of convenience could become inconvenient for one spouse.
She thought of the murder weapon. The bronze was heavy, but she didn’t think Mrs. Stone would have any trouble picking it up.
“Good day.” Mrs. Stone’s gaze skimmed over Kendra and Matthews to zero in on the Duke. The crimson lips curved into an unconsciously seductive smile. She lifted her skirt to reveal her embroidered slippers and dropped into a perfect curtsy. “Your Grace. Mrs. Trout is not mistaken, is she? You are the Duke of Aldridge?”
“I am.” Aldridge put one hand behind his back, and gave a courtly bow.
“Oh, my.” Mrs. Stone’s hand fluttered to her throat. Three fingers glittered with semiprecious stones, one diamond wedding ring, and two emeralds. “I could scarcely believe it when she told me. Pray tell, what is a duke doing here in East Dingleford? Did you know Harry?”
Aldridge kept his expression neutral. “Harry?”
“Mr. Stone. My husband.”
“No, we were not acquainted.” He hesitated. “My condolences on your husband’s death.”
“Thank you. Although Harry was old.”
Kendra wasn’t sure she heard her correctly. “Your husband didn’t die of old age, Mrs. Stone.”
The widow finally glanced at her. “No, but he would have. One must prepare for such an eventuality when you marry an older man. Shall we sit?”
Kendra had to admire the graceful way Mrs. Stone carried herself as she crossed the room, and settled into a delicate gilt-painted chair with claw-and-ball feet. She exchanged a bemused glance with the Duke before taking their seats on the sofa opposite Mrs. Stone. Matthews chose another chair, his face pinched with censure as he regarded the new widow.
“Mrs. Trout said she’ll bring in tea,” Mrs. Stone told them. “She’s in a bit of a temper. Poor Harry’s death has added to her workload, I’m afraid. I have no mourning gowns, you see. Until I am able to travel to my modiste in Manchester, Mrs. Trout will be dyeing most of my wardrobe. It is not a simple matter. Still, a duke ought to have tea.”
Aldridge smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. “Thank you, madam. You are very considerate.”
Kendra leaned forward slightly, her movement drawing the widow’s eyes. “Who informed you of your husband’s death?” she asked.
“Constable Jameson came to the door early this morning to inform me.” She hesitated, and for the first time a shadow darkened her eyes. “’Tis difficult to believe. Who would want to murder Harry?”
“That’s what we aim to find out,” Kendra said.
The powdered forehead puckered in a faint frown. “I actually hadn’t realized until the constable came that Harry was not in his bed. I thought he was asleep in his bedchamber.”
The Stones weren’t gentry, Kendra knew, but apparently they followed the custom
where wives and husbands slept in different bedrooms. She regarded the widow steadily. Kendra didn’t know if the woman stood to inherit anything, but there was a reason wives, like husbands, were always subject to greater scrutiny when their spouse met with foul play. “Where were you yesterday afternoon, Mrs. Stone, from three to six?”
Mrs. Stone didn’t seem to find the question odd. “I was at home. Where else would I be? Nothing exciting ever happens in East Dingleford.”
Kendra decided not to point out that she’d been in the town less than twenty-four hours, and the mill had been attacked by Luddites and Mr. Stone killed by an unknown assailant. She didn’t think East Dingleford could afford any more excitement.
“Can anyone confirm your whereabouts yesterday afternoon?” she asked instead.
“My whereabouts? Why—” Mrs. Stone broke off when Mrs. Trout lumbered into the drawing room, carrying the tea tray.
The servant surveyed the room with a disgruntled expression, seeming to notice for the first time that every surface was cluttered with objects, mostly cats. Either there was another, more guest-friendly parlor, or the Stones didn’t get many visitors.
“Where should I put this ’ere, then?”
Mrs. Stone’s gaze traveled the room as though seeing it for the first time too. “Set it down there, Mrs. Trout.” She gestured to the damask-covered footstool near her chair.
China teacups rattled as Mrs. Trout deposited her burden.
“Thank you, Mrs. Trout. I shall serve. Before you go, can you tell Miss Donovan where I was yesterday afternoon. She has expressed an odd curiosity about my activities.”
“Ye spent most of the morning in bed.” Mrs. Trout glanced at Kendra. “She’s never been one ter get up before noon.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Kendra saw the Duke’s lips twitch. “What about between three and six?” she asked.
Caught in Time Page 8