Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  She finished her coffee, her eyes moving down the list. Based on everything she’d learned, Stone would’ve likely been diagnosed as having an antisocial personality disorder in the twenty-first century, the disorder of moguls and megalomaniacs in her era. His wife had talked about his charm, as much as she’d talked about him being a rogue. Exploitation, cheating, lack of remorse, a certain irresponsibility—all those characteristics fit the diagnosis. So did Stone’s desire for power, to have control, to boast. Even his office, fashioned into a gentleman’s study, was a form of boasting.

  But what’s up with the cats? They were more than a fetish. Whether they had anything to do with his murder, though, she didn’t know.

  Stone had used his position as the mill manager ruthlessly, cruelly. He’d enjoyed threatening the livelihoods of those beneath him, enjoyed firing people. Kendra thought of the French Revolution—all revolutions and revolts, really. People could be suppressed for only so long before they rose up, angrily, sometimes violently. She’d seen riots in her own era, revolutions in other parts of the world. This was nothing new. Had one individual risen up against Stone in an equally angry, violent way?

  Mr. Biddle came to mind. He had several checks against him, which put him at the top of the suspect list. He’d been the last person to see Stone alive, and she’d worked plenty of cases where the last person to be seen with the victim usually turned out to be the murderer. He also had no real alibi, and his office was right next to Stone’s. After his meeting with Stone, Biddle said he’d stayed in his office, claiming that the noise from the mill would have drowned out any sound that came out of Stone’s office.

  He was probably right. The crime had been brutal and bloody—but, Kendra thought, fairly silent. She doubted whether Stone would’ve cried out even when the first blow landed—too stunned—and he’d been dead after the second blow. Biddle could have been in his office and heard nothing but a muffled thud when Stone and the chair fell over, and even that might have been covered up by the noise of the factory.

  She lifted her coffee cup to take another swallow, and scowled when she realized it was empty. She set the cup down, and paced instead.

  Biddle had been doing Stone’s job, without the title, most likely without the same pay. That would piss anybody off. Except he’d been doing it for nineteen years. If it had been him, why now? Did it have to do with whatever had been on the desk?

  Her thoughts shifted to the seven workers Stone had recently fired. The timing worked out for them. One of those men might have stewed about it long enough to come in to confront Stone. Except . . . that kind of confrontation meant raised voices. Surely Biddle would have heard that kind of commotion? Plus, the killer had been standing slightly behind Stone. A confrontation between Stone and a recently fired worker would have taken place face-to-face. Stone would never have turned his back on him.

  That didn’t mean the fired workers were off the hook completely. Biddle had supplied the list to the constable, who had yet to give it to her, but she wanted to follow procedure and tie off that thread, even if, in her mind, she’d already crossed them off the list.

  Kendra’s jaw clenched when she thought about Jameson. He was dragging his heels and blocking her work, every step of the way. Sexist son of a bitch. She wished Sam would get here. The Bow Street Runner had regarded her with suspicious eyes initially, but that was because she’d lied to him, not because she was a woman. She needed Sam’s help tracking down the previous manager. Mr. Murray had known Stone before he’d shown up in East Dingleford, and she needed to find out who Harry Stone was, really, not just his personality traits or vices. Who was he? What was his background? Where was he from?

  Lord Bancroft said that he’d hired Stone on Murray’s recommendation, which made sense. What didn’t was that Bancroft had kept Stone around for twenty years. The earl didn’t strike her as someone who would hesitate to fire an incompetent manager. Yet he hadn’t fired Stone—he’d enabled him by hiring Biddle to do the job that Stone couldn’t.

  Blackmail. It was the simplest explanation. Proving it would require digging into Stone’s past, a time-consuming process in the early nineteenth century, especially when you didn’t even know where the potential blackmailer was originally from.

  But she knew Bancroft’s origins. She had an entire community who could talk to her about his background.

  Her gaze fell on her empty coffee cup, and she smiled suddenly. Yes, she had an entire community. And one person who had nearly run off to Gretna Green to marry Bancroft.

  Kendra got lucky. She found Mrs. Bolton alone in the kitchen, the room filled with the tantalizing aroma of baking bread. The innkeeper’s wife was peeling and slicing turnips and carrots into a big copper pot. She glanced up at Kendra’s entrance, and gave a dramatic start.

  “Miss Donovan! You mustn’t come in here. ’Tisn’t proper!” Mrs. Bolton dropped the knife, and wiped her hands on her apron. She hurried forward to intercept her. “What do you require? I shall bring it to you in the parlor.”

  “Please, don’t concern yourself, Mrs. Bolton. I was just hoping for some more coffee.” Kendra held up the empty cup, then scanned the kitchen. “I also need to speak with you. Where is everybody?”

  “At church services. I said my prayers earlier, of course. Someone needs to stay here for the guests. Why don’t I bring you a tray?”

  “I’d rather talk now.”

  The old woman hesitated, but seemed to realize that it would be useless to argue. She moved to the cupboard and retrieved a burlap sack. She plopped it down next to an old fashioned, industrial-looking grinder that was about the size of an outdoor motor, with gears and wheels on the side and a crank handle.

  “What do you wish to talk to me about?” she asked finally.

  “Lord Bancroft.”

  Mrs. Bolton’s hands froze on the burlap sack. As Kendra watched, the old woman’s fingers slowly relaxed, untying the sack to scoop out the aromatic coffee beans and pour them into the funnel at the top of the grinder. “Why are you asking me about the earl?”

  “I was told that there was a time when you and Lord Bancroft were quite close.” Kendra observed a series of emotions flicker across the old woman’s face, too fast to identify.

  “That was a long time ago,” Mrs. Bolton said.

  “Then you’ve known Lord Bancroft for a long time.”

  “I’ve known him all my life. When my father was alive, he rented one of the earl’s farms that bordered Falcon Court.” She began to turn the crank of the coffee mill. “We were children together. And then . . . we were no longer children.”

  Kendra saw the soft look enter the other woman’s gray eyes. “You became involved.”

  Mrs. Bolton paused in turning the crank, and looked at Kendra. “You see an old woman before you, Miss Donovan, but I was young once. Young, and very, very foolish.”

  Kendra said diplomatically, “I can’t imagine you being foolish, Mrs. Bolton.”

  Mrs. Bolton smiled. “You are being kind. Unfortunately, youth tends to make us all foolish. It was long ago—I was sixteen and Nat was seventeen—but I still remember the day he rode his big bay out of the woods separating our properties. It was like the boy I had known had become a man overnight.” She let out a long sigh, and began turning the crank again. “Although now I look back and see only a boy.”

  “Nat?” Kendra prompted.

  “Nathan—the Earl of Langfrey. Oh, I know, ’tis brazen of me to address him in such a manner, but everyone in East Dingleford called him Nat back then, even his father. He hadn’t yet come into the viscountcy. His grandfather was still alive. When I recollect those days, I still think of him as Nat.”

  “You were in love with him.”

  “Yes,” she admitted softly. Now that she’d opened up, the words came more easily. “He was so handsome, my Nat. Dark curly hair and those dark eyes, always laughing. I swear, Nat could have charmed a miser into giving up his gold.”

  Kendra said nothing.
The romance between Mrs. Bolton and her Nat had taken place more than a half century before, she knew, but she still had a difficult time imagining the cold, arrogant old man she’d dined with last night as the handsome, charming boy that Mrs. Bolton remembered.

  “I loved him,” Mrs. Bolton continued in a whisper, “and he loved me.”

  “What happened?” Kendra asked quietly, affected by the pain she observed in the old woman’s eyes.

  “What happened? Why, what was bound to happen, of course.” Her lips twisted in a combination of sadness and bitterness. “I was the daughter of a simple farmer. My mother’s father was a vicar, and she was a governess until she married my father. She educated us. But still, my people are not gentry. ’Tis the curse of the very young, I suppose, to dream of things that can never be.”

  Kendra thought of Alec, and her own heart squeezed. Not just the curse of the very young.

  “For the span of one summer, we were very young,” Mrs. Bolton continued, “and, as I said, very foolish.” Her face softened, her gray eyes holding a strange glow as she recalled that fateful summer. In that instant, Kendra could see beyond the lines, loose skin, and age spots, and imagine Mrs. Bolton as a young, beautiful girl.

  “Nat asked me to marry him,” she murmured, lips curving upward. “We were aware that such a thing was scandalous, even in East Dingleford, but Nat wanted to run away to Gretna Green, and God help me, I agreed to go.”

  The older woman fell silent. Kendra waited.

  “My father learned of our elopement, and sent word to the earl,” Mrs. Bolton whispered. “Well, he was actually only a viscount, then—Lord Drake—since his father was alive.” The light slowly faded from her eyes. “My father depended on renting the lands, you see. Poor Nat. He and his father had a dreadful row. His father threatened to cut him off if he didn’t leave East Dingleford and go away to school. Cambridge or Oxford. I cannot recall.”

  “Away from you.”

  “Away from me, yes,” Mrs. Bolton murmured. “But Nat could be as stubborn as the devil. He told his father that he could go to Jericho; he intended to seek his own fortune. There were riches to be had in India, or one of the many foreign lands. He’d hire on as a privateer. He promised me that he’d return and we would marry, with or without his father’s consent.” She drew an unsteady breath, and let it out slowly. “He was such a lovely, courageous, silly boy.”

  She began to turn the crank again, as though needing to release pent-up energy. “I waited, you know. One year, then two. He sent letters. From India, Egypt, Barbados . . . so many foreign places. I thought I could wait forever.”

  “Forever is a long time.”

  “Yes . . . particularly when you are young and yearning for marriage and babies.” Mrs. Bolton’s smile was filled with sorrow. “The letters stopped. I waited. Five years, Miss Donovan. I watched my sisters and brothers marry and set up their nurseries. I was true to Nat, but God forgive me, I didn’t want to be a spinster.”

  She quit turning the crank, and drew out the small drawer at the bottom of the coffee mill, now brimming with fresh grounds. Mrs. Bolton dumped the grounds into the tin coffee kettle and glanced at Kendra as she lifted a nearby pitcher. She poured water into the kettle, replaced the lid, and set it on the stove.

  “Plenty of men asked for my hand, but I sent them on their way. Five years . . . and then Mr. Bolton offered marriage.” Mrs. Bolton sighed. She took a tinderbox, and went about lighting the stove. “Charles wasn’t as handsome as my Nat, nor so charming. But he was—is—a good man. A good husband and provider. I accepted his proposal. What else could I do?”

  “I heard Lord Bancroft left East Dingleford for a time,” Kendra said. “When did he finally return?”

  “In 1780. It was the year after his father took ill. Poor Nat. He returned, but less than a week later, his father died. Fell down the stairs and broke his neck. I only pray they mended their relationship before the earl’s accident.”

  Kendra lifted her eyebrows. “He . . . Lord Bancroft never told you if he did?”

  A shadow passed across Mrs. Bolton’s face. “You must understand, everything had changed, Miss Donovan. It had been sixteen years since I had said my goodbyes to Nat. So much had happened.” She pressed a hand against her breastbone, as though it ached. “I haven’t spoken more than a handful of words to him in all the years since he returned. I knew . . . I knew he was no longer my Nat. From the day he came to the inn after burying his father, and forever more, he was Lord Bancroft to me.”

  “He changed,” Kendra murmured. She felt oddly affected by the story.

  “We both changed. I was no longer the young girl he’d promised his heart to. I was married with four children. And he was no longer the charming boy that I remembered. I scarcely recognized him. He still had those dark eyes and dark hair. But he was so . . . hard. The sixteen years he’d spent overseas had turned him into a different person. Angrier—no, not angry.” She shook her head, and said, “Colder. More like his father. Or his grandfather, who never cared for East Dingleford, and spent his days in London Town. I think . . .” Mrs. Bolton’s voice dropped so low that Kendra had to strain to hear. “I think I hurt him very badly. He returned home and found that I had married and set up my nursery. I think that is one of the reasons he turned so cold.”

  Kendra frowned. “He was gone for sixteen years. He could hardly have expected you to wait for him, especially when he stopped writing letters.”

  Mrs. Bolton said nothing.

  Kendra asked, “Did Lord Bancroft ever find his fortune?”

  “I don’t know. He inherited the title and the family money after his father’s death. The old earl and his father before him weren’t wise with money, and the late earl was forced to sell some of the land. Lord Bancroft worked to rebuild the estate, although the squire refused to sell the land he’d bought from the old earl. A year or two after he returned, Lord Bancroft went off to London to hunt for a bride. He found an heiress—the daughter of an earl . . . Do not look at me like that, Miss Donovan,” she said sharply. “’Tis how it should be. How it was meant to be. We’re better off with our own kind.”

  The anger rose up inside Kendra, taking her by surprise. “And who determines what that should be? Who decides where a person belongs in society, and who with? Exactly who are the gatekeepers, and why should anyone accept their edicts?”

  The older woman’s eyes widened, and she reached out to grasp Kendra’s arm, squeezing it surprisingly hard. “Hush, Miss Donovan,” she hissed. “I know you are an American, but you must hold your tongue in these parts, lest you be thought a radical. There are spies everywhere.”

  Kendra thought of Biddle’s response when she’d mentioned revolution yesterday. “I wasn’t talking revolution.”

  “I apologize, miss, but ’tis a sensitive time in England.” Mrs. Bolton let go of Kendra’s arm. The kettle began to spurt and rumble, and Mrs. Bolton snatched a rag off the counter, using it as an oven mitt as she lifted the kettle. “Many fear radical propaganda.”

  Kendra leaned back against the counter, considering the matter. “I don’t consider equality for everyone such a radical philosophy.”

  “That is because you are an American. You were born into a radical philosophy. I see much of my brother in you. You share the same sentiments . . .”

  Mrs. Bolton pressed her lips together, as though she’d said too much. She shook her head and poured the coffee into an ornate silver coffeepot, which she set on a tray. “That is neither here nor there. Why are you concerning yourself with things that happened so long ago?”

  Kendra hesitated before explaining, “There’s a possibility that what happened to Stone has roots in the past. I’d like to know more about Stone’s background. Do you know where he was from before he came to East Dingleford?”

  Mrs. Bolton frowned. “No. But I did not have much association with Mr. Stone. We are of the same age, but I was always too old for him, so he never paid me any mind.” Her gray eyes gli
nted. “I was careful to keep Tessa and Lizzie well out of his reach.”

  Kendra was shocked. “Tessa is only . . . what? Fifteen? Lizzie can’t be much older.”

  “Seventeen.”

  Kendra pushed aside her anger. She didn’t know what irritated her more: Stone’s lecherous, possibly predatory behavior, or the fact that no one in East Dingleford stopped him.

  “What can you tell me about the relationship between Lord Bancroft and Mr. Stone?” she asked.

  Mrs. Bolton looked puzzled. “Lord Bancroft owns the mill, and Mr. Stone is—was—his manager.”

  “From what I’ve learned, Stone wasn’t a very good manager. Why did Lord Bancroft keep him on rather than finding someone better? Do you think they could have known each other before Stone arrived in East Dingleford?”

  Mrs. Bolton was quiet for a long moment. She concentrated on retrieving a creamer and sugar bowl, adding them to the tray. “It’s possible, I suppose,” she admitted finally. She made a move to lift the tray, but Kendra put her hand on the other woman’s arm. It was thin, but Kendra could feel the corded muscles beneath the brown linen fabric of her dress. How different would her life have been if she’d married Lord Bancroft and eventually become a countess? Kendra imagined the arm beneath her hand would have been rounder and softer, with very little of the muscle tone she could feel beneath her fingertips.

  “Let me help,” she offered.

  “You shall do no such thing!” Mrs. Bolton looked aghast. “A gently bred female such as yourself does not go about hoisting trays like a commoner.” She lifted the tray, then paused and gave Kendra a direct look. “What is it that you are really asking me, Miss Donovan?”