Mrs. Turner lowered her eyes and whispered, “Aye. My husband was at home, yer Grace.”
“Speak up, woman!” Turner ordered.
Mrs. Turner gave a start, her eyes darting to her husband’s red face. She stared at him as she repeated, louder, “Aye! My husband was here with me, yer Grace.”
Kendra was surprised by the rage that all but boiled her blood. She had never been a beat cop, who witnessed a tragic amount of domestic abuse situations. But during the course of her career, there had been a handful of times when she’d suspected a woman was being abused by her husband or boyfriend. Her stomach had curdled and, if she’d had a chance to get the woman alone, she’d recommended that she seek help at a woman’s shelter. As far as she knew, the women had never followed her advice. It had been depressing. But she couldn’t remember any of those situations driving her to a point where she’d lost her temper.
She had to take a moment to make sure her voice was under control before she said, “We heard that you accused the victim of cheating during a card game.”
The memory had Turner’s lips thinning. “The bleeding bastard fleeced me!”
“You were angry.” Still are angry.
“Aye. W’ot man wouldn’t be? Common folk I might be, but I gotta right ter be angry!”
An anger that he took out on his wife when he got home, Kendra would bet. “It’s a serious accusation, sir. I doubt Mr. Stone took it lightly to be called a cheater. How did he react?”
He snorted. “Denied it, of course!”
“You brought in the magistrate,” she stated.
He gave an ill-tempered shrug. “W’ot good it did! Squire Matthews and Constable Jameson ain’t gonna go against his lordship.”
“What does Bancroft have to do with it?”
“W’ot do you think? Stone worked for Lord Bancroft. Bah! W’ot does it matter? It was months ago. I’ve gotta get back ter me chores, same as me wife.” The steel in his eyes made Mrs. Turner jerk upright, her eyes going painfully wide. “We don’t have time ter talk ter the like of you.”
“Aye. Forgive me, but I—I must . . . do me chores,” Mrs. Turner said. “Good day to ye, your Grace, Miss Donovan.” Mrs. Turner dipped into a quick curtsy, her gaze fixed on her shoes. She didn’t raise her eyes again as she stepped back and closed the door in their faces. It was a little like witnessing a beaten dog slink away from its master, fearing a fresh thrashing.
Kendra glanced at Turner. “I suppose you’re going to tell me your wife walked into a door.”
“W’ot?”
“Miss Donovan, this is not why we are here,” the Duke murmured, putting a hand on her arm. “Mr. Turner, how deep was your play?”
The farmer shifted on his feet, he gaze sliding away. “’Tis nobody’s business but mine.”
“By the authority of the magistrate, it is our business, Mr. Turner,” the Duke said coldly.
Turner’s face took on a mulish look, but after a moment, he admitted, “We came ter an arrangement.”
“To pay off your debt?” the Duke pressed.
“Aye.”
Kendra asked, “What sort of arrangement?”
He glared at her. “Ain’t none of your business!”
She tried a different approach. “Was that the first time you played cards against Mr. Stone?”
“Why? Are you a Quaker?” he sneered. “Here tryin’ ter interfere in a bit o’ harmless fun?”
“Harmless fun?” She arched her eyebrows. “A second ago you were complaining that he’d swindled you. The magistrate and constable became involved to prove that he hadn’t cheated you. Doesn’t sound harmless—or like much fun.”
He pressed his lips together and remained silent.
She studied him. It wasn’t just anger she saw, but a sullen resentment at all perceived injustices. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Stone?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed. “W’ot’s that gotta do with anythin’?”
“Maybe nothing. If you could answer the question.”
“I can’t say I rightly remember.”
They stared at each other for a moment, a silent battle of wills. “Your alibi is crap,” she finally said.
His eyes twitched at her blunt assessment, his lips tightening, but he rolled his shoulders and said nothing. The chickens had gamboled back, scrambling around his feet. He glanced down, and as swift as a snake, he swooped down, grabbing one bird while kicking the other viciously.
“I think we’re finished here.” The Duke curled his hand around Kendra’s arm, and gave a little tug. “Come along, Miss Donovan. Good day to you, sir.”
Reluctantly, Kendra allowed the Duke to guide her back to the carriage. As she walked, she could feel Turner’s eyes burning a hole between her shoulder blades. Don’t look back. She actually accomplished the feat until she was seated in the carriage; then she couldn’t stop herself from peering out the window. Turner was still staring. Their gazes met. Kendra watched a slow, unpleasant smile spread across his face. And with an ease that sent a chill arrowing through her, he shifted the bird he was holding, and calmly wrung its neck.
16
The bastard.” Kendra fingers curled into a tight fist. “He’s beating his wife.” She gave the Duke a sharp glance. “What can we do about it?”
Aldridge spread his hands in a gesture of sympathy and helplessness. “Unfortunately, she is his wife.”
“So that means he can beat her?”
“Wives have taken their husbands to court and won a divorce on the basis of physical cruelty, but it is rare,” he said carefully, well aware of her temper. “The common law of coverture makes these matters sensitive. Under the doctrine, a man and a woman becomes one in the eyes of God and the law.”
Kendra drew in an unsteady breath. “So women become property, with no rights against their husbands.” But she already knew that.
“Coverture views husband and wife as one, and expects the husband to act accordingly. To physically harm one’s wife is to do harm against himself.”
Kendra rolled her eyes, and gave a harsh laugh. “Oh, yeah, I can see that’s working well. Christ.”
“A wife does have rights if the abuse is deemed excessive.”
“And what exactly is excessive abuse?”
“That is a matter of debate,” he conceded. “There is an acceptance of corporal punishment to correct a wife’s behavior, as long as her life is not endangered.”
Kendra opened her mouth but no sound came out. It took a few minutes. “So he can beat the hell out of her as long as she stays breathing,” she said. And that didn’t even touch on the husband’s right to treat his wife like a child. Correct her behavior? Dear God.
“No, I think that would be deemed excessive force,” the Duke said. “Regardless, wife-beating is an abhorrent practice. I cannot imagine ever having lifted my hand against my wife. And, quite frankly, I cannot imagine Arabella ever allowing it.” He paused, his eyes meeting hers across the carriage. “I am aware that you sometimes view this world—my world—with frustration, Miss Donovan. But we are not barbarians.”
“It’s just . . .” Unfair. But life was unfair, and not just here. In her job, she’d encountered the worst of humanity. It wasn’t always easy to remain objective, but it was important. You had to care to do a good job, be a good agent, but if you cared too much, you burnt out, with fantasies of eating your gun.
Or you went rogue and ended up in the nineteenth century.
Kendra sighed. “Turner’s alibi is his abused wife. Which means he has no alibi,” she pointed out. “He was also evasive about the debt he owed Stone.”
“Yes, I am aware. His debt to Mr. Stone must have been fairly substantial. If he was playing deep, he could have even put up his farm as collateral against the bet.”
“And if he didn’t pay or couldn’t pay, he would have lost everything.”
“Unfortunately, it’s been known to happen, especially among young bucks in the Ton.”
“Sounds like a good motive for murder. We need to find out more about Turner’s debt, and the arrangement he mentioned to pay it back. Maybe Turner decided to renege on it—”
She broke off as the carriage began to slow, and came to a swaying halt.
“What’s amiss, I wonder?” Surprised, the Duke leaned forward to look out the window. “It’s too early in the day to be concerned about highwaymen.”
“It looks like Mr. Matthews,” Kendra said, staring out the window at Matthews—wearing a dashing red riding habit, gray pantaloons tucked into polished boots, and a black beaver hat—galloped toward them on a bay roan.
Aldridge unfastened the latch to the window, and slid it down. “Good day, sir,” he called out as the other man drew his horse to a halt beside the carriage.
“Good day to you, sir, Miss Donovan,” Matthews greeted them, removing his hat. “Forgive me for waylaying you in such a high-handed manner. I sought your company at the Green Maiden, but Mr. Bolton informed me that you were out. It is most fortuitous that I happened to spy your carriage in the distance.”
“We were calling upon Mr. Turner,” said the Duke.
“Pray tell, did you learn anything?”
Kendra slid down her window to answer. “Not really. He says that he was at home when Mr. Stone was murdered. He remains a suspect.”
Matthews raised his eyebrows. “You have cause to doubt his word?”
“I have cause to doubt everything about the man,” she said drily.
“My ward and I discovered that Mr. Turner is a thoroughly reprehensible character,” the Duke put in.
Matthews didn’t appear surprised by the assessment. “I have had little cause to deal with the man myself, but I think I told you that he has come to the attention of my father and Constable Jameson, beyond his accusation that Mr. Stone was a cardsharp.” He shifted in his saddle. The bay roan tossed its silky mane, its long ears twitching. “Actually, my father is the reason I sought you out, your Grace—and Miss Donovan. As you know, he is laid up with gout, so traveling is rare. However, he would be delighted if you would join us for supper tonight.”
Kendra nodded. “Thank you. I need to talk with your father.”
“He is quite interested in speaking with you as well, Miss Donovan.” Matthews glanced at the Duke for confirmation.
The Duke said, “We would be delighted to dine with you and your father, Mr. Matthews. ’Tis good of the squire to invite us when he’s feeling so poorly.”
“My father does not invite you out of the goodness of his heart, sir—but tedium at being laid up for the past fortnight,” Matthews said, and grinned unexpectedly. “To be frank, he has been quite devoured with curiosity. We have never had a duke visit East Dingleford before. Or a woman such as yourself, Miss Donovan.”
Kendra arched her eyebrows, not entirely sure that was a compliment, but the Duke smiled and said, “Well, whatever the reason, we shall accept your invitation.”
“It’s settled then. I left the invitation with Mr. Bolton, along with directions to Acker Manor. We keep country hours, your Grace, and dine at half past six. Tomorrow evening will be a different story, of course.”
The Duke looked at him. “Tomorrow evening?”
“Our assembly.”
“Of course. You mentioned it.”
“We tend to do town hours when we hold the assembly. East Dingleford is not without its frivolity, sir. Mr. Bolton used to open the public dining room for the evening, but we now have real Assembly Rooms for that purpose on High Street. The festivities begin at eight o’clock—the moon should be still bright. Pray the weather cooperates.
“Admission is a pound,” Matthews added. “Your presence would be most welcome.”
“We’ll be there,” Kendra promised. “Who else do you think will come?”
“Oh, the assemblies are quite well attended.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “It is our one source of proper entertainment in East Dingleford.” He put his hat back on, and tapped its brim. “I look forward to seeing you both this evening. Good day.”
17
After a light lunch of thinly carved, cold roast beef and ham, honey cakes, sliced apples, and Wensleydale and Lancashire cheeses, the Duke went riding while Kendra spent the rest of the afternoon hunkered down in the private parlor, working on the slate board and murder book. She added the timeline. According to Biddle, Stone had come into the mill around twelve-thirty. But why? Lavinia Stone had said he’d been in a bad mood; Biddle had said he was preoccupied.
At two or two-thirty, Stone went into Biddle’s office to tell him that he’d be leaving for a few days. They spent fifteen to twenty minutes talking about business, before Stone had went back to his office. No one but the killer saw Stone alive again after that. Sometime between three and six, someone had gone into Stone’s office, and bludgeoned him to death.
If Kendra had to guess, she’d place the time of death between three and five. The mill had closed at five. The Luddites had to attack shortly thereafter, since she and the Duke had encountered the band of men on the highway at around six. That gave the Luddites an hour to vandalize the frames in the mill. Still, the timing of the attack was interesting. The Luddites either had someone watching the mill, or they had someone on the inside to feed them information. Could they have seen the killer?
Kendra’s gaze fell on her most recent addition to the suspect list: Turner. God, she wanted it to be Turner. He rang every bell. He had the strongest motive, and no real alibi for the time of the murder. It wasn’t hard to imagine Turner’s beefy hand wrapped around the bronze . . . just as she could imagine it wrapped around his wife’s delicate wrist.
But wanting Turner to be the killer because she didn’t like him was a dangerous path to follow, one that was filled with her own confirmation biases.
People see what they want to see. It was way too easy to fall into that trap, to focus so intently on the one suspect that she missed evidence pointing in another direction.
She paced, hoping the activity would jog something loose in her brain. She stopped again in front of the slate board. In the twenty-first century, the board would be white, and filled not only with notes but photos, of the victim, when he’d been alive and dead; of suspects; of the crime scene.
The crime scene . . . The whispery sensation was back. What am I missing?
“Do you have a headache, my dear?”
Kendra hadn’t heard the door open, but the Duke was standing in the doorway, gazing at her inquiringly. Only then did she realize her fingers were at her temples, moving in a circular motion. She dropped her hands.
“No. I’m trying to visualize how the crime scene was, exactly.”
The Duke walked to the sideboard and pulled out a stopper from one of the decanters. “And . . . what do you see?” he asked, pouring a splash of brandy in a crystal tumbler.
“A lot of blood. On the wall. The victim. The chair. On the desk, except for where it wasn’t.”
“Bludgeoning is not a tidy crime by its very nature,” agreed the Duke, taking a sip.
“No, it’s not.” Kendra tapped her chin, concentrating. “We’re dealing with medium velocity impact and passive blood spray, and transfer. The killer was standing behind, slightly to the side of our vic. He had to have gotten a lot of blood on himself.”
“I would imagine so.”
“So he couldn’t have left without cleaning up. What if he ran into somebody? Even if he waited until the mill was closed—before the Luddites arrived—he was taking a chance of being seen.”
The Duke’s eyes narrowed as he considered it. “Mr. Stone had decanters in his office. The killer could have cleaned up using the spirits.”
“Yes. But not his clothes . . .” She drew in a sharp breath. She knew what was bothering her now. “There was a coatrack. There was a hat on it—and nothing else.”
“What? Ah!” Understanding flashed in the Duke’s eyes. “The weather has turned chilly. Mr. Stone would have worn a greatcoat i
nto the office.”
“I’d think so,” she nodded. “And that’s another point that tips the scales to suggest this crime was not calculated. Something set the unsub off, and he picked up the first weapon at hand—the bronze statue—and struck Stone over the head. The frenzied nature of the attack indicates a surge in adrenalin. Temporary insanity, if you will. When sanity returned, the killer realized he was covered in Stone’s blood.”
“He wore Mr. Stone’s coat to cover the blood on his own clothes,” the Duke concluded. “Yes, that makes sense. You said something set the fiend off. It must have been what was on the desk, since the killer took it with him when he left.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t want to jump to that conclusion just yet. But we do know it was important enough to the killer to take after the fact. If we can figure out what it was, it could help us identify the killer.”
He gazed at her, a frown behind his eyes. “How do we figure such a thing out?”
Kendra shrugged. “Keep asking questions. We might just get an answer that will be the break we’re looking for.”
Kendra lifted her long skirts, a delicate silvery gauze that swirled over the green-and-silver striped underskirt, and stepped down from the carriage. The moon above was still plump enough to light Acker Manor, a beige stone mansion, as she and the Duke made their way up the stairs to the portico. The squire’s elderly, stoop-shouldered butler was already waiting, overseeing a footman who took their coats and gloves. She hesitated before handing over her embroidered reticule with the muff pistol tucked inside. But like the footman at Falcon Court, this one didn’t seem to notice its extra weight either.
Then again, maybe all ladies in this era secretly carried muff pistols.
“If you’ll follow me, your Grace, madam,” the manservant said. “Squire Matthews and Master Oliver are in the library.”
Caught in Time Page 14