Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  As they climbed the staircase, the flickering light from the wall sconces danced across paneled walls and paintings, most of which looked to be J.M.W. Turner seascapes of glorious crashing waves and ships in turmoil. The elderly butler shuffled over to a pair of double doors and swung them open, his voice carefully modulated as he announced their presence, stepping aside.

  The room was lit only by a handful of candle braces. Kendra’s first impression was height, dark shelving filled with books and collectibles soaring to a shadowy third story, wrapped by a balcony. Three tall, mullioned windows took up the farthest wall, glinting with moonlight. Another wall was bisected by an enormous fireplace, its cherry hardwood mantel carved in scrolls and leaves surrounding a cave-like hearth. There were many logs stacked within, ablaze. Comfortable chairs in heavy damask were arranged near the fireplace to take advantage of its warmth in the cold room. The air was scented with melting tallow wax and burning wood.

  “Your Grace . . . Miss Donovan.” Matthews leaped up from his seat, bending in a deep bow. “Good evening. May I introduce my father, Squire Matthews.”

  “Forgive me for not rising,” the squire said, using his cane to point to his stockinged foot propped up on a stool. “My blasted toe has been causing me grievous injury for a fortnight.”

  Squire Matthews was short like his son, but rather than thin, he was round. And unlike his son, who was dressed in a fashionable brown velvet jacket, starched collar points sticking out of an extravagantly worked cravat, and close-fitting trousers, the squire’s clothes looked like they might have been fashionable a decade ago, including the stockings and knee breeches. He had lost most of his hair—a future, Kendra predicted, that his son would most likely share. His eyes, beneath wiry brows, were the same watery blue as his son’s. All in all, Squire Matthews resembled a fat old gnome.

  “Do not fret, Squire Matthews,” the Duke said, eyeing his host’s toe. The stocking may have concealed the red, swollen joint, but through the material they could still see the protruding shape, round like a golf ball, had attached itself to the squire’s big toe. “I am aware how painful the disease of kings can be for a person.”

  The squire’s eyebrows rose. “Have you been afflicted, your Grace?”

  “Not I personally. However, my father and brother suffered from it at various times in their lives.”

  “Please be seated, sir, Miss Donovan.” Matthews gestured to the chairs. “Claret?”

  “Thank you,” the Duke said.

  Kendra thanked Matthews when he handed her a glass, and noticed that the squire held out his to be refreshed. Matthews promptly brought the decanter over, replenishing his father’s glass. She wondered if the squire realized alcohol exacerbated his gout. She lifted her gaze and met the squire’s shrewd eyes.

  “You don’t look like you approve, Miss Donovan,” he remarked.

  Kendra shrugged. “It’s not for me to approve or disapprove, but you might want to cut back your alcohol consumption—”

  “Yes, yes, that and red meat. Poole has already lectured me in tedious detail.” He waved that away and took a defiant swallow of his claret. Lowering his glass, he fixed her with a considering look. “Poole also says that you fancy yourself a doctor.”

  “Not really.”

  The squire continued as though he hadn’t heard her. “And my boy here says that you fancy yourself a Bow Street Runner. A peculiar desire for a young lady, I must say.”

  “My ward and I are investigating the murder of Mr. Stone,” the Duke put in. “I was under the impression that you had no objections with our involvement. Was I misinformed?”

  “I have no objections, your Grace. But you have to confess that it is peculiar, for both Miss Donovan and an exalted nobleman such as yourself to involve yourself with the criminal element. Constable Jameson is quite put out.”

  Kendra said, “That’s because Constable Jameson wanted to pin the murder on the Luddites. It’s probably inconvenient for him to have to consider other theories.”

  The old man laughed. “No doubt, no doubt. The Luddite movement has caused no end of annoyances here in the North.”

  “They didn’t murder Mr. Stone,” Kendra said.

  “No,” the squire agreed. “Oliver explained your theories, and I cannot argue with them.” He drank his claret, a little more slowly this time. “’Tis all very curious, I must say.”

  The Duke asked, “How well acquainted were you with Mr. Stone, Squire Matthews?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “Not well,” he finally admitted. “East Dingleford is a small village compared to the grandeur of London, or even the sprawl of Manchester. But we conform to the standards of society in much of our daily life.”

  “You mean, Mr. Stone was not in your social sphere,” Kendra said.

  “Mr. Stone, like many of his class, attend our local assemblies, but he was not a man one would invite into their home, nor would one break bread with him.”

  “You must have developed some impression of him over the last twenty years.”

  He smiled. “I did indeed. Mr. Stone was more interested in pursuing his vices than his work at the mill.”

  “Vices like gambling,” Kendra said. “Possibly cheating at cards.”

  “You are referring to Mr. Turner’s claim that Stone cheated him out of hundreds of pounds.”

  The Duke looked startled. “Good heavens. Hundreds, you say?”

  “Yes. I am of the mind it was sheer desperation that had Mr. Turner accusing Mr. Stone of being a cardsharp. He wanted the debt voided, of course.”

  “You don’t think Mr. Stone cheated?” Kendra asked.

  “I have heard that Mr. Stone has—had the most prodigious luck in cards and dice, but in that particular game, I believe Mr. Turner simply got caught up and failed to keep track of his chits. And, of course, when one is on a losing streak, there is the unnatural belief that one’s luck will change with the next hand.” The squire shook his head. “Such behavior happens even in the best of families, and I think we can agree that Mr. Turner cannot lay claim to a Quality pedigree.”

  He paused to take another swallow of wine, then said, “The constable and I inspected the cards. There was no evidence of anything irregular about them. Our findings did little to calm Mr. Turner, and we had to evict him from the Assembly Rooms.”

  “I must say, sir, that I am surprised you allow such deep play at your local assembly,” said the Duke. “I imagine altercations are a regular occurrence.”

  “No, sir.” The squire shook his head. “Most of the young bucks prefer the dance room. Men of my age, who are not so nimble on our feet anymore, prefer to spend our time in the card room. And we are not as hotheaded as the lads.”

  “You were in the room when the argument between Mr. Turner and Mr. Stone occurred?” Kendra sipped her claret. “Do you know what arrangement the two men came to?”

  “I was, but I do not. I was more concerned with avoiding bloodshed,” he said. “At the time, Mr. Turner was too furious to see reason, which is why we were forced to put him out.”

  “How did Mr. Stone react when Mr. Turner accused him?” Kendra asked.

  The squire pursed his lips in thought. “If we had not intervened, I think he would have happily engaged in fisticuffs, even though Mr. Turner is a much younger man. It was the type of man Mr. Stone was. A bit of a ruffian, I always thought.”

  He paused, lifted his glass to his lips, and realized it was empty. He only had to shoot his son a look to have Matthews jump up to retrieve the crystal decanter.

  “I confess, I expected more to come of their argument,” continued the squire. “Mr. Turner lost hundreds of pounds. By rights, Mr. Stone could have taken his farm. I do not know what arrangement the two men formed, but Mr. Turner never came to me to issue a formal complaint. I imagine he realized he had no proof against Mr. Stone.” He raised his glass so his son could refill it. “You might ask Mr. Biddle if he knows anything about the arrangement. He was involved in the card
game as well.”

  That surprised Kendra. “Mr. Biddle? Are you sure?”

  The squire gave a derisive snort. “I may not have had many dealings with Mr. Biddle, but I do know who he is.”

  He lied, Kendra thought. Actually, Biddle had remained silent, not mentioning that he’d been involved in the card game himself: a lie of omission. Why? Because he didn’t want to get involved in the criminal investigation any more than he had to? Some witnesses did that. Others distanced themselves for less benign reasons.

  “In fact, I seem to recall that Mr. Biddle lost to Mr. Stone as well,” the squire said. “He didn’t accuse Mr. Stone of cheating. But then that would have been stupid of him, what with Mr. Stone being his overseer at the mill.”

  “How much blunt did Mr. Biddle lose?” asked the Duke.

  “He didn’t say, and since he wasn’t the one making the accusations, the constable and I never asked. Still, I can’t imagine Mr. Biddle was happy with losing.”

  The squire’s son huffed out a laugh. “My father is notoriously tightfisted with his purse strings. ’Tis why we’re still using tallow candles, and his wardrobe is more in line with Mad King George’s tastes. He’d still be wearing a periwig if the government hadn’t begun taxing hair powder. Quite frankly, I’m surprised that he is willing to lose a few coins when he partakes in the card games at the assemblies.”

  “You’d do well to be more frugal with your allowance, as well,” the squire snapped. “Too much like your mother, I say. Always wanting something new rather than making do with what we have. I swear, if she hadn’t expired from consumption when you went up to Eton, we’d be in the poorhouse. And do not call the King mad. ’Tis disrespectful.”

  Matthews said nothing, retreating behind his wineglass.

  Kendra waited a beat. “Was Lord Bancroft at the assembly when the argument with Mr. Stone happened?” she asked the squire.

  The old man shifted in his seat and snorted. “Not likely. Lady Winifred attends often, but his lordship rarely graces us with his presence.”

  “A bit high on the instep, is he?” the Duke murmured.

  The squire said nothing for a moment, then said, “Yes, but he wasn’t always such. Nat and I grew up together. Never put on airs. Course, that might’ve been the thing to get him in mischief.”

  “You’re speaking of his involvement with Mrs. Bolton,” Kendra guessed.

  He shot her a look. “You know about that, do you? She was Laura Thackeray then. Fetching little thing. I might’ve been interested in her myself, except she had no dowry to speak of, and she was a bluestocking.”

  “A scholarly woman,” the Duke translated.

  “Can’t abide them myself,” the squire huffed. “My wife didn’t need to fill her head with books and such to be able to plan the meals and darn my stockings, did she?”

  Kendra said, “Lord Bancroft must not have had a problem with, ah, bluestockings.”

  “Apparently not, much good it did him. But Nat had his head in the clouds in those days. Thought his father would accept Laura if he brought her home as his bride. Ha! Laura—a countess. Can you imagine?” He shook his head and chuckled. “The old earl—Nat’s grandfather—would have disowned him before he did that. As it was, Nat was the one who disowned his family. Took himself off to become a privateer. No one heard from him for sixteen years. The old earl passed away, and Nat’s father became the earl. I imagine someone sent word to Nat that he’d become a viscount. Still, he didn’t return home. Then the earl took poorly, and hired a Bow Street Runner to find his son. It took almost a year. But God was good to keep him alive until his son returned home.”

  Kendra said, “I heard the earl fell down the stairs right after Lord Bancroft returned.”

  “Yes, but I doubt if he’d have survived much longer.” His brow furrowed. “Pardon. Didn’t mean to go off on a tangent. None of this can have anything to do with Stone’s murder.”

  “Lord Bancroft was gone from East Dingleford for more than a decade.” Kendra turned her wineglass in her hands. “Do you think he might have encountered Mr. Stone during that time?”

  The squire’s eyes held a perceptive gleam. “I have to say that the thought crossed my mind over the years. They never seemed particularly friendly with each other, but Bancroft had a perfectly good mill manager in Mr. Murray. He was a Quaker, but also Scottish. No one is thriftier than a Scot. Why get rid of him, especially when the replacement is someone like Mr. Stone?”

  “Lord Bancroft says that it was Mr. Murray’s choice to leave,” Kendra said. “And Mr. Murray recommended Mr. Stone as his replacement.”

  The squire frowned, perplexed. “Never heard that, but I suppose it could be true.” He drained his glass and set it aside. “I heard tell that Mr. Murray got another position as a manager of a larger mill in Manchester, so it could be true, indeed.”

  He took a moment to hunt around for his cane. Grasping it, he used it to hoist himself to his feet, careful to keep his bad foot off the ground. “Their gain is our loss, I must say,” he grunted. “Stone may have been a lucky devil with cards, but he was a bloody poor manager.” The squire hesitated, and shook his head. His shadowed gaze met Kendra’s. “I suppose Stone wasn’t so lucky after all.”

  18

  Kendra came awake with a start, mouth dry and heart pounding from a nightmare that faded from her consciousness the second she opened her eyes. For a long moment she lay in bed, staring at the moonbeams slanting across the ceiling while the wind outside rattled the windowpanes. She could hear the rustle of leaves outside as branches stirred in the trees, and the ancient inn creaked and settled. From inside the walls came the skittering of mice. At least she hoped it was only mice.

  She turned over and squinted at the small porcelain clock on the writing table in the corner. But it didn’t glow like the digital clocks she was used to, and the shadows were too thick for her to make out anything.

  She swallowed. Her heart may have resumed its normal pace, but her mouth still felt uncomfortably dry—the result, no doubt, of the countless glasses of wine she’d drank at the squire’s table earlier. Or maybe it was from the fear chasing her in her dreams. She didn’t know, but the last thing she wanted to do was get out of the warm bed. But her mouth felt like the damn Sahara.

  Sighing, she pushed aside the heavy blankets, and the icy draft that washed over her nearly sent her straight back. Across the room, the fireplace was too dark, only a few embers glowing demonically amid the heaps of ash. Gritting her teeth against the cold, she forced herself to swing her feet out of bed and moved to the rack of logs next to the fireplace. She pulled off two logs and tossed them into the hearth, which caused a shower of sparks . . . and then nothing. Shivering in earnest now, she prayed that she hadn’t accidentally smothered the embers. She grabbed the poker, and nudged the logs into a better position. Nothing.

  Why is everything so damn hard in this era? Impatient, she moved forward to prod the logs again, but she noticed an embryonic flicker first. She held her breath and prayed. The flicker suddenly leaped, morphing into a flame. Surprised, Kendra watched as tongues of fire suddenly wrapped themselves around the log. Kendra Donovan—Girl Scout-in-training. To think that her idea of starting a fire used to mean pressing a remote to ignite the gas logs in the fireplace in her Virginia apartment.

  The warmth from the fire was practically nonexistent though. The floor was covered by a threadbare rug, but that wasn’t much protection for her bare feet. Her toes were already tingling from the icy draft. Shivering, she hurried over to the pitcher and poured water into an earthenware mug. The water was cold enough to make her back molars ache, but she drank deeply.

  Her gaze drifted to the window. The moon was still bright enough to flood the back area of the inn and the four outbuildings, including a stone barn and chicken coop. Vaguely she had a memory of hearing a rooster crow early the previous morning.

  She began to put down the mug, eager to dive under the covers again, when movement be
low caught her eye. Curious, Kendra leaned forward to press her face against the windowpane, and watched a cloaked figure—a woman, judging by the skirts—emerge from the shadow of the inn, making her way toward the barn. The skirts and the hem of the cloak swept behind her, leaving a trail on the frost-covered grass. She wondered if she was watching Mrs. Bolton’s granddaughter, Lizzie, on her way to a romantic rendezvous. What else would entice someone to haul their ass out of a warm bed in the middle of the night?

  Kendra’s breath caught in her throat as she was assailed by an intense longing for Alec. She’d thought of him often since they’d gone their separate ways. She’d known she’d miss him, but she hadn’t anticipated this hollow sensation in her chest. It was like a piece of her was missing too.

  She’d made a mistake by becoming involved with him. She wanted to feel his arms around her, to be able to press her face against his chest and breathe in the clean, masculine scent that was uniquely his. But that was physical desire, and physical desire could either be overcome—or would fade. What terrified her was that she missed him—talking to him, laughing with him, watching those green eyes framed by spiky lashes brighten with amusement, narrow with interest, darken with passion.

  She lifted a hand to rub the center of her chest, as though that could ease the ache inside. She’d never been in such a situation before, and quite honestly didn’t know how to handle it. When her parents had cut her loose at fourteen, she’d survived the only way she knew how—by moving forward, one step at a time, first by focusing on her college studies, and after that, her career ambitions. Her personal life had been pretty pathetic. Her few love affairs had never been strong enough to go beyond a promising beginning, before they crashed and burned thanks to last-minute cancellations caused by her busy schedule. How did you maintain a relationship when you were flying across the United States at the last minute to set up a war room, to investigate the latest atrocity?

  One canceled date was acceptable. But three? Or five? If she had met Alec in the twenty-first century, would their relationship have become just another casualty of her career? Her stomach knotted. She didn’t know. How could she?