“Nay.” She shook her head. “I was eventually promoted to upstairs maid. That’s when my Tom—Mr. Hearnshaw—began courting me.” She glanced sideways at Kendra. “Tom and his brother farmed Goose Hill together, which made him quite the catch. He was a sturdy lad, my Tom was. When I resigned from Falcon Court to wed, I never thought to return. But we cannot know the future, can we?”
“It depends.”
“Pardon?”
“Sorry—you’re right, of course. What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Ack, it was a lifetime ago.” She sighed. “Silly man was hurrying home one evening. It was winter, and he crossed an ice pond. I dare say he thought it would make his journey quicker. He was always in a hurry, my Tom. He went through the ice.”
“I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Hearnshaw waved away Kendra’s sympathy, and frowned. “Why am I telling you this? Oh, aye, you asked me about my position as housekeeper at Falcon Court. I was fortunate, Miss Donovan. I needed to support my children, and the earl required a housekeeper. He was still a viscount then, what with his father being alive, away in London Town. He was kind to me, even though he was going through challenges himself. He’d lost his wife before I lost my Tom, and then Nat taking off like he did.” The old woman pursed her lips, disapproval stamped on her face.
“Nat—Lord Bancroft had already left when you became the housekeeper?”
“Aye. I knew him, of course, like everyone in East Dingleford. He was a right handsome lad. I can see why Laura became moon-eyed over the boy. But the silly chit reached above herself.” She sniffed. “Nat ought to have been sent to Eton or Harrow, not schooled at Falcon Court. Then everything would have been proper-like. He would have eventually found someone befitting his station—just as he did when he came home after gallivanting around the world.”
The censure in Mrs. Hearnshaw’s voice reminded Kendra of the housekeeper at Aldridge Castle. Mrs. Danbury believed firmly that everything—and everybody—had a place.
They had walked the length of the room, and turned to walk the width. Kendra’s gaze drifted to the dancers lined up on the floor, men facing women, the more affluent villagers on one end of the ballroom, the common folk on the other.
“You sound as though you don’t approve of the earl’s travels,” she finally remarked.
Mrs. Hearnshaw pressed her lips together. “’Tis not for me to approve or disapprove of my betters’ behavior,” she said stiffly. “Still, I was serving the earl—he became the earl shortly after I returned to Falcon Court, when his father passed. I could see how heartsick he was over his son’s desertion. It wasn’t right that Nat hardly wrote his father either. Then the earl had a seizure.”
“I heard that he’d been ill.”
“Ill—he was at death’s door, he was,” she huffed. “Dr. Poole said he’d had an apoplectic stroke. The poor man was bedridden for nigh on a year, his body having seized up something fierce. Could hardly talk, slurring his words something terrible. Course, we pretended not to notice, the earl being such a proud man, and all. I attended him myself rather than hire a nurse.”
“He was fortunate to have you,” Kendra murmured.
“Well, as to that, it was my duty. We feared that his lordship would never lay eyes on his son—not in this world, anyway. Hired a Bow Street Runner to find him. It was a miracle when Nat walked through the door.”
“I’m sure he was happy to see his son.”
“Oh, aye. And probably relieved. I fancy he was worried about the estate. The earl never had a head for business, nor did his father. But he tried. The earl’s cousin was in line to inherit. A rakehell if there ever was one.” She gave a disapproving sniff. “If he ever got his hands on Falcon Court, he’d have it tumbling into ruin in less than a fortnight, I’m sure.”
“But Nat wasn’t dead. How could the earl’s cousin have inherited?”
“Oh, he would have done whatever he could, by fair means or foul, you mark my words,” she said darkly. “I’m certain the very thought kept the earl in a terrible state. Without Nat, there was no one else. The earl and the countess had five children, but not one of them survived, save Nat.”
“That’s terrible.”
Mrs. Hearnshaw shrugged. “I’m only grateful that the earl’s mind was put to rest when Nat returned,” she said. “Didn’t matter that Nat had grown from a stripling into an oak, and a tough oak at that. His lordship was content to have his son home, never matter the years he spent away with barely a letter. Poor dear was restless whenever Nat wasn’t around.”
Mrs. Hearnshaw fell silent, lost in her memories. “Even now, I can hear the earl call out for his son,” she continued. “Nat-son, he would say. Oh, it was something awful, with his lordship’s tongue being twisted like it was. Couldn’t manage his t’s and h’s, you see. Oh, dear.” Tears glistened in her eyes, and she fished out a handkerchief from her pocket. “I’m being positively mawkish. Forgive me.”
“They’re difficult memories.”
She nodded. “They are, even if it was a long time ago. I’d send a footman to fetch Nat, and the earl would settle down like a pet. He’d just watch Nat with those dark eyes of his. Always got the feeling that the earl was afraid that his son would disappear again if he looked away.”
“It’s understandable, I suppose, after such a long estrangement,” Kendra said.
Mrs. Hearnshaw nodded. “Aye. ’Tis a shame they had so little time together.”
“I heard he fell down the stairs not long after Lord Bancroft’s return.”
“Aye.”
Kendra asked, “How did that happen, if he was bedridden?”
Mrs. Hearnshaw frowned. “Only his left side had seized up, and he was as weak as a baby bird, especially after Dr. Poole bled him to restore his humors.”
“Good God,” Kendra muttered, appalled that she was stuck in an era when bloodletting was still a part of the medical field.
Mrs. Hearnshaw didn’t seem to hear her. “I have my suspicions on what happened.”
Kendra focused on the former housekeeper. “What do you think happened?”
Mrs. Hearnshaw shot a quick glance around to make sure she wasn’t overheard. “I’m of the mind that the earl woke in the middle of the night, and became fearful that Nat had fled again. I think he dragged himself out of his bed to go to his son’s bedchamber. But his strength gave out on him, and he went tumbling down the stairs.”
“Who found him?”
“Falcon Court’s butler, at the time—Mr. Darrow. It was quite a shock, but mayhap also a blessing. Everyone knew that his lordship was withering away in his bedchamber.”
In the twenty-first century, rehabilitation and medicine could help stroke victims recover and live out a normal life. But here . . . Jesus, here they still practiced bloodletting.
“How did Lord Bancroft react to his father’s death?” Kendra asked.
Mrs. Hearnshaw didn’t say anything for a long moment, but her face tightened. “There were no tears, if that’s what you’re asking,” she finally said. “But to be fair, it would have been ill-bred of a gentleman of the Ton to show excessive emotion.”
Kendra remembered what Matthews had said about Lord Bancroft pensioning off the housekeeper after his father’s death. She asked, “When did you leave Falcon Court, ma’am?”
“Shortly after the earl was laid to rest,” she said. “Nat—the new Lord Bancroft—summoned me and Mr. Darrow to the study to explain that our services were no longer required.”
“That seems like a strange thing to do. Why do you think he did it?”
The old woman hesitated. “It’s not for me to presume about the behavior of my betters, but I dare say it was guilt. I think he blamed himself for his father’s death, and thought Mr. Darrow and myself blamed him as well.”
Kendra lifted her eyebrows. “Why would he think that?”
Mrs. Hearnshaw shrugged. “I have found that when one is feeling guilty, they take on odd notions and b
egin to think everyone is thinking the same.”
Projection. “He let you go in order to quiet his own conscience.”
“Aye. I was fortunate to be able to move in with my son and his family at Goose Hill.” She straightened, and pushed the handkerchief back in her pocket. “Goodness, I have been rambling on like a doddering old woman.”
“Not at all. Can you tell me if Lord Bancroft—Nat—ever talked about where his journeys had taken him?”
“He never spoke of it, no. But we knew from the thief-taker’s accounts that he’d been all over the world. I think he was in India when he finally received the message we sent about his father. Of course, it took months before he made it back to England.”
“Did he ever mention Mr. Stone?”
Mrs. Hearnshaw frowned. “His mill manager? But that was years before he even built the mill.”
“I thought I heard that they knew each other from India,” Kendra lied.
Mrs. Hearnshaw shook her head, still frowning. “Not that I ever heard. But I left only a few weeks after the earl died. And Nat—his lordship—has said about ten words to me since he returned home thirty-five years ago.” The old woman looked shrewdly at Kendra. “You’re asking me all these questions about Lord Bancroft and Mr. Stone because you’re trying to find the murderer who killed Mr. Stone and his wife?”
“And Mrs. Trout.” When Mrs. Hearnshaw stared at her, perplexed, she said, “Their housekeeper. She was killed too.”
“Oh. Anyhow, ’tis a peculiar hobby for a nobleman and a lady.”
Kendra decided there was nothing she could say to that.
“Lord Bancroft didn’t kill Mr. Stone. You’ll catch cold if that’s what you’re getting at, Miss Donovan,” the old woman warned. “Nat may have grown up hard after he left East Dingleford, but he’s been good for the village since his return. He built the mill and revived the estate, even if he has foolishly replaced candles with that noxious gas lighting.”
Kendra switched the subject. “What do you know about Mr. Stone’s background? You must have heard something in the twenty years he’s been in East Dingleford. Do you know where he was originally from?”
Mrs. Hearnshaw thought it over. “I seem to recollect that he might have been from somewhere south of London. I don’t know if that’s true though.” She pressed her lips together, once again radiating disapproval. “Mr. Stone was not a man to make one’s acquaintance. He was very much a Man of Town, to be sure.”
“I thought you didn’t know if he was from London.”
“Nay. I am referring to the man being a rake. A debaucher.” She huffed. “Nothing like Mr. Murray.”
“You knew Mr. Murray?”
“Well, of course. Or I should say that I made his acquaintance; I can’t rightly say I knew him. Seemed to prefer his own company to socializing. We used to hold these assemblies in the Green Maiden’s public dining hall, but Mr. Murray would stay in the tavern, scribbling something fierce in the mill’s account books. He was a very different sort than Mr. Stone, who left everything for Mr. Biddle to manage. Mr. Stone never cried off any assembly if he was in the village. He enjoyed the card room and terrorizing the young ladies with his attentions.”
It was Kendra’s turn to press her lips together, wishing she could speak about the terror Stone had inflicted on Mrs. Hooper. And probably other women too ashamed to come forward. Bastard.
Instead, she said, “I heard that Mr. Stone was accused of cheating at cards during an assembly.”
“Aye. Shocking public display, if you ask me. Personally, I think Mr. Turner was in his cups, and played too deep.”
“I met Mr. Turner . . .” She attempted her own sniff, which sounded more like a snort.
An astute gleam came into the faded blue eyes as she gazed at Kendra. “Did you now? And what did you think of him, if I may ask?”
“I feel sorry for his wife.”
Mrs. Hearnshaw nodded. “The poor creature has much to contend with. The Turner farm is near Goose Hill, but our families do not socialize. We have found Mr. Turner to be an unsociable fellow. He often attends the assemblies, but rarely brings his wife. It’s not dancing that interests him, that’s for certain.”
Kendra glanced toward the card room. “Is he here tonight?”
“I have not seen him.”
“Do you know what arrangement Mr. Turner might have made with Mr. Stone to pay off his debt?”
The old woman shook her head. “The only one privy to such a thing would be Mr. Turner and Mr. Stone. And possibly Mrs. Turner. You would do well to quiz her.”
“I’d like to do that. The problem is getting her alone, away from her husband.”
The old woman cocked her head as she regarded Kendra. “It’s not a problem—it’s timing, Miss Donovan. My Tom—my son; he was named after his father—is a sheep farmer too. And tomorrow is market day. He will be culling the herd, bringing the sheep to slaughter, as is the custom.”
“I see . . . And Mr. Turner will be bringing his sheep to market too?”
“I expect so.”
“When does this take place?”
“The market opens at eight A.M. Depending on their livestock, it could take two hours or more. There tends to be a lot of haggling. And I’ve found more often than not that haggling dries the throat. Most men stop by the tavern to wet it before going home.”
Kendra grinned. “You are very observant, Mrs. Hearnshaw.”
“After four score and two months on earth, I hope I have picked up a thing or two, Miss Donovan. Now I must venture into the card room to keep an eye on my daughter-in-law—despite her advanced years, Emma can be a goosecap.” They started forward again, but Mrs. Hearnshaw paused, her gaze turning serious as she looked at Kendra. “Do you believe Mr. Turner is responsible for the murders of Mr. Stone and his wife?”
“Do you?”
“I certainly can imagine him doing what I heard was done to Mr. Stone,” she said slowly. “Mr. Turner’s vicious temper is well-known in East Dingleford.”
Kendra said nothing. Temper, uncontrollable and vicious, might have been responsible for Stone’s bludgeoning. But it wasn’t temper that had killed his wife and Mrs. Trout. If the killer had been enraged, he’d suppressed it beneath icy control. Did the farmer have that kind of control, or could she rule him out?
Then she suddenly remembered how Turner had gazed at her as he plucked up the chicken, and calmly wrung its neck. No, she couldn’t rule out Turner. At the moment, he was at the top of her list.
Dr. Poole entered the card room just as Mrs. Hearnshaw finished her introductions between Kendra and her daughter-in-law. Kendra quickly excused herself from the two women, and wove her way through the tables and card players, waylaying the doctor before he could sit down.
“Good evening, Dr. Poole. Would you stroll with me a bit?”
Blue eyes beneath fuzzy brows swiveled around to stare at her. “Miss Donovan.” He flicked a look at the card table, then back to her. “This is a Hobson’s choice, as it would be rag-mannered for me to refuse.”
“Ah. You are too gracious, sir.”
“I’m not.” But a slight smile tugged at his mouth. He offered her his arm. “However, I beg your pardon. My manners appear to have deserted me.”
Kendra kept quiet until they were out of the card room, and joined the continuing parade of strollers. “What can you tell me about the autopsy, doctor?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
Dr. Poole glared at her. “Of course, you would ask me that! Have you no sense of propriety, Miss Donovan?
“No, nor privacy, either, if you don’t keep your voice down,” she warned him, and steered him toward the corner where she and Mrs. Hearnshaw had recently conversed.
“What does it matter to you, eh?” Still, he lowered his voice. “You appear to have no delicate sensibilities whatsoever for a member of the fairer sex.”
“You’re right, doctor. I have none. But that doesn’t mean I want everyone in this room to know th
e details of the crime.” Now that they were standing in the corner, she dropped her hand from his arm and matched his glare. “And if you had let me attend the autopsy as I wanted, we wouldn’t be having this conversation and you could be playing cards right this minute.”
He simply stared at her. Kendra was no stranger to being stared at by a hostile witness. She fixed him with her gaze, refusing to back off.
He grunted, the fuzzy brows twitching. “You are an unnatural maid,” he finally said, shaking his head. “What do you want to know, pray tell?”
“Mrs. Trout. Based on the position of her body, I would say that she let the killer inside the house, and he was following her when he cut her throat. Can you confirm that?”
“Aye. The monster wielded the knife from left to right, slicing open her carotid arteries, the jugular vein.” He looked at her expectantly, as though waiting for her to express horror. Or swoon.
“Left to right. Our killer is right handed—if he was standing behind her.”
“He was standing behind her. The position and curve of the wound prove this.”
Kendra had suspected as much based on her initial examination, but she wanted it confirmed by an M.E. Of course, she’d have been more confident in Dr. Munroe’s analysis, but she couldn’t disregard what Dr. Poole was saying. “That’s consistent with my findings,” she said slowly. “The blood spray would have been outward; he would have been protected from any contamination from her body, and gotten very little, if any at all, on himself.”
“Possibly,” Poole agreed reluctantly.
“Were there any other findings with the housekeeper?” she asked.
Kendra doubted there would be much more. The woman’s murder had been brutal and efficient. As she’d told the Duke, Sam, and Alec, Mrs. Trout had collapsed the minute the unsub released his hold. Massive amounts of blood would have been spurting out with each pump of her heart. She would have died shortly after hitting the floor.
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