Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Poole eyed her like she was crazy Aunt Hilda escaped from the attic. “Such as?”

  Kendra shrugged. “I was just asking.”

  “’Tis a morbid curiosity of yours, Miss Donovan. Little wonder you are a spinster.”

  “It’s my cross to bear,” she agreed with a smile.

  His eyes narrowed. “How does any of this help determine the fiend who committed the atrocity?”

  “We’ve learned two things by Mrs. Trout’s murder alone, Dr. Poole,” Kendra said quietly. “We now know the killer is right-handed. I’d already determined that Mrs. Trout wasn’t afraid of him. She let him in and didn’t run from him. She walked ahead of him while he followed her into the kitchen. The fact that he came to the back door—not the front—and she brought him into the kitchen rather than the drawing room might be significant.” And possibly points at Turner over Bancroft, she thought.

  Dr. Poole said nothing for a moment, then his lips twisted. “You think you’re a clever female, don’t you, Miss Donovan?”

  “Well, it’s better than the alternative.”

  He grunted. “Figuring the fiend is right-handed ain’t exactly clever, Miss Donovan. Mothers bind their babe’s left hand as soon as the child shows tendencies toward left-handedness. A few folks around these parts still think it’s a mark of the devil to be left-handed, you know.”

  Kendra frowned at this, and Dr. Poole gave a nasty smile. “So you’d be hard-pressed to find a left-handed killer in these parts, miss. As to what you already determined . . . ain’t nothing to that either. Mrs. Trout was an uncommon housekeeper. I’ve been to the Stone residence on occasion myself, and know—knew—her queer ways. I have no doubt Mrs. Trout would have thought nothing of someone coming to the back door—peer or pauper—and would have shown him into the kitchen.”

  He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know, except that left-handedness was the mark of the devil. “What about Mrs. Stone?” she asked. “What were your findings there?”

  Dr. Poole’s face sank into his habitually grumpy expression, although he appeared even more grim. “What that woman endured was beyond human. As you know, she was tortured by the monster pressing the hot fire poker against her flesh. After he was finished, the fiend went behind her chair to slit her throat, in much the same way he did the housekeeper’s. I’d say he didn’t want to be walking around with her blood on him. I guess that we’ve learned something about the killer, eh?”

  Kendra knew a set up when she saw one, but she asked anyway. “And what is that, doctor?”

  “The fiend ain’t no pudding-headed fellow.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  Dr. Poole regarded her from beneath his fuzzy brows. “We’ve finally reached a point of agreement, Miss Donovan.”

  27

  While most of the villagers attended the assembly, Sam ambled up to the tap at the Ploughman, a tavern on the west side of East Dingleford that he had been directed to by the stable hands at the Green Maiden. He positioned himself at the end of the scarred wooden counter, which allowed him to keep his back against the smoke-streaked stone wall, and scanned the rest of the room. The space formed by the walls and the low, beamed ceiling could either be cozy or claustrophobic, Sam thought. At the moment, with a fire crackling in the blackened hearth and only seven men in the room, it was cozy.

  Sam allowed his gaze to drift over his fellow patrons as he ordered a hot whisky from the rosy-cheeked, generously endowed lass behind the bar. Workmen, he deduced, with their rough, homespun clothes. Two were standing at the tap like himself, in the middle of a heated conversation about King George’s failing health and whether the Prince Regent would destroy the monarchy with his lavish spending and hedonistic ways. Four more men were gathered around a table, smoking and playing cards. One man, still bundled in coat, hat, and scarf, was sitting alone at a table in one of the tavern’s shadowy corners, his hands wrapped around a pewter tankard.

  Sam could hear the rumble of men’s voices from the other side of the back door, a few shouts, curses, and whistles punctuating the general noise. The Ploughman, he’d learned, ran a cockfighting match on a regular basis, which was popular with its clientele.

  “Ah, bless you, lass.” He smiled at the barmaid as she brought him the hot whisky. He tossed down a coin and picked up the glass, immediately appreciating the warmth seeping into his fingertips.

  “Ye’re the thief-taker brought in from London,” she said, snatching up the coin.

  Sam took a swallow of whisky, enjoying the smooth burn down his throat, then lowered the glass with a sigh. He was aware that the two men standing along the bar had fallen silent at the barmaid’s identification and were now regarding him with hooded, suspicious eyes. There were times in the past when the Crown had employed Runners such as himself to slip into taverns exactly like the Ploughman to listen to disgruntled men argue about what was happening in the kingdom. He’d felt like a wraith, because his mission hadn’t been to engage or even quiz anyone, but to report back to Whitehall if he heard anything that went beyond dissatisfaction. No one had known that he was a Bow Street man. He hadn’t even brought his famous gold-tipped baton, for fear if he did stumble onto any plots, his bag could be searched and he’d be found out.

  He wished now for the anonymity of those assignments. One could pick up all sorts of useful tidbits by staying hidden. But tongues had clearly been wagging here in East Dingleford, where even a barmaid in a small, out-of-the-way tavern knew that the Duke had requested his services.

  Sam regarded her ruefully. “I’m from Bow Street,” he admitted. He’d always disliked being called a thief-taker, which reminded him of Bow Street’s past corruption, where men who carried the baton had been found to be working with the criminal element. Sam liked to think that such unscrupulous behavior had been rooted out, but he feared that a few of his colleagues might be lining their own pockets by continuing the practice. “How’d you know?”

  “T’aint difficult, sir. Everyone in the village knew the Duke had sent for ye. And ye were at the Stone household askin’ questions. Ye match the description goin’ about.” She picked up a nearby rag and began scrubbing the counter, an action that sent her ample breasts bouncing.

  Sam eyed the movement appreciatively, then locked on the two men standing against the bar. One was large, with a moon-face beneath a dirty knit cap, while the other was shorter and wiry, with facial whiskers that made him look like a drowned rat. They both stared at him with barely suppressed hostility.

  “Do you two work at the mill?” he asked.

  The rat-faced man’s lip curled. “And why should we be tellin’ ye our business?”

  “The way I see it, you’ve got a monster runnin’ about killing innocent folk. I’d think you’d sleep safer in your beds if the monster was caught.”

  The big man grunted. “Oi sleep well enough—probably better with Stone dead. He wasn’t innocent.”

  “Aye,” his friend said. “’E was a sneaky bastard.”

  Sam gestured to the barmaid to fill up the men’s tankards, then said, “I heard that he’d dismissed workers ter bring in those new machines.” He lifted his whisky with studied ease. He’d learned a long time ago that one of the best way to get certain folks talking in taverns was to pretend to have little interest in what they were saying. He kept his eyes on his whisky glass, as though contemplating the quality of the amber liquid. “Still, can’t blame him, specific-like. He was only the manager. It’s his lordship’s decision ter bring in the damn frames, ain’t it?”

  The moon-faced man said, “Ain’t just that—although the earl’s one for the future, that’s for certain. Did ye know that ’e put in gas lightin’ at Falcon Court? Mark me words, ’e’s gonna have ’is own Guy Fawkes Night when ’e blows ’is old ’ouse up!”

  Sam understood the man’s fear, even though in London Town, Pall Mall had boasted gas lighting for eight years without incident. “What do you mean, it ain’t just about the machines? What e
lse is there?”

  “It ain’t only about the new machines,” clarified Moon-face. “We used ter ’ave guards on the old machinery, so as ter keep us from losin’ a finger or a limb. Mr. Murray insisted on it, as well as water buckets in the carding room in case of fire.”

  “Aye,” the other man piped up, his eyes narrowing in his anger. “When the guards fell off, we told Mr. Biddle. But did Mr. Stone buy any replacements? Nay! Mr. Biddle said that Mr. Stone complained about the cost. W’ot about the cost of this?”

  He lifted his right hand, and Sam saw that the man’s index finger had been shorn off, leaving only a nub below his knuckle. “Little Nellie lost three of ’er fingers,” he went on bitterly. “If she loses another on the same ’and, she won’t be able ter card anymore. She’ll be done at the mill and off ter the poorhouse!”

  “Did you take your concerns ter Lord Bancroft himself?” asked Sam.

  Moon-face snorted. “W’ot’s gentry gonna care about our lot, eh? The mill is fallin’ apart, it is, and the earl’s solution is ter bring in new machines. Even the quality of the cotton they’re bringin’ in has declined in the last couple of years. Oi swear the yarns break more, and create more of that damn dust. Stone was cuttin’ corners all around the mill. Mr. Thackeray confronted him about it at the Green Maiden last week, an’ Stone acted all outraged. Like ’e was the wronged one! Bah!”

  “Sounds like plenty of folks would want Mr. Stone dead,” Sam said carefully. “Who is Mr. Thackeray?”

  The two men eyed him warily. “Thackeray worked at the mill ’til Stone fired ’im a couple of years ago for speakin’ up,” Moon-face finally said. “’Is sister’s ’usband owns the Green Maiden.”

  Sam raised his eyebrows. “Mrs. Bolton?”

  “Aye.” The man’s face tightened with defiance. “Anyhow, everyone wanted Stone dead. But none of us did the deed.”

  Sam tapped the rim of his whisky glass, signaling the barmaid to fill it up again. “I believe you.”

  Instead of looking relieved, the two men’s scowls deepened with distrust.

  “Why?” Rat-face demanded, his eyes narrowing on Sam as though he sensed a trap. “Why’d ye believe us so quick-like?”

  The barmaid brought Sam another hot whisky, and he took a moment to sip it before he responded. “In truth, I can see you wantin’ ter brain Mr. Stone. But I don’t see why you’d want ter kill Mrs. Stone, or her housekeeper.” He let that sink in for a moment. Then he turned to fix his gaze on the men. “Who do you think killed the women?”

  Moon-faced shook his head. “Gotta be a madman.”

  “Do you know where I can find Paddy, the Stones’ groom?” Sam asked.

  The barmaid spoke up. “Paddy won’t be able ter tell ye anythin’. He’s been on a drunk fer the past week. Probably dunno even that ’is mistress done cocked up ’er toes.”

  “But he knows about his master.”

  She laughed. “Everyone’s ’eard about Stone! Paddy was probably celebratin’ with the rest of the clodhoppers in the Red Sail. If ye want ter find him, he’s probably in Mistress Dolly’s bed. She owns that place.”

  Sam hesitated. “Anybody hear any rumors about Stone havin’ hold of something valuable?”

  “Like w’ot?” asked Rat-face.

  “I don’t know.”

  They shook their heads.

  The back door suddenly burst open, and men of all ages poured into the tavern, their faces flushed from the chilly night and steady drinking. Sam watched them, easily separating the winners from the losers. The winners were rowdier, still puffed up from their success in betting over the cockpits, while the losers slunk into available chairs, hoping to drown their sorrows in another pint, or vanished out the door, scowling. The barmaid scurried over to the winners, obviously hoping they would share their generosity.

  Sam shifted his gaze back to the two men. He was about to repeat his question when Moon-face anticipated him, and shook his head. “We don’t know anything, and can’t imagine why anyone would do such a dastardly thing ter his wife. Stone deserves ter be dinin’ with the devil, but Mrs. Stone . . . she was a fine beauty, and didn’t put on airs. No reason ter kill her. Or her maid. Doesn’t make any sense.”

  Sam nodded. It didn’t seem to make sense. Except it had made sense to someone.

  28

  Exhaustion settled like a weight on Alec’s shoulders as he undressed himself in his bedchamber later that evening. He made use of the low washstand in the corner, wincing slightly as he bent forward, reminded that he’d spent more than fifteen hours in the saddle. The hot bath he’d soaked in earlier had eased much of his discomfort, but now, as the plain wooden clock on the fireplace mantel ticked past midnight, the aches and pains associated with hard riding were making themselves known again. Mrs. Bolton—God bless the woman—had the foresight to leave a decanter on the small table before the snapping fire.

  He straightened, and toweled off beads of moisture that clung to his skin from the sponge bath. Tossing the towel aside, he moved to the bed and rummaged through his open satchel, pulling out the banyan that his valet had packed for his hasty journey to Yorkshire. He shrugged into the black silk robe, tying the belt as he crossed the room to the decanter. The fumes of apricot brandy assailed him as soon as he unplugged the stopper, and he smiled appreciatively. He splashed brandy into a glass. Instead of taking a sip, though, he swirled the glass, and watched the brandy spin, the reflection of glinting flames in the amber liquid.

  By all rights, he should be crawling into bed. Hell, he should be deep in slumber. But despite the fatigue that wrapped around him like phantom vines, he was strangely on edge.

  He would have liked to have attributed his tension to the moment the rider had handed him his uncle’s letter. His heart really hadn’t settled since he’d broken the seal and read the contents. The hours after that were a blur, with him and Sam riding hell for leather across the countryside. And bollocks to all that. But there was only one reason for his restlessness, and that was the woman in the bedchamber down the hall. Did he dare go to her?

  Alec lifted the glass to his lips, and sipped the brandy as he contemplated taking such a foolish risk. This was not Aldridge Castle, where the servants may disapprove, but their loyalty to the Duke had them turning a blind eye on their suspicions. This was a public inn. There would be serious consequences if he were discovered coming out of Kendra’s bedchamber early in the morning.

  He knew well enough that Kendra would dismiss his concerns. He was quite familiar with her condescension regarding the rules that governed Polite society—governed his Polite society. As though her world is so bloody superior, he thought with sudden irritation. Because of her disdain, she was careless with her reputation. He raised his glass, his annoyance growing. More than careless; she was bloody defiant.

  He took a healthy swallow of brandy, then, lowering the glass, let out a frustrated sigh. Damnation, Kendra had no idea what would be unleashed if their liaison was ever exposed. She was an unmarried miss, not a married lady or widow who could embark on discreet dalliances. The Duke of Aldridge’s position and wealth had shielded her from vicious tongues regarding her peculiar behavior, but even his uncle couldn’t save her if the old biddies that controlled the upper circles of the Ton should learn of their affair.

  He could only imagine the Duke’s wrath if that should happen. Society would place Kendra’s ruin directly on her own shoulders, but his uncle would blame him. The Duke would no doubt remind him that Kendra had been raised to a different set of standards, but Alec had not. He knew what was expected of him by society.

  Alec rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension knotting his muscles. Fiend seize it, why hadn’t she accepted his offer of marriage like any normal woman? If she had, they wouldn’t be in this predicament, forced to sneak around like thieves in the night to steal a moment here and there. He would have a husband’s right to his wife’s bed. There would be no fear of encountering servants on their nocturnal rounds or fe
llow travelers seeking their bed for the night, no fear of having the woman he loved treated like an outcast, noble houses barred to her, shunned by society.

  Of course, he couldn’t go to her, he knew. Not here. She had too much to lose. If she didn’t protect herself, he would bloody well protect her from herself. Decision made, he raised his glass again, and drained the brandy. He set the glass down, and strode toward the bed.

  Kendra glanced over as the door opened. Shadow and firelight played across the bedchamber’s walls. Excitement knotted her stomach as she sat up, her gaze meeting Alec’s.

  “You didn’t bar the door.” His voice was low and raspy as he came to her.

  “No . . .” She didn’t think she had to tell him that she’d been expecting him; she was already feeling too vulnerable.

  Impatient, she rolled onto her knees on the feather mattress, which brought her eye-level with him. His pupils were dilated, and she could see the pale cameo of her own reflection as she leaned forward, sliding her hands inside his robe to stroke his chest. He brought his hands up to frame her face, much as he’d done earlier.

  “I only have one question,” she whispered, and her hands slid upward to curl around his neck. She kept her eyes fixed on his as she shifted closer until she thought Alec’s body heat would set fire to the thin cotton nightgown she was wearing. She smiled when he arched a dark brow.

  “What took you so long?”

  “This is dangerous,” Alec murmured. “I should not have come.”

  Kendra didn’t want to talk, especially if it was about fear or regret. She wanted to burrow against his side, her head on his chest, and listen to the strong, steady thump of his heart. She wanted to continue to breathe in his scent. She wanted to enjoy the way his fingers threaded through her hair, gliding in a butterfly caress around her ear, along her jawline and down the curve of her neck. If she had been a cat, she’d be purring.

  “I told myself to stay away,” he continued.