Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “My husband works very hard!”

  “Yet he still manages to attend assemblies, doesn’t he? Did he bring you with him the night last spring when he played cards against Mr. Stone, and lost?”

  Flora dropped her gaze to the paste forming beneath her deft fingers. “Nay, I wasn’t there,” she finally said.

  “How much did your husband lose to Stone, Flora?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “What arrangement did your husband make to pay Stone back?”

  A shadow rippled over the woman’s delicate features. She kept her eyes down, her fingers still busy kneading the dough though she was probably finished with the task. “’Tis my husband’s business.”

  “Okay, Sunday,” Kendra said, circling back. “Where were you, Flora? What did you spend your day doing?”

  “I told you. I was here, doin’ chores. My husband is a particular man.”

  Kendra’s gaze traveled around the kitchen. The stove was ancient, the cupboards and wood floor worn. But Mrs. Turner’s domain was clean and tidy. Kendra’s mouth tightened as she thought about the sagging barn and derelict outbuildings. While his wife was breaking her back scrubbing inside the house, what the hell was Turner doing?

  “Where was your husband, Flora?”

  Flora bit a trembling lip and Kendra began to feel like she was kicking a small kitten.

  She sighed. “Flora, I promise this will go no further. I just want the truth.”

  Flora nodded. “H-he was here until the afternoon. I fear I displeased him. I can be very foolish, ye see, not keepin’ a civil tongue in my head.”

  Kendra clenched her jaw to tamp down the fury racing through her veins. “When did your husband return?”

  Flora shook her head. “I don’t know. I was asleep when he came ter bed.”

  Kendra watched Flora skillfully separate the paste into two balls, dusting them with flour before reaching for the rolling pin. “You didn’t speak to him at all?” she asked.

  “Nay.” Flora flattened the dough into two thin spheres. She set aside the rolling pin, and retrieved a tin pie plate from the cupboard.

  “What was your husband’s mood like yesterday morning?” Kendra asked.

  Flora focused on scooping up lard and smearing the plate. Kendra could almost feel her arteries clogging up as she eyed the thick grease.

  “Same as always, I reckon,” the other woman murmured.

  “What does that mean?” Kendra asked, though she was pretty sure she knew. Sullen. Pissed off at the world, at his wife. What other mood was there for a man like Turner?

  “Angry,” Flora whispered. She kept her eyes on her hands, as they pressed the dough into the pie tin. “He’s always angry.” Her eyes flicked to the small clock on the cupboard near the stove. She swallowed, and her expression turned apprehensive. “Ye need ter go, Miss Donovan. I’ve told ye everythin’, I swear. My husband will be most displeased ter see ye. He doesn’t abide folks stopping by.”

  “I’ll bet he doesn’t.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. Thank you for your time, Flora.” Kendra moved to the door. She opened it, but hesitated, looking back at the other woman. “Flora—”

  The other woman was already shaking her head. “Please. I’ve told ye everything, Miss Donovan. I—I need ter finish this mincemeat pie and clean the pots before my husband returns. He doesn’t like ter see dirty pots. Please, ye must leave.”

  Kendra nodded, and was almost out the door when Flora’s words penetrated. Shock made her dig her fingers into the doorframe. She could feel her pulse leap into her throat as she stood there, staring out at the yard, where the chickens were poking the ground, searching for a stray seed. Kendra turned, surveying the kitchen with new eyes. Her gaze roamed over the potatoes and turnips on the counter again.

  “W’ot is it?” Flora asked, worried.

  Her gaze locked on Flora as Dr. Poole’s words ran through her head. The last thing Mr. Stone ate was chicken, potatoes and mincemeat pie. Holy shit.

  “Tell me, Flora,” she said slowly, “why was Mr. Stone out here last Friday? What was he doing on this farm just hours before he was murdered?”

  The blood drained out of Flora’s face, leaving it the color of ash. For just a second, Kendra was afraid the other woman was about to faint. Flora reached out a trembling hand, clutching the table to steady herself. She licked her lips nervously. “Pardon?”

  Any doubt that Kendra might have had vanished as she observed Flora’s reaction. “Mr. Stone was here, in this kitchen, before he was murdered,” Kendra repeated, keeping her tone neutral with an effort.

  “N-nay. Ye’re mistaken, Miss Donovan—”

  “Please don’t lie, Flora. He was here, and you fed him chicken, potatoes, and mincemeat pie.”

  Flora’s lips parted in surprise. “How do ye know such a thing?”

  Kendra waved that away. “What was Mr. Stone doing here? Did he speak to your husband?”

  “My husband didn’t murder Mr. Stone. Or . . . or anyone else. He’s a good man.”

  “Good men don’t beat their wives,” she said bluntly.

  Flora’s hand went to the bruise on her cheek, an automatic gesture, as though she could conceal the wound and stop this conversation. “Ye don’t understand,” she whispered.

  Kendra’s jaw tightened. She was having a difficult time concealing her anger, and heard it seeping into her voice. “I understand that you deserve better. Where’s your family, Flora? Do they live nearby?”

  “Nay. They live in a hamlet in Cheshire.”

  “Maybe you should go to them.”

  Flora frowned. “Why would I do such a thing?”

  “Your husband isn’t going to quit beating you, Flora. You need to leave him.”

  “And ye think I can go ter me family?” The other woman’s eyes widened. “They don’t have enough food for their bellies. I was the oldest. Papa was grateful William took me off their hands when he came through our village.”

  “But they can’t know that your husband is abusing you.”

  Flora gave a quick, bitter laugh. “Papa was never one ter go light on beatings, either, Miss Donovan. Nay, if I returned, he’d beat me for sure for disobeyin’ my husband. I’m a married woman. ’Tis me duty ter submit ter William. It says so in the Bible.”

  “I think it also says that a husband is to treat his wife like she is his own flesh. Unless your husband is a masochist, I doubt that’s happening.”

  “A mass-o . . . w’ot?”

  “Never mind. Is there some other place you can go?” Kendra wasn’t sure why she persisted. Even in her world, with the crisis hotlines and shelters, it was estimated that anywhere from a quarter to a third of all abused women stayed with the partner who was mistreating them.

  Flora shook her head. “I have no money, Miss Donovan. I—I have no skills. I’m only a woman.”

  “You know how to cook. You obviously have domestic skills.” Kendra’s gaze traveled around the kitchen, with the washing in the corner and the scrubbed counters and floors. It wasn’t lost on Kendra that Flora actually had more valuable skills for this time period than she did herself. “Maybe you could seek employment as a housekeeper, or a cook.”

  “I can’t leave my husband, Miss Donovan. It wouldn’t be right.” Flora grabbed a rag as an oven mitt, and picked up the pot, transferring it to the table. She took a spoon, and began ladling the mixture into the piecrust.

  Kendra couldn’t shake the sensation that she was looking at a dead woman. Abusers didn’t stop, and the abuse usually escalated until the woman ended up dead. And there was nothing Kendra could do to save her.

  She pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration, then sighed. “Let’s go back to my earlier question. Why was Mr. Stone having a meal at your table hours before he was murdered at the mill? What did your husband speak to him about?”

  “I told ye, Mr. Turner wasn’t here,” whispered Flora. She kept her gaze on her task. “He . . . h
e left early in the mornin’, before Mr. Stone came.”

  Kendra frowned, studying the other woman’s averted face. Suddenly she thought of Mrs. Hooper and went cold. “Did Mr. Stone know that your husband would be gone?” she asked carefully.

  Flora put the spoon aside, eyes downcast, and said nothing.

  “Did Mr. Stone assault you, Flora?” she asked softly.

  Flora lifted her eyes. “Nay.”

  Kendra stared hard at her, but she couldn’t decipher the other woman’s expression. She didn’t seem to be lying, and yet . . .

  “There’s nothing for you to be ashamed of, Flora. If Stone hurt you—”

  “He didn’t,” Flora said, her tone abrupt. She flushed. “He didn’t do . . . do what ye are sayin’.”

  Kendra was silent for a moment, studying the woman closely. Denial? “Why was Mr. Stone here, Flora?”

  Flora swallowed, but said nothing. Her delicate features showed strain. She laced her fingers together, the knuckles white with tension.

  After a moment, Kendra tried a different tack. “I heard that he was in a bad mood that morning. Was that true?”

  Flora hesitated, then gave a tiny nod. “He was thinkin’ hard on somethin’. He said he was gonna speak ter Mr. Biddle about it.”

  Kendra silently absorbed that information, the way Flora had said it. Why would Stone share that information with Flora? Unless . . .

  A memory surfaced. She’d been nine years old when she’d first seen the famous Charles Allan Gilbert drawing, All Is Vanity, in a magazine. It was a brilliant use of ambiguous optical illusion. Up close, the image was a woman in front of a mirrored vanity. But when you stepped back, the image transformed into a skull. At the time, she’d been fascinated at how two different images could emerge from one picture, depending only on where you were standing.

  She felt like that now. What she’d imagined two seconds ago was being transformed into an entirely different picture.

  “Were you having an affair with Mr. Stone?” she asked bluntly. Flora bit her lip, and Kendra pressed, “What was your relationship with Mr. Stone?”

  Silence.

  Kendra drew in a sharp breath. Flora’s lack of denial spoke volumes. Kendra’s gaze drifted back to the bruise darkening Flora’s cheek. Had her husband found out that she was having an affair with Stone? She didn’t have to imagine Turner’s reaction. She knew he’d have taken his temper out on his wife. And then . . . what? Go to the mill to confront Stone? Turner wouldn’t have been quiet in his rage. Somebody would have seen the sheep farmer at the mill that day. She could imagine Turner bludgeoning the other man. But what had been taken from the desk, and why would Turner torture Lavinia Stone two days later?

  Kendra realized that the silence had dragged on for several minutes. She decided to take a different approach. “You were having an affair with Mr. Stone.” She paused to give the other woman time to deny it. When she didn’t, Kendra gave a nod at her confirmed suspicions. “Did your husband find out?”

  Flora said nothing again, and Kendra felt herself becoming impatient with the woman’s misplaced loyalty. “You have to stop protecting him, Flora!” she ordered sharply. “Did he find out about your relationship, and go after Stone?”

  Flora flushed. “Ye don’t know anything,” she said softly.

  “Then tell me!” She stepped forward, fixing her gaze on the other woman. “Tell me what you’re hiding. Because right now, it looks like your husband had another reason to murder Mr. Stone besides his gambling debt.”

  Tears sprang up in Flora’s eyes, and she wiped them away. “It’s not that way at all. Ye don’t understand. Ye’ve got it all wrong.”

  30

  Mr. Murray will see ye now, Mr. Kelly! If ye will please follow me, sir!”

  Even though the lad was shouting, Sam could barely make out his words above the thundering noise of the mill’s giant frames slamming together, while other machines spun the cotton yarn. Men and lads darted around, plucking loose cotton thread from beneath the clattering machines.

  He’d been waiting in the mill for less than ten minutes, but he was drenched in sweat, the shirt beneath his coat sticking uncomfortably to his body. “Why is it so bleeding hot in here?” he asked as he followed the lad up the stairs.

  “W’ot?”

  Sam raised his voice, and repeated the question.

  “Oh, we need the damp, sir, ter keep the cotton thread from breakin’!”

  His last word ricocheted loudly down the hall upstairs, where the walls buffered the noise from the bays below into a muffled roar. God’s teeth, as far as he was concerned, working in a mill was a miserable existence, not fit for man nor beast.

  There was a time, though, when these massive factories hadn’t blighted the countryside. When he’d been a lad, there’d been crafters who spun their cotton and wool into yarn inside their cottages. Then they’d bundled the yarn, sending it to the next cottage, and a crafter would weave the yarn into cloth. It had been hard work, Sam was certain. But it had been done by families skilled in the craft, not these giant mills churning out cloth as the machines pounded and workers toiled to feed the soulless devil.

  The lad stopped at a door and knocked. If someone bade them enter, Sam didn’t hear it, but the lad opened the door and gestured Sam inside. A quick glance around revealed a small, spare office, with shelves filled with neatly stacked papers, ledgers, and rolled folios. Two chairs were positioned before a simple wood desk. More papers and a writing tray were arranged on its surface, as well as a porcelain bowl that had a cloth soaking in water. Sunlight streamed in from a window behind the desk. Because of the natural light, the tapers around the room were left unlit, probably saving the mill owner a nice sum. Candles were not cheap these days, even tallow ones. The level of noise had also dipped several more notches, thank heaven.

  Sam’s gaze landed on the old man who’d risen from behind the desk. Mr. Murray was short and stocky, and appeared to have the Quaker inclination to shy away from adornment and bright colors. His coat, waistcoat, and pantaloons were dark gray. His cravat was simply tied and as white as the old man’s mane, which hung straight, touching his collar. His face reflected his seventy years, with lines around his eyes and from nose to mouth. The brown eyes, behind wire spectacles, regarded Sam with shrewd intelligence.

  “Mr. Kelly,” the old man said now. “Please sit. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, sir?”

  Mr. Murray’s speech was slightly garbled. It took Sam a moment to realize that his lower jaw appeared swollen. He thanked the man, and as they settled into their respective chairs, Mr. Murray reached over for the cloth in the bowl. He grimaced as he wrung out the material, and then placed it gingerly against his jowl.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Kelly, for this oddity. But the pain is quite unbearable, and I have found that a cold compress helps more than the poultice that the apothecary prescribed.”

  “Were you injured, sir?” Sam asked. Given the pacifist nature of Quakers, he had a difficult time imagining the mill manager getting into a physical quarrel with anyone.

  The manager sighed. “I only wish some ruffian had planted me a facer. Those injuries heal. My difficulties will continue, I fear. The barber recently took most of my teeth, and gave me these infernal dentures.” He opened his mouth to reveal the gleam of teeth and gold wires.

  “Ah.” Sam obediently looked into the other man’s mouth. “’Tis better than nothing, I suppose.”

  Still, he had to suppress a shudder. Thank God, he had all of his own teeth. He’d known a magistrate in London who had to get dentures, which struck him as ironic, as most dentures were made from the teeth of executed criminals. Sam had always wondered if the magistrate’s mouth was filled with the teeth of men he’d sent to the gallows. Of course, after the war, dentures were also made from the teeth of soldiers fallen on the battlefield—Waterloo teeth. Now, as he gazed into the Quaker’s mouth, he wondered if he was looking at the teeth of some poor lad who’d perished on
the Continent. He was grateful when Mr. Murray finally closed his mouth, and he could look away.

  “Aye, you speak the truth, Mr. Kelly,” Mr. Murray mumbled, shifting the rag along his jaw. “I’m partial to eating real food, not mush and broth. But you did not come here to discuss the troubles with my dentures, I suspect. What brings a man from Bow Street to Manchester? More Luddite concerns?”

  “Nay. I’m here in regards ter the murder of Mr. Harold Stone.”

  Mr. Murray’s brows shot up. “Mr. Stone of Bancroft Mills? In East Dingleford?”

  “Aye.”

  “I hadn’t heard. Murder, you say? You are certain it is not the work of Luddites? The group has been active throughout these parts for years. Not that they don’t have some cause for their anger.” The brown eyes behind the spectacles darkened in disapproval. “Too many mill owners allow small children to work in their factories. ’Tis disgraceful. Only last week, a poor lass had her apron catch on the shaft of one of the frames. She was cut to bits.

  “No one in my mill is younger than ten years of age,” Mr. Murray added with a flash of pride.

  “The Luddites had nothing ter do with Mr. Stone’s murder,” emphasized Sam. “An investigation is underway ter discover the fiend.”

  “I fail to understand how I can assist you, Mr. Kelly. Lord Bancroft hired me as his manager when he first built the mill.” He leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling, the cold wet rag still clamped to his swollen jaw. “That was the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and eighty-nine. There have been considerable changes to the cotton industry since then.” He lowered his gaze back to Sam. “I have heard rumors that Bancroft Mills is having financial difficulties.”

  Sam thought of the grumbling he’d heard last night about how safety measures had been sacrificed to save a half-penny.

  “’Tis odd, that,” said Mr. Murray as he switched the rag to the other side of his jaw.

  “How so?”

  “I should say it is surprising. Lord Bancroft was unlike any other nobleman that I’ve known when it comes to business. The Ton invest their money, and expect returns. High returns,” he added wryly. “However, they never want to give the impression that they are actively involved.”