Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Sam grunted. “Aye. Labor is low-born.”

  Mr. Murray nodded. “Yet I found his lordship to be different. He would come to the mill every morning. He was actively involved in its operation. I always thought that his time outside of England must have changed his regard in that area. Made him less . . . typical, I suppose.”

  “Did he speak of his travels?”

  “Nay, he always said that he was interested only in the future, and he wanted Bancroft Mills to be part of that future. I was under the impression that the earl’s father hadn’t been as wise in his business ventures as his son, and had to sell off parcels of the estate that were not entailed. Lord Bancroft wanted to rebuild the family fortune. He was quite ambitious, really.”

  “Ambition is not unusual in the Ton.”

  “True, but the gentry tend to marry to further their ambition. I suppose his lordship actually did such a thing when he left for London to seek his bride. The village gossip at the time was the future countess had a sizeable dowry.”

  Sam asked, “How did you and the earl get on?”

  Mr. Murray seemed surprised by the question. “As well as one gets on with one’s betters. His lordship was a deep man, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Our association was that of business, not friendship.” He tossed the cloth back in the bowl of water, and put his arms on the desk, lacing his fingers together as he leaned forward. “Many years have passed, but I am amazed that a man of Lord Bancroft’s ambition would have allowed the mill to falter in such a way. Of course, there are more textile mills today. More competition. It can be a difficult business.”

  “From my understanding, Mr. Stone was not the best manager.”

  Mr. Murray smiled slightly, enough to show off a glimmer of his new teeth, then grimaced at the movement. “As I said, ’tis a small enough industry, even with the new mills. Mr. Stone has—had a reputation for being a reprobate.”

  Sam frowned. “Did he always have that reputation, even before Bancroft Mills?”

  Mr. Murray shrugged. “I would assume so. Men, in my experience, don’t change. But my information comes from the chatter in coffee shops where suppliers and shippers are wont to go, and laborers who have left East Dingleford to make their way to Manchester. They have never spoken kindly of Mr. Stone.”

  Sam frowned. “Why did you recommend him if you have always regarded him as a rogue?”

  “I beg your pardon? Pray tell, what would I recommend the man for?”

  Sam eyed the Quaker, saying nothing for a long moment. “You didn’t supply Mr. Stone’s name and address ter Lord Bancroft when you resigned from the mill?” he finally asked.

  Mr. Murray shook his head, the brown eyes narrowing behind the round spectacles. “You have been given misinformation, Mr. Kelly. I did not resign my position, nor did I know Mr. Stone. In fact, I have never met the man. My only knowledge comes, as I told you, from industry gossip.”

  “And Lord Bancroft let you go? For what cause, if I may ask?”

  “You may ask . . . but I am unable to tell you. Six years after the mill opened, the earl called me to Falcon Court and dismissed me. I will say that it was quite cordial, and he included a generous severance and reference letter.”

  “You had no expectation that he was going ter let you go?”

  “None whatsoever. He told me that he wanted me out of the house that I’d been given with my position as manager, and gone from East Dingleford in two days. At the time, I presumed the unseemly haste was because his lordship wanted me gone before he installed his new manager in my stead.” He leaned back in his chair, frowning. “Why would someone tell you a falsehood?”

  Sam smiled slowly. “That’s an excellent question, Mr. Murray.”

  31

  Flora’s tears began to fall in earnest now. Kendra moved forward and gently guided the woman to one of the chairs around the table. Covering her face with her hands, Flora sank down on the seat, her thin shoulders shaking with gut-wrenching sobs. Kendra shot a quick glance around the kitchen. In the twenty-first century, she’d be getting the distraught woman a glass of water or offering to make a pot of coffee, maybe tea. But this kitchen was so ancient that there wasn’t even a water pump and sink, and Flora was too distraught for her to leave alone.

  Kendra crossed the room and began searching through the cupboards.

  “W-w’ot are ye d-doing?”

  Kendra glanced over her shoulder at Flora. “Trying to find out where you keep the brandy. Or whatever alcohol you have on hand.”

  Flora picked up a nearby rag, mopping up her tears. “I—I’m fine.”

  “Who said it’s for you?”

  That earned her a startled look—and a faint smile, gone so quickly that Kendra might have imagined it. Flora pushed herself to her feet and walked over to a low cabinet, retrieving an earthenware jug. Kendra took it, and went to a cupboard where she’d spied teacups. Uncorking the jug, she poured generous splashes of what smelled like brandy into two teacups. No one ever wanted to drink alone. She steered Flora back to the chair and handing her the teacup.

  “I—I apologize, Miss Donovan,” Flora whispered, casting an embarrassed glance in Kendra’s direction. Her delicate features were puffy, her complexion blotchy from her crying jag. “What must y-ye think of me, sniveling in such a way?”

  “I think that you’ve got a lot on your mind.” Kendra pulled out a chair, and sat facing the other woman. “Take a drink, Flora.”

  She waited until Flora did so, and coughed a little as the brandy stung her throat.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, Flora?” Kendra prompted. “Sometimes it helps to talk about your troubles.”

  Flora gave a watery laugh, so filled with bitterness and despair that it scraped across Kendra’s nerves like a rusty razor. “Nothin’ can help me.”

  Kendra regarded her. “Did your husband find out that you were having an affair with Mr. Stone?”

  Flora laughed again, wildly this time, like she was on the verge of hysteria. “He didn’t find out,” she said, choking off her laughter. She lifted the teacup again, took another, longer swallow. “William knew. My husband knew. It was . . . it was his idea.”

  Only years of experience stopped Kendra from spilling her brandy. Shocked, she stared at the other woman. “Your husband suggested that you sleep with Mr. Stone?”

  Flora’s gaze fell to the teacup she held, but not before Kendra saw the misery swimming in her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was so low that Kendra had to lean forward to hear the word. “’Twas last spring.”

  Kendra drew in a sharp breath, and the jumbled thoughts rolling around in her head fell into place. “When your husband lost to Stone in the card game,” she said slowly.

  More tears sprang up, and Flora quickly brushed them away with one hand. “Aye. Maybe Harry . . . maybe Mr. Stone did cheat. I don’t know. But Constable Jameson and Squire Matthews said there weren’t no proof. They said William was responsible for the debt that he owed Mr. Stone.” Her small hands clenched, white-knuckled, around the teacup. She set it down on the table and picked up the rag again, wiping her tear-streaked face. “T-the sum was too great. We would’ve lost the farm ter Mr. Stone and been sent ter the workhouse, or my husband would’ve had ter go ter debtors’ prison.”

  That didn’t sound like such a bad idea to Kendra. She bit her lip on the comment.

  “Mr. Stone came ter talk ter William about the debt . . .” Flora continued.

  “I see.” And Kendra did. “Your husband said that he’d made an arrangement to pay off his debt.”

  Flora nodded, but kept her face averted. “William knew about Har—Mr. Stone’s character with women. And he saw . . . he said he saw the way that Mr. Stone looked at me when he came ter call. He said I needed ter do it. That it ’twas past time for me ter work for my keep.”

  Kendra jerked her gaze away from the other woman’s tear-streaked face to scan the tidy kitchen, skimming over the pie crust and dough on the table to the
washing next to the fireplace. “I think you do more than enough for your keep, Flora,” she said, her voice tight with anger.

  Flora gave her a sideways look. “We needed ter do somethin’, or else Harry would’ve turned us off the farm. William didn’t have the money. We had no way ter raise it. What else could we do?”

  Kendra didn’t know what was more horrifying, the psychological and physical abuse that Flora had suffered at the hands of her husband, or the fact that Kendra had seen this kind of situation play out before, young girls lured into sex trafficking rings, not by strangers, but by their own boyfriends. Like Turner, they manipulated their girlfriends with false promises and emotional blackmail. Then they’d control their new recruits with drugs and beatings.

  No, Flora’s story was nothing new. It disgusted her, but now that she understood, it didn’t shock her. She only wished that it would have.

  “Your husband had no right to put you in such a position, Flora,” she said, careful to keep her voice neutral.

  Flora bit her lip. “He’s me husband, Miss Donovan. ’Tis God’s will that I obey him.”

  “Somehow I don’t think God would approve of you sleeping with Stone in order to pay off your husband’s debts.”

  “I’m not a whore,” the other woman whispered, her shoulder’s hunching in shame.

  Kendra had to swallow the bitterness rising in her throat. “I didn’t say you were.”

  Flora clasped her hands together, and bowed her head as if seeking salvation. “Harry was not unkind,” she murmured. “I . . . I think he grew ter have some affection for me. He invited me ter go ter Manchester with him. I’ve never been ter Manchester.” She sounded almost wistful.

  Kendra studied her. Was this Stockholm syndrome? Everything they’d learned about Stone indicated that he wasn’t a man who did anything out of the goodness of his heart. His agreement to take part in this hideous arrangement showed exactly what kind of man he’d been.

  Then again, Flora’s husband had abused her physically and emotionally. In comparison, someone like Stone might look like a goddamn prince.

  “Did you tell your husband that Stone wanted you to go away with him?”

  “Nay.” She lifted her hands and let them fall helplessly. “I told ye, Miss Donovan, me husband left early that day. He . . . he knew that Harry would be callin’. William never stayed when Mr. Stone would visit.”

  “Yeah, I can see where that might be awkward.”

  “The arrangement is difficult for William. A man has his pride.”

  Again, Kendra had to clench her jaw to stop herself from exploding. Her gaze fell on the discoloration on the other woman’s cheek. She wondered if Turner’s pride made him beat his wife as soon as Stone left. Never mind the fact that it had been Turner’s idea to loan out his wife to pay off his debt in the first place. Kendra knew men like Turner. He would have twisted the situation around like a goddamn pretzel, making himself the victim. If Flora meekly accepted Stone’s visit, her husband would have viewed her capitulation as willingness. He’d put her in a no-win situation. That bastard.

  “Pride can push a man over the edge,” Kendra said finally, her gaze on Flora’s face, trying to gauge her reaction. “It can push a man to do things that he never thought he’d do.”

  Emotion rippled over Flora’s delicate features. Kendra waited, but the other woman said nothing. She went on, “The way I see it, your husband gained a lot with Stone’s murder, Flora. One, he doesn’t have to pay back his debt anymore. Two, he doesn’t have to share his wife with another man.”

  Flora shook her head so violently that her mop cap fluttered. “William didn’t kill Harry. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”

  Denial? Desperation? In Flora’s mind, she needed her husband. Maybe she needed to believe that he wouldn’t have crossed that line.

  “Flora—” Kendra began, but the door opened behind her and she turned to look, just as Turner entered.

  He stopped when he saw Kendra, his jaw loosening in surprise. But he recovered almost immediately, an ugly gleam entering his eyes as he lurched forward, carrying with him the pungent aroma of sheep. “W’ot are you doin’ here?” he demanded. He shot his wife an angry look. “W’ot’s she doin’ here?”

  Flora scrambled to her feet. “M-Miss Donovan came ter call.”

  Kendra saw the storm take shape on Turner’s face. “I’ve got eyes—I can see that she’s come ter call! Are you a bleeding simpleton? She’s standing right in front of me! Do you think I am stupid?”

  “Nay. I—I didn’t mean anything by it, William. I vow, I didn’t!”

  Kendra shot to her feet, and quickly moved to stand between the husband and wife. She kept herself still as Turner swung back to look at her, raw fury on his face. “I have a couple more questions for you, Mr. Turner,” she said coldly. “Where were you on Sunday?”

  He glared at her. “Why should I tell ye anythin’ about my business, eh? ‘Tis none of yer concern! Just because ye’re with some fancy duke don’t mean nothin’ ter me!” He took a threatening step forward. “Ye’re a brazen chit, comin’ where ye’re not wanted! Pryin’ inter decent folks’ business.”

  “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Turner, not a knitting party,” she snapped. She didn’t take a step forward like she wanted to do, but she didn’t retreat either. She kept her gaze fixed on his, and saw the flame of anger light up his blue eyes.

  Fleetingly, Kendra wished she’d brought her muff pistol; it would’ve made things simpler. But she’d been trained in a variety of martial arts, favoring Krav Maga, the self-defense method used by the Israeli special forces. It wasn’t as elegant as some of the Eastern martial arts, but it was brutal and efficient. Brutal and efficient might be just what Turner needed.

  She shrugged out of the pelisse she wore, as the coat would only hamper her movements, and ran her gaze over Turner, assessing his strengths and weaknesses. He was a big man, but his muscle was turning to fat. But his biggest disadvantage was his brain. Martial arts were more about strategy than strength—strategy and lightning-quick reflexes. She had both. Turner, she was sure, had neither.

  “W’ot are yer doin’?” He watched her as she tossed her coat across a chair. “Ye’re not welcome here.”

  “You haven’t answered my question. Where were you on Sunday?”

  He reddened. “Ye think jest because yer our betters, ye can come inter my home and talk ter me with no regard! Somebody oughta teach ye some manners.”

  “Please.” Kendra forced a laugh. “Like that somebody could ever be you.”

  She heard Flora gasp, could all but feel the other woman’s horror wash over her, but she kept her focus on Turner and saw his eyes blaze. Adrenaline pumped through her, making her skin tingle. Her heart pounded heavily in her chest, but her mind was clear, her nerves ice-cold and steady. She shifted to the balls of her feet, waiting for him to make the first move. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand ball into a fist—

  “You need to step away.” The voice sliced across the room, cold and lethal. Kendra didn’t glance at Alec in the doorway, but kept her attention on the sheep farmer to avoid a sucker punch. She only relaxed slightly when Turner spun around to stare at the new intruder.

  “Who the bleeding hell are ye?” he roared.

  “I am Alexander Morgan, the Marquis of Sutcliffe,” Alec informed him, his upper-class accent infused with icy contempt. There was no mistaking the dangerous expression in his green eyes. “My uncle is the Duke of Aldridge. And you are standing too close to my betrothed.”

  Kendra controlled her start of surprise at his announcement. “Mr. Turner was about to tell me where he was on Sunday,” she said, arching her brows at the sheep farmer. “Weren’t you?”

  He thrust his jaw forward, his expression mulish. “Ye ain’t got no right ter come into my home and quiz me and me wife.”

  “The magistrate can pay you a visit, then.” She picked up her coat and shrugged into it.

  She waited,
but when it became clear that Turner wasn’t going to give an inch, she walked toward Alec. She wanted to invite Flora to leave with them, but she knew the other woman wouldn’t go, just as she knew that she’d become a target for her husband’s rage as soon as they were alone. Her heart was heavy as she allowed Alec to usher her out of the cottage and toward the cart and pony he’d left near the barn.

  Turner followed to the doorway, watching them with hostile eyes. Kendra could have sworn that she felt the space between her shoulder blades burn as Alec helped her into the cart. He swung into his seat and picked up the reins, sending the horse trotting down the lane. The burning sensation didn’t ease until they were out of sight of the house.

  Kendra turned to look at Alec, lifting a brow. “Betrothed?”

  Alec shrugged. “It got Mr. Turner’s attention, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it got my attention too. But I don’t need the protection of your name or an imaginary engagement to deal with someone like Turner.” She could feel her frustration rising. “I can take care of myself, Alec. You didn’t need to swoop in and save the day.”

  “Are you truly going to ring a peal over my head for my rescue?”

  She sighed. “That’s just it, Alec. I didn’t need you to rescue me.”

  His mouth curved into a crooked grin. “Now, sweet . . . why do you assume I was rescuing you?”

  32

  Instead of returning to the Green Maiden, they drove to the cotton mill to interview Biddle. Maybe not telling her that he’d been a player in the card game where Turner had accused Stone of cheating had been entirely innocent. Or maybe not. Either way, Kendra needed to talk to him again.

  She wouldn’t be talking to him at the mill, however. Though the mangled frames had been cleared away, and the factory had resumed its operation, they learned that Biddle had left for home twenty minutes earlier.

  Kendra shook her head as they returned to the cart. “I’m surprised Biddle would leave in the middle of the day. I’d think he’d want to prove what a hard worker he is, to prove that he’s ready for the manager position.”