Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “Dum felis dormit, mus gaudet et exsi litantro.”

  Kendra shot Alec a look. “You know Latin?”

  He grinned. “Six years at Eton.”

  “When the cat sleeps, the mouse rejoices and leaps from the hole,” Kendra translated, and smiled when she met his eyes. “Fourteen years of indoctrination by two hard-assed parents who thought there were still a use for a dead language.”

  He arched a brow, amused. “And did you find a use for it?”

  “Oh, yeah, I was a big hit when my parents trotted me out at fundraisers. For some reason, my parents’ associates were charmed by a ten-year-old spouting off Latin.”

  Alec looked at her as he reached over and grasped her hand. Her heart fluttered when he brushed a kiss over her knuckles. She’d never get used to Alec’s romantic gestures.

  “You are a marvel,” he murmured.

  She cleared her throat. “Not really.”

  Alec released her hand as he picked up the reins. “Let’s pay a call on Mr. Biddle to find out just how much rejoicing he may be doing.”

  Biddle lived in a charming two-story cottage on a sloping hill, not far from the mill. When they used the brightly polished knocker on the black painted door, a round, middle-aged woman wearing a homespun cotton dress beneath an apron opened the door. She peered at them from beneath the shadow of her mop cap, a smile creasing her pleasant face.

  “Good afternoon ter you,” she greeted. “Can I help you with anythin’?”

  “We’ve come to see Mr. Biddle,” said Alec, withdrawing a small gold case from his inside coat pocket. He flipped open the lid and slid out a thick card, which he presented to the housekeeper. “I am Lord Morgan, the Marquis of Sutcliffe. This is Miss Donovan.”

  She scanned the calling card, impressed. “Oh, my. I heard that there was a duke and marquis visitin’ our village.” She bobbed a curtsy. “Please, come in. I’m Mrs. Ferguson. The master is in his study.”

  They followed her through the small foyer, with its dark-paneled wainscoting and white walls decorated with tasteful paintings, into the drawing room on the left. In contrast to Stone’s ostentatious drawing room, Biddle’s taste was elegant. The dark wood floor was covered by a Persian area rug woven in blue, brown, and gold, and the Chippendale furniture gleamed. A brown tufted sofa was positioned near a sash window. Two wing-backed leather chairs were angled in front of an unlit limestone marble fireplace. The walls were covered in ivory-embossed Chinese wallpaper, and decorated with several paintings. Most were landscapes in the style of John Constable. Kendra took a couple of steps in order to peer closer. If she wasn’t mistaken, the artist was John Constable.

  “Please take a seat, sir, ma’am. I’ll just go and knock on the master’s door. It would do Mr. Biddle a world of good ter set aside his work.” She made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Poor lad is always working. Came home earlier, and what did he do? Went right into his study ter toil away again.” She planted her fists on her wide hips, obviously warming to the subject. “I say ter him, I say, ‘Mr. Biddle, sir, yer still a young man. You need ter go out and find yerself a wife, not work yer poor fingers ter the bone.’”

  Kendra eyed the housekeeper. “Did he say anything back?”

  “Nay.” She released a heavy sigh. “He sometimes goes ter the local assemblies, but with Mr. Stone cocking up his toes like he did, poor Mr. Biddle is working harder than ever. Doin’ everythin’ he can do ter keep the mill going, I reckon.”

  Kendra asked, “How long have you been employed by Mr. Biddle?”

  “Nigh on ten years now.”

  “Do you live here?”

  “Nay, I’m not a live-in housekeeper. My husband works at the haberdashery shop near High Street. I’ll go and fetch—”

  “Were you here last Friday when Mr. Biddle came home?” Kendra asked.

  She paused. “Aye, I was. I’d just put the master’s supper in the oven. I usually have it waitin’ for him at the table. That and the glass of red wine that he fancies. But he was home earlier than the usual. Thank heavens, too! If he’d stayed at the mill, he’d have run into those ruffians, the Luddites.” She gave a shudder. “Who knows what would have happened then, eh?”

  “What time did Mr. Biddle get home that evening?”

  Mrs. Ferguson frowned. “Must’ve been five. Half past five? I put the stew in the oven. It wasn’t done, but Mr. Biddle sent me on my way. Said the fog was something fierce, and he wanted me ter get home. He’s a good man, the master.”

  “What about Sunday? Where was he on Sunday?”

  The housekeeper looked puzzled. “I reckon he was here, working as he’s doin’ now. Why?”

  Kendra eyed her. “You don’t know?”

  “The Sabbath is my day of rest. I prepare a dinner on Saturday for the master to eat on Sunday. Nothing elaborate, just salt fish or salted beef. But I think Mr. Biddle goes to the coffee shops and taverns. Mrs. Pratt and Mrs. Bolton are both fine cooks at the Green Maiden. I expect you know that, seeing how you’re staying there.

  “I’ll go and tell Mr. Biddle that he has visitors. Will you sit, Miss Donovan, milord?”

  They both remained standing as the housekeeper shuffled down the hall. Kendra wandered to the window. For the first time, she noticed that the light was fading, afternoon sliding into evening. Another day in East Dingleford—Halloween, she remembered. In America, kids would be dressing up to beg for treats. In England, Guy Fawkes was the holiday celebrated. East Dingleford would be celebrating it on Sunday.

  Time is slipping away, she thought. And she was no closer to figuring out who murdered Stone, or his wife and housekeeper.

  “Mr. Biddle has an excellent eye.”

  “What?” Kendra glanced over to see Alec examine an exquisitely carved marble figurine of Zeus preparing to throw his thunderbolt.

  “This workmanship is amazing,” said Alec, inspecting it.

  Kendra came closer. “Much better than the cats that Stone collected.”

  “You are speaking of the carnage in Stone’s drawing room?”

  “Yes. He had more in his office.” Kendra looked at the figurine in Alec’s hand. “It’s lovely. I wonder how an assistant manager of a cotton mill can afford something like that?”

  “’Tis because I am thrifty with my monies, and invest on the Exchange wisely.”

  Kendra swung around, her gaze going to Biddle standing in the doorway. He seemed paler than the last time she saw him, shadows darkening his eyes. “Then you are a lot smarter than most people, Mr. Biddle,” she said, summoning a smile. “May I introduce Lord Sutcliffe?”

  Biddle’s light blue eyes slid to regard Alec. He came forward, and executed a polite bow. “Good afternoon, my lord. Please be seated. Mrs. Ferguson will bring tea.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not at the mill today, Mr. Biddle,” Kendra said as she and Alec sat down on the sofa. “Does Lord Bancroft know that you’re playing hooky?”

  “Playing what?” He frowned, puzzled, as he sat in one of the wingbacks.

  “You’ve decided to spend the day at home rather than working.”

  He lifted his hand to smooth down his hair. Kendra remembered the nervous gesture from the last time she’d interviewed him. “You misunderstand, Miss Donovan. I was at the mill earlier, but with Mr. Stone’s death, there is a tremendous amount of correspondence that must be done. In that endeavor, I thought it best to devote a few hours to it every day in my study. ’Tis much easier to concentrate without the relentless noise of the mill.”

  For the first time, Kendra noticed the dark smudges on Biddle’s fingers. Ink stains. She’d seen the same smudges on the Duke’s fingers after he’d spent long hours writing notes for his scientific studies, or the endless stream of letters he wrote to family, friends, fellow philosophers, and his business concerns. An entire forest had probably been felled by the Duke’s correspondence alone. Texting and typing were making the pen and pencil obsolete for most things in her era, except, she supposed, gre
eting cards. She remembered that her colleagues at the Bureau had scribbled their names on the get-well card they’d sent her after she’d been shot.

  Biddle said, “The mill is not unsupervised. Mr. Marston is the foreman. And, of course, I shall return after I’ve finished with the correspondence.”

  Kendra looked around. “I can see that it would be easier to concentrate here.”

  “Shall I pour tea, then?” Mrs. Ferguson said cheerfully, coming through the door and setting the tray down on a nearby table.

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Ferguson.” Biddle settled back in his chair while the housekeeper inquired how Kendra and Alec took their tea. China and teaspoons clinked sharply as she prepared the tea, then passed around the cups and saucers.

  “Here now, Mr. Biddle, a refreshing cuppa will revive you,” Mrs. Ferguson said, handing him the last teacup. “He works entirely too much,” she told Kendra and Alec again, shaking her head. “Always scribbling away—”

  “That will be all, Mrs. Ferguson. Thank you,” Biddle interrupted. He picked up his teacup, and took a sip while his housekeeper bustled out of the room. When she closed the door, he set his cup back on the saucer resting it on his knee. “What may I do for you, sir, ma’am? I’m certain this is not a social call.”

  Kendra gave him a long, measuring look. “You can tell us why you lied to us.”

  Shock rippled across his face. The teacup rattled on his knee. He put a hand on it. “I beg your pardon?”

  “When I asked you about the altercation between Mr. Stone and Mr. Turner, you failed to tell me that you were present during the card game. You participated in the card game. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  Biddle reddened. “I . . . I apologize, Miss Donovan. It was so long ago.”

  “Last spring. May.” Kendra nodded, keeping her gaze fixed on his. “A few months ago. You could hardly have forgotten the incident where someone accused your boss of cheating.”

  Despite the hand keeping it in place, the teacup jiggled again, a clear indication of nerves. Biddle appeared to realize it, as he stood up abruptly, depositing the teacup and saucer on a nearby table. He clasped his hands together. Kendra wasn’t a body language expert, but she knew the gesture indicated anxiety.

  “I do remember the incident,” he said slowly. “I should have been honest with you when you first inquired about it, Miss Donovan. However . . .” Now he unclasped his hands, bringing them forward, palms up in a gesture of appeal, trying to convince her of his innocence. “I cannot explain exactly why I didn’t say anything. I suppose I was still in a state of shock.”

  “Did you lose as well to Mr. Stone?” asked Alec.

  Biddle nodded. “I did. However, unlike Mr. Turner, I removed myself from the game when the play became too deep. The game was at the assembly. Normally it’s not quite so . . . intense. I can only attribute it to Mr. Turner.”

  “Oh?” Kendra shot him an inquiring look as she sipped her tea. “What do you mean?”

  “If you’ve made the acquaintance of Mr. Turner, you will understand that he is an unpleasant character.”

  “I have made his acquaintance, and I agree with you, Mr. Biddle. Tell me what happened at the card game.”

  “There is little to tell, really. Mr. Turner kept losing. The more he lost, the more aggressive he became. We advised him to cut his losses, and be done with the game, but Mr. Turner was not open to counsel.”

  “No, I don’t think he would be,” Kendra murmured. “Did he really believe Mr. Stone was cheating?”

  “He appeared to. He was quite enraged.” Biddle lifted the teapot off the tray and topped off his tea. “But the constable and Squire Matthews could find no proof.”

  “Which might just mean Mr. Stone was clever at hiding his deceit,” she pointed out. “Do you think Mr. Turner could have killed Mr. Stone?”

  Biddle returned to his seat again. “I think Mr. Turner was angry enough that evening to do such a horrendous thing.”

  Kendra leaned forward, studying him. “And do you think he could have murdered Mrs. Stone and her housekeeper, Mrs. Trout?”

  Several emotions chased across Biddle’s face. Shock, first, followed by confusion, and then what looked like genuine sorrow.

  “I cannot conceive anyone doing such a vile thing,” he said finally. “Mrs. Stone was . . . was such a lovely lady. Why would anyone wish to harm her?”

  Kendra asked, “How well did you know her?”

  “Not well. She attended the local assemblies, and I had the pleasure of dancing with her on many occasions. Mr. Stone preferred the game room. Mrs. Stone’s dance card was always full.”

  “Where were you on Sunday, Mr. Biddle?”

  “I was . . .” He suddenly seemed to realize what the question implied, and gaped at her. “You can’t possibly think I—that I would have anything to do with what happened to Mrs. Stone!”

  “Everyone’s whereabouts need to be verified.”

  He ran a hand over his hair, and shook his head. “I was here the entire day, and evening. You may ask Mrs. Ferguson.”

  Kendra said, “We did. That’s her day off.”

  Biddle stared at her blankly. “Oh. Of course. I wasn’t thinking. I have no proof, but I spent the day working here. There is much to do at the mill.”

  Kendra regarded him closely. “We’ve heard that the mill has been on a decline with shoddy equipment, inferior cotton, questionable safety standards.”

  Biddle flushed. “Ah . . . we’ve had a few difficulties. I am determined to reverse those.”

  “You expect Lord Bancroft to promote you?”

  “I would not presume such a thing,” he said, flustered.

  “I’d think it’s a natural presumption,” Kendra said. “Did you go into Mr. Stone’s office at all on the day he was killed?”

  Biddle frowned, leaning forward to retrieve his teacup from the table. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  Kendra watched him closely. “Is there any reason why someone told us you did?” she lied, wondering if she could trip him up. But he only continued to frown.

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Do you know what Mr. Stone might have been working on in his office?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Mr. Stone had something on his desk. Do you know what it was?”

  Biddle shook his head. “No.”

  “Why don’t you take a guess?”

  “I couldn’t do that.”

  She drank some of her tea, letting the silence pool. When Biddle didn’t break it, she said, “We heard that Mr. Stone was upset on the day he came into the mill. You didn’t mention that either.”

  “I said he was preoccupied. I don’t remember him being upset.”

  Kendra set down her half-empty teacup, and stood up. “We should let you get back to your work, Mr. Biddle.”

  He looked surprised, pushing himself to his feet as well. “We’re done?”

  She smiled. “For now.”

  “I only wish I could be more helpful,” he said, opening the drawing room door for her and Alec, and following them into the hall. “I pray that the fiend who murdered Mrs. Stone will be punished.”

  “And Mrs. Trout. She was murdered as well.”

  “Of course. ’Tis terrible.”

  He walked with them to the front door, and watched them as they climbed back on the cart. Alec flicked the reins and sent the horse moving down the lane. Kendra glanced behind her, but Biddle had disappeared back inside, closing the door.

  Alec said, “Mr. Biddle’s distress over Mrs. Stone’s murder seemed sincere.”

  “Yes, it did.”

  “You don’t believe it is?”

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. Something was off. But did it have any connection to the murders, or was it something else? “He was the last to see Stone alive. He has no alibi for Sunday. I think Mr. Biddle is keeping secrets. But . . .”

  “But?”

  She shook her head and sighed. “But
that doesn’t make him a murderer.”

  33

  Lord Bancroft lied,” said Sam, pausing to enjoy the sip of whisky.

  Twenty minutes ago, he’d returned from Manchester. He’d gone straight to his bedchamber to strip out of his clothes, making use of the washbowl to rid himself of the scent of horse and sweat, and several layers of dust from his journey. He’d tossed the dirty laundry on the chair, hoping a shilling would be enough to ensure a thorough cleaning, and dressed in the spare set of clothes he’d brought with him. He did his best to wipe the grit from his boots. He only owned one pair; they’d have to do.

  By the time he entered the private parlor where Kendra, the Duke, and Alec had gathered around the slate board, darkness had fallen outside. Someone had lit the wall sconces and candelabras around the room. A cheery fire crackled in the grate. Sam appreciated the warmth, even though the day hadn’t been particularly cold. He appreciated even more the whisky Alec had handed him.

  “Mr. Murray did not recommend Mr. Stone for his position as manager,” he continued. “Nor did Mr. Murray hand in his notice voluntarily.”

  Kendra nodded, as though she’d expected the information. “Bancroft fired Mr. Murray and replaced him with Stone.”

  There was a knock at the door. Kendra and Alec threw a blanket over the slate board, a precaution that Sam understood. He’d been impressed at how the American had incorporated the slate board into their investigations, and had considered suggesting Bow Street begin using a similar system. But he also recognized that the notes on the slate board were sensitive in nature, and should be kept away from prying eyes.

  After it was covered, the Duke opened the door to Mrs. Bolton and her granddaughters. As they marched in with the evening meal, Sam’s mouth began watering, and his stomach rumbled. The tantalizing aromas of roasted lamb, buttered beans, and broiled turnips filled the air, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  “Ah, Mrs. Bolton, I’d end my bachelor days and marry you this instant if you’d have me,” he said, his gaze on the innkeeper’s wife as she carved meat off the bone. His comment caused Tessa and Lizzie to giggle as they moved around the table, uncovering side dishes and setting out bowls filled with mint sauce, jellies, and butter.