Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  She made it down to the private parlor with a minute to spare, and then realized that the door was locked. When Tessa came down the hallway carrying a tray, she asked, “Do you have a key?”

  “Nay. His Grace has the key ter the parlor.”

  “Maybe your grandfather has a spare.”

  “Nay. Leastwise, I don’t think so.” Tessa frowned. “I can find him ter ask.”

  “Never mind.” She eyed the young girl. “Do you happen to have a hairpin?”

  “Aye. Why?”

  “Do you mind if I borrow one?”

  Tessa fixed her gaze on Kendra’s loose hair. “Ye’re gonna need more than one, if ye want ter do anything, miss.”

  “Actually, one will be sufficient, but if you could spare two, it would be easier.”

  The girl gave a shrug, and deposited her tray on a nearby side table. She dug around under her mop cap, then produced two long, lethal-looking hairpins. Kendra took them, and tried not to think about the time they’d saved her life. Under Tessa’s wide-eyed supervision, she inserted the hairpins into the lock.

  Tessa gasped when Kendra straightened and pushed open the door. “How did ye do such a thing, Miss Donovan?”

  Kendra grinned as she handed the hairpins back to the girl. “It’s a skill that comes in handy if you don’t want to wake up anybody.” Or if you need to save yourself from a serial killer. She looked around the gloomy room. “Unfortunately, I don’t have the skills needed to get a fire going.”

  “Oh, I can do that!” Tessa hauled the tray in from the corridor and put it on the table. The maid snatched up a tinderbox from the nearby shelf and slid back the lid. “Ye just arrange the tinder inside. Ye must have tinder in America.”

  Kendra thought of the popular dating app, and had to smile. “We do, but it creates a different sort of fire.”

  Tessa shrugged, as if she couldn’t bother to find out about the oddities of a country she’d most likely never set foot in. She concentrated on striking the flint against carbon steel. The shower of sparks fell on the tinder in the box. She blew on it. Smoke billowed, and within seconds, a blaze flared. She brought the box over to the hearth, and, kneeling down, transferred the fire to the logs and kindling.

  Kendra shook her head, feeling amazed and incompetent. “You make it look so easy.”

  “It is.” Tessa scrambled to her feet. “I can light the candles and lamps, if ye wish, Miss Donovan.”

  “That I can handle.” She brought a candle over to the fireplace. “Fire begets fire,” she murmured, and lit the brace of candles on the table. She was crossing the room to light the lamp when a knock came at the door, and Mrs. Bolton poked her head in.

  “Miss Donovan,” she greeted. “Lizzie told me that you wished to see me.”

  “Yes, thank you. Please come in.” Kendra pushed the curtains back to let in the day’s dreary light. The parlor’s window didn’t face the barn and outbuildings, but was angled more toward the forest. The fog was slowly evaporating. Silvery ribbons still wound their way around the trees and ground, but Kendra suspected that much of that would burn off by noon. She narrowed her eyes on the trees beyond, and wondered if it was her imagination or if she actually saw a shadow gliding between them.

  “Tessa, your sister needs your help in the kitchen,” Mrs. Bolton told her granddaughter.

  “Aye, Gran!” The young girl hurried out of the room, but returned for a quick curtsy directed at Kendra. Then she sprinted off again.

  “Ah, to be young again,” sighed Mrs. Bolton, shaking her head. An affectionate smile played about her mouth, as she turned to look at Kendra. “You are awake early, Miss Donovan.”

  Even though it wasn’t a question, Mrs. Bolton’s tone turned it into one. Kendra crossed the room to the table. “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “I found myself looking out my window. I did the same thing a couple of nights ago.”

  The innkeeper’s wife only smiled.

  “My bedroom window faces the barn,” Kendra said. She lifted her coffee cup and took a sip, wincing as the hot liquid hit her tongue where she’d bitten it. Iced water would have been better. “I know your brother has been staying in there.”

  Mrs. Bolton inhaled sharply. “My brother?”

  “Your brother—who was fired from the mill. Who is part of the Luddite movement.” Kendra set down her cup. “I went out to the barn to talk to him.”

  Mrs. Bolton couldn’t stop her eyes from flicking to the window and back again, and her fingers twisted the material of her skirt. She pressed her lips together, and remained silent.

  “I know your brother didn’t kill Mr. Stone. I tried to tell him that, but he wasn’t interested in discussing the matter. He knocked me down and fled.” Kendra frowned. “I’m not sure why he’s afraid—or why you are. Constable Jameson may be an idiot, but even he realizes that the Luddites weren’t responsible for the murders.”

  Mrs. Bolton finally spoke. “Not the murders, no. Do you not see, Miss Donovan? Being part of the Luddite movement is enough to have a person arrested, and, if convicted, hanged. Or transported to Botany Bay. Machine-breaking is a capital offense!” She was twisting her skirt in earnest now. “The Crown has sent spies everywhere to uncover evidence against men. Joseph—my brother—is a good man, Miss Donovan. He is a weaver, and yet he can no longer support his family because of these filthy machines!”

  “Mrs. Bolton.” Kendra crossed the room and grasped the old woman’s agitated hands. “I’m not looking to hurt your brother. I only wish to speak with him.”

  “He didn’t kill Mr. Stone. You said so yourself. He would never do such a thing. I know there are others in the movement who go too far, but most are like Joseph. They just want a fair wage for their service. Is that so very difficult?”

  “I need to speak to Joseph.”

  Tears glinted in the old woman’s eyes. “But why?”

  “I know he didn’t kill Mr. Stone,” Kendra repeated firmly, “but he was at the mill around the time of Mr. Stone’s murder. I need to interview him. Or one of the other Luddites—”

  Mrs. Bolton was already shaking her head. “No one else. Joseph would never allow it. He would never risk betraying another.”

  “Do you think you could convince Joseph to talk to me?”

  “Only you?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Bolton bit her lip, looking uncertain. “I think it’s a fool’s errand. Joseph would have told me if he’d seen something.”

  “Sometimes people don’t even realize what they’ve seen or heard.” Kendra held her breath, and waited. She sensed the old woman was wavering, but if she pushed too hard, she might retreat entirely to protect her brother. But when the silence lengthened, Kendra couldn’t stop herself. “We’re not just talking about Mr. Stone,” she said. “Whoever killed him also killed his wife and their housekeeper. They deserve justice, don’t they?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Bolton whispered the word so quietly that Kendra had to lean forward to hear.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Bolton said it louder this time, and her gaze lifted, locking on Kendra’s. “I don’t know where my brother goes in the morning, Miss Donovan. He has been sleeping in the barn, and I have brought him food when I’m able to slip out. But my husband knows naught of this. And he must not know. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Your guardian, the Duke, cannot know, nor his nephew, Lord Sutcliffe. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the Bow Street Runner—”

  Kendra heard the rising tension in the other woman’s voice, and cut her off. “This will be our secret, Mrs. Bolton. You arrange a meeting, and I will be there. Only me. I promise.”

  The old woman stared at her with such intensity that she wondered if she’d be asking her next for a blood oath. This is serious, she thought, and was suddenly chilled. The Luddite movement had once been a distant rebellion in her history books. Now it wa
s part of her life.

  “I will do what I can,” Mrs. Bolton nodded slowly, and her hand reached out to grasp Kendra’s arm. Kendra was startled at the strength in the bony fingers. “Keep your word, Miss Donovan. You may be investigating the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Stone and their housekeeper, but it will be my brother’s life that you hold in your hands.”

  36

  By the time the Duke and Alec walked into the parlor at eight o’clock, a headache was thrumming behind Kendra’s eyes. On the plus side, it distracted her from the literal pain in her ass, where her tailbone had smacked against the barn floor.

  Aldridge looked at her in surprise, then at the key in his hand. “My dear . . . Does Mr. Bolton have a spare key for this room?”

  “I don’t know, but his granddaughter had two hairpins that she allowed me to use.”

  “Two hair—ah.” He grinned, his grayish-blue eyes twinkling. “I forget how resourceful you are, my dear.”

  Alec eyed her as he sauntered over to the coffeepot, lifted it, and put it down with a frown when he realized it was empty. “How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough to drink that pot,” she told him. She couldn’t tell him about her encounter with Mrs. Bolton’s brother. “I’ve gotta admit, I’m hungry.”

  Aldridge nodded. “We shall break the fast . . . Ah, good morning, Mr. Kelly,” he said when the Bow Street Runner came into the room. He yanked the bell-pull. “I’m about to order breakfast. Miss Donovan has already drunk a pot of coffee, but I’ll request another pot, and tea. Or would you prefer ale?”

  Sam’s face lit up, but he managed a modest, “Ale, would be lovely. Thank you, sir.” Sam joined Kendra at the slate board. “Have you come up with any new theories, Miss Donovan?”

  “Only old theories.” Kendra studied the board, jiggling the piece of slate in her hand. Her vision had blurred from staring at the board. Behind her, the door opened, and she heard the Duke’s soft murmur as he gave Mrs. Bolton instructions for breakfast.

  “Why did he smash all the cats?” she wondered out loud.

  Sam looked at her. “Pardon?”

  “In the second crime scene. All those porcelain cat figurines that Stone had collected were shattered.”

  “He was obviously looking for whatever he had tortured the poor woman for,” the Duke said, coming to stand beside them. “If Mr. Stone had some sort of treasure, our fiend may have believed he’d hidden it within one of the figurines.”

  “The treasure would have to be limited to loose gems.” Kendra tapped the piece of slate against her chin as she remembered the collection from their visit with Lavinia Stone. “Many of the figurines were too small to contain coins.”

  “What’s troubling you, miss?”

  Kendra glanced over and caught Sam’s perceptive gaze. “I can’t help but think that there was more to it,” she said. “There was a lot of rage behind the destruction of Stone’s collection.”

  Sam shrugged. “It’s like we said before. If the killer didn’t find what he was lookin’ for, he’d have a lot of rage.”

  “You’re right.” Still, she felt that she was missing something. Her eyes shifted to the Victimology column. “Stone was the kind of man who liked to boast,” she said slowly. “If he got his hands on something valuable, it would fit his profile to brag about it.”

  “Not if the treasure was obtained by illegal means,” Alec said. He was sprawled in one of the chairs, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

  “If there was a treasure, I think we can make the next leap and conclude that Stone got it through illegal means,” Kendra said. “If everything was on the up-and-up, Stone would not only have boasted about it, he would have been spending it.”

  The Duke nodded. “Excellent point.”

  Alec said, “Well, there are usually two people that men boast to—their wives and their mistresses.”

  Kendra shook her head. “We interviewed Mrs. Stone. She didn’t know anything.”

  “If the treasure wasn’t rightfully hers, she wouldn’t have wanted it known,” said Sam.

  “I agree with Miss Donovan,” the Duke put in. “I met Mrs. Stone. I didn’t get the sense that she was being deceptive.”

  “She was an actress,” Alec reminded them.

  “Yes, but she would have told her torturer,” Kendra argued. “The destruction that followed indicates she didn’t. But it fits Stone’s profile that he might have confided in Flora. He had power over her, could intimidate her into keeping silent. He would have felt comfortable boasting to her.”

  “You’ve already spoken to her,” the Duke said. “Wouldn’t she have told you?”

  Kendra thought of the frightened woman, and shook her head. “She wouldn’t have even told me about her relationship with Mr. Stone if I hadn’t realized it myself and asked. I’ll need to interview her again, and it has to be without her husband around. We can’t wait until next Monday for him to go to market. He must leave the farm for other things.” She had to stifle a frustrated sigh. How did you set up any type of surveillance in 1815?

  “I’ll make inquiries, miss,” Sam spoke up. “People tend ter be a predictable lot with their routines.”

  Kendra nodded, her gaze drifting back to the slate board. The Bow Street Runner was right; people were predictable. Figuring out patterns was part of profiling.

  “If Stone had gotten a hold of some sort of fortune, he wouldn’t have hoarded it,” she said. “Maybe he couldn’t spend huge sums without raising suspicions . . . but he could spend a little here, a little there. There are all sorts of ways to boast, you know.”

  She thought of how Stone decorated his office, like a gentleman. It wasn’t too different in the twenty-first century, the corporate raider wanting a fancy corner office or a flashy new car. Hey, look at me! I can afford a Tesla!

  “If a man like Stone found himself sitting on a fortune, what would he spend it on?” she asked. “Something special for himself.”

  Alec said, “Buy new livestock.”

  Kendra found herself smiling. The nineteenth-century version of a Tesla.

  But Sam shook his head. “I saw his stables. He wasn’t spending any money on horseflesh.”

  “I’ve known plenty of gentlemen who will make an appointment with their tailor,” said the Duke. “Mr. Stone didn’t appear to be a dandy, but . . .”

  “It’s another avenue to pursue,” Kendra finished. She frowned. “We’re basing a lot on the assumption that whatever had been on Stone’s desk had some sort of monetary value.”

  “It’s a reasonable assumption, miss,” Sam pointed out. “The killer took somethin’ after Mr. Stone’s death, then tortured his wife for somethin’ more. What else would connect the two?”

  Kendra didn’t have an answer to that—or much of anything else. And that was the problem.

  “Mr. Stone was an excellent customer,” said Mr. Edward Shannon of Shannon & Son, the only tailor shop in East Dingleford, located on the north end of the high street.

  Mr. Shannon was a small, wiry man who looked to be in his early sixties, blessed with a full head of gray curls that he brushed back from his forehead, and sporting a mustache he’d waxed into razor-sharp points. The coat he wore was a burnt orange, his waistcoat a beautifully embroidered yellow silk, his shirt white, his cravat—surprisingly, Kendra thought—black, which matched his pantaloons. His black eyes, behind the silver spectacles that he wore perched on the end of his narrow nose, had eyed Kendra and Alec with a merchant’s shrewdness the moment he swept into the shop area from the open doorway framed by dusky brown curtains that lead to the back workshop.

  Kendra had saved Alec from the sales pitch she saw forming on the tailor’s face by stating the purpose of their visit. Mr. Shannon’s smile had dimmed somewhat, but Kendra gave him points for not losing it completely. He invited them into the next room, where he could continue to work while they asked their questions. Here, mahogany drawers shared the walls with shelves containing bolts of
fabrics. There was a full-length mirror tucked in the corner, and a table used to cut fabric. Molly, who was once again in her role as chaperone, remained in the retail portion of the shop, entertaining herself by peering into the glass display cases and fingering the fabric swatches strewn about the room.

  “How long did you know Mr. Stone?” Kendra asked.

  Mr. Shannon was busy pinning a canvas of horsehair and wool to the shell of a coat on a headless dummy. “Oh, years. Who can remember the exact number?” He smoothed the stiff canvas. “Mr. Biddle was kind enough to recommend my services to Mr. Stone.”

  Kendra lifted her eyebrows. “Mr. Biddle? I thought that he came to East Dingleford a year after Mr. Stone.”

  “Hmm. Yes, I believe you are correct, Miss Donovan. From what I recollect, Mr. Stone had previously been traveling to a tailor in Manchester for his wardrobe. Perhaps he noticed the cut of Mr. Biddle’s coat. Mr. Biddle has always been a man of exemplary taste. He has an exceptional eye for quality.”

  Kendra commented, “Which he found in your shop.”

  “Shannon & Son has always provided the best quality. Mr. Biddle’s only fault is that his taste, while refined, tends to be bland.” Mr. Shannon ran a hand down his own vibrantly hued lapel, unconsciously preening. “I’ve tried to coax Mr. Biddle to consider bolder choices, but . . .” He shot Kendra and Alec a look that seemed to say, What can you do?

  “Some people lack vision,” Alec murmured.

  The tailor peered at him over the top of his glasses. “Exactly. Most of the gentlemen in East Dingleford tend to be a cautious sort. Except, perhaps, Mr. Matthews. Now that young man is a tulip!”

  Kendra eyed the tailor. “If you say so.”

  Alec’s lips twitched. “A tulip is a well-dressed gentleman, Miss Donovan.”