Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “Doing quite well, thank you.” Lady Winifred’s smile was wintry. “I received a letter just the other day from Mrs. Tover, who said Jane has begun to crawl.”

  Kendra stared at the countess. “A letter? Your daughter isn’t here with you?”

  “Good heavens, no. Jane is with her wet-nurse. I understand that a few ladies in the Beau Monde have begun to bring the wet-nurse into their household or even nurse the babe themselves . . .” She gave a tiny shudder at the idea. “’Tis baffling to me as to why any lady would wish to change a practice that has worked quite well for centuries.”

  Now I know why I don’t like you, Kendra thought. You remind me of my mother.

  She was relieved when the door opened and the men filed into the drawing room. Lady Winifred rose from the sofa, and glided to the pianoforte, glancing at Alec with a smile. Kendra didn’t think it was her imagination that the countess’s smile was warmer. “Lord Sutcliffe, may I call upon you to turn the music pages for me?”

  “I would be delighted, my lady.”

  Kendra caught the gleam of amusement in Alec’s green eyes as he passed her. She wished that she could at least silently sneer at the woman’s playing, but she had to concede that Lady Winifred was actually quite good. The pianoforte’s delicate notes drifted across the room, blending with the soft tapping of rain against the windowpanes.

  “My dear, Lord Bancroft was informing us how he had invested in the Middleton Railway, which has been using steam locomotives to haul coal,” the Duke said to Kendra. “His lordship is an advocate of steam to power engines on land. Very progressive. Hardly surprising, though, from someone who has installed gas lighting in his home.”

  “Steam—bah!” Dr. Poole’s fuzzy brows lowered, shadowing his eyes. “Mark my words, ’tis nothing but a passing fancy. And harmful to boot! Breathing in all that steam can’t be good for the lungs.”

  “I think it’s marvelous,” Matthews supplied. “Steam is not as odorous as horses can be.”

  The doctor shot him a dark look. “A horse is one of God’s creatures! Not some dreadful, clanking monstrosity that has no discretion, no wits, and will most likely roll right over everyone in its path!”

  “Your uncle Ted was killed when his prized stallion threw him,” Mrs. Poole said in her calm, pleasant manner.

  “What does that have to do with anything, Mrs. Poole?” demanded her husband.

  “I was merely pointing out that horses have harmed their riders on occasion as well.”

  “That is an asinine comparison to make. A horse is neutral, and is responding to the commands of its rider. My uncle was a fool to attempt to jump his horse where he should not. The horse wisely balked. One cannot blame the horse for being more intelligent than the rider.”

  The Duke jumped into the fray. “The same thing could be said regarding the steam locomotive, sir. It shall be manned by someone. If the contraption rolls over anyone in its path, surely it’s the driver’s fault—not the conveyance. In that, it is no different than a carriage.”

  Kendra glanced at Bancroft and deliberately walked to the window. In the glass, she saw her wavering reflection. She didn’t have to wait long before Bancroft’s image rose up behind hers.

  “You have no interest in the future, Miss Donovan?” he asked with faint mockery.

  She turned to look into the dark eyes. “At the moment, my interest is on finding a killer. We located Mr. Murray.”

  His expression, as always, was inscrutable. “Did you?” He lifted his wineglass and took a sip.

  “He said you dismissed him.”

  Bancroft pursed his lips and shook his head. “He was an excellent manager. Why would I dismiss him?”

  “Because you wanted to hire Mr. Stone. See, here’s the thing: Mr. Murray denies recommending Mr. Stone, and he denies resigning from his position.”

  “That is not what happened.”

  “Why would Mr. Murray lie?”

  “Perhaps he’s misremembering. It was more than a quarter of a century ago, Miss Donovan. The mind plays tricks on a person.”

  “And maybe it’s not the mind that plays tricks . . .” She lifted her eyebrows, openly challenging him.

  Lord Bancroft fixed those dark, enigmatic eyes on her. Kendra could feel herself tensing as she stared back. For a strange moment, it was as though they were the only two people in the room. The sounds around them—the thrumming rain, the placid notes from the pianoforte, the murmur of conversation—seemed to recede into the distance.

  Kendra drew in a sharp breath, breaking the spell. “Do you know what I think, my lord? I think you and Mr. Stone knew each other from before he came to East Dingleford.” She kept her voice low, but there was no mistaking the steel in it. “I think something happened in that time. Something that Stone could use to hold over your head.”

  “You have a vivid imagination, Miss Donovan.”

  “It doesn’t take much imagination to connect the dots, my lord.”

  He smiled. “I think you will need to do more than connect the dots, Miss Donovan. Even here you need proof.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  The smile vanished, and for a moment he looked grim. “I did not kill Mr. Stone. I was here, in my study. And then I joined my daughter for dinner.”

  “My dear . . . my lord . . .” The Duke joined them, his gaze flicking between them. If he noticed the tension, he chose to ignore it. “I apologize for interrupting, but I fear the rain will make our journey back to East Dingleford hazardous if we do not leave now.”

  The smile returned as Bancroft turned toward the Duke, once again the affable host. “Of course, sir.” The dark eyes slid to meet Kendra’s. “I believe Miss Donovan and I are done here, aren’t we?”

  She met his gaze. “For now.”

  38

  The rain eased up sometime in the night. By morning, the only things left of the storm were muddy puddles, dripping leaves, and glistening grass. Clouds still moved across the sky, slow as a sloth, nudged on by a faint, icy breeze coming down from Scotland. Still, if the tinge of blue in the northern horizon was anything to go by, Kendra suspected that East Dingleford would be seeing sunshine sometime in the late afternoon. That should put a bounce in the villagers’ steps, Kendra thought.

  Her own bounce came when Sam Kelly informed her at breakfast that East Dingleford held a market every Thursday, which Flora routinely shopped. “The information that I have is Mr. Turner drops his wife off at the market, and goes ter wait at a tavern.”

  Kendra nodded. “That fits. Turner would view shopping the market as women’s work.”

  “I shall be accompanying you,” Alec said, his tone steely.

  Kendra shot Alec an exasperated look. “I don’t need you as a chaperone. I’ve already got one. Besides, it’s not like we’ll be alone. It’s a market.”

  “Miss Donovan is right,” the Duke said, calmly buttering his bun. “There will be hawkers there, not to mention the other shoppers.”

  “Aye. Markets tend ter be crowded, milord,” Sam added.

  Alec’s eyes narrowed. “Then one more person shan’t be a problem.”

  “Two.”

  Kendra glared at the Bow Street Runner. “I can take care of myself!”

  “Aye, that you can,” Sam agreed hastily. “But if Mr. Turner brings his wife ter the market, I thought I’d follow him. We’ve never met. Maybe it’s time ter get acquainted.”

  “That is an excellent notion, Mr. Kelly.” The Duke nodded approvingly. “You can keep Mr. Turner occupied while Miss Donovan speaks with his wife.”

  Kendra leaned back. “It’s not a bad plan,” she conceded gruffly. She glanced at Alec. “And where will you be, my lord?”

  The cool green eyes regarded her steadily. “Around.”

  She huffed out a faint laugh. “Fine. I just don’t want you breathing down my neck while I’m talking to Flora. She’s a fragile woman.”

  “I shall attempt to control my breathing, and certainly will not do it
down your neck.”

  The dry tone made her smile. “It’s an expression.”

  “I suspected as much.”

  Kendra shifted her gaze to the Duke. “I suppose you’ll be coming too.”

  “Actually, no. I think the three of you have the matter well in hand. Mr. Harding forwarded me a packet of correspondence that I must attend to regarding estate business and a few investments that need my attention.”

  She felt a pinch of guilt. The Duke had an estate manager and a man of affairs, but nothing could be done without his knowledge and signature. “I’m sorry. You have more to do in your life than investigate murders.”

  Surprise flashed in his blue eyes. “My dear, I have no regrets. If you recall, I was the one who insisted on becoming involved.” He picked up his teacup. “I shall expect to be kept informed of what transpired when you return.”

  Kendra smiled. “Of course.” She tipped back her coffee cup, drained it, and then pushed herself to her feet. She looked at Alec. “How far is the market? Can we walk?”

  “We could, but the carriage is more convenient,” Alec said, and rose as well. “I’ll have it brought around.”

  The East Dingleford market reminded Kendra of the farmer and flea markets in her own era—it had the same energized, chaotic vibe. Voices carried along the twisty street, some bickering, some haggling for better deals, some peddlers shouting their wares. Colorful knots of people swirled around, up and down the street, pausing at stalls, moving on. Tinkers sold everything from bolts of fabric and haberdasheries to medicine to produce, teas, and coffee beans. Even though she’d eaten breakfast, Kendra’s nose quivered in appreciation as the scent of frying bacon and yeasty pies drifted over to her.

  They’d positioned themselves near a coffeehouse that gave them the best view of the street. Kendra scanned the people. Most of the peddlers were men, but the shoppers were women and children. The women were young and old, carrying straw baskets, and wearing homemade coats and dresses and sturdy shoes.

  “I don’t see Flora,” Kendra said.

  After fifteen minutes of surveillance, Kendra began to have her first doubts. Molly was getting fidgety, so Kendra sent her to buy some chestnuts. It stung Kendra that she had to ask Alec to give the maid a few coins. The only thing Kendra had in her reticule was a silk handkerchief and her muff pistol.

  Another ten minutes crept by. Molly returned with a hemp bag filled with roasted chestnuts, and then Kendra spied Flora and her husband coming down the cobblestone street on a cart pulled by a mangy-looking pony. Kendra touched Sam’s arm and nodded in the direction of the Turners as the sheep farmer pulled up on the reins. She watched Flora climb off the cart, without any help from her husband, and Turner pulled away. Her eyes narrowed when she noticed the bandage wrapped around the other woman’s right wrist.

  Sam gave her a nod, touching the brim of his hat before melting into the crowd. Kendra looked at Alec and Molly. “I’m going to approach her. I need you both to keep your distance.”

  She waited a moment longer, watching the other woman as she adjusted the straw basket on her arm. Then Flora began walking, her target apparently a cart selling loose leaf tea. Kendra caught up with her as Flora peered into a jar of shriveled leaves.

  The peddler, a rotund man, approached Flora with a big, toothy grin. “Ah, dear lady, ye have exquisite taste! Ye are lookin’ at the Darjeeling tea, cultivated in the plantations of India and brought to our great country from the East India Company. ’Tis a tea sipped by the Nawabs of Bengal themselves to ward off illness. If ye brew yerself up a cup, ye’ll never suffer from ague, consumption, dropsy, or typhus. Why, if ye have but a twinge, sip this tea, madam, afore ye go to sleep, and I promise ye, ye’ll wake up the next morning fresh as a daisy!”

  Kendra snorted. “Tea has a lot of health benefits. Its antioxidants have been known to fight free radicals. But half of what you said is bull—boloney,” she told the peddler. “Tea is more a preventative than a cure.”

  Flora gave a start, swinging around with wide eyes. The peddler peered at Kendra suspiciously, apparently not certain whether she was agreeing with him or not.

  “And who might ye be, madam?”

  “Kendra Donovan.”

  “An American, by the sound of ye. What’s this about a . . . anti—what?”

  “Antioxidants. Tea is filled with them.”

  He shot a look at the withered leaves. “Are ye certain? They wash the leaves, ye know.”

  Kendra decided she didn’t have the time to explain. She turned to Flora. “I need to speak with you.”

  The woman licked her lips. “Oh, I . . . I don’t think—”

  “Let’s walk.”

  “Here now, ye can’t jest take away me customers!” the peddler protested.

  Kendra glanced around. Alec was standing about ten feet away, giving her the space that she’d asked for. He lifted a sardonic brow as he met her gaze, and moved toward her.

  “Do you need me, sweet?”

  Kendra made a wry face. “Yeah. Could you buy tea for Flora while she and I talk?”

  Flora blinked. “Oh, I couldn’t . . .”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “’Tis an excellent tea, sir,” the peddler jumped in, his gaze assessing the cut of Alec’s coat. “But if ye follow me, we’ve got another blend that’s even better. Fights those radical buggers, ye know. A fine gentleman such as yerself should have the best.”

  Kendra drew Flora away from the kiosk, linking her hand firmly through the other woman’s elbow to keep her from bolting. “Did he do that to you?” she asked softly, her gaze skimming Flora’s bandaged wrist. “Sprain or break?”

  “It just got twisted, is all,” Flora mumbled, keeping her face averted. “’Tis fine.”

  “Did Dr. Poole look at it?”

  “Nay. I said it’s fine . . .”

  Ignoring the other peddlers’ cries to stop and test their wares, Kendra guided them toward a shadowy pocket between a tinker’s stall and a small stone church. Coming to a halt, Kendra searched the other woman’s delicate features, noting the pronounced pallor. Her bruises had faded to a sickly, but less obvious, green and yellow. The bandaged wrist was the only visible damage. Christ only knew what Flora concealed beneath her drab wool coat and dress.

  “Flora, if you want to leave him, we can help you. Lord Sutcliffe has agreed to see about finding you a position in one of his households. I’m sure the Duke would as well. You can come with us—”

  “I can’t leave!” Flora shook her head, looking panicked. “’Tis wrong! I’m his wife.”

  “What’s wrong is how he treats you.” Kendra pulled back, frustrated. “You don’t deserve to be beaten, Flora. Just think about it, okay?” She waited until the other woman nodded, then said, “But that’s not all I wanted to speak to you about.”

  “What else?” Flora’s aquamarine eyes darkened with fear.

  “Mr. Stone.”

  It didn’t seem possible, but Flora paled even more. “I—I cannot speak of . . . of him,” she whispered, and cast a hurried glance around. “Please, I must finish me shopping. Me husband’ll be seeking me out soon.”

  “Did Stone ever mention where he originally came from? About his time in London?”

  Flora hesitated. She licked her lips, shot another frantic glance around. “He spoke of bein’ born in a small village outside London,” she finally said. “He didn’t say the name. He said he left almost as soon as he was in breeches.”

  “What did he do? Before he came to East Dingleford?”

  “I—I think he was a K-knight of the Road,” she whispered fearfully.

  Kendra frowned. “Knight of the Road?”

  “Sh-sh! ’Tis a highwayman, miss,” Flora whispered.

  Kendra said nothing for a moment. “Why do you think this, Flora?”

  “He told me, but he wasn’t specific-like. He just said things. But it was in the past. What’s it matter now, miss?”

  “Flora, did Stone t
alk about knowing Bancroft from before he came to East Dingleford? Maybe when he was a Knight of the Road?”

  A frown dug between the other woman’s brows. “He spoke of the earl, of course. But . . . I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure? Think about it. This is important.”

  But she was already shaking her head, agitated. “I can’t remember. Truly, I can’t.”

  “Okay. Did he talk about finding something recently? Something valuable?”

  Flora frowned, puzzled. “What do ye mean?”

  It sounded odd to her modern ear, but she said, “A treasure of some kind?”

  Flora was quiet for a long moment, like she was thinking hard. Then she shook her head. “Nay. Why do ye think he had a treasure?”

  Kendra wasn’t about to explain blood spatter to Flora. “We believe that Mr. Stone had something on his desk that was valuable enough for his killer to steal. We think it’s the reason he was killed, and why Mrs. Stone was killed too.”

  “Because there’s more treasure?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Do you think he could’ve had a map . . . ?”

  Kendra stifled a sigh. Did everyone believe the myth of treasure maps? She ignored the inquiry to ask instead, “Did Stone ever mention anything to you?”

  “Nay . . .” But her gaze was sliding away. “I—I can’t help ye, Miss Donovan. Please, I must go.”

  Kendra put a detaining hand on her arm. “If you know anything, Flora, you need to tell us. We’re dealing with someone who has killed three people to get what he wanted. I don’t think he’d have qualms about murdering a fourth.”

  “I don’t know anything,” Flora whispered.

  Kendra dropped her hand. “The offer still stands. If you want to leave East Dingleford, we can find a position for you. You won’t be left to fend for yourself.”