Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

Flora hesitated, the expression in her aquamarine eyes almost painful. “Why would ye do such a thing for me? Ye don’t know me.”

  “I know what it’s like to be trapped somewhere you have no control. But I was lucky enough to get help.” Her lips twisted into a smile. “Even be given a position, of sorts.”

  Mrs. Turner just stared at her with those tragic eyes.

  Kendra stepped away. Alec appeared at her side, and gave Flora a brown package.

  “How much do I owe ye, sir?” she asked nervously.

  “’Tis a gift. I was informed it will cure every ill.”

  “Thank ye kindly, milord.” She bobbed a curtsy. She tucked the package into her straw basket. “Miss Donovan.”

  “He’ll do it again, you know,” Kendra said, when the other woman began to move away.

  Flora hesitated, her hand automatically touching her wrist. Sadness dimmed her pretty eyes more than fear. “Me husband’s a good man. He didn’t mean ter hurt me, Miss Donovan.”

  “I’m not talking about the physical abuse.” Kendra waited a beat, fixing her gaze on the other woman. “I’m talking about the arrangement. He’ll do that again.”

  Flora turned so pale that Kendra thought she might pass out. “Nay,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Nay, it was the debt. It was too much ter pay without losing the farm. William didn’t want ter do it. What choice did we have?”

  “Your husband may gamble too much again. Or maybe he’ll start to think about bringing in some extra money.” Kendra felt a twinge of guilt at the stricken look on the other woman’s face, but reminded herself that Flora needed a bit of tough love.

  The other woman whispered, “Nay, he wouldn’t do that.”

  “He’s already done it. Maybe you need to remember that.”

  Kendra didn’t wait. She swept past the woman and continued down the lane. There was nothing else she could do. She’d planted the seed. The rest was up to Flora.

  39

  After the crisp fall temperatures outside, the foyer of the Green Maiden felt overheated. In her bedchamber, Kendra stripped off her coat, bonnet, and gloves, and was in the process of handing them over to Molly when someone knocked lightly on the door. She crossed the room, opening it to find Mrs. Bolton standing on the other side. The expression in the old woman’s eyes made her catch her breath; anticipation zipped along her nerves. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure Molly was occupied putting her coat and bonnet away, she stepped into the hallway and inched the door closed behind her.

  Mrs. Bolton’s eyes darted nervously down the length of the corridor. “My brother will meet with you in the barn,” she said softly. “Forty minutes. You must come alone.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Mrs. Bolton hesitated. “I’m trusting you, Miss Donovan.”

  Kendra nodded. “I understand. Thank you, Mrs. Bolton.”

  When Kendra returned to the parlor, she found Sam had returned, as well, and was speaking to Alec and the Duke. He looked at her when she entered.

  “I was just telling his Grace and his lordship here that I followed Mr. Turner ter a tavern,” Sam said. “He joined a few other men and spoke about a card game that’s happenin’ on Guy Fawkes Night.”

  “Apparently losing to Stone didn’t sour Mr. Turner on the game,” Alec remarked drily, lifting the silver coffee pot. He poured two cups.

  Sam looked at Kendra. “Did you learn anything from Mrs. Turner, miss?”

  She accepted the cup Alec handed to her with thanks, then replied, “Flora could only tell us that she thought Stone came from a village outside London, and that he left when he was young.” She took a sip of coffee. “She also thought he might have been a highwayman.”

  Alec’s expression remained neutral, but only because she’d already relayed the information to him on the carriage ride back to the Green Maiden. Sam’s eyes narrowed, and Kendra caught the hard gleam of suspicion.

  “Why would he tell a thing like that ter Mrs. Turner?”

  “Well, he only hinted at it, according to her. I can only speculate, of course, but Stone was about seventy. Flora is in her mid- to late-twenties, I’d say. He might have felt the need to impress her with his youthful exploits.”

  “Being a highwayman is not admirable, and it is more than a youthful exploit.” The Duke leaned back in his chair, rolling the quill pen between his fingers. Kendra noticed the smudges on his fingertips, and was reminded of Biddle. “’Tis a hanging offense.”

  “We knew that Stone wasn’t a saint,” she said with a shrug, and moved to study the slate board. “What we need to know is if there is a connection between Stone’s alleged highwayman activities from thirty-odd years ago and Bancroft.”

  Alec said, “Bancroft wouldn’t be the first gentleman who took to the road to make a living through nefarious means.”

  “We cannot accuse the earl of such a serious charge without proof, Alec.” The Duke shot his nephew a warning look.

  Sam frowned. “Didn’t Lord Bancroft leave England after East Dingleford?”

  “He was gone for sixteen years,” Kendra pointed out. “He could’ve become involved in anything during that time. And he was a kid. If he needed money, who knows? And we could be talking about more than robbery. In my—” she nearly said era, and cleared her throat—“America, armed robberies can turn deadly. What if Bancroft killed someone in the course of a robbery?”

  “That would certainly account for Lord Bancroft paying a blackmailer for twenty years to keep quiet,” Alec murmured. “But what proof could Stone have possibly had?”

  They fell silent as they considered the problem.

  Kendra finally sighed and shook her head. “Whatever it was had two pieces. The first was on the desk.” She sipped her coffee as her gaze drifted over to the desk that the Duke was sitting behind, littered with his correspondence, an open leather-bound ledger, and the writing tray. Kendra’s neck prickled with sudden comprehension. It couldn’t be so simple.

  She forced herself to move, to set down the cup and walk over to the desk. “What are you working on, your Grace?”

  The Duke didn’t seem to find her question odd. He sighed. “Balancing the household ledgers, my dear. I have been inspired by Lord Bancroft to install gas lighting in Aldridge Castle. But it’s no small expense. I may be forced to trim some of the estate’s more frivolous expenses so as not to become overextended.”

  Kendra’s lips parted as she stared at the tidy columns of numbers. The air around her seemed to buzz, as though charged with electricity.

  “It will be a sizeable undertaking,” continued Aldridge, unaware of Kendra’s distraction. “Undoubtedly, it will cause an upheaval with the staff.”

  “Because you operate Aldridge Castle like a business,” she murmured.

  “Well, yes, that is true.” He leaned forward to replace the quill pen in its holder. “Thankfully, my estates are all profitable, and I cannot complain about the plumpness of my pockets. Still, I don’t have the liquid assets to simply write a check to cover an endeavor this large.”

  She said, “Your funds are tied up in other investments.”

  Awareness flickered behind the Duke’s blue gaze, as though he were suddenly realizing that something might be off. “Yes, much of my money is in the Exchange, as well as personal investments or group investments. What’s this about, my dear?”

  Kendra became aware of Sam and Alec’s curious regard as well. She glanced at the clock. “I have an idea, but I need a moment.” Her heart began thumping as she crossed the room, pulling open the door.

  The Duke’s eyebrows shot up. “Good heavens. Where are you going, Miss Donovan?”

  But she only shook her head and closed the door to the private parlor, hurrying down the hall.

  Adrenaline made Kendra’s pulse jump. She had a momentary worry that Alec might follow her, but she made it to the back door without interference. She shivered as she stepped outside, the thin muslin walking dress no barrier against the cool breeze. The gr
ass was still wet from the previous evening’s rain, and the moisture soaked into the hem of her skirt as she crossed the yard to the barn. Pushing open the door, she paused to let her eyes adjust to the gloomy interior. Once again, she was assailed by the strong stench of the barn.

  Mrs. Bolton emerged from the shadows, her gaze anxious. “You came alone?”

  “Yes,” Kendra said, though she was stating the obvious. She looked at the figure looming behind the old woman. The man was a dozen years younger than his sister, she estimated, but stress had aged him. His face was heavily lined. His hair was more silver than blond. The first time she’d seen him on the road, he’d smeared soot across his face, which had made his eyes blaze like a blue flame. Without that contrast, his eyes were an almost colorless blue. He wore a dirty work smock beneath an even dirtier tweed coat, with brown wool trousers and muddied boots so worn that Kendra could see the sole peeling away from the toe.

  “Joseph, this is Miss Donovan,” Mrs. Bolton introduced them.

  “We weren’t involved in Mr. Stone’s killing,” he said immediately, his eyes narrowed warily. “And I didn’t see the fiend that killed Mr. Stone either. Laura says that’s what you want ter know, but I don’t know how I can help you.”

  The man looked ready to bolt. Kendra stepped forward carefully. “I know you had nothing to do with Stone’s murder,” she said. “But you were there at the mill. I need you to tell me what happened when you went there. You might have seen more than you realize.”

  “It’s all right, Joseph.” Mrs. Bolton put a hand on her brother’s arm. “Please, tell Miss Donovan what you remember.”

  He gave Kendra a hard look. “I won’t peach on my men.”

  “I’m not asking you to. Why did you choose that day to attack the mill?”

  “They’d just ordered new frames, and fired seven good men. They have families. They’ll be starving soon, and tossed into the poorhouse.” Joseph scowled. “It’s not right how his lordship let Mr. Stone cut back on safety measures. Ned Mann lost his right hand last month. How’s he supposed to feed his family?”

  “You used to work there, right? When did you start noticing the declining working conditions?”

  “Stone fired me three years ago, when I started complaining about the poor wages. I don’t remember when I first noticed things weren’t right.”

  “But there was a time when things were good at the mill?”

  “Aye, when Mr. Murray was runnin’ it. He was a good man. Then he was gone and his lordship hired Mr. Stone.” He turned his head, and spat into a clump of hay. “He couldn’t run it proper, and Lord Bancroft brought in Mr. Biddle.”

  “It got better then?”

  “For a time. Mr. Biddle was at least at the mill, tryin’ to keep it runnin’. Mr. Stone wasn’t around. Too busy pretending he was gentry. A mushroom, that’s what he was.”

  Kendra had learned that a mushroom was someone who found his or her position suddenly elevated in society. By definition, she was a mushroom.

  “I heard that you confronted Stone recently about the problems at the mill,” she said.

  “Aye, after Ned had his accident. Somebody had to do it!”

  “How did Mr. Stone react?”

  Thackeray snorted. “Like I was telling him a Banbury Tale! Why would I lie about that, eh? He dismissed my words like he was still my master.”

  “So you . . . the Luddites wanted to send a message to Stone by smashing the frames.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Joseph nodded. “Aye. Stone and Lord Bancroft. Maybe they’d notice the worker’s plight after losing all that fine equipment.” His mouth twisted. “That’s what they care about—money, not men.”

  “You had spies inside to let you know that the mill was closing early,” Kendra guessed.

  “Aye. They sent word that Mr. Biddle was closing the mill on account of the fog. We waited until everyone was gone. Then we went inside to smash the looms.”

  “But you didn’t wait for Mr. Stone to leave.”

  Joseph frowned. “We thought he did. But the fog can confuse a person. We didn’t know that he was . . . that he was still upstairs. Dead.” He wiped a sleeve against the sweat that had suddenly sprung up on his brow. “Christ, I’d never seen so much blood.”

  Kendra regarded him with surprise. “You went upstairs?”

  “Aye, me and a couple of me men. We had the thought of smashing up Mr. Stone’s fancy office, all those cats he collected . . .” He scrubbed his face with hands that shook. “We saw Mr. Stone. He was already dead. I swear on my mother’s grave that he was dead!”

  “I believe you. And there was no one else in the mill?”

  “Nay.”

  “Did you go into Biddle’s office?”

  “Only for a moment.” He hesitated. “We have no quarrel with Mr. Biddle, but if we destroyed their bill of sales and such, that could hurt the operation more than smashing the frames. But one man had gone into Stone’s office and was yelling something fierce . . .” His face twisted in remembered horror. “I went to him. And . . . and there was Mr. Stone.”

  “I need you to think back very carefully, Mr. Thackeray. I want you to think about when you were in Mr. Biddle’s office. Did you have a lantern?”

  “Aye. We used the mill’s lanterns and torches. We had to be careful. We didn’t want to draw attention.”

  Kendra thought of that night, how she’d hurried past the open doorway to Biddle’s office, intent on getting to the crime scene. Nausea curdled her stomach. That had been a mistake, she realized. If she’d treated the entire factory as a proper crime scene—not just Stone’s office—would Mrs. Stone and Mrs. Trout still be alive?

  She drew in an unsteady breath. “Okay, imagine you’re in Biddle’s office like you were that night. What do you see?”

  Joseph stared at her like she was crazy.

  “Please, Mr. Thackeray. This is very important.”

  He was silent for a moment, then shrugged. “I see his desk. Papers and books on it. His writing tray.”

  “Chairs,” Kendra prompted when he fell silent. “The coatrack.”

  “His greatcoat, of course. And hat—”

  “His coat was there. Are you sure?”

  Joseph frowned at her. “What does it—” Comprehension lit his pale eyes. “Aye. His greatcoat was hanging on the rack. Who leaves their greatcoat behind when it’s so cold outside?”

  Kendra didn’t say anything, but she knew the answer. A murderer who was already wearing the coat of his victim to cover up his own bloody clothes.

  “Mr. Biddle? You think Mr. Biddle is the fiend?” Oliver Matthews stared at her in disbelief. “Pray tell, Miss Donovan, why do you think such a thing?”

  Constable Jameson’s lip curled. “W’ot’s this about? Ye can’t be flingin’ accusations around without proof, Miss Donovan. A man’s good name is at stake.”

  Kendra pressed her lips together to prevent herself from saying something she might regret. She took a moment, allowed her gaze to travel the room. The Duke, Alec, and Sam waited. She’d already laid out her suspicions to them. It was mostly conjecture, she knew, except for the greatcoat. If Joseph hadn’t been mistaken, the greatcoat was a damning piece of evidence.

  Now she looked at Matthews and Jameson, ready to lay out her theories again. “Biddle has always been the most obvious suspect,” she said. “He was the last person to see Stone alive, and the last person to be seen with Stone. We have witnesses that saw Biddle with Stone.”

  “That’s not strange, given Mr. Biddle worked for Mr. Stone,” Matthews pointed out.

  She nodded. “I know. That’s why it never seemed like a big deal. It would have stood out if Biddle had denied meeting with Stone, but he never did. However, he told us that Stone came into his office to speak to him. I should have realized that was odd.”

  Matthews regarded her quizzically. “Why would that be odd?”

  “Stone enjoyed being in control. He had an almost pathological need to
make others feel small, and himself big by comparison. A guy like that would have demanded to meet in his office, not Biddle’s. In the mill, his office was his kingdom.”

  She waited, but when no one challenged her, she went on, “Biddle was also the one who shut down the factory early.”

  “Under orders from Mr. Stone,” the constable argued.

  “Biddle said that he was acting on Stone’s orders,” Kendra corrected. “When we interviewed the workers, we never asked what Biddle was wearing when he gave the order. Who would have asked that?” She gave a shrug. Hindsight was a bitch. “Even if we had thought to ask the question, they would have told us that he was wearing a greatcoat. No reason for us to assume it wasn’t his greatcoat.

  “There’s no way the murderer could have avoided getting blood on himself. He could clean up his hands and face, but not his clothes. Biddle’s instinct—anyone’s instinct—would have been to put on Stone’s greatcoat to conceal his clothes before he left the office.”

  “Dear God,” Matthews muttered. He appeared already convinced. He retrieved his hankie, and pressed it to his lips. “But why? Why would Mr. Biddle kill Mr. Stone?”

  Kendra walked over to the desk and picked up the Duke’s ledger. “For something like this—the mill’s accounting books. Stone was the manager at the mill, but it’s an open secret that he never really did any work. Biddle was responsible for running the mill, for ordering supplies and paying vendors, and keeping the accounting books and bank accounts.”

  “W’ot are you saying?” the constable demanded.

  “I’m saying that Biddle has excellent taste. In clothes. In artwork. Furnishings. I noticed it when we called upon him. I had wondered how an assistant manager could afford his lifestyle. Biddle told us that he invested wisely and was frugal.” She tossed the ledger back on the desk, where it landed with a soft thud. “But I think it was more than that.”

  Matthews said slowly, “You think he was stealing from the mill.”

  “We heard how the quality of the mill had suddenly declined—inferior products, cutting corners. Of course, everyone blamed Stone. Or Lord Bancroft. We forgot who was really running the mill.”