Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “I thought he was mad, when he went up ter the roof,” said Sam. He shook his head as he stared into the glass of whisky he cupped in his hands. “I thought he was gonna jump, the bloody fool.” He glanced at her. “Pardon me, miss.”

  Kendra smiled wryly, looking at the Bow Street Runner. “I think we can let go of the formalities. I’m hardly going to swoon when you say the word ‘bloody.’”

  Sam grinned. “Nay, you’re made of sterner stuff than that, Miss Donovan. But you are also a lady, so I must apologize.”

  “Oh, don’t go all missish on me now, Mr. Kelly.”

  Sam laughed. “Forgive me, but I think I am missish. God’s teeth, my heart nearly stopped beatin’ when you jumped forward ter save Mr. Biddle. My nerves haven’t recovered.”

  “Neither have mine,” drawled Alec, giving Kendra a hooded look. “I can only hope that Miss Donovan will temper such heroic impulses in the future, or someone ought to carry smelling salts, because I shall be the one swooning.”

  Kendra eyed the marquis. He’d bathed and changed his clothes as well, and was looking outrageously handsome in a bottle-green superfine jacket that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. He wasn’t sitting so much as he was sprawled in his chair in his preferred pose, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his boots crossed at the ankles.

  “Somehow I think you’re made of sterner stuff, as well, my lord,” she murmured.

  “Well, apparently Mr. Biddle wasn’t quite as mad as we thought,” said the Duke, circling back to the earlier discussion. “There is another set of stairs that can be accessed on the other side of the roof. I imagine he thought if he could get around the chimneys to the other side, he could escape.”

  Alec shook his head in disbelief. “He was still mad if he thought he could flee East Dingleford without us giving chase.”

  “He panicked—classic fight-or-flight response,” Kendra said, and began to lift her shoulders in a shrug. Because they were still sore, she settled for a half shrug. “When he saw us coming, his instincts kicked in and he ran. He knew he couldn’t get by us, so he ran for the roof.” She thought of the twisted grin and glint in his eyes as he stepped out onto the peaked portion of the roof. “I blame myself for bringing Constable Jameson. I don’t think Biddle would have reacted in the way he did if Jameson hadn’t been along.”

  “There is little point in second-guessing our decisions.” The Duke took a sip of his brandy. “We have the fiend, that’s all that matters. To think he was embezzling from Lord Bancroft and the mill for all those years, and no one noticed.”

  “Actually, the workers noticed,” Kendra corrected. “Not that Biddle was stealing, but that corners were being cut. They simply attributed it to Stone.”

  “I’m surprised Lord Bancroft didn’t review the books at least once a year,” said the Duke. “He is actively involved in his business and investments.”

  “Mr. Murray said his lordship was involved when he was runnin’ the mill,” Sam put in.

  “But then he fired Mr. Murray, and hired Stone.” Kendra frowned. “I think there’s still a connection between Stone and Bancroft.”

  The Duke shrugged. “Even if there is—or was—it had nothing to do with the murder.”

  Kendra said nothing, but a whisper of unease teased the back of her neck.

  “Once the earl hired Mr. Biddle, he began ter stay away from the mill,” Sam said.

  “I wonder if the earl was responsible for the new machines or if Biddle suggested them,” Alec murmured. “It would be an easy way to skim money and make a substantial profit. I don’t know how much one of the frames cost, but if Biddle put it in the books that he had bought five looms, when in fact he’d only purchased four—”

  “He would pocket the rest of the blunt,” Sam finished, his golden eyes glinting. “Ah, clever scheme.”

  “It was—until Stone figured it out,” agreed Kendra.

  “Given Mr. Stone’s personality, I’m rather surprised he didn’t suggest some sort of partnership with Mr. Biddle when he discovered his manager’s larceny,” the Duke remarked. “They could have stolen from the mill—and Lord Bancroft—together.”

  Kendra shook her head. “Stone would have felt like Biddle played him for a fool. The mill was his territory.”

  Alec twirled his empty glass in his hands. “So it was all for greed? Stone, and his wife and the housekeeper? Biddle had already stolen the ledger that was on Stone’s desk. Why torture Mrs. Stone? What was he looking for?”

  “Maybe there are more ledgers?” Sam suggested. “Biddle had been stealing for years.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” Kendra pushed herself to her feet. “Ask him.”

  41

  East Dingleford didn’t have a jail. Instead, the village had what was called a lockup. It was exactly what its name implied: Villagers who broke the law were locked up until they could be hauled before the magistrate. The East Dingleford lockup had probably housed plenty of disorderly drunks, maybe a thief or two. But Kendra suspected that it rarely held a murderer within its walls.

  The building itself was strange: a single-story, round structure, only eight feet in diameter, with a spire-shaped roof that looked like the top of a witch’s hat. A thick, nail-studded plank door was cut into the stone wall, about a foot deep. Three narrow slits served as windows.

  The lockup was located next to the Norman church. Kendra couldn’t decide if that was odd or diabolically clever. Was it meant serve as a warning to churchgoers? Or an extra humiliation to the prisoner confined within the lockup, forced to gaze upon the church and think on his sins while awaiting his sentence?

  “W’ot do ye need ter talk ter him about, anyhow?” asked Constable Jameson as he pulled out the key for the heavy padlock on the door. Kendra tried not to let it bother her how the man’s gaze slipped over her head to look at the Duke, Sam, or Alec for an answer.

  She snapped, “Mr. Biddle murdered three people. I think questions need to be asked.”

  Jameson’s jaw tightened. “Don’t know why; w’ots done is done.”

  Metal scraped against metal, and Jameson shoved the door inward and stepped back, allowing Kendra to brush past him. She paused just inside, squinting into the squalid, gloomy room. The waning afternoon light beamed across the dirt floor from the open doorway and window slits. Her eyes bounced from the built-in privy, which reminded her of a seat in a porta-potty, to the narrow cot shoved against the left wall. Biddle was lying on the thin straw mattress, his body twisted away from the door. She could hear the rattle of his breathing, but he was still.

  “Mr. Biddle?” Kendra came forward and gripped Biddle’s shoulder, easing him onto his back. He gave a muffled groan. She let out a gasp as her gaze slid over the man’s face. In the murky light, she could see that his left eye was swollen shut, and the lower half of his face was caked in dried blood. His nose had an odd, smashed appearance, tilted to the side. Broken, she was sure, which accounted for his labored breathing. He probably had a few broken teeth as well. She slipped her fingers beneath his bloody cravat to search for his carotid artery. His pulse was weak.

  Fury made her tremble. She snatched her fingers away, and before she knew it she was out the door, slamming her palms against Jameson’s chest, hard enough for him to stumble, lose his balance, and fall on his ass.

  “Oy!” He stared up at her with wide eyes. “W’ot’s that for?”

  “What the fuck did you do to him?” she demanded.

  “Kendra!” the Duke exclaimed.

  The constable shoved himself to his feet, glaring at her. “You’re mad!”

  “You fucking bastard!” She took another step forward, but Alec caught her arm. She yanked it free and whirled to face the Duke. “Someone needs to get Dr. Poole,” she said through clenched teeth. “Biddle has been severely beaten.” Her mouth tightened as she lowered her gaze to Jameson’s hands. His knuckles were swollen, the skin broken, with specks of blood congealed across the stretched flesh. She
had a feeling most of the blood wasn’t his. “He’s unconscious.”

  “He slipped and fell,” Jameson said, rolling his shoulders in a shrug.

  “You’re an ass.”

  The constable’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “’Ere now! You mind yer tongue, miss!”

  The Duke held up a hand. “I think we need to calm down.”

  Jameson reddened, matching Kendra’s glare. “He’s a sodding murderer. Don’t know w’ot you’re getting so het up about. His neck’ll be stretched soon enough anyhow.”

  “I’ll go and get the doctor,” Sam volunteered.

  The Duke pointed at Jameson, “Constable, it will be a speedier endeavor if you show Mr. Kelly the way to Mr. Poole’s address. Take the carriage.”

  Jameson looked like he wanted to protest, still glaring at Kendra. “Aye, yer Grace,” he finally huffed, and fell into step beside the Bow Street Runner.

  Kendra spun around, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. “God.”

  Alec disappeared into the lockup, emerging a couple of minutes later. He shook his head when he met the Duke’s eyes. “Mr. Biddle does not look good.”

  Kendra stared up at the darkening sky. Down the street, she saw two men begin the nightly ritual of lighting the lampposts. “Why did he do it?” she finally asked. She turned to look at Alec and the Duke. “Why?”

  Alec regarded her. “Biddle, or Jameson?”

  Kendra opened her mouth, hesitated. She thought of Mrs. Stone and Mrs. Trout. She shrugged. “Both. Damn it.”

  42

  I don’t know what you think I can do,” Dr. Poole said, his fuzzy eyebrows meeting as he came out of the bedchamber, wiping his hands with a towel. The doctor had reluctantly allowed Biddle to be transferred to a spare bedroom in his cottage, although even at the lockup, he’d taken one look at the unconscious man and given a shrug, pronouncing Biddle all but in the grave. He hadn’t seemed too eager to stop that from happening, and was bewildered over Kendra’s desire to save him.

  “Most of the injuries are to his face, but he’s got several nasty gashes on the back of his skull. His color ain’t good. He’s not responding to stimuli.” He paused, as though to weigh his words. “Doubt if he’ll wake up again. He probably won’t last the night.”

  Kendra lifted her hand to rake her fingers through her hair, but remembered the hairstyle Molly had pinned. She let her hands fall, her gaze moving over Alec, the Duke, Sam, and finally Dr. Poole.

  “If Biddle dies, Jameson should be brought up on charges,” she said.

  Dr. Poole stared at her. “Do you have feathers for brains, madam? From what I heard, Biddle is the fiend that we’ve been seeking.”

  “He deserved a fair trial,” she snapped.

  “The constable said that the prisoner slipped and fell.”

  “Yeah—at least twenty times.”

  Dr. Poole’s eyes narrowed at her. “Maybe Mr. Biddle attempted to escape, and Mr. Jameson was forced to subdue him.”

  Kendra looked at Sam. “You accompanied the constable when he brought the prisoner to lockup, Mr. Kelly. Did Mr. Biddle attempt an escape?”

  “Nay, but . . .” The Bow Street Runner glanced away. “I didn’t tarry. I don’t know what happened after I left.”

  She sighed, rubbing the ache that had begun pounding between her brows. “Did Mr. Biddle have bruises on his face when you left him and the constable?”

  This time he looked straight at her, no obfuscation. “Nay.”

  Her lips tightened. She recognized the look on Sam’s face. The thin blue line. Bow Street Runners preceded any official police force in London, but that didn’t mean they weren’t cops. And cops—whether you were a Runner in London or a part-time constable—stuck together. Sam hadn’t participated in the beatdown, but he wasn’t going to point fingers at Jameson either.

  “What’s all this nonsense? If Mr. Biddle cocks up his toes, it’ll save East Dingleford the cost of the hemp and building a scaffolding,” groused Dr. Poole.

  “You have such a warm and gentle bedside manner, doctor,” Kendra said drily.

  “Forgive me, young lady, for not shedding tears over a murderer.”

  He had her there. She held up a hand, a gesture of concession, and looked beyond the doctor into the bedchamber. She couldn’t see anything, really, except the soft glow of firelight. “I’d like to stay with Mr. Biddle. He might wake up.”

  Dr. Poole frowned. “You are an unmarried lady, Miss Donovan. I hardly think it proper for you to spend the night in a bedchamber with a man.”

  Kendra stared at him. “The man is at death’s door,” she finally said. “What the hell do you think he’s going to do to me?”

  Dr. Poole’s mouth knotted in disapproval. “Nevertheless, proprieties must be observed. East Dingleford may be a country village, but we are respectable people. You may come back tomorrow.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  The fuzzy brows lifted. “What, pray tell, would you be able to do if Mr. Biddle woke and needed assistance? You are not a doctor, Miss Donovan. I doubt you have had much practice as a nursemaid either. Still, I can set your mind at rest on one score: Mr. Biddle shall not be alone. Either myself or Mrs. Poole will keep an eye on him throughout the night. He is not the first patient we’ve had in our home, you know. Although, I reckon if he survives, he’ll be the only patient we’ve nursed through the night whose hanging we’ll be attending.”

  Kendra glanced across the room and caught the glint of amusement in Alec’s eyes. He sees how absurd some of these rules are too.

  “I can spend the night with Mr. Biddle,” Sam offered. “If anything changes, I shall send word ter you immediately, miss.”

  “Mr. Kelly has hit upon an excellent solution,” said the Duke, laying a hand on Kendra’s arm. “I suggest we return to the Green Maiden and seek a good night’s rest.”

  Kendra supposed that was the only thing she could do. Still, she hesitated, her gaze locking on Sam’s. “If he wakes—”

  “I’ll send word ter you.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Get him to talk about the murders. You need to ask him why he tortured Mrs. Stone.” She wanted to ask Biddle these questions herself, but she had to be prepared for the just-in-case. Just as she had to be prepared that Biddle might never wake up.

  Biddle didn’t wake up during the night, but at least he was still alive the next morning when she arrived to relieve Sam. The Bow Street Runner looked tired, the shadows beneath his eyes giving him a bruised appearance. After he reported that Biddle was still unconscious, Sam left. Molly had insisted on accompanying Kendra to the Poole residence, and her eyes were round as they entered the sick room.

  It was a decent size room, with pale yellow painted walls, low ceiling beams, and sturdy pine furniture dusted to an inch of its life by either Mrs. Poole or an efficient housemaid. The fireplace was plain but functional, though the coal had apparently died out hours ago. Two chairs were in front of it, facing each other. Kendra noticed the blanket and pillow crumpled on one, and assumed that’s where Sam had spent the night. Someone—Sam, most likely again—had opened the damask curtains on the two windows, allowing sunlight to slant into the room and across the bed. One sunbeam fell across Biddle’s bruised and swollen face.

  “’E looks just awful, don’t ’e?” Molly whispered, peering down at the patient.

  “He’ll need to stay away from mirrors for the foreseeable future,” Kendra admitted.

  If he has a future, she amended silently. She gazed at Biddle. As far as she could tell, the only thing Dr. Poole had done was clean the blood off him and bandage his broken nose, which eased his breathing somewhat. It still sounded like he had a blockage.

  If Biddle didn’t wake up, he would die. It was as simple as that. In the twenty-first century, coma patients were given fluids, nutrients, and medicine intravenously or through a feeding tube. If they stopped breathing, they could be attached to a ventilator to keep their lungs pumping. But
here? Dr. Poole was right; what could he do? It was simply a waiting game. Biddle could die of the head injury, or starvation and dehydration.

  A wave of helplessness washed over her. For the first time, Kendra regretted her decision to pursue a career in criminology. Her parents would have approved if she’d chosen to become a doctor. And twenty-first-century medical skills would have been invaluable right now.

  On the flip side, if she had become a physician, she wouldn’t be there; presumably, she wouldn’t have flown halfway across the world to take down Sir Jeremy Greene.

  Were all her life choices just links on a chain that inevitably led her into the Duke’s study in the twenty-first century? Was it her destiny to flee into the stairwell, and into the wormhole or vortex? Or was it a random event? The thoughts crowded her brain, frustrating, tantalizing—and ultimately unanswerable. So let it go.

  She released a long sigh, and turned away from the bed. “You don’t have to stay, Molly. I don’t need a chaperone here.”

  Molly hesitated. “Well, Oi saw a sweet shop around the corner . . . Maybe Oi can nip out and get us somethin’?”

  “Sure—oh. I don’t have any money to give you.”

  “Oi ‘ave money, miss.”

  Kendra frowned. “You have money? How do you have money?”

  “’Tis me wages, miss.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Kendra was careful to keep her expression neutral. She didn’t begrudge the maid her wages, but that was another thing that was becoming intolerable. A fifteen-year-old had more money in her pocket than she did. “Okay,” she finally said. “You can go to the sweet shop while I stay here.”

  “W’ot do ye want me ter bring ye?”

  “I’m fine. You go, and don’t feel like you have to come back anytime soon.” She glanced at the still figure in the bed. “I have a feeling this is going to be a long day.”