Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Unfortunately, her prediction turned out to be true. After Molly left, Mrs. Poole arrived, and plopped herself in a chair with an embroidery hoop. Kendra wondered if the doctor’s wife was acting as her new chaperone.

  “Did you bring any of your needlework with you, Miss Donovan?” the old woman asked in her placid manner.

  “No.” She wished that she’d brought her murder book. Even though Biddle had essentially confessed on the rooftop, something was troubling her. She wanted to review her notes, the timeline.

  “I have another hoop, if you wish to embroider.”

  Kendra glanced at the rather intricate flowers, leaves, and stems that the other woman was creating, and shook her head. “I’m afraid that I don’t have that kind of talent.”

  Mrs. Poole eyed her with surprise. “You do not do needlework?”

  “Not so far.”

  The day dragged on. Dr. Poole came in to examine Biddle, which meant taking his pulse and pronouncing that nothing had changed. He shot Kendra an irritable look, but didn’t say anything. Molly returned with a brown paper package, which she opened to reveal marzipan shaped into tiny animals. Mrs. Poole left, then returned an hour later with a tea tray.

  The Duke and Alec arrived. They tried to convince her to abandon her vigil, certain that Mrs. Poole or her husband would send word to her if Biddle’s conditioned changed. Kendra was tempted, but decided to stick it out a little longer.

  Boredom finally made her accept Mrs. Poole’s offer of another hoop, cloth drawn tight across it, and needle and embroidery threads. How hard can this be?

  Once again, the skills of the nineteenth century foiled her, and she discovered that a task that looked simple was deceptive. She was staring at the tangled threads and lopsided flower when Biddle suddenly moved, his legs churning under the bedclothes, his arms flailing.

  “No!” he cried. “No . . . ”

  Kendra dropped the embroidery hoop. Racing over to the bed, she grasped his shoulders to stop his thrashing. “Get your husband!” she ordered Mrs. Poole, her gaze on Biddle. She saw that his swollen eyes had opened, mere slits. The whites of his eyes were demon-red.

  “Mr. Biddle, you’re going to be fine.” Biggest lie I’ve told. “Calm down, please.”

  His eyes slid back and forth.

  “Dr. Poole is coming . . .” But even as she said that, Biddle’s eyes rolled backward, then closed. The terror twisting his features began to fade.

  “Mr. Biddle?” she said, resisting the urge to shake him. “Mr. Biddle? Wake up!”

  Dr. Poole hurried into the room. “Move aside, move aside!”

  Kendra stepped back and watched as the doctor did a cursory examination, checking Biddle’s pulse, pulling his eyelids up. After a moment, he shook his head, and moved away from the bed.

  “He’s unconscious now. He woke up?”

  “Yes. He cried out, and opened his eyes briefly before lapsing back into unconsciousness,” Kendra said. “Do you think he’s coming out of the coma?”

  “How would I know? Head injuries are the most mysterious kind. Personally, I didn’t think that he would wake up at all.” He shrugged. “But if he woke up once, he could wake up again.”

  He wandered away, and Mrs. Poole, Molly, and Kendra resumed their vigil in a room silent but for Biddle’s rattled breathing. Kendra didn’t pick up her embroidery though. Instead, she went to the window. The sun was beginning to sink behind the moors, the shadows lengthening.

  No . . . no, what? She prayed that Dr. Poole was right and Biddle would wake again.

  But those prayers went unanswered. She wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened, but eventually the sensation creeped over her that something had changed. She became aware of the silence in the room. Kendra flew over to the bed again, her fingers going to Biddle’s neck. But she already knew.

  Biddle was dead.

  43

  There would be an inquest, of course. The news caused a bit of a flurry around the Green Maiden. Apparently inquests were rare in East Dingleford. Even the old earl’s death hadn’t required one.

  It was decided that the Green Maiden’s tavern would be used for the inquest. Kendra wasn’t sure she’d heard that right. But she was quickly informed by Sam that holding inquests in taverns wasn’t quite as strange as Kendra thought, especially in the countryside. A village like East Dingleford was sizeable, but, like a jail, it wasn’t big enough to have a courthouse.

  “We shall have to stay for the inquest tomorrow, as we are witnesses,” the Duke told her while they were both having tea in the private parlor. “Although ladies are not required to attend such proceedings, given their delicate sensibilities.” He hid a smile when her dark eyes fired up.

  “I’d really love to know which man started the myth about women having such delicate sensibilities,” she muttered. “And then kick his ass.”

  Now he did laugh. “I cannot help you, my dear.” He lifted his teacup and added, “You may instruct your maid to begin packing. I do not think it would be wise to leave immediately after the inquest, so we shall spend the night. And since the next day is Sunday—”

  “There’s no travel on the Sabbath.”

  Aldridge smiled. “Precisely. Besides, we ought to stay for Guy Fawkes Night, which I hear promises to be quite a celebration. We shall travel to Monksgrey on Monday morning, weather permitting.” He took a sip of tea and waited. When Kendra said nothing, he set his cup back on the saucer with a clink. “Are you quite all right, my dear? You appear to be in rather a brown study.”

  Kendra glanced over at the slate board, which had been wetted and wiped clean. The investigation was finished.

  So what was bothering her?

  “I’m fine, just—I don’t know . . .” She sighed, unable to put the sensation she was feeling into words. She was silent for a long moment, then picked up her teacup, and drank. Lowering the cup, she admitted, “I hate that I didn’t have a chance to interview Biddle.”

  “You wanted him to confess about Mrs. Trout and Mrs. Stone.”

  “Yeah.” She scowled into her tea. “It bothers me that the first crime scene was so different from the second one. Stone’s murder was disorganized, sloppy. But Mrs. Stone and Mrs. Trout? That one was organized and calculated.”

  “Mr. Biddle clearly panicked when he realized Mr. Stone had discovered his theft, and he killed him. Afterward he had time to calm down, to think rationally.”

  Kendra nodded. “But what’s the other piece of the puzzle? Biddle tortured Mrs. Stone for a reason.”

  “Obviously, Mr. Stone had more proof that Mr. Biddle had embezzled,” said the Duke. “Maybe he taunted him with that. It could have contributed to the man snapping.”

  “I suppose. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  He regarded her quizzically. “And yet you are still troubled.”

  She shifted impatiently in her seat. “It’s unfinished business, a thread dangling.”

  “And you want to snip it off.”

  Kendra smiled slightly. “Yeah, I’m anal that way.”

  The Duke choked, having just taken another swallow of tea. “Anal?”

  Kendra laughed. “Sorry. I don’t mean . . . it’s just an expression.”

  “It’s a very graphic expression.”

  She’d never really thought about it before. There was so much she’d taken for granted, things that were just part of her world.

  “I suppose it is,” she said. She finished off her tea and set the cup aside. “It also bothers me that I never thought Biddle the type to do what was done to Mrs. Stone. I can see him snapping and killing Stone, and maybe he could’ve been cold-blooded enough to slit a woman’s throat. But torture?” She shook her head. “I didn’t see that. And if I didn’t see that . . . what else am I missing?”

  “I would agree with you on that score, my dear. However, you tell me often enough that people hide parts of themselves. And everyone can be fooled.”

  She nodded. “Maybe that’s t
he thing that’s bugging me. No one wants to be a fool.” She moved toward the door. “I just feel . . .” She searched for the word, but nothing came to her. She shrugged. Let it go. “I’ll tell Molly that we’ll be leaving on Monday morning.”

  Unsettled. That was the word that she’d been searching for.

  She needed to walk. She needed to brood. And because she wanted to do it alone, she snuck her spencer out of her bedchamber while Molly was occupied in the dressing room.

  Outside, she struck out across the open field. In her haste to leave the bedchamber, she’d forgotten her bonnet and gloves, but it was warm enough not to need them. The fact that she even considered wearing a bonnet worried her a little. Wearing bonnets is becoming part of my life. She fought back a shiver, and once again her stomach tightened in the fear that she was losing herself, becoming unrecognizable.

  She didn’t pay any particular attention to where she was going until she crested a hill that sloped down toward the river. Her gaze traveled to the paddock near the edge of the forest. About a dozen people—kids mostly, she realized—were stacking wood into a pyre. Fixed to a stake at the center of a pyre was a straw-filled dummy, presumably, Guy Fawkes—the Catholic conspirator who had tried to blow up Parliament.

  The forest behind them was brilliant with reds, oranges, yellows, and greens. The mill towered above the trees in the distance. The sight of the peaked roofs and enormous chimneystacks had greasy knots tightening in her belly. She’d never been afraid of heights, but she wondered if she might start suffering from the phobia now.

  The pounding of hooves drew her attention away from the building. She turned, and felt a quick stab of disappointment that the man on horseback wasn’t Alec.

  “Miss Donovan,” said Lord Bancroft, sweeping off his beaver hat as he reined in the large black stallion beside her. “Good afternoon. You are out alone.”

  “So are you.”

  He smiled. “I shall walk with you,” he said, swinging off his horse.

  Kendra didn’t particularly want the earl’s company, but since she didn’t know how to avoid it without being rude, she waited. He kept hold of the reins, and the horse docilely trailed behind him as they walked.

  Bancroft spoke. “I heard about Mr. Biddle.” His expression was grave. “I cannot believe that he’s a murderer. And I am shocked to learn that he was embezzling from the mill.”

  “Are you?” Kendra shot him a curious glance. Bancroft’s dark eyes gave nothing away. “Rumor has it that the mill had become more rundown, and wasn’t producing the quality product that it once did. I’m surprised you didn’t notice or question it.”

  He was silent for a long moment. “I am guilty of negligence, I’m afraid,” he admitted finally, expelling a sigh of regret. “My interest in the mill waned as other interests took precedence. The gas lighting craze. Steam engines. I put the mill in Mr. Stone and Mr. Biddle’s hands, and . . .” He shrugged. “I received a consistent dividend from the project, so I didn’t inquire too closely.”

  “It seems a little odd that you didn’t check in occasionally, since you practically live next door,” she commented, studying him carefully.

  “Ah, but I did occasionally put in an appearance, and speak to Mr. Stone about the mill’s operation,” he corrected her smoothly. “I relied on him to give me a fair report. I would say that he failed in his duty. However, it would seem that Mr. Stone only became aware of the embezzlement last week.”

  Kendra said nothing. Bancroft was right.

  The earl asked, “Will you be attending the inquest tomorrow, or will you and your party be leaving East Dingleford?”

  “I’ll be at the inquest. We’re leaving on Monday.”

  “Will you be coming to our Guy Fawkes celebration on Sunday evening, then?” He gestured to the activities in the paddock below. “Everyone attends, villagers and farm folk. I give my servants leave to go to the festivities. Even my daughter, Winifred, shall be there.”

  “Everyone?”

  She wondered if Mr. Turner and his wife would be there, if she would have another opportunity to speak to Flora, at least to get word to her that they’d be leaving on Monday. Would Flora take her up on her offer to leave her husband? She doubted it, and that left a weight on her. Is that why I feel so unsettled? The certainty that Turner will eventually kill his wife?

  But what can I do?

  “Everyone,” Bancroft confirmed. “There will be food and drink, and I shall supply a wild boar for the feast.”

  An image of the ugly beast she’d encountered in the forest a couple of days earlier came to mind, and she wondered if the animal’s existence had ended on a roasting spit. For some reason, that depressed her.

  “We plan to attend,” she said.

  “Very good. I’m certain you will enjoy it.” He came to a stop, and regarded her with his intense gaze. “I must return home. I am reviewing the mill’s operation. I also must advertise for another mill manager, and begin the interview process.”

  “Sounds like you’re busy,” she said, watching him swing himself onto his horse.

  “I am.” He sat, looking down at her; his expression was unreadable. Some emotion flitted behind his eyes. Then he inclined his head. “Good day, Miss Donovan.”

  Kendra stared at him as he wheeled his horse around. The stallion’s hooves kicked up clumps of damp earth as Bancroft sent the animal into a gallop. She shivered a little, thinking of the expression she’d seen in his eyes. It didn’t make any sense, but she thought it might have been regret.

  44

  Kendra had never attended an inquest quite like the one held at the Green Maiden the next day at noon. For one, she’d never been at in inquest where alcohol was served. And the proceedings seemed almost . . . festive. The tavern was crowded with villagers, men and women alike. Tessa and Lizzie and the dark-haired barmaid were kept busy, hopping between the tables, serving drinks.

  Kendra sat down at one of the scarred tables, flanked by the Duke and Alec. They were lucky to find seats. A lot of people weren’t so fortunate, standing with their backs pressed against the wall. She spotted Sam standing across the room. Even though he was drinking ale, his expression remained flat and hard. Cop-like.

  Kendra tensed when her gaze moved beyond the Bow Street Runner to another familiar face. William Turner.

  Maybe he felt her gaze on him. Whatever the reason, his eyes swung in her direction, his expression darkening with malevolence. After a long moment, he jerked his gaze away, looking toward the area of the bar that had been cleared except for fifteen empty chairs for the jurors.

  “It’s a circus,” she said with a frown. “A man’s dead.”

  Alec’s mouth twisted. “We’re a ghoulish lot, aren’t we? It wasn’t long ago that the French delighted in watching their aristocrats’ heads roll.”

  “We English are hardly pure, Alec.” The Duke looked at his nephew. “How many tavern owners and peddlers have increased profits every time there’s a hanging at Newgate?” He glanced at Kendra. “I pray that mankind has advanced beyond this form of amusement in your America.”

  “We don’t have public executions,” she murmured. At least not government-sanctioned ones, she thought. There had been murderers who’d live-streamed killing their victims, and a media frenzy always surrounded famous trials. “I don’t think anybody can claim to be pure.”

  Dr. Poole came into the room, jostling his way over to the bar, where the dark-haired barmaid poured him a pint. The crowd hushed when Squire Matthews was carried in by two burly men.

  “Clear the way! Clear the way!” one of the men shouted, making a path through the throng of people.

  “Get away from my toe, you fool!” the squire yelled, and used the cane he was holding to jab at bodies that were too close. “Stand back! Stand back, I say!”

  His son followed with a pillow, and there was more jostling as another chair was acquired, displacing its current occupant, so the squire could have a footstool. Matthews placed the
pillow on the seat, and helped his father prop up his bandaged foot.

  Kendra’s attention was caught by fourteen men filing into the tavern. By their dress, she guessed them to be from all walks of life: merchants, field hands, farmers, a couple of mill workers. The last person to arrive was Constable Jameson. He swaggered in, earning cheers and back slaps. Another chair was hurriedly acquired and Jameson sat down, feet spread, arms crossed.

  “Oy! Quiet now!” the squire shouted at the room. “We’re here about the untimely death of Mr. Biddle.”

  “The murderer!” Someone shrieked from the back of the room. “Fiend! Demon!”

  The squire addressed the heckler. “Yes, he was that, but we’re here because the Crown says we have to have an inquest for any prisoner who cocks up his toes in custody, so an inquest we shall have!”

  A slender man hurried over and handed the squire several sheets of foolscap. The squire lifted his hand and snapped his fingers impatiently. Matthews broke from the crowd, and handed his father a pair of spectacles. The squire took a moment to put his glasses on, then scanned the papers. He cleared his throat and shifted his gaze to Jameson.

  “Now, Constable, what say you? Were you alone when you brought Mr. Biddle to lockup?”

  “Nay, Mr. Kelly came with me. He’s a Bow Street Runner from London Town.”

  “I see. And Mr. Kelly . . . where are you?” The squire scanned the crowd.

  “Here, sir!”

  “Come closer, sir. Please tell this inquest what state Mr. Biddle was in when you accompanied the constable to the lockup.”

  Sam set down his tankard of ale, and strode forward until he faced the seated men. “He was fine, sir. Not a mark on him.”

  “I see. And did you leave Constable Jameson with the prisoner?”

  “Aye, that I did.”

  “Thank you, sir. That will be all.” He shifted his attention back to the constable. “Now, sir, tell us in your own words what happened.”

  “Well, sir, I was ready ter lock the bastard up, I was, but then he went mad. Attacked me, he did.”

  “Oh, this is bullshit,” Kendra muttered beneath her breath.