“I was afeared for my life,” the constable said, “and had ter subdue the murderin’ bastard.”
“You struck him?”
“Aye. Defendin’ meself.” He lifted his beefy shoulders and let them drop. “Then Mr. Biddle slipped and fell. Must’ve hit his head.”
“You did not maliciously attack the prisoner?”
“Nay! As I said, I was defendin’ meself against Mr. Biddle. Didn’t wanna end up like Mr. Stone, did I?”
“Understandable,” said the squire.
Kendra leaned toward the Duke and whispered, “If Mr. Biddle attacked him, I’d like to see his defensive wounds.”
“Oy! Quiet!” The squire shot her a look before turning his attention back to Jameson. “Is it your contention, sir, that Mr. Biddle died from his head injury, which was caused by him slipping and falling? And not any blows you may have done in the course of defending yourself from the fiend’s attack?”
“Aye. That is me contention, sir.”
“Dr. Poole, please step forward.” The squire waited until the doctor drained his glass, slammed it on the bar, and stepped forward. “Can you tell us how the prisoner died?”
“Mr. Biddle died of his head injury,” Poole said, his fuzzy brows lowering. “Most likely by slipping and falling.”
“Thank you, doctor. Now we shall take a recess in order for us to go to Dr. Poole’s house to view Mr. Biddle. We shall resume again in one hour.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Kendra snapped as the room exploded around her with noise. Chairs scraped back and everyone began to talk. She looked at Alec and the Duke. “This is a farce.”
“Would you like to leave, Miss Donovan?” Alec asked.
“No.” Damn it. “I’m staying until the end.”
It took another three hours for the end to come. The Duke was called upon to describe how Biddle had tried to flee up to the roof, and had nearly killed his ward in the process.
“Why aren’t they asking me these questions?” Kendra muttered to Alec. But she knew, and it pissed her off. Alec wisely kept his mouth shut.
Kendra sat fuming while the squire questioned the Duke about how Biddle had nearly dragged her off the roof. The Duke answered the questions posed to him with painstaking honesty. In the end, the squire credited Biddle’s actions as an attempt to escape, and decided it was an extension of his lunacy. A man who was so crazed that he’d drag a maiden to her death, he reasoned, could attack a constable in the same fit of madness.
“A constable,” he added, “who was working hard to ensure the safety of East Dingleford’s citizens.”
The squire was forceful and convincing. Hell, Kendra would’ve believed him if she hadn’t been there.
They broke up for a late nuncheon. Kendra was too annoyed to eat. She went up to her bedchamber, and shocked Molly when she stripped down to her chemise and stays, and forced herself to do several yoga stretches. It helped. By the time she was in corpse pose (the irony was not lost on her) she was feeling both limber and relaxed. After Molly buttoned her up again, she returned to the tavern.
Alec was standing in the doorway. He caught her hand, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I just needed to release tension.”
They returned to their seats, and waited until the inquest reconvened. The squire banged his cane against the floor to draw everybody’s attention. Kendra held her breath as Squire Matthews pronounced Biddle’s death to be the result of a fall, which had come about because of his own folly.
The room burst into applause. Men launched themselves at Constable Jameson, laughing and thumping him on the back. Kendra caught the exchange of money between several groups. More backslapping. More laughter.
“I think I need a drink,” Kendra said.
The Duke gave her a look. “You didn’t think the jurors would have punished one of their own for the likes of Mr. Biddle—a murderer—did you?”
“I suppose it was too much to ask for some semblance of justice.”
“Justice does not always have a clear line, my dear.”
Kendra stared at the people celebrating, and nearly shook her head in disgust. Then she remembered her own line in the sand. She’d gone after Sir Jeremy Green because of her own idea of justice. Who was she to judge?
She met the Duke’s eyes. “No, it doesn’t.”
45
Flora Turner was scared.
She concealed her fear, though, as she put on her Sunday best, and coat and bonnet. The one pair of gloves she usually wore had to be abandoned; she couldn’t fit the knit wool over the bandage on her wrist. She concealed her fear during church service.
She was good at concealing her fear. She’d been doing it all of her life.
Lowering her head, she prayed over her tightly clasped hands. Praying was another thing she’d been doing as long as she could remember, the same thing over and over. Save me.
Though she kept her eyes downcast, she could feel her husband’s big body beside her. She listened to him as he joined the congregation, repeating the verses of the Bible. His voice was a low rumble for the words, then lifted for song.
She wasn’t the only one hiding things. Her husband had demons inside him that no one knew about. Standing here, in the church, before God, he looked like a paragon. Handsome in his newly laundered Sunday best, his face clean-shaven and his hair combed back. It was easy to overlook the puffy redness around his eyes.
He’d been gone most of yesterday, into the village for the inquest and then—then, she didn’t know. He’d left her to milk the cow, a chore she often did, but it was more awkward with her wrist hurting the way it was. Still, she’d managed. Just as she’d managed to scrub the kitchen floor and wash both of their Sunday best. She’d cooked their supper, even though she’d had a feeling deep inside that he wouldn’t be home for his. If he had come home and she hadn’t had his supper cooked and waiting . . . well, that just didn’t bear thinking about.
She’d been in bed when he’d finally come home. Asleep, but she rarely slept deeply. She’d woken the moment he’d stumbled into their bedchamber, reeking of whisky. The odor was enough to send a dart of paralyzing fear through her. Long before William, she’d learned to become afraid of that smell. It had clung to her father every time he’d become enraged at his wife and children.
She’d pretended to sleep. When William had discarded his clothes and crawled under the covers, she’d feared his carnal appetites would emerge, as they sometimes did. But God had been looking after her, and William had fallen asleep.
Save me.
Sometimes prayers were answered.
But that was temporary, she knew. Today, standing before God with Bible in hand, Flora sensed the demons roiling within her husband, and began to tremble. She hoped that he was only suffering from a headache. She’d made a physic out of basil and honey that usually eased his suffering, but sometimes her husband’s mood went beyond his discomfort.
Save me.
The church service ended. The vicar began his walk down the aisle, but stopped next to the pew where the Duke of Aldridge sat. To have someone as exalted as the Duke in their country church was a great honor, and the vicar’s face glowed as he escorted the nobleman down the aisle. As they passed, Flora caught the tightening of William’s lips, and dread rolled through her stomach.
Head bowed, she followed William and the flow of the congregation toward the exit. Around her, people spoke of the Guy Fawkes bonfires later that night. That meant another night of drinking for William, and cards or games of chance, another night to wonder if the demons would rise up in her husband and turn against her.
The vicar was standing next to the Duke of Aldridge near the door. She sensed William’s impatience as the crowd jammed up, everyone trying to leave at once. Flora overheard the Duke tell the vicar that he and his ward and nephew would be attending Guy Fawkes Night, and leaving for his estate the following morning.
; Flora’s mouth dried up, and she stumbled. She quickly straightened, but she saw the narrow-eyed look that William shot her. She was relieved when they were out of the church, walking to the cart and pony.
Save me.
Miss Donovan had offered to save her, to take her away from East Dingleford and find a position for her at one of the Duke’s estates. But Flora was married, bound by God to William. It was wrong of her to think about running away.
Still, Miss Donovan’s warnings swam through her head as she climbed into the cart and sat down. Flora wasn’t as worried about the beatings. She’d spent her life having a man lift his hand to her, first her father and then her husband. But William’s demons seemed to be getting worse. Maybe Miss Donovan had the right of it. Maybe someday William would kill her.
Yet that worried her less than the other thing. A beating could only hurt her body. But her soul . . . William had forced her to lay with another man. He didn’t want to do it, she knew, but they’d needed to pay off the debt, or else be sent to the poorhouse. They’d had no choice, but it was still a sin.
Her body burned with shame whenever she thought of Harry. She’d heard about his reputation at the cotton mill and with women. He’d married an actress, virtually a strumpet. And he was old, older than her father. She’d felt sick when the arrangement began, but Harry had been surprisingly gentle. He may have ignored the bruises on her body, but he’d never added to them. That said something, didn’t it?
Flora gave a small start when she realized they were already back at the farm. William jumped off the cart, and shot her another dark look as he began unharnessing the pony.
“W’ot are ye doin’ jest sittin’ there?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “W’ot are ye thinkin’, wife?”
For a second, Flora froze in terror, wondering if William could see inside her head. She forced herself to scramble off the cart. “Just thinkin’ about tonight.” The lie felt ungainly on her tongue. “Will we be goin’ ter the Guy Fawkes fire later?”
“I may be goin’,” he said, tossing the harness over his shoulder as he regarded her. “Some of the fellas will be gettin’ together for a game. Can’t very well go ter that and watch over ye at the bonfire, can I?”
“Nay,” she whispered, lowering her eyes so that her husband wouldn’t see the horror turning her bones to ice.
She hurried into the house, her movements automatic as she slipped out of her coat and took off her bonnet. She went upstairs to carefully put them away. She started to shake as soon as she closed the wardrobe. With a sob, she sank onto the bed.
What if William used her to pay off more debt? Her soul would burn in hell.
Flora pressed a hand to her mouth, and rocked back and forth. She was already a whore in William’s eyes, she knew. He’d made the arrangement, had given her to Harry, but ever since the first time she’d lain with the other man, she’d seen the hatred in her husband’s eyes.
Shuddering, Flora rose from the bed, and wiped the tears from her face. She needed to cut meat and bread, and pour ale for William’s nuncheon. Yet when she returned to the kitchen, she didn’t go to the cupboards where the knife and bread were kept. Instead, she went to the cupboard that held the tin flour bin. Her heart stuttered painfully in her chest as she lifted the container down, setting it on the counter. Before she lifted the lid, she darted over to the window. William had brought the pony into the stables and was now walking toward the barn.
Drawing in a nervous breath, she hurried back to the flour bin. She removed the lid, pushing her hand through the silky mixture until her fingers closed over the soft oilskin roll that Harry had given her a month after they’d begun the arrangement. He’d told her that his wife had come across it once. He’d hidden it, but that hadn’t stopped his wife’s snooping. Flora hadn’t asked what it was. She knew better than to pry into a man’s business. Harry seemed to know that about her, to know he could rely on her to do what he asked without pestering him.
She’d hidden it, just as Harry had asked. She’d actually forgotten about it until the other day, when Miss Donovan had mentioned that Harry might have something valuable. A treasure. She’d brought it out after Miss Donovan had gone, her fingers trembling as she untied the ribbon and unrolled the oilskin. Inside the material was a letter, folded and sealed. Guilt had squeezed her stomach, but she’d broken the seal and smoothed out the single piece of foolscap. The paper was large, with wiggly lines all around the page. Words, she supposed. She’d never been taught to read, so the flowing ink baffled her.
Continued to baffle her, as she wiped the flour from the oilskin, once again unfolding the paper. She bit her lip, squinting at the odd squiggles. It wasn’t a map, she knew. She’d seen maps before. But maybe it was directions to a treasure? She shot a nervous look at the window. If she brought this to Miss Donovan, would the other woman tell her? She’d said she’d wanted to help.
Carefully, Flora folded the paper again and slipped it into her pocket. She needed a plan. Miss Donovan would be leaving on the morrow. That left Flora only tonight.
Save me.
Prayers were sometimes answered.
46
Kendra was not really in the mood for the Guy Fawkes’s celebration, but she dutifully accepted the spencer jacket, bonnet, kid gloves, and reticule that Molly handed her. Outside, the Duke, Alec, and Sam mingled with the rest of the staff: the Duke’s valet, Wilson; the coachman, Benjamin; the groom Stanley; and the stable boy Dylan. Molly eagerly joined them, and began to bounce on her toes. Whether it was because she was excited or wanted to keep warm, Kendra couldn’t be sure. The evening sky was clear and the moon brilliant, still in its waning phase, casting a silvery light over the landscape, but it was cold enough to turn their breath into puffs of vapor.
“’Tis a glorious evening.” The Duke smiled at her. “I thought we could walk to the celebration.”
She summoned an answering smile. “An excellent idea, your Grace.”
Alec proffered Kendra his elbow, his gaze on her face. “What’s the matter?” he asked in a low voice, as they began walking.
She shook her head. “Nothing.” Everything. Something had been bothering her all day, but she couldn’t pin it down.
“Oh, this is ever so excitin’,” Molly exclaimed, grinning. “Tessa says there’ll be musicians. I wonder if they’ll ’ave fireworks like we ’ave back in Aldridge Village.”
The Duke said, “Have no fear, young Molly. Mrs. Bolton told me that there will be fireworks. It won’t be Vauxhall, but I’m certain it will be entertaining.”
“Will there be sermons, sir?” wondered the maid.
“Possibly.” The Duke looked at Kendra, and explained, “The local vicars often use it as an opportunity to preach against the evils of popery.”
“Hopefully, the parson’ll be quick about it,” Sam muttered. “But I’ve learned ter have a pint of spiced rum in me hands before he begins his prattle.”
Aldridge laughed. “Clever notion, Mr. Kelly. I shall have to borrow that from you.”
“And do ye think they’ll ’ave bonfire toffee, yer Grace?” Molly asked, her eyes shining in the moonlight.
“What’s Guy Fawkes Night without bonfire toffee?” He smiled, and the maid giggled.
It occurred to Kendra that before their stay in East Dingleford, Molly would never have felt so free to speak directly to the Duke like this. Aldridge Castle’s housekeeper, Mrs. Danbury, was a great believer in keeping the rigid rules of the Beau Monde, and enforced the policy that servants were supposed to be invisible to their betters. If the housekeeper could see the Duke and Molly converse like they were now, she’d probably accuse the maid of being too familiar. That had been Mrs. Danbury’s reaction when Kendra had unwittingly called the Duke, Duke, when she’d first stumbled out of the vortex, she remembered. How was she supposed to have known that Duke was a title for family or close acquaintances? The housekeeper’s head had practically exploded.
But the teasing sensation was back,
that something . . . something . . . What am I missing?
They had reached the crest of the hill. Kendra stared down at the paddock in amazement. It appeared as though Lord Bancroft had been right. The entire village of East Dingleford really did turn out to celebrate Guy Fawkes Night.
The field had been transformed into something that reminded Kendra of a country fair or carnival. Torches and lanterns bore bright flames, flickering in the darkness. About two dozen tinkers had set up their carts to sell food, beverages, and an assortment of merchandise. The unlit pyre was a dark mountain, a staggering ten feet high near the bank of the river. People—probably two hundred men, women, and children—milled about the area. Conversation, laughter, the delighted shrieks of children, and music—violins and flutes—swirled around them, and there was a cacophony of smells in the air. Roasting meats and chestnuts. Baking pies. Smoke from the torches. The brackish odor from the river. The strong scent of pine and foliage from the forest.
“Wow,” was all she said.
“I think the good folks of East Dingleford need this more than ever, given the recent tragedies,” said Alec. He captured her hand, and brought it to his lips in a display of affection that sent heat shooting straight to her toes. Or maybe it was the glitter in his green eyes.
Beside her, Sam snorted, but didn’t say anything. She caught his eye, and knew what he was thinking. The good folks of East Dingleford weren’t mourning Mr. Stone. And while his wife was probably better liked, especially by the village’s men, no one was crying over her demise either. If there was anything that East Dingleford was feeling, it was relief that the murderer had been caught so they could get on with their lives.
Except . . . Damn it, what was it?
The Duke said, “The villagers are fortunate to have such an excellent evening. Look at that sky!” He pointed. “Look, there’s Alpha Draconis—Thuban. Are you aware that thousands of years ago, Alpha Draconis was the star that held up the heavens? The true north star. Ancient man may have stood where we are standing now gazing at these very stars.”
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