A Brush with Shadows

by Anna Lee Huber

  “Swing letters?” I asked, hoping one of the men would explain what they were talking about.

  “There’s been widespread rioting among the agricultural workers in the south and east of England since last autumn,” Gage turned to say. “Thus far it’s only included the destruction of threshing machines and the burning of wheelhouses and hayricks—things of that nature. My father has been keeping me apprised of the situation in case it should escalate into anything more serious.”

  Into something that should require his investigative skills. I could read between the lines.

  “Yes, but why? Don’t the threshing machines make their jobs easier?”

  “For the laborers whose jobs the machines don’t displace, yes. But farmers and landowners now require less men to bring in the harvest, and have lowered the wages of those whom they do still employ. The workers have been banding together, and in some cases sending these Swing letters to the farmers, magistrates, and others who they think are responsible for their problems. They threaten to take action if their demands aren’t met.”

  “Namely raising wages and getting rid of their threshing machines?” I asked.

  “Precisely.” He glanced at Glanville, who had been listening quietly while nursing his latest glass of brandy. “Though I hadn’t realized there was any rioting occurring so far west.”

  “For those with land to be planted, there’s been some unrest.” He gestured with the hand holding his glass, splashing liquid onto the floor. “Not like we’ve heard of to the east. But some.”

  “Has there been much destruction?”

  He shrugged. “A burning or two.”

  I sat forward away from the cushions, wondering if the sour stench I smelled clinging to the settee was spilled liquor. “Is that the only action they threaten to take? Setting fire to the machines and such?”

  “From what I understand, the threats are quite vague.” Gage’s tone trailed away in bemusement as we watched Glanville try and fail to rise from his chair twice.

  When finally he gained his feet, he crossed to the writing desk positioned in front of one of the windows and rummaged around in the drawer. Having located what he was looking for, he grunted in satisfaction and returned to thrust something under Gage’s nose. “Here.”

  I leaned forward to see they were letters of some kind. Gage read the first one aloud.

  Sir, This is to acquaint you that if your threshing machines are not destroyed by you directly we shall commence our labors. Signed on behalf of the whole, Swing.

  His mouth twisted wryly. “Fairly straightforward.” He passed me the first letter while he unfolded the second.

  Sir, Your name is down amongst the Black Hearts in the Black Book and this is to advise you and the like of you . . .

  He broke off, and I glanced up from my perusal of the first note. Clearing his throat, he started to read again.

  This is to advise you and the like of you to make your wills.

  His eyes flicked up toward me as he continued.

  Ye have been the Blackguard Enemies of the People on all occasions. Ye have not yet done as ye ought. Swing.

  “That sounds like they’re threatening more than the destruction of property,” I said.

  “I would say so.”

  He spoke lightly as he passed the second letter to me, but I could see that his eyes were troubled.

  “And you said Alfred claimed the ones they received at Langstone Manor were similar?” he asked Glanville.

  “I assume so. We didn’t discuss the specifics.”

  Our host’s words had begun to slur, and I realized it was time to bring our interview to a close. But first I had one more question.

  “Who is Swing?”

  “That would be Captain Swing, a sort of mythical mouthpiece for the rioters,” Gage explained. “It refers to the swinging stick of the flail used in hand threshing.”

  “So it’s not a real person?”

  He grimaced. “No. And Father says all the letters he’s seen have exhibited different handwriting, so there’s no reason to think any one person has taken on that personification. The rioters seem to use it at will.”

  Which meant tracking down the specific man who had sent these letters and the letters to Lord Tavistock would not be so simple. If, in fact, the same person had even sent them.

  “May we keep these?” Gage asked Glanville, who slouched lower in his chair.

  He waved them away. “Take ’em. Oh, and if ye do find Alfy . . .” He grinned as we rose to our feet. “Let him know he owes me fifty quid.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Well, that was an enlightening conversation,” I remarked as we jolted down the uneven lane.

  “Which part? The part where we discovered Aunt Vanessa lied, or the part where we learned my grandfather is not sharing everything he knows?”

  I reached over to touch Gage’s hand where it rested on his leg, drawing his gaze away from the window. I heard the frustration in his voice, felt it tightening his muscles.

  At the sight of my empathetic smile, he exhaled, sinking his head back against the squabs. “I’m not sure why I expected them to be forthcoming. People always have something to hide. Even family.” He gave a dry chuckle, revising his statement. “Especially family.” His eyes slid toward the view outside the window again. “I guess I hoped that given the stakes, they would be more forthright with us.” His mouth screwed up in disgust. “Unlike my father.”

  Lord Gage had much to answer for, particularly when it came to his deception and dishonesty during our last inquiry. But now was not the time to rehash that. There would be plenty of time during our journey on to London after this matter with Alfred was resolved.

  “I suppose I can understand why your aunt wasn’t truthful with us,” I said, beginning with the person whose lies Gage found easiest to stomach. “Given what I know about her, she would hardly want it known she lost her cool composure and rushed off to confront a known profligate in his own home. Somehow I suspect she would deny she ever screamed like a harpy.”

  Gage’s lips quirked, as if he might enjoy witnessing such a sight. “True. She rarely ever lost her temper that I can recall. The icy slices of her tongue were usually more than effective.”

  I jostled into his shoulder as the carriage wheel thudded into a particularly nasty rut and then turned out of the drive onto the road. “I suppose this explains the odd manner in which she hastened to tell us Glanville had called on her without our even asking. She wanted to discourage us from visiting him because she didn’t want us to know the truth.”

  His leg bounced restlessly beneath our joined hands. “Given the fact that Aunt Vanessa rushed off to confront Glanville, and Hammett’s assurance that he searched every part of the manor’s property, I think we have to conclude that my aunt is not helping Alfred hide.”

  He sounded less than pleased to concede such a thing. I supposed because it was the simplest solution. And one that would do his aunt and Alfred no credit.

  “I agree,” I replied. “That doesn’t mean Alfred isn’t hiding somewhere, but I don’t think Lady Langstone is involved if he is. I also think Glanville was being honest when he said he had no idea where his friend was. I don’t think he would have bothered to fib for him if he had.”

  Gage nodded. “He would’ve had to make some sort of effort to retrieve Alfred from the moors, and I can’t see that happening. You’ll recall, no one at any of the farms along the roads bordering that part of the moor reported anything suspicious. I have just as hard a time imagining none of them saw Glanville’s carriage rumble by as I do believing one of those people would lie about loaning my cousin a horse, as Aunt Vanessa suggested.”

  I released his hand and shifted in my seat so that I could see him better. “So if he’s not with Glanville or being hidden by his mother, then where is he?” I nibbled my lip in
deliberation. “Could he be with another friend?”

  Gage tapped his fingers against his leg. “I don’t know. But . . . I think we have to consider the possibility that he actually met with some sort of harm.”

  “Because of the Swing letters?”

  “Among other things.” His expression grew grim. “The truth is, I find it increasingly difficult to believe Alfred would disappear on his own in such a manner, and for such a long time. Without his clothes, or his valet, or his horse. From what I know of my cousin, he would never have the patience to hide for so long. Not merely to avoid my grandfather’s wrath.”

  Even though the things he said about his cousin were less than complimentary, genuine apprehension crept into his voice. He might not like the man, but he plainly still cared about him.

  I rubbed a hand over his arm in comfort. “Maybe Alfred has changed?”

  “Maybe,” he replied, though his tone of voice said that was doubtful.

  Having never met Alfred, I had to defer to Gage’s knowledge of him. But I was also aware that sometimes those who were closest to us also held the greatest bias.

  “Glanville claimed Alfred started acting oddly a month before he disappeared. Drinking less, ignoring women, refusing to pay his friend’s way, avoiding him. Do you think he might have begun to reconcile himself to an engagement with Lady Juliana?”

  Gage scoffed. “I think it more probable he was already suffering from a stomach complaint.”

  I gazed at him in gentle chastisement. “You’re not being very impartial.”

  He scowled as if he wanted to argue that point, but then sighed. “You’re right. I’m not.” He raked a hand back through his golden hair, thinking over the matter. “It’s possible. It’s also possible Grandfather simply cut off his funds. Though, such a thing has never stopped Alfred from buying on credit in the past, and I can’t imagine it would now either.”

  “Has anyone spoken to Lady Juliana? Perhaps she knows something.”

  “We can ask, but I doubt it.”

  “Then perhaps we shall have to pay her a visit as well.”

  He pressed a hand to the breast of his coat, underneath which he’d stowed the letters Glanville had given us in his inner pocket. “I would like to ask her father if he’s received any of these Swing letters, either at Endsleigh House or any of his other properties.”

  “Why do you think the viscount failed to mention them to us? If they’re worded anything like Glanville’s letters, wouldn’t the sender have been an obvious suspect?” I tilted my head, mulling over the possibilities. “Could he have forgotten?”

  It was clear Gage didn’t like the suggestion his grandfather might have forgotten such an important thing. “I don’t know. Given his certainty that someone caused Alfred harm, I would have expected him to eagerly show us any such letters.” His eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to him. “Unless he doesn’t know about them.”

  “Rory,” I murmured, following his line of thinking.

  “He said he’s been handling much of the estate business, as well as Grandfather’s correspondence. At least, the missives Hammett doesn’t confiscate first. And I doubt he would trouble himself over a few nondescript letters.”

  “Perhaps Rory decided, given the viscount’s health, it would be best not to trouble him over them.”

  Gage tilted his head in acknowledgment. “It’s probably what I would have done.”

  I plucked at a piece of lint clinging to my cornflower blue skirt. “But . . . then why didn’t he tell us about them?”

  “That’s a very good question.” He turned to look out the window into the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. “One I think we should ask him.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “To be honest, I hadn’t connected them to Alfred’s disappearance,” Rory told us when we cornered him in the viscount’s study a short time later. He must have been able to read the skepticism in both of our faces, for he hastened to explain. “They just seemed so . . . ridiculous. I set them aside and never gave them a second thought.”

  “Did you read them?” Gage asked incredulously.

  His brow furrowed in mild affront. “Of course. But their grammar was so horrendous, and the threats . . . well, I thought them naught but toothless yammering.”

  I arched my eyebrows at this excuse. So a man needed to use correct grammar in order for his threats to be taken seriously? Could Rory not hear how foolish he sounded?

  “Here.” He bent over, rummaging in one of the lowest drawers in the desk. Finding what he was looking for, he thrust the folded papers toward Gage. “Read them yourself.”

  I leaned closer to see over his shoulder, discovering two of the letters read almost exactly like the first one Glanville had shown us. The third grew harsher in tone, but unlike Glanville’s second letter, it made no reference to causing bodily harm. It merely declared that the destruction of the threshing machines would be coming, as would a list of their further demands.

  Gage shuffled back through the pages. “These are all the letters you received?”

  “Yes. The last one arrived about three weeks ago. But no one has damaged any of the estate’s property or made any further demands.” Rory raised his hands in bewilderment.

  “Have you shown Grandfather any of these?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t think he needed to be bothered by them. You know how he is. They would only make him livid.”

  The cousins shared a look of mutual understanding.

  “What of Alfred? I assume he was aware of them?” I asked. Glanville had said as much.

  “Yes, I showed him two of them,” Rory replied. “He thought them a colossal joke.”

  “Could he have decided to do something about them?”

  Rory’s gaze was rife with scorn. “I suppose it’s possible.”

  I looked up at Gage. “Maybe he confronted someone over them and the matter turned ugly?” I shrugged, not really knowing if that was a likely scenario or not.

  “Perhaps someone from one of the farms bordering the moor to the north?” He narrowed his eyes on the tall stone hearth beyond Rory, considering the matter. “That would explain why he was seen walking in that direction. And why no one in that area has admitted to seeing him. If someone caused him bodily harm, or intended to cover for someone who had, they wouldn’t speak up.” He huffed an exasperated breath. “It’s as good an explanation for his setting off across the moor as any I can think of.”

  Had I not been looking at Rory, I might not have seen the loathing that flickered briefly over his face. His gaze lifted from where he stared down at the desk and caught me watching him. A beat passed before he spoke, and it was that tiny hesitation that made me wonder if what he told us next he’d intended to keep to himself.

  “As to that, I’ve been thinking. I believe I may have an alternative explanation.” He tapped the edge of the desk. “I think he might have been paying a visit to Lorna Galloway. Her cottage doesn’t lie directly on that path, but it’s not a terribly roundabout way to go. Especially if the moor was swampy that day and he wanted to avoid some of the more spongy heath that lies to the east.”

  “Who is Lorna Galloway?”

  Here he hesitated again, as if he wasn’t certain how to describe her. “She’s a local woman who lives out on the moor. A by-blow of Lord Sherracombe’s. He set her mother and her up in a cottage along the River Walkham. A rather isolated place. People rarely venture out that far. The mother died several years ago, but her daughter still lives there.”

  “Alone?” Gage asked in disapproval.

  Rory nodded. “I’ve heard Sherracombe has offered to find her a better situation, but she refuses to leave.”

  I sympathized with this Miss Galloway. As the illegitimate daughter of a nobleman, the term “better situation” was rather misleading. The best
she could hope for was either a position as a teacher at a girls’ boarding school or an arranged marriage to a man who was willing to overlook her low birth in favor of the connection to her father. At least by remaining out on the moor, she was somewhat the master of her own fate. The cottage might be owned by her father, but she was free to do as she pleased. Though her life could not be easy, and must be quite lonely at times.

  “I guess she prefers her solitude,” Rory added with a shrug, dismissing her decision as something akin to a whim.

  “But why would Alfred visit her?” Gage tilted his head. “Unless you’re implying she’s taken after her mother.”

  “Well, do you honestly expect any different? Living out there on her own, no husband, no guardian.”

  The sins of the mother . . .

  It was generally expected that the child of a parent with loose morals must necessarily follow in their footsteps, but Rory’s words left a bitter taste in my mouth nonetheless. In truth, his callous opinion made me worried for Miss Galloway. Whether she entertained men of her own accord or not, the fact that men assumed she would placed her in a dangerous position, particularly residing in such an isolated place. I only hoped her father had made it clear she was under his protection. That would at least give her some shelter from blackguards, even though their scruples would be held in check by their desire not to cross his lordship rather than qualms about overpowering a woman.

  Similar considerations flitted through my husband’s mind, for his mouth pursed in distaste, and I loved him all the more for it.

  “I hope Alfred isn’t . . . taking advantage of the situation,” he remarked with disapproval.

  Rory huffed. “I should say it’s much more likely the other way around.” He leaned forward, giving Gage a significant look. “She’s a genuine eye-biter, if ever I’ve met one.”

  Gage scowled. “You don’t mean . . .”

  “I do,” he stated with conviction.

  When my husband’s scowl only deepened, my curiosity rose.