Page 11 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)
Chapter 10
Regrets
B ea couldn’t understand why she felt it necessary to humiliate Roger Sandiford. She liked him. In fact, her feelings were stronger than simply liking. There was an undeniable attraction she’d not felt for a man before. The light brush of his lips on the back of her hand had sent pleasant sensations rippling to her very core. His subtle cologne did strange things to her insides. Yet, she’d rebuffed his advances and made him feel unworthy.
To make matters worse, she’d have to endure the ride back to town with a man she’d angered.
Thankfully, Glenda came to her rescue. “I’ll stay,” the maid said. “Do a bit to help, then I can ride back in the wagon with the workers.”
Bea found it slightly amusing that Glenda suddenly didn’t mind traveling with “working class skivvies,” but here was her opportunity to avoid Roger Sandiford. “I’ll stay with you. Between us we can make sure the work meets our standards.”
She could only be grateful Sandiford wasn’t within earshot of the pompous statement.
He merely shrugged when she informed him of her decision to stay. Standing at the weathered front door, she watched his elegant carriage disappear down the rutted track, unable to shake the uneasy feeling she had made a big mistake.
* * *
As the brougham lurched its way along the moorland path, Roger tried to sort out his feelings. Women were generally flattered when he paid attention to them. His mother told him they were drawn by his dark good looks and brooding countenance, whatever that meant.
He sometimes suspected women were more interested in his wealth than in him.
Obviously, Miss Parker didn’t find him or his money attractive. That truth stung more painfully than it should. She evidently considered him beneath her.
His mind wandered. He actually wouldn’t object to being beneath her, gripping her hips as she rode him.
This preoccupation with the chit had to stop. There were more important things to worry about than a woman who seemed intent on spinsterhood. Money was going to be a problem. It wasn’t likely Philippa would mend her spendthrift ways. He’d foolishly agreed to foot the bill for the ongoing expenses at the Grange. Revenue from the mill was dwindling and would soon dry up altogether. He’d already used up most of his reserves keeping the mules spinning.
Understandably, Pickering’s murder had unsettled workers who already had enough to be concerned about. There’d be unrest if he had to lay off his workforce. The solution was to provide them with alternative work, but he no longer had sufficient funds to finance such schemes for long.
Upon his return home, his mother greeted him. “Why the long face?” she asked, as he loosened his neckcloth.
She knew him too well, but he wasn’t ready to tell her about Miss Parker’s rejection. Instead, he broached the matter of the mortgages on the mill and the house.
“Things are that desperate?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so, Mama,” he replied. “We could lose the house. The problem will be compounded when some of our unemployed tenants default on the mortgages I hold on their homes. Others won’t be able to pay rents on my properties.”
“We’ll survive,” she replied, supportive as always. “At least we won’t go hungry.”
Silence followed. They’d both known the gnawing pain of hunger. “No, things aren’t that bad. However, most of our workers will have no money for food if we close the mill. I’m resolved to push the topic of forming a relief committee at the next meeting of the mill owners.”
“You can try,” she replied. “Hampson won’t agree. Now, what else is troubling you?”
“Miss Parker won’t have me,” he sighed, knowing his mother would badger him until he confided the reason for his melancholy. “She finds me offensive.”
“Then she’s a fool,” Lucinda replied. “Who is she to reject you? I hate her for it.”
Roger wanted to hate Beatrice Parker, but knew he could not. “I do not wish her spoken of again in this house,” he said flatly.
* * *
The ride back to town in the crowded wagon was an uncomfortable experience Bea could have done without. Exhausted after scrubbing, sweeping, and cleaning most of the day, she was grateful Glenda’s well-padded shoulders provided a cushion when the wagon lurched and rolled. She supposed the unpleasant odor of unwashed bodies was to be expected. The men and women had labored all day. The drizzle didn’t help, though the skies cleared miraculously once they left the moor behind.
She was glad of a chance to speak with Bridget Mann, though the girl’s cough seemed to be getting worse. “Cotton dust,” she explained, thumping her chest.
Bea had spent less than an hour in the spinning room and found it hard to breathe. However, she hadn’t given a thought to the consequences for men and women who worked long hours in the mill. “Have you seen a doctor?” she asked.
The disbelief in Bridget’s wide eyes said it all, and Bea felt foolish for asking such a question. “I have an elixir. I could bring it to your house.”
Bridget looked away, but Bea was determined to do what she could to help. “Tell me the street.”
“Red Lane.”
“Good. I’ll bring it on the morrow.”
She dozed for most of the journey as did the workers, though occasional snatches of conversation reached her ears. They speculated about the murder. It seemed they were vehemently opposed to the practice of slavery, but worried about the cotton famine and what it would mean for them. Most were confident Roger Sandiford would look after them.
Their respect for their master only served to convince Bea she’d thrown away any chance of a relationship with a decent man.
Upon arriving back at the Sandiford house, she was pleasantly surprised to find her mother sitting in an armchair in the private sitting room. “You’re up,” she said with a forced smile. Her mother’s skin looked pale and brittle.
“Just for a little while. I suppose I must make the effort.”
Having spent hours cleaning the Grange and supervising the workers, Bea knew the true meaning of the word effort .
“You look exhausted,” her mother remarked.
“Glenda and I worked hard,” she replied, desperately trying to temper the resentment bubbling in her throat.
“But there’s something else troubling you.”
Perhaps her mother was more in touch with reality than she’d thought. “Roger Sandiford made advances,” she murmured.
At first, she thought perhaps her mother hadn’t heard, but then, “Did you welcome them?”
“I wanted to,” she confessed, falling to her knees beside her mother’s chair. “But I rejected him.”
“There, there,” came the reply, as she sobbed into her mother’s lap. “The heart usually knows what’s best. Things will work out.”
Hoping that were true, Bea cherished the calm moments as her mother stroked her hair. Frequent illness had resulted in such closeness happening all too rarely.
* * *
Roger’s patience was nearing its end. “We’ve been here in my study for hours,” he said to Halliwell. “You’ve interviewed ten people, including three women, for goodness sake. As if a woman could strike a boy with a hammer.”
“You’d be surprised what women are capable of, Mr. Sandiford,” the sergeant replied. “But I don’t believe Pickering was killed by any of the people we’ve seen today.”
“So, what was the purpose of this wasted time?”
“Good police work takes time and patience, Mr. Sandiford. All today’s people worked the same shift as Malcolm Pickering.”
“Yes, I realize that.”
“They all stated that he was alive when they last saw him at the end of the shift.”
Roger rolled his eyes, hoping there was some point to all of this.
“Two or three confirmed the elder Pickering’s alibi. They went with him to The Three Crowns and stayed there until closing time.”
Roger deemed it pathetic that many of his workers preferred to spend hours drinking with cronies instead of going home to their families, although it might be excusable considering the appalling conditions some lived in. But he was glad the father wasn’t guilty. “So, what next?”
“We need to question Mrs. Pickering to ascertain if the lad went home or not.”
“I should have gone over there before,” Roger admitted. “Pay my respects and so on.”
“Perhaps we might go together,” Halliwell suggested.
* * *
Marcus understood Sandiford’s impatience. He was getting a bit impatient himself. Tracking down the killer was proving to be more complicated than he at first thought. However, he should pay heed to his own advice. Police work took time and patience.
Smythe was a possibility. Marcus was beginning to suspect the killer was someone from outside Broadclough. The employees he’d interviewed seemed as puzzled as he was. Nobody had pointed the finger. Perhaps a complete stranger had committed the murder. However, the only outsiders he knew of were the new baron and his family but they’d arrived from somewhere in the south of England after the foul deed was done.