Page 23 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)

Chapter 22

Horses

A fter his driver dropped him off at home, Roger sought out his mother and shared his good news.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Lucinda replied grumpily, bringing the rocking chair to a halt.

Her jealous pout didn’t surprise him. “Be happy for me. I love her and she loves me.”

“She’ll never love you as much as I do.”

Roger didn’t fault his mother. They’d weathered so many ups and downs together over the years. He kissed her forehead. “A mother’s love is a precious thing,” he agreed. “And I thank you for it.”

“There’s something else you’re not telling me,” she said.

He dithered, unsure how she would take the news about the mortgages. “Just that a man must move on and start a family of his own.”

She narrowed her eyes, obviously not satisfied.

“The late Baron Belmont held the mortgages,” he revealed. “Beatrice’s father has inherited them.”

Her eyes widened. “Who told you this?”

“Parker himself.”

She drew her shawl around her shoulders and resumed rocking. He recognized the significance of her arched eyebrow. “Which begs the question,” she said finally. “If you’ve been paying the late baron all these years, what did he do with the money?”

Roger shrugged. “Banked it, I suppose.”

“Seems to me it was well known he didn’t trust banks.”

“And he certainly didn’t spend it on the upkeep of the house.”

An uneasy feeling began to percolate in Roger’s gut. He trusted Peter Leigh and his chum even less now he knew there might be money stashed in the house. He’d thought they were chasing future income and the noble title, but perhaps there was more to their schemes. His mill was possibly at greater risk than he thought. If Peter got control of the mortgages and Roger defaulted, the fop and his pal would sell the buildings without a second thought.

They wouldn’t take kindly to being told Beatrice was going to marry someone else.

* * *

When the Sandiford brougham halted in front of the Grange, Bea was astonished to see Peter and Odlum harnessing a horse to the dilapidated Belmont carriage. She was surprised they’d managed to move the old carriage out of the barn without it falling apart. As far as she knew, the estate owned no horses and she’d never seen this particular animal before. Its head drooped and its ribs stuck out of its skinny frame.

“What ho, Uncle,” Peter called as he waved. “No further need to borrow a stranger’s brougham. James and I bought Lightning here from a horse dealer so you can travel in your own carriage.”

Bea privately thought they’d probably taken the pathetic creature off the knacker’s hands. The nag was aptly named. It looked like it had been struck by lightning. As for pulling a carriage …

“A word, Peter,” her father said sternly after stepping out of the brougham.

Bea’s cousin hesitated as his smile faded. He’d clearly detected a note of censure in the command. “I’ll be with you in five minutes,” he replied.

Glenda rushed to greet Bea and her father when they entered the house. “I have a terrible feeling those two miscreants have found the money,” she whispered as she took their cloaks and hats. “They’ve been acting like giddy kippers all day.”

“And they’ve bought a horse,” Bea replied. “The animal and the carriage both look incapable of traveling a mile on an open road, never mind over moorland.”

“They spent all morning messing about with that poor excuse for a carriage. Then they disappeared and came back riding the nag. They’ve either found the money or lost their wits.”

“This doesn’t bode well for what we have to tell them,” her father said. “Peter’s not going to take no for an answer.”

“It might almost be better if they ride away with the money,” Bea suggested.

Her father shook his head. “If Sandiford is right, they have their sights set on more than the money.”

They waited in the drawing room. Hands clasped on her lap, Bea perched on the settee. Her father stood by the cold hearth. Informing her cousin that she intended to marry Roger suddenly loomed like a daunting task that might have ramifications she hadn’t foreseen. She wished her champion had come with them.

* * *

Marcus decided to visit The Pack Horse after all. It wouldn’t hurt to verify Mr. Leigh’s statement about when he’d arrived in Bolton . Impatient to be on his way, he paid no mind to the urchin hanging about the mill yard.

“There’s no food for you here,” he told the lad, bothered by the fear in his eyes. “Go to the soup kitchen.”

The boy shook his head. “Hafta speak with thee, Cunstable.”

“I’m on my way into town,” he replied.

“It’s about Malcolm Pickerin’ and the night he were kilt.”

Marcus thought it was probably a waste of time to linger but, if the lad had information about the murder … “Go on, but it had better be good.”

“I’m Robbie Draper. Malcolm were me best pal.”

The boy startled, his eyes darting here and there when a group of men wandered through the yard on their way to the soup kitchen. Suddenly recalling what Mrs. Pickering had said about her son’s delinquent pals, Marcus feared the boy might bolt. “No need to be afraid. What can you tell me? I won’t be angry.”

“Me and Malcolm, we sometimes ’id int’ mill after t’ shift.”

Marcus had an inkling what it was they got up to. Despite all the dire warnings about fire, the overseer had reported often finding fag ends in the spinning room of a morning. “You were smoking,” he said.

Robbie studied his feet. “Aye, sorry Cunstable.”

Marcus tapped the stripes on his sleeve. “I’m a sergeant, but go on.”

“We were laughin’ but we shut our gobs and docked the fags when we ’eard somebody comin’. We crawled into a dark corner when two men crept in. They were carryin’ what looked like ’ammers or crowbars.”

Marcus’ hopes rose. There had been outsiders in the mill that night. “Machine breakers.”

“Tha’da thought so, except fer their togs.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I legged it, but they looked like gentlemen to me, and one wore the daftest yellow trousers I e’er seen.”

Marcus tucked away that bit of information. It might prove useful. “You left Pickering in the mill?”

Robbie sniffled. “I thought he were right be’ind me, but they must ha’ caught ’im.”

Marcus ought to remonstrate with the lad. Why hadn’t he come forward before? But he knew the answer and there was no time to lose. As he’d suspected, complete strangers might have murdered Malcolm Pickering.

* * *

Cursing himself for allowing Beatrice and her father to face Peter and his chum alone, Roger struggled with a dilemma. His two best horses, the matched grays, were harnessed to the brougham which hadn’t yet returned from Belmont Grange. His mother had a pony to pull her gig, but she’d apparently gone visiting—something she rarely did.

The only horse remaining in the stables was Midnight, an unpredictable devil of a beast with a vicious mind of its own. After the first flush of success in the cotton trade, he’d fancied he should take up gentlemanly pursuits, like riding. He’d soon discovered he was no rider, and Midnight was determined to throw off anyone who tried to mount him. He’d avoided the animal ever since. But he had no choice.

Luckily, the ostler who took care of his horses was still in the stables, but Albert shook his head when Roger asked him to saddle the black beast. “Ah don't think tha ought to be on that 'oss. ’E’s a right mardy bugger.”

“Nevertheless, my business is urgent,” Roger replied, though he shared Albert’s opinion.

“Do what tha likes then!” Albert retorted. “Ah'll say nowt else.”

Midnight snorted and stamped his feet while the experienced ostler struggled to get the saddle on him. Roger tried desperately to convince himself there really was no need to risk life and limb. Surely Beatrice and her father could handle Peter.

But he would never forgive himself if something untoward happened.

He was distracted by the breathless arrival of Sergeant Halliwell. Apparently equally surprised, Midnight chose the moment to kick the walls of his stall, resulting in a stream of colorful language from the ostler.

“I must speak with you,” the policeman said.

“Can’t stop to chat,” Roger replied. “I believe Miss Parker is in danger.”

“From whom?” Halliwell asked.

“Her cousin and his foppish friend. I’m riding out to the Grange.”

“I’ll get the force out to assist, but I came to tell you I know who the killers are. At least, I’ve learned they were two men dressed like gentlemen and one wore yellow trousers.”

The revelation was like a blow to the belly. It was the fop he’d seen in the street and Peter was his companion. “That’s Odlum, the cousin’s chum.”

“You go on,” Halliwell urged. “I’ll get men out to the Grange and arrest the pair.”

His gut in knots, Roger could only nod.

Albert dragged the reluctant horse into the yard and boosted Roger into the saddle, muttering under his breath about foolish masters.

At first the horse shook his head and refused to move, despite Roger’s frantic efforts with the stirrups.

“Beatrice is depending on us,” he told Midnight, exasperated by the stubborn horse. “It’ll be your fault if something bad happens at Belmont Grange.”

Suddenly, they were off, bolting out of the yard and down Turton Street, headed for Blackburn Road and the town center.