Page 8 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)

Chapter 7

Fine Dining

T he next morning, Roger had no choice but to offer his study to Sergeant Halliwell when the policeman requested a secure, private place to conduct interviews. It appeared those in command of the Bolton Borough Police hadn’t deemed this a serious enough case to send a detective to investigate.

Roger couldn’t think of any reason for the Parkers to visit his study, and the policeman would at least be tucked out of the way if his guests happened to wander about the house.

He was taken aback when Halliwell asked him to be present while he questioned Joss Pickering. “I’d appreciate your opinion,” the sergeant said.

“Do you suspect the father of murdering his own son?” Roger asked.

“At the moment, I suspect everybody. Rumor has it Pickering’s a violent man.”

Roger privately thought rumor wasn’t a sound basis for convicting a man of murder, but he wasn’t a policeman and hoped everybody didn’t include him as a suspect.

Halliwell positioned himself in the leather chair behind the desk. Roger sat in one of the upholstered chairs by the hearth so he could study the profile of the person being questioned.

Pickering dithered when he entered the study. With him came the unpleasant odor of a man clad in clothes he’s worn for a very long time, and the unmistakable reek of liquor.

Roger understood the man’s hesitation. The study was an imposing room, especially for a cotton spinner who probably lived in a hovel, and who’d likely never cracked open a book. The walls were lined with shelves crammed full of leather-bound learned tomes. Only Roger and his mother knew they’d been purchased as a job lot from an estate sale. He preferred to read Dickens. Lucinda enjoyed the adventures of Black Bess, Sweeney Todd, and their ilk. As for Philippa, spending money on the latest fashions was her favorite pastime.

“Be seated, Mr. Pickering,” Halliwell commanded, nodding to the chair in front of the desk. “And take off your cap.”

Pickering rushed to obey and sat with cloth cap in hand.

“Did you kill your son?” Halliwell asked bluntly.

When Pickering opened his mouth to reply, Halliwell cringed.

Roger would wager a spark might set the man’s breath alight, but he caught the flash of outrage before Pickering controlled it.

“I’ll be ’onest, there’s bin times I wanted to wring ’is neck, but I couldn’t kill me own flesh and blood.”

“When did you last see Malcolm?”

Pickering licked his lips, no doubt wishing he had a drink in his hand. “Yesterday, outside yon mill after t’ shift.”

“Did you walk home together?”

Studying his cap, Pickering whispered his response.

“Louder, please.”

“I stopped off at T’ Three Crowns afore I went ’ome.”

“And how long where you there?”

“Till closin’ time. Landlord’ll vouch fer me.”

“No doubt,” Halliwell replied, with more than a hint of disgust. “So, you have no idea if Malcolm went home?”

“Tha’ll ’ave to ask ’is mam.”

Halliwell sighed, looked across at Roger, then dismissed Pickering, who replaced his cap and shuffled out.

“What do you think?” the sergeant asked.

“Well, if the innkeeper backs up his alibi, I’d say he’s innocent. He’s a drunk, but a murderer?”

“Aye, I think you’re right. I’ll pay Mrs. Pickering a visit.”

* * *

Marcus Halliwell was worried when he left Sandiford’s study. He’d been sure Joss Pickering would turn out to be the killer, but now he had doubts. Perhaps it was just as well. A man murdering his own son didn’t bear thinking about. It was no wonder a boy went off the rails when he had a father who spent more time in the alehouse than at home.

However, the investigation was back to square one. He had no credible suspects. The plan to interview Mrs. Pickering was perhaps a waste of time. Obviously, Malcolm hadn’t gone home after his shift in the mill.

The overseer was the prime suspect now. He had motive—Pickering was a thorn in his side. He found the body—too convenient perhaps. A man responsible for the smooth running of a cotton mill must own a hammer.

Heading for the foyer, he was about to nestle his stovepipe back on his head when a young woman crossed his path. She hesitated when she saw him. He didn’t recognize her, but thought she might be the new Baron Belmont’s daughter Mr. Sandiford had spoken of. “Miss,” he said politely before continuing out of the house.

* * *

The first evening at Sandiford Manor, Bea was nervous about dining with the family but had to admit they set a fine table. The china was Crown Derby, the cutlery Sheffield stainless steel, the wine and water glasses lead crystal. The startlingly white tablecloth and napkins were woven damask, the enormous chandelier hanging overhead also lead crystal. A heady aroma wafted from an enormous bouquet of lilies in the center of the table.

Liveried footmen served the five-course meal and poured the wine with practiced ease and decorum.

“The braised lamb is from a local flock,” Sandiford told his guests.

“It’s delicious,” Bea replied honestly. “You must have a good cook.”

“Why wouldn’t we?” the mill owner’s sister retorted.

Bea didn’t know what to make of Philippa Sandiford. She at least smiled, which was more than could be said for her mother, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. There was palpable tension between brother and sister, who glared at each other across the table.

“Miss Parker is simply being polite,” Sandiford said, his voice tinged with irritation. “It takes a good cook to produce such a dish, and we have a fine one in Martha.”

“I suppose we’ll have to let her go in the circumstances,” Philippa declared spitefully.

Roger gritted his teeth.

Mrs. Sandiford bristled. “That’s quite enough, Philippa dear,” she said, in a chillingly calm tone of voice.

Bea was perplexed. Good cooks were hard to find. Why would they let theirs go? What circumstances? There was an undercurrent to the conversation she couldn’t put her finger on. Did it have something to do with the policeman she’d seen exiting one of the downstairs rooms earlier in the day?

“Glenda has cooked most of our meals since I was born,” she explained, in an effort to banish the silence. “But nothing as delicious as this.”

“Speaking of Glenda,” Bea’s father said. “I hope it’s not too inconvenient to let her stay here.”

“Not at all,” Sandiford replied. “The servants’ quarters are spacious. No doubt she’s already been directed to a vacant bedroom.”

“She’ll spend most of her time caring for my mother,” Bea said.

Sandiford nodded. “I’m sorry Mrs. Parker wasn’t well enough to join us this evening.”

Mrs. Sandiford snorted.

Bea thought it best not to let her irritation show. Mrs. Sandiford clearly enjoyed ruffling feathers. “It was good of you to send a tray up for her,” she replied, bestowing a grateful smile on her host.

“Perhaps she’ll feel better tomorrow,” he said politely.

Bea doubted her frail mother would ever fully recover from this move to Lancashire. Yet, here they were in a more luxurious house than any in Milton Abbas. The Sandifords might not be gentry, but the Parkers could be sitting in the splendid house of a local nobleman.

When they returned to their private sitting room, Bea shared her thoughts with her father. “In days gone by, I suppose the aristocrats were the moneyed families. Now, the wealthy industrialists are the new aristocrats.”

“Very observant of you, my dear,” he replied. “However, for generations, dukes and earls have inherited money and estates. With that came privilege. Men like Roger Sandiford have had to work for what they have. That doesn’t make them lesser men.”

After dropping in to check on her sleeping mother for a few minutes, Bea retired, her thoughts full of her father’s wisdom. Arthur Parker saw Sandiford as a worthy man. It was confusing. How did she view Roger Sandiford? The snob in her found him lacking, but he drew her like a lodestone. Yes, that was it. Magnetic.

* * *

Roger’s mother glared pointedly at his restless fingers drumming the table, but he didn’t stop. Conflicting emotions coursed through his veins. No matter the opulent surroundings in which they lived, the members of his family seemed to have little idea of how to behave civilly.

Philippa’s spendthrift ways threatened to make a bad situation worse. Both she and his mother had behaved rudely. The Sandifords weren’t aristocrats, and he had no desire to belong to the upper class, but could his mother and sister not cease behaving as if they still lived in the slums?

Despite Arthur Parker’s elevation to a barony, the family wasn’t upper class and didn’t deserve to be treated rudely. His increasing desire to get closer to Beatrice seemed more out of reach than ever.

“If you want to marry well,” his mother told Philippa, “You must learn the art of polite conversation.”

Roger stifled the urge to laugh out loud. This scolding from a woman who’d barely spoken a civil word to their guests and certainly hadn’t made them feel welcome. “Indeed, sister dear,” he added sarcastically. “Spiteful remarks won’t endear you to any gentleman.”

Philippa squirmed, probably more on account of their mother’s unusual rebuke. “Who says I want to marry a gentleman?”

Roger narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps you don’t,” he replied. “But you have expensive tastes, and rich men have their pick of any number of potential brides.”

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he realized his mistake. His mother’s satisfied nod confirmed it. He was still a relatively rich man, but wouldn’t be for long if the famine continued and the murder investigation dragged on. He’d been in a state of uncomfortable arousal since basking in the glow of Beatrice’s smile. However, now was the time to marry a woman with a large dowry, not the daughter of the heir to an impoverished barony. “I’m for bed, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, suspecting Beatrice would haunt his thoughts and he’d get very little sleep this night.

* * *

Bea lay awake for hours struggling to resolve the enigma of Roger Sandiford. The family had wealth, but she deduced from the conversation that something threatened that wealth. Why had a policeman been in the house? She’d seen little evidence of productivity at the mill itself. Yet the workers weren’t on strike. She resolved to ask her father’s opinion on the matter in the morning.

The possibility of Roger Sandiford’s ruin tightened her throat. Despite her determination to treat him coolly, she liked him. He was justifiably proud of what he’d achieved. She knew nothing of his background, though his mother and sister didn’t strike her as well born or bred. The fisticuffs episode she’d witnessed spoke of street violence, a circumstance of which she had no experience.

Industrial Lancashire was a far cry from rural Dorset. Perhaps once the Grange was restored, life on the isolated moor would be more settled and peaceful. The prospect did little to bring on the sleep she desperately sought.

She thought she’d only just fallen asleep when Glenda bustled into her bedchamber with a cup of hot chocolate.

“Morning, Miss Beatrice. There’s been a murder,” her maid exclaimed.

Still half asleep, Bea sipped the beverage while Glenda chattered on. “Wait, what?” she asked, when the word murder finally penetrated her tired brain.

“A young lad, beaten to death in the mill a few days ago.”

Bea dismissed the notion. Glenda was known to exaggerate things. “Surely not. Who told you this?”

“It’s all the servants can talk about. They think the boy’s father did it, and I agree. What would you like to wear today?”

The chocolate suddenly tasted like mud. Sandiford must be terribly worried by this unfortunate event. Violence seemed to be all too prevalent in the north. She’d seen for herself how violent the mill’s master could be if provoked.