The Brynthwaite Boys - Season One - Part Three

by Merry Farmer

  Crimpley cleared his throat and pulled himself to his full height. “Lawrence Smith, you are hereby under arrest for aiding and abetting murder suspect Mathilda Wright in eluding the law.”

  A sweat broke out down Lawrence’s back that had nothing to do with the forge. Young Oliver rocked a few times, then turned and walked off around the back of the forge, whining.

  “You don’t have the authority to arrest me,” Lawrence growled.

  “No?” Crimpley turned toward the road. “Gentlemen, you can come out.”

  Lawrence’s stomach sank as Brynthwaite’s constable and two of his deputies crawled out of the bushes near the bend in the road and double-timed their way to the forge. He swore under his breath and gaped at them. His troubles had had him so wound up that he hadn’t even seen the men secreting themselves away like that.

  “Were you able to hear the man’s confession?” Dt. Stapleton asked the constable.

  “Enough to take him in.” Constable Dodge nodded. “Seize him,” he directed his deputies.

  Lawrence blew out a frustrated breath and raised his hands. “There’s no need for force.” The deputies hesitated before grabbing him. “I’ll come to the station with you. All I ask is that you allow me to clean up and find a shirt first.”

  The deputies glanced to each other, then to the constable. Constable Dodge looked sidelong at the mayor. Crimpley raised his brow at Dt. Stapleton.

  “I suppose he’d only stink up the jail if you don’t let him bathe.” Dt. Stapleton shrugged.

  “All right, go.” Crimpley made a shooing gesture. “But the deputies go with you.”

  Lawrence nodded, glanced to the two men, then ignored them all and headed to the bucket of water by the side of the forge. He stripped off his leather apron and hung it, storing his gloves, then sluiced water down his back and over his arms. Once he was reasonably clean—although a rinsing was far from a bath—he donned the shirt he had fixed to a peg and tucked it in.

  “Oliver,” he called around the side of the building. Oliver remained hidden, but if Lawrence knew him, he was still within earshot. “Tend to the forge while I’m gone. Let the fires cool if you have to. I’ll be back.” The last he spoke while staring straight at Crimpley.

  Minutes later, he was being escorted along the Brynthwaite road, as if he was the murder suspect. The closer they got to town, the more people came out to watch.

  “I’m terribly sorry for all the fuss,” Crimpley said to Dt. Stapleton as the two of them walked in front. “I hope your client isn’t too put out about all this.”

  “You’re client?” Lawrence asked.

  “He’s been fighting this murderess for years,” Dt. Stapleton went on, ignoring Lawrence. “He’ll be happy once the little bitch is caught and brought to justice for all she’s done to him.”

  “Hoag?” Lawrence bellowed, earning a sharp look from Constable Dodge. “You’re working for Hoag?”

  Dt. Stapleton twisted to grin at him. “I’ve been hired by the town of Grasmere to bring a fugitive to justice, but yes, Hoag is a friend of mine.”

  Lawrence could only sputter in rage. “If Hoag is a friend of yours, then you must recuse yourself from the investigation. How can you possibly hope to serve justice when the true murderer is your friend.”

  “Perhaps ‘friend’ is too strong of a word.” Dt. Stapleton smiled at Mayor Crimpley. “And my greatest concern is protecting a man who has been victimized in this situation.”

  “Victimized?” Lawrence could hardly believe what he was hearing.

  He was so far beyond words that for the rest of the journey into the heart of Brynthwaite and the town’s police station, he kept his mouth pressed firmly shut. Heads turned as he was marched past and shoved into the station. Out of the corner of his eye, Lawrence caught sight of one of the train station’s porters running full tilt toward them. For a moment he hoped that the young man was bringing hope in the form of a message of some sort from Jason or his solicitor. When the porter zipped past, heading on toward the hotel, those hopes died.

  “Now, Mr. Smith,” Dt. Stapleton began with a sly grin as soon as Lawrence had been seated in one of the jail’s cells. “Tell me what you know.”

  There was more threat in those words than if he had said them while smacking a billy club in his palm. The whiff of violence was in the air. Dt. Stapleton may have been assigned to the case, but he was anything but unbiased. Lawrence pooled all of his resources into giving answers that were true but revealed nothing. He had already admitted to knowing where Matty was, but if either Dt. Stapleton or Crimpley or Constable Dodge thought they would get so much as a hint of a further explanation from him, they had another thing coming.

  It wasn’t until they had been questioning him relentlessly for more than half an hour that the first sign of help came.

  “Where is Lawrence Smith being held?” another unfamiliar voice called from the station’s main room.

  Dt. Stapleton and Constable Dodge backed off from their interrogation and turned in unison with mayor Crimpley as one of the deputies escorted a stranger into the room with the jail cells.

  “Who are you?” Constable Dodge asked.

  “Harrison Beach, esq. I am Mr. Smith’s solicitor.”

  Lawrence let out a breath in relief and sagged back against the hard chair he’d been given. “Did Jason send you?”

  “Yes.” Beach nodded. “I would have been here sooner, but Mr. Throckmorton and I were only just informed that you had been taken into custody.”

  Dt. Stapleton, Crimpley, and Dodge all glared at the hapless deputy.

  “Don’t look at me,” the deputy said, shrinking with every word. “I been here the whole time.”

  “Where is Jason?” Lawrence asked.

  “Mr. Throckmorton is occupied at present,” Beach answered, then went right on with, “On what grounds are you holding this man prisoner?”

  “Aiding and abetting a fugitive,” Mayor Crimpley answered without pause.

  Dt. Stapleton and Dodge weren’t as quick to answer. “He’s admitted he knows where she is,” Dodge said.

  “And have you a warrant for his arrest?”

  No one answered. Lawrence stood.

  “Mr. Smith, can you say with absolute certainty that you know the exact location of Miss Mathilda Wright at this very moment?” Beach asked him.

  Lawrence grinned. “No, I cannot.”

  Beach pivoted to the others. “Then, gentlemen, you have no grounds to incarcerate my client. Good day.”

  Beach gestured to Lawrence. Dizzy with relief, Lawrence stepped around Crimpley, then headed out of the cell, out of the room, and out of the police station without a second look.

  “Thank you,” he said to Beach once they were in the street.

  “Don’t thank me yet.” Beach didn’t even crack a grin. “The case against Miss Wright is strong. I have two assistants investigating matters in Grasmere, but unless they’re able to find something soon, it doesn’t look good.”

  “I understand.”

  Beach frowned. “You will have to tell them her location,” he went on. “And now that you are known to have information of her whereabouts, if you go to her, they will follow you and likely have her arrested.”

  Lawrence’s heart caught in his chest. “I can’t see her?”

  “Not if she continues to be a fugitive,” Beach said. “Not if you don’t want her to be found. The less association you have with her, the more freedom you will have to work for her defense.”

  “But….” There was nothing else Lawrence could say or do. His hands were tied as surely as if Constable Dodge had clapped him in irons before escorting him away from the forge.

  “Go home,” Beach advised. “Go about your daily routine. I’m doing the best I can to help you and Miss Wright. That’s all anyone can do right now.”

  “Understood,” Lawrence sighed.

  “I will speak with Mr. Throckmorton and arrange a time for the three of us to have a meeting at
the hotel. But you should know, at this point it might be best for Miss Wright to turn herself in.”

  “But she’ll be tried for murder,” Lawrence balked.

  Beach shook his head. “She’ll be tried for murder at this point one way or another.”

  He left Lawrence standing there speechless. For all the strength in his arms, Lawrence felt as weak and helpless as a baby. There was nothing for him to do but turn and head back to the forge.

  He made it as far as the edge of town before a familiar, sick scent wafted past him. It carried with it a sense of doom and evil. But what—

  “Think you can keep her safe, do you?”

  Lawrence whipped around. Sure enough, leaning against the side of an outbuilding by the edge of the road, flesh as putrid and scarred as ever, stood Trevor Hoag.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Lawrence seethed. He balled his hands into fists, weighing the possibility of killing the man with his bare hands right then and there.

  Hoag only laughed at his show of strength. “I may be a sight the devil would run from,” he grumbled, “but I’ve still got a bit of spit in me. You want to challenge me? Go ahead.” He pushed up his sleeves, revealing thickly muscled arms, one destroyed by fire.

  Logic warred with the impulse to kill in Lawrence’s gut. A man like Hoag didn’t deserve to walk the earth. But Hoag was also one of the few people who knew what had truly happened to Matty’s mother. As unlikely as the possibility of a confession was, if Hoag was dead, the only other person who knew the truth would be gone, and Matty’s chances of being proven innocent would disappear too.

  “You won’t win this,” Lawrence said, dripping with frustration. “The truth will come out, and you’ll hang for what you did.”

  He began to walk away, but Hoag’s laughter followed him. “You give her a message for me,” he called after Lawrence.

  As much as Lawrence didn’t want to encourage him, he had to stop and turn to glare at the man.

  “You tell her that once I find her, she’s gonna wish she’d let the law get her first. Because once I find her—and find her I will—there won’t be enough of her left to scrape up and put on trial for anything.”

  Jason

  Every muscle in Jason’s body ached. He sat on the edge of his chair, behind the desk in his office, head bowed and propped up in his hands, elbows on the desktop. His office door was open, and he could hear the everyday chatter of the hotel in mid-morning, but the familiar buzz rolled off of him like the forgotten ticking of a clock. His head ached, his eyes stung behind their closed lids. His throat was raw, from talking, no doubt. His arms and legs felt as though they would fall off, his back and shoulders were as hard as a rock, and worst of all, so was his cock.

  And here he’d been foolish enough to believe that Flossie could cure his affliction.

  No, he sighed. That wasn’t fair. She had done miracles, his Flossie. With her he’d spent the best weeks of his life so far. It wasn’t her fault that the demands of an increasingly busy social life—brought on by none other than Lady E.—were pressing on him like a vise. If he could just…. If there was just some way to…. If only he could….

  He let out a heavy sigh and pushed back, eyes still closed, slouching into the back of his chair and rubbing his pounding forehead. He needed more sleep, that’s what he needed. He hadn’t come stumbling home from the final soiree of Lady E.’s house party until dawn that morning. When he’d flopped into bed and reached for Flossie—to hold her close, like a child might cuddle a beloved toy for comfort—she had pulled away and gotten out of bed. His last fleeting thought as sleep had drown him was that she was angry.

  Flossie was angry. Flossie. Angry. With him. His stomach roiled at the thought, his body ached, and his head throbbed. Both heads. He’d seen her briefly when he’d awaken and dragged himself downstairs to the kitchen to swallow half a pot of black coffee—which had done no good—but she hadn’t spoken to him. Perhaps she was angry because he’d been too mired in business, in Marshall’s troubles and Lawrence’s woes with Matty, and with the social demands of the house party to obey the directives she’d given him for the past few days. He was furious with himself over that lapse. It probably explained the painful erection that stole all of his peace.

  Whatever the cause, if Flossie was angry, there was no peace.

  “Sir.” Samuel’s voice preceded his knock on the open door.

  Jason opened his eyes, sucked in a breath, and sat straight. “Yes? What?”

  A skinny young man in a train porter’s uniform stood behind Samuel. “Sir, this man is here to see you.”

  Jason blinked as Samuel stepped aside. The porter shuffled into the room, swiping his hat from his head and fidgeting with it as if Jason was some kind of royalty. “Morning, sir.” He bobbed his head and clenched his hat.

  Jason scooted further into his desk to hide what his coat was only doing a fair job of concealing. “What do you want?” he snapped.

  The porter swallowed. “It’s just that he told me to come tell you.”

  Jason frowned. “What? Who?”

  The porter cleared his throat. “Dr. Pycroft, sir.”

  “What about him?”

  “That woman. His dead wife’s sister. She’s gone and swiped the girls right out from under him, poor things. There were two big blokes and a tough old bird with her when she did it. Took them right off on the train.”

  “What?” Jason barked, pushing his chair back and standing. All else was forgotten.

  “They were leaving on the nine-fifteen.”

  As Jason rounded the side of his desk, his legs wobbled. He had to steady himself by gripping the corner of the desk. One deep breath as he fought the wave of dizziness that enveloped him and pushed on.

  “Where is Marshall now?” he demanded. His heart twisted and wrung in his chest. He couldn’t shake the desperate look that had been in Mary’s eyes when he’d run across the girls in Brynthwaite when he was out on a walk with Lady E. the day before. He’d wanted to stop to ask how they were, but Lady E. had pulled him on after only the briefest of hugs.

  “Don’t rightly know, sir,” the porter answered. “He was still at the station when I left.”

  Jason marched through his office door, past Samuel—who made no secret of the fact that he’d been listening to the whole report—and into the lobby. He had to think. Marshall needed him. Why couldn’t he think what to do?

  Flossie marched into the lobby from the dining room, a clipboard in her hands. Her eyes flickered up and met his, bursting with concern one moment, then going dark with maddening disapproval. He didn’t have a chance to dwell on it.

  “Ah, Mr. Throckmorton. Glad I caught you.”

  Jason blinked to the man striding through the hotel’s front door. He wore a London suit and carried a thin attaché case. It took another moment of squinting to realize that the man was none other than Harrison Beach.

  “Beach? What are you doing here?”

  Beach strode up to him and shook his hand, his expression puzzled. “You sent for me, remember? In regards to your friend, Mr. Lawrence Smith?”

  Damnation. He really did need to get more sleep. His mind had turned to porridge.

  Flossie stood her ground near the dining room door, her brow knit into a frown.

  “Of course I sent for you,” Jason said, feeling like a fool. He cleared his stinging throat. “Do you have the information about Trevor Hoag and the murder?”

  “I do.” Beach nodded. “If we could just find a private spot to discuss it.” He peeked sideways at the porter.

  The porter gawked. “Hang on a second. Lawrence Smith? I just saw Mayor Crimpley and some tweedy bloke marching Lawrence into the police station.”

  “Bloody hell,” Jason hissed, rubbing a hand over his face. His head pounded so hard he thought he might be sick.

  “My dear Jason. There you are.” As if matters couldn’t get worse, Lady E. came waltzing through the front door. She wore a crisp, lacy day dre
ss and a big, flowery hat, along with a smile that was entirely to cheery for a woman who had gone to bed around dawn after a night of merciless entertaining. “I was hoping I would catch you so that we could have breakfast together.”

  Flossie’s face flushed red. Jason’s whole body ached in reaction as desperate heat flooded him.

  “Lady Elizabeth.” He smiled nonetheless and crossed to take her outstretched, gloved hand and to kiss her knuckles as demanded. “A pleasure to see you,” he said, already turning back to Beach and the porter. “Lawrence has been taken to the police station?”

  “That’s what it looked like,” the porter answered in a strangled squeak as he tried to bow to Lady E. and answer Jason at the same time.

  Pulled in three different directions—four, counting Flossie—Jason froze.

  After an awkward pause, Beach said, “I’ll go over to the police station to assess the situation with Mr. Smith.”

  “Yes, please do.” Jason let out a breath.

  Beach nodded, sent a smirk in Lady E.’s direction, then turned to go.

  “What do you want me to do about Dr. Pycroft?” the porter asked.

  “Dr. Pycroft?” Lady E. asked.

  Damn. Three seconds, and he’d forgotten about Marshall. Jason’s head spun and dread settled in his stomach and aching back all over again. “Eileen has finally taken the girls. Apparently she had a group of thugs with her?” He checked with the porter, who nodded. “They left on a train this morning.”

  “Just now,” the porter finished.

  “Oh.” Lady E. pulled her hand away from Jason and let her arm drop to her side. Jason hadn’t realized he was still holding her hand.

  Across the room, Flossie’s expression twisted from anger to concern to fear to something deeper that he didn’t have a prayer of naming.

  Jason took a breath. “I must go to the train station.” He stepped around Lady E.

  She grabbed him to stop him. “Don’t go down there,” she said, not a hint of concern in her voice. “There’s nothing you can do anyhow if the train has already departed.”

  “I—” Jason stammered. “Marshall is my friend.” Why couldn’t he form a coherent argument to leave the woman? Her hand on his arm sent spikes of some nameless emotion that might have been lust, but might also have been disgust, radiating through him, centering in his aching groin.