Chapter One
1863
Joseph Price pulled his collar up around his neck and
squinted into the drizzle. The churchyard had been cast
in a dismal gray pall since dawn, but this chilly rain made
the mid-June morning feel more like late autumn. Standing
under the gabled roof of a lych-gate, Joseph listened to the
drops pelting the wood above him and wondered again what
was keeping Squire Nowells.
Joseph frowned, absently brushing at a stray drop of water
that had landed on his cheek and trickled down into his beard.
He had been waiting for almost an hour, and he was beginning
to have doubts about making it to York in time. If he
missed the train to London, there wouldn't be another one
until Saturday. He didn't relish the thought of a two-day wait.
He peered ahead through the headstones and crypts. Squire
Malcolm Nowells III was finally limping his portly bulk past
a stand of yew trees, most of his head concealed by an open
umbrella. Joseph would soon be on his way.
"We can talk over there." Squire Nowells's voice reached
him above the patter of the rain. He motioned toward the
church. Joseph held the wooden gate open for him, and the
two men shared the umbrella, stepping carefully over the slippery
wet stones of the walkway.
At the front of the church, a Norman doorway arched over
a plain door of oak planks. Joseph removed his hat as the squire
reached out for the iron door handle. There was a squeaking
sound, then a click, and the door swung on its hinges away
from them. Once inside, both men paused for a moment to
allow their eyes to adjust to the feeble light coming in from
high, slitlike windows. When he was finally able to see, Joseph
brushed the raindrops from his gray frock coat, while the squire
propped his closed umbrella in a stand against a wall.
"What time does your train leave?" Squire Nowells took a
seat on the back pew of the small sanctuary and motioned for
Joseph to sit beside him.
Joseph took his watch from his watch pocket and squinted
at it. "One o'clock. Four hours from now."
"You've got plenty of time, despite the rain. York is only
a two-hour ride from here, and the roads are quite good."
"I appreciate the use of your coach and driver."
The squire nodded and drew an envelope from his waistcoat
pocket. "Here is your bonus for delivering Gerald Moore's
body to me."
Solemnly, Joseph tucked the envelope containing fifty
pounds into his waistband. He tilted his head in the direction
of the churchyard. "Did you have him buried out there?"
"Certainly not!" Squire Nowells snorted. "Not in the same
ground where my father lies." A bitter smile curled the corners
of his fleshy lips. "Mr. Moore's body is under six feet of
ground in my east pasture, where he can listen to the sound
of my father's horses trampling over his grave. I fear that he is
lonely, however." His voice twisted with sarcasm. "I'm anxious
for you to bring back his woman as soon as possible."
"I've told you once before that I'll have no part in the killing
of a woman. Moore's death was an accident, however
well-deserved."
Squire Nowells raised an eyebrow. "And I still can't talk
you into arranging another accident for Corrine Hammond?"
"Not a chance."
"Well, no matter. Once I've arranged to have Mrs. Hammond
incarcerated, it'll be only a matter of time before she
joins her former lover. Only I don't think the two of them
will look so pretty after a while, do you?"
The glint in the squire's eyes, obvious even in the dim light
of the church, made Joseph uneasy. Again he wondered if he
should have declined to take this case. He had tracked down
many an estranged son, and even a few criminals, for gentry
with more money than patience. But this was the first time he
had been told by an employer that the authorities were not to
be involved.
And yet the law was involved, in a covert sort of way, for
Squire Malcolm Nowells was the justice of the peace of
Treybrook, this little farming village in Humberside.
"My mother has suffered enough. I don't want her to go
through the humiliation of a public trial," Squire Nowells had
told him just a month ago.
And the family had certainly endured more than their share
of suffering. Gerald Moore and Corrine Hammond were
apparently quite expert at their little extortion game. Moore
would find just the right prey-a wealthy, usually married,
man with an ego to match his assets. A man like the elder
Squire Nowells, in fact. Mrs. Hammond would seduce him
out of several thousand pounds sterling, and she and Mr.
Moore would then disappear for greener pastures.
Usually it worked like a charm-the victims would rather
sacrifice the money than press charges and lose face. In the case
of Squire Nowells II, however, the scam went far beyond the
loss of a few thousand pounds. Humiliated, the squire hanged
himself in the cellar of his house. And a powerful enemy was
created in his son.
Now Gerald Moore was dead, but Corrine Hammond was
still at large, and Squire Nowells III was demanding that she
be brought to justice. But Joseph wondered as he watched the
vindictive fire in the squire's eyes just how much justice the
woman would get.
Joseph turned back to the squire. "Just how do you plan to
have Mrs. Hammond incarcerated without a trial?"
"Easily, Mr. Price," the squire replied. "It's done more
often than you think. You see, one of my duties as justice of
the peace is to enforce local law and order. Under British law,
the sentences of petty criminals within this jurisdiction are
totally within my discretion."
"What about the assize courts?"
"The assize judges only come around twice a year. Surely
you're aware that their business is to try the more serious
criminal and civil cases."
"Yes, but I wouldn't exactly call Corrine Hammond a petty
thief."
The smile returned to the man's face. "But that's where we
differ, my good man. I intend to have her arrested for stealing
half a crown from my father and have her duly incarcerated."
"Half a crown?" Joseph couldn't believe his ears. "Surely
she managed to take much more than that."
"Ah now, I can't be certain of the exact amount Mrs. Hammond
extorted-she and her partner. But gentleman that I am,
I'll give the lady the benefit of the doubt and assume that it
was only half a crown. Petty thievery. Jail without a trial, and
for as long as I declare."
"But the constable-"
"Is a wise man," Squire Nowells cut in with a wave of his
hand. "And in complete agreement with me about the matter.
My father was influential in having Constable Martin assigned
to his position, you see."
Frowning, Joseph said, "I can't say that I approve of your
methods."
"Don't you agree that Mrs. Hammond should be called to
account for the deeds she's committed?"
"Of course."
"If I bring charges against her and turn her over to the superior
courts, she'll undoubtedly be sentenced to hang. I'm allowing
her the opportunity to live a while longer . that is, until
the croup overtakes her. I'm afraid our lockup is quite drafty-but
then, it's been around since the Saxons, so what can one
expect?" The squire's expression turned to worry. "You're not
thinking of backing out of our agreement, are you?"
After a thoughtful pause, Joseph shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't suppose it matters to me how Mrs. Hammond pays
her debt to society. Once I've brought her to you, she's no
concern of mine."
* * *
Squire Nowells had been right about the length of time it
would take to get to York. Stepping out of the stuffy coach,
Joseph was pleased to find the air cool and clear. Apparently
the rain that had drenched Treybrook was showing mercy to
the ancient city and its centuries-old limestone walls.
After purchasing his ticket and a newspaper at the booking
office of the City of York Railway Station, he left his gripsack
and traveling bag with a porter, then walked two blocks to an
inn on the river Ouse. A carved wooden sign above the building
said Noel Arms. Most of the tables on the back verandah
over the water were filled, but Joseph settled himself at the
one remaining table. After ordering a lunch of trout, fresh
from the river, he divided his attention between his newspaper
and the people at the surrounding tables.
His natural curiosity concerning those around him had
served Joseph well in the fifteen years he'd spent as a detective.
He often amused himself by playing a private mind game, trying
to figure out the backgrounds and occupations of complete
strangers. The dark-haired man at a table to his right reminded
Joseph a bit of his brother Benton, and Joseph's mind drifted
to his family.
Joseph had known from his earliest years that he was different
from his three brothers. Collins, George, and Benton
were content to stay in Bristol, their lives and the lives of their
families revolving around their father's bakery business. If his
brothers had ever been seduced by the possible adventures that
waited down the road, over the next hill, or across great bodies
of water, they had never shown such inclination. Yet they
were good men, and at times Joseph found himself envying
the stable domesticity of their lives.
When he had finished his newspaper and his lunch, he took
out his watch again. Almost an hour until his train would
board for London. He got up and pushed the chair under his
table, then decided to cross the bridge and walk the short distance
to the Cathedral of Saint Peter, which dwarfed the city
and everything around it.
It was apparently market day, and Deangate Street was thick
with people. He walked as briskly as the crowds would permit,
regretting that he didn't have more time to fully explore the
city. In certain quarters, York had the appearance of being
scooped up out of medieval times and set down gently into
the year 1863. Timbered houses nodded forward to one
another across narrow streets, and alleys meandered to the
river with an ancient air of leisure. Echoes played in little
squares and open spaces, through sheltered gardens where
Stuart kings surely must have jested with their courtiers.
Corrine Hammond lived here for a while, he reminded
himself as he reached the shadow of the thirteenth-century
cathedral. That was how she had managed to make the
acquaintance of the elder Squire Nowells, for he often came
to York to spend time at his club.
Staring up, awestruck, at the medley of colors in the
stained-glass windows, Joseph wondered how anyone could
live in such aesthetic surroundings and still plot to rob his
fellowman. Had Corrine Hammond and Gerald Moore even
noticed the beauty around them? Or had their predatory eyes
been too busy scanning the area for more opportunities to
advance their own selfish desires at the expense of others?
Perhaps I'll ask Mrs. Hammond to enlighten me while I'm bringing
her in, Joseph thought wryly. We'll have more than enough
time for some scholarly discourse on the subject of greed versus morals.
(Continues.)
