A Boldly Daring Scheme: A Regency Cozy (Beatrice Hyde-Clare Mysteries Book 7) by Lynn Messina

Author:Lynn Messina [Messina, Lynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Potatoworks Press
Published: 2020-10-22T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Nothing stops.

It does not happen again, the bizarre sensation at the Western Exchange in which it appeared as though time itself had slowed to a standstill. Everything remains at normal speed: Holcroft’s movements, the stranger’s eye blinks, my own breathing.

If anything, time seems to speed up.

So swiftly I hardly know it is happening, Holcroft sweeps me behind him, determined to shield my body with his own. My thoughts fly, too, darting from one idea to another, trying to calculate the likelihood that this man intends to kill us.

Is he the assassin?

I evaluate factors and run the equation in my head.

It can be true only one of two ways.

One: He left the address in the dead clerk’s pocket to lead us into a trap so that he may kill us discreetly.

Two: He found the note himself, read it, returned it to its place, rushed to Turnbury Street, killed or held prisoner the person or persons who live here and waited an indeterminate amount of time for us to arrive so he could kill us discreetly.

Both scenarios are elaborate, and the assassin Holcroft described was the opposite of elaborate. The man who cleanly and confidently drove the knife into Mr. Roberts’s side has no use for intricate plans that rely on factors wildly out of his control.

If that man wanted to kill us, he could have done it far more efficiently than designing a complicated scheme and waiting to see if we fell in line with it.

Furthermore, his eyelashes are aflutter.

He is either smothering an opinion about Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage or he is terrified of something.

As nobody has made a single remark against Lord Byron’s tedious story, that can only mean…

“No, you haven’t,” I say.

It has been only a few seconds, barely enough time for Holcroft to step in front of me. Now he stiffens as I speak.

I ignore him and keep my eyes focused on the man with the shotgun.

“You have not been waiting for us,” I continue, my voice soft and slow so as not to distress him further or cause him to startle. “We had nothing to do with Mr. Roberts’s murder. He had arranged to meet us at the Western Exchange, and by the time we arrived at the appointed hour, he was already dead. We are not here to hurt you. We are here to discover why Mr. Roberts was killed.”

Have I jumped to several conclusions based on flimsy evidence?

Yes, without question.

But I am right. I know I am.

The gun does not move. It remains firmly lodged on the man’s shoulder.

Holcroft, apparently agreeing with my assessment of the situation or arriving at his own, lifts his hands gingerly, as if to prove they are empty. “It is true. We mean you no harm. We found this address on Mr. Roberts’s body. My name is Holcroft, Sebastian Holcroft, and this is Miss Hyde-Clare. We can explain our interest in the matter if you would kindly lower the gun and allow us to enter.”

Confusion flickers across the man’s face as he runs his own calculation.

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