Page 53 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

Violence simmered to life once more until Mr Bramwell’s voice cut through the crowd. “If anyone wants a fight, they had better face me, for I’m in the mood to beat someone bloody,” he said, his voice calm and filled with quiet menace. The men shifted uneasily, aware that he wasn’t joking. “Otherwise, you may both present your arguments to me tomorrow morning at seven thirty, once you’ve had time to cool off. We will get to the bottom of any theft and if anyone is guilty, I shall discover it. In the meantime, I will immediately dismiss anyone else causing trouble. Do I make myself clear?”

“Aye,” muttered the men, already dispersing and eager to get out of the line of fire.

“Yes, Mr Bramwell,” Billy grumbled, his friends still waiting stubbornly beside him.

“Then bloody well get back to work and out of my sight,” he snapped, glaring at anyone with the temerity to linger. Then he turned his attention back to Hetty.

“We had best get you home. I’ll arrange a carriage.”

“There’s really no need, I can—” Hetty clamped her mouth shut in the light of the look Mr Bramwell sent her; for it suggested she not vex him further than he had been. He strode off towards the town.

“Oh, my lady. That’s going to swell something dreadful,” Jenkins said sadly as she regarded Hetty’s reddened cheek. “You’d best come and sit on the bench out on the lane while you wait for Mr Bramwell. I’ll run to the butchers and buy some steak to put on the bruise.”

Hetty nodded, and then wished she hadn’t as her cheek throbbed harder. “Yes, please do. Don’t rush, Mr Bramwell will see me safely home. I think he has a few words for me, and I’d as soon hear them in private,” she added ruefully.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, I don’t blame him one bit,” Jenkins said tartly before hurrying off.

Sighing, Hetty made her way to the public bench a few yards from the entrance to the site. It bore a brass plaque to the memory of a long dead inhabitant of the village, gifted so that the residents could enjoy the splendid view over the sea.

She sat down gingerly, suddenly aware that she had landed on her bottom with some force and sharp stones had covered the ground. Oh, she would have some splendid bruises to show for this ill-advised adventure. She ought to have listened to Jenkins and stayed away from the building site, and Mr Bramwell, and trouble. But she never had been very good at ought to, or ought not, and the more she knew a thing was reckless, the more she wished to do it.

She sat admiring the view for a time, trying to ignore the dull throbbing in her cheek until the soft clatter of hooves on earth caught her attention, and she looked up to see Mr Bramwell driving a small gig along the road. He drew up beside her and leapt down.

Silently, he helped her to her feet and into the gig before returning to his place and urging the pony to walk on.

The silence continued until Hetty felt she must say something, but he beat her to it.

“I am so angry I could shake you.”

Hetty glanced guiltily at him. “I know. I am sorry. I was only trying to help.”

“By getting yourself flattened by a mob of angry men? How is that helpful?” he demanded.

Hetty put up her chin, indignant that he could not acknowledge that she had helped, a little at least. “Those men were about to start brawling, and the moment the two of them set to, the others would have followed. If not for me getting knocked onto my… my behind, you might be dealing with a far uglier scene that you did.”

There was a tense silence during which Hetty waited, assuming she would be forced to endure more scolding, yet when he spoke it wasn’t at all what he’d expected.

“That’s likely true, I’m afraid. I’d thank you if I didn’t fear you’d do something worse next time.”

Hetty met his glare with a rueful smile, and he shook his head.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “There’s trouble on the site. Someone is stealing from us, but it’s cleverly done, and with no visible pattern, so it’s impossible to prove or to predict what will happen next.”

Hetty sat up, interested now. “That’s what the man who struck me… accidentally, was angry about. His tools had been stolen.”

Mr Bramwell nodded, his long fingers easy on the reins as he guided the pony around a bend. “There are lots of minor things, a few items from a delivery that must have been taken in broad daylight, as the place is locked up like a fortress at night. Then a penny or two from the odd pay packet, goods arriving that are not of the quality I ordered.”

“But surely whoever made the order—”

“Is my prime suspect,” he agreed. “But I cannot prove it. If Mr Ridley is at the bottom of this, he’s got nerves of steel, for he looks me in the eye every morning without so much as a flicker of guilt.”

“But it’s got the men worked up,” she guessed.

He nodded. “There was an accident due to shoddy goods. Since then, they’ve all been on edge, and I can’t blame them.”

Hetty considered this. “Then you must lay a trap. Catch the villain in the act.”

He sent her a look of exasperation. “I know that! But what manner of trap, and how?”