Chapter Three #3
Aaran Graham let out the breath he held. A sigh of relief arrived as he massaged his twisted leg. He had been on it too long and was paying the price for pushing his limb beyond its cooperation. However, there was still much to do.
“Do you think what happened today broke the backs of the Luddites?” he asked Duncan, with whom he would share a room on this particular night.
“Seeing so many of their fellows hanged or being transported to a penal colony for crimes such as burglary or machine-breaking or conspiracy will assuredly have an influence on their decisions to continue this fight. It is not as if the mill owners will remove the machinery they have installed in their factories,” Duncan observed.
“However, one can never anticipate what will occur next with large scale unemployment. Food riots are inevitable, especially as we are sending so much of our food and supplies to our soldiers on the European front, as well as the American one. I can also envision that the workers will find a means to demand higher wages to match the skills they need to operate the machines.”
“Makes sense,” Aaran mused as he dug his knuckles into the muscles of his sore leg.
“You well, Aaran?” Duncan asked as he sat up in the bed to have a closer look at Aaran’s face.
“Just the same old same old,” Aaran said while rubbing his thigh muscle.
Duncan turned towards him. “I am not as strong as I once was, but I know something of how to provide you a bit of relief. I was always the one to see to your aches when you were a child. My Elsbeth swore she could not bear to provide you more pain.”
“Lady Elsbeth was a remarkable woman,” Aaran said reverently. “You were blessed to have claimed her.”
“Aye, I was.” Duncan switched positions and shoved Aaran’s shoulder backwards, forcing Aaran to recline completely. Duncan sat on the edge of the bed and began to squeeze Aaran’s leg where the muscles were knotted. “You performed well today,” Duncan said as he squeezed and then rubbed the area.
Aaran closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Then you do not wish me to say I am tiring of this business,” he said as his hands fisted at his side.
“Everything? Or just the part you play in weeding out information from dissidents?” Duncan asked.
Aaran remained silent for more than a minute. “I want what the others have or will soon have.”
“Of course, you do. A home. A wife. Family. Not much sense in dragging one’s backside out of bed each morning if a man is not working for his future,” Duncan stated.
Aaran purposely changed the subject. He did not wish to continue along these lines and regretted mentioning it at all. “Do you think we will catch Moreau’s Mr. Stark?”
Duncan permitted Aaran’s ploy to change the subject.
“I had word while you were leading the local authority on how to secure those we captured today,” Duncan explained.
“Someone from the next village reported finding a body on the coaching road. I sent Alexander over to learn if it was Stark and to secure the body and have it sent to the Home Office’s coroner.
Afterwards, he was to rejoin Theodora at home.
” Duncan stopped kneading the muscle. “We will finish any paperwork tomorrow. I had hoped to be back in London within the next week.”
Aaran swallowed his sigh of restlessness. “I mean to return in the next few days, especially as we must all be in Kent the first week of February for Thompson’s nuptials, but I can stay longer if you have a need of me.”
“Three days maximum,” Duncan assured. He rose to return to his side of the bed.
“I am excessively glad Benjamin has found someone who shares his dreams of serving London and England. Both Thompson and Miss Whitchurch sing your praises,” Duncan remarked as he stretched his arms above his head to eliminate the stiffness.
Aaran sat up again and continued to rub his leg, now more out of habit than pain. “What do you think of Thompson’s assumption that your attacker has been in all our lives for nearly a year?”
Duncan chuckled lightly as he turned back the blanket a second time. “Perhaps I should turn over my position at the Home Office to him. Benjamin managed to tie all those individual incidents into one case we must explore.”
“Whenever we stop chasing forgers, utterers, Luddites, kidnappers, murderers, and whatever else is thrown our way, we might wonder upon our own mystery,” Aaran observed.
“Whoever it is that we chase is quite adept at not only distraction, but also at killing off the loose ends of our investigations. Lord Almano. Mr. Eisner, Miss Whitchurch’s boarding house friend, Miss Babbington, Mr. Stark, perhaps even Mr. Betts.
We do not know whether others are at the hands of our killer or someone else.
In reality, each of these murders should be leading us to an answer and a culprit.
Instead, they keep us going in endless circles.
I am beginning to believe such is what your attacker hopes to accomplish.
A diversion while he moves in closer for a final attack on your person. ”