Shouting! Had Fletch gone in the front then?
Before Kate could push further into the shrubbery, Wilma Jameson burst from the backdoor, yelling over her shoulder. “I told thee not to leave the cart in sight! There’s naught reason for that plaguezum lobcock bist at the door. Get out!”
Wilma? How on earth was a lumbering slow-top like Vivian’s sister involved? She had children and spent her time working. She should have nothing to do with anything.
“I’ll be there dreckly. I want my grub,” a man shouted from the kitchen.
“If ye’d spirited away the right ‘un, we’d not bist in this mess, ye old fool. Can’t do nothin’ right.” Wilma turned and glared behind her. “If we leave, they’ll think the queer bitches stole her.”
Her? One person?
She marched toward the barn, tumbling Kate into confusion. If the children weren’t lying or confused. . . Hugh might be their father. And Wilma was his wife? But then, why wasn’t her name Morgan?
And whoever she was, she was laying the blame for a kidnapping on the actors? Was there any other translation of that gibberish? Hugh had kidnapped the wrong person?
Who had he kidnapped? Who had he wanted to kidnap and why?
If Lavender or Maryann had been harmed because of her?—
Where was the sentry Fletch had sent? Could Fletch hear the argument? He’d hoped to hear her shouts—but if he was already inside. . . That house had thick walls.
Swallowing hard, Kate forced down her panic to study the overgrown flowering shrubbery on either side of the kitchen door. Bridey and Damien had trimmed the worst of it, but the lilacs and rhododendrons were still enormous.
If these were the kidnappers and they weren’t bringing their victim outside. . .
She needed to get inside. Could she slip behind bushes crushed against a stone wall? Although, if Hugh was still in the kitchen, she didn’t want to confront him. If he was strong enough to fight Fletch, she didn’t stand a chance.
There was another entry in the south wing of the house, through the office in the shoe workshop.
She never wanted to revisit that horror again.
The next closest alternative was at the far end of the north wing. No shrubbery adorned that long wall. She couldn’t reach that entrance without being seen.
Near the kitchen, there used to be a hatch into the woodshed. . . where they’d found the skeleton. Kate closed her mind to nightmares. Concentrate on helpless, terrified victims—pray they were alive.
Fighting with the new barn latch, Wilma had her back to the house. Kate took the opportunity to squeeze behind the lilacs. There really wasn’t room. The branches tore at her clothing and she fought a sneeze as leaves brushed her nose. She pulled her spencer closer to shield her muslin and hoped her bonnet protected her hair from spiders. She couldn’t enter through the kitchen if Hugh was in there. Given the accent, it had very much sounded like him.
They finally had him trapped. Where was Fletch? Was he hurt?
She heard whining and grumbling through the open door. She ought to wait for Hugh to emerge and just shoot him, but she didn’t trust her aim. She was shivering too hard.
“What’s takin’ them there brats zo long?” Hugh finally stumbled down the steps, obviously having indulged in pot valor. “We be needin’ the coin.”
The brats? Wilma’s children? He had them stealing the actors’ coins so he could escape? Shoot, Kate, just shoot him dead right now.
She couldn’t. She was a coward.
Was Vivien here?
Frozen in indecision, Kate desperately wished she could hear Fletch. Surely, he was inside by now? She watched as Hugh stumbled to the barn door to help Wilma, both their backs turned to the house.
Fine, then, a sign from heaven. . .
Sending up prayers of gratitude that she wouldn’t have to enter through the haunted woodshed, she took a deep breath, shoved aside branches, and slipped in through the kitchen entrance.
The house was silent, filled with echoes of the past.
She’d once considered this low-ceilinged kitchen a home away from home. The colorful quilts Mrs. Sutter had used to adorn the plain whitewash were gone. Instead, Brydie had painted the walls a cheerful yellow and hung lacy curtains. Pots and pans covered the sink and stove but they appeared to be clean.
