Kit peered up at her. “About what?”
She began pacing in a tight circle, hands clenched in front of her. “Somehow—and I have no idea how—my husband knows I have hired you. And in retaliation, he employed those—thoseanimalsto deliver a message, that if I do not immediately cut ties with you and stop trying to find him, next time I shall be more than marked up, as they called it.” She stopped, her skirts swishing from the abrupt change of pace. Mrs. Coleman’s face went sheet white. “They told me I would be killed.”
Of all the coercion! Kit clenched her jaw, stifling a flinch as the movement tugged at a cut near her ear. Men’s wickedness truly knew no bounds, for she had no doubt if Mr. Coleman were desperate enough to have retained such mercenaries, he would have no trouble whatsoever in asking them to do his dirty work for him. But there was the hitch.If.Had Mr. Coleman actually hired some thugs? Yet what other explanation could there be for the sight before her? No woman, even a desperate one, would intentionally get herself roughed up so.
“Oh, Mrs. Forge.” Mrs. Coleman sank to her side on the bench. “If those men have done such terrible violence to me, what of my helpless little Lillibeth? You must find my monster of a husband and my defenseless babe. Please—please.” She squeezed Kit’s arm, gentle yet fervent. “Tell me you have located them.”
“I have, or that is, I have found where he has recently been, at least up to a few days ago.”
“Truly?” The woman fairly squealed with delight. An odd transformation, but then again, a woman so emotional already could hardly be expected to maintain composure no matter the swing of her feelings. “Does this lead you to believe you know his whereabouts, Mrs. Forge? Where is he?”
“I don’t know—not yet. But I do have a man in custody, whom my husband is even now interrogating. It is my hope that information from him will provide more avenues to investigate, so please take heart.”
The hope on her face fell away as she clutched her hands to her breast. “My heart has been stolen from me, so I am afraid that is impossible.”
The hollow tone of her voice struck a chord deep inside Kit’s chest. A minor chord. The sort that vibrated with horrifying anguish. Were Bella to be taken from her, why…Her throat closed. Tight. Clogged. Burning. Just thinking of her baby girl being ripped from her life opened a cavern of ache in her soul. She’d go to her grave with that pain, for such a fissure could never be breached. Not on this side of heaven.
Footsteps clipped in from the kitchen. Pink-cheeked Martha, perspiration glistening on her brow, held a squirmy Bella who bounced against her hip. “Sorry to be interruptin’, but—”
“Ba-ba!” Bella leapt, flying into Kit’s arms, and nuzzled her warm cheek against her neck.
Tears burned in Kit’s eyes.
Oh, dear God, please don’t ever let my little one be taken from me. I couldn’t bear it!
Martha shoved a hank of hair into her mobcap. “As I was sayin’, I needs be openin’ the dining room. If you ladies would like to take yer business up to my quarters, ye’re more than welcome.”
“No need. I think we are finished.” Kit turned to Mrs. Coleman. “I promise you, Mrs. Coleman, by week’s end I will return your child to your arms no matter the cost.”
As soon as the words flew from her mouth, she grimaced. Jackson would have her head if she put herself into any more risky situations. She hugged Bella all the tighter.
Hopefully the cost she spoke of wouldn’t be too high.
Dodge Gruver squealed like a branded Berkshire hog whenever Constable Snagg let loose a fist—which was far too often for Jackson’s liking. Such violence was getting him nowhere with this interrogation. Not that he’d expected it would, nor did he condone it. Snagg ought to be locked up himself for such abuse.
With a sigh, Jackson ran a hand over his face, the wooden chair beneath him creaking. Which tack to take now? He’d exhausted most—all, truth be told—honest ways of pulling information from the man who’d so ruthlessly chased down Kit and Charles.
Standing within striking distance, the constable flexed his fingers, his knuckles the colour of bruises. “Just gimme five minutes with ’im, Chief, and ol’ Gruver here’ll be singin’ any tune ya want ’im to.”
“Once and for all, stand down, Mr. Snagg.” Jackson ruffled his own hair, weary beyond measure. He never should’ve allowed this overzealous brawler in a constable uniform to accompany him inside Gruver’s cell. “He’ll talk soon enough.”
Gruver rolled out a long string of curses. “There. That enuff talk for ye?” He howled with laughter at his own coarse jesting.
Jackson stared at the man. Heaven above, but he was ugly. Sharp bones poked out over concave cheeks, one riding higher than the other, like a mad sculptor had taken a chisel to a piece of marble and carved away too much in spots. Except for his lips. Those pieces of meat had swollen to soft pillows from Constable Snagg’s jabs, bloodied and raw now.
Once again, Jackson scrubbed his face. There was nothing for it. He’d have to pull some sort of swindle to tease out the information he needed. Straddling the chair, he folded his arms nonchalantly over the top of it. “I was hoping not to be forced to tell you this, as it is classified information, but unlike Constable Snagg here, I am not without mercy. You should know, Gruver, that we’ve snagged your partner. Holding him topside right now in the interview room. And the first one who gives me the name of the man who hired you will be let go. Free as a child’s kite. I vow it. The other can spend some quality time with Constable Snagg until a hearing can be arranged. And if I somehow misplace the paperwork on your case, well…” He shrugged. “That could be quite a long stay indeed.”
As if on cue, Snagg smacked his fist into his own palm over and over, the sound slapping against the walls. “Now yer talkin,’ Chief.”
Gruver merely spat a bloodied wad onto the stone floor. “Yer lyin’.”
“Could be.” Jackson leaned over his arms. “Or maybe I’m not. Do you really want to take that chance?”
“Don’t matter no netherway. Blackjack’ll never squeal.”
Ahh. At least now he had a name for the other offender—even if it was a nickname. A small boon, but a boon, nonetheless. He pulled out the paper Kit had given him, gave it a good shake, and held it up for Gruver to see. “What do you know about this?”
Gruver squinted for a moment then let out a rip-roaring laugh. “Looks to me ye don’t know how to count properly, tha’s what.”
