06 | Under the Seal of Confession

—

While hopes were never high that Mason would actually uncover Benedict Alban's blackmail victims by finding their names written on money transfer orders, Thornton still expected that the policeman would glean something—some shred of information—from the dead man's bank account.

"There's been absolutely nothing in that account to suggest that Alban profited from blackmail," Mason said, his voice tinged with disappointment. "Just withdrawals ever since May; the last deposit—and that hadn't been a suspiciously big one—had been in April."

It was half past nine on a wet autumn night. Mason had come to the gate in the kitchen garden wall behind Marlborough Mills long after shift at the mill was finished and the workers had dispersed. Neither wishing to be overheard nor getting soaked out in the open, Thornton had ushered his visitor into the washhouse. They stood in utter darkness.

"Was he in debt?" Thornton asked.

"No such thing, either. He wasn't wealthy; but he was reasonably well-off for a single man in his situation... Apparently, he had inherited some money from his mother and was living off the proceeds, in addition to the money he made from his speeches."

"Maybe there was another account?"

"If he had one, then there was no trace of it in his effects—I contacted a distant cousin who inherited our late Mr Alban's worldly goods; and while the cousin had terminated the bank account after paying for the funeral, he hadn't gone through Mr Alban's possessions yet. The crates were still sealed and stored in a spare room at said cousin's house when I went to call on him. We had a look through them together."

"So that's our theory come unglued," Thornton said, irritated.

"As for Mrs Latimer," Mason continued. "She was indeed known to many of the ladies from the Kensington Women's Charitable Committee when she was still the widowed Mrs Nashby—but then, that's hardly news. Nor is the fact that she knew Mr Alban from London." He was silent for a moment; for all Thornton knew he was ticking items off a mental list, just like he used to do on his note pad. "There is nothing to connect Mr Latimer with Mr Alban while in London."

"And the Fosters?"

"Mrs Foster actually is a member of the Kensington Women's Charitable Committee these days. Unfortunately I had no means to ascertain that she already was a member in April, when Mr Alban was associated with them." Once again he paused, considering. "I couldn't find much on Mr Foster, either, not with the means currently at my disposal. However, I did find out a little bit about his involvement with 'finance'; rumour has it that he's a silent partner in a private London bank, Wessingham & Byrne. Alas, it's no more than a rumour at present."

"What's their field of operation?"

"Couldn't say, sir. They're small but very discreet."

When Thornton came over from the mill for tea, he found his sister animatedly chatting with his wife and mother, while the children were playing on a thick rug with their wooden bricks and stuffed toys. Fanny had brought little Frank with her who was a great favourite with Charlotte.

With the novelty of a cousin much her own age to amuse her, his daughter barely glanced his way as he entered the room; not when Master Frank was stacking bricks with the express purpose of having Charlotte knock them over, which she did with gusto. He really was a surprisingly sweet-tempered child. Considering both his parents, along with any of his other relatives including himself, Thornton fleetingly wondered where that particular character trait had come from.

He kissed both his mother and wife on the cheek in greeting, and then proceeded to do the same with Fanny, who gave him a strange look but didn't comment or stop him. Truth be told, he was surprised at himself; he never really was on such terms with Fanny. But lately they had been getting on better, and at that moment it had seemed wrong to treat her differently from the other women in his family.

"You're in a good mood today, John," Fanny pointedly remarked.

"And you are looking very well today, sister," he calmly replied.

"Oh, I am well," she agreed. Apparently, her youngest offspring was taking a break from teething; baby Walter was currently on his best behaviour and at home in the care of the nursery maid. "After months and months of horrid nightly screaming, he is finally sleeping through the night. It's utter bliss... at least for as long as it will last," Fanny added, quickly returning to her usual more gloomy outlook at family life.

"Fanny has just been telling us about her plans for travelling next summer. Robert is going to take her to Paris in June," Margaret hastened to distract her sister-in-law from descending into scaremongering about her own and her children's health.

"For an entire fortnight!—fancy that," Fanny exclaimed, "and then the children will be taken down to Brighton to meet with us on our return from Paris. We'll then be spending another three weeks sea-bathing in July."

"I have as yet to convince John to take us to Cromer in August," Margaret said. "My boisterous London relatives will be there at the time, so I suppose the prospect is a little daunting for him," She looked at him with a smile; and yet he thought that he detected a kind of wistfulness in her voice.

He had been reluctant to commit himself when she had first broached the subject, bearing in mind that he had just lost his assistant and that three weeks in Aunt Shaw's company meant quite a challenge to his forbearance. However, it suddenly struck him just how much Margaret might be missing the lightheartedness of a summer vacation, and he felt terribly selfish. Three weeks in Mrs Shaw's company he could bear—for Margaret's sake.

"Well, my darling wife," he said, "if you command me so, your old grouch of a husband will be looking into accommodations immediately."

"Would you?—really?" she asked, her eyes sparking with pleasure at the prospect.

"Most certainly," he promised.

Seeing her joy, he regretted waiting so long before giving in to her wish. Did it matter that, looking at it rationally, there were still another nine months until said holiday?—and therefore there would have been plenty of time in the new year to make hotel reservations? He hadn't considered the thrill of anticipation. When it came to these little attentions, he really was the most negligent of husbands, he thought ruefully.

"Who else will be there? Ann and her husband?" Fanny asked, intrigued.

"They are planning to go; and my London cousin Edith and her family take their summer vacation in Cromer every year without fail, along with my aunt."

"Will the Latimers join them?" Hannah asked.

"Actually, I haven't heard about their plans yet," Margaret admitted, "although I shouldn't think that a vacation in the company of three families with young children will be much to their liking." While her interactions with the Latimers were polite, they had not become particular friends.

"I wonder if the Latimers may actually be expecting an 'afterthought'," Fanny suddenly said. "Mrs Latimer has been rather out of spirits lately. She has, in fact, been so for quite some time—perhaps it will be nip and tuck with her own stepdaughter."

The other women exclaimed at the expression, marvelling at the oddity of familial relations between such new arrivals. However, their speculations were cut short by, what had started as harmless bickering on the rug, quickly turning into shrieks and tantrums.

Well aware of his daughter's uncanny aim at throwing a wooden brick, Thornton quickly stooped to pick up the little fiend and, after distracting and calming her by going to the window and pointing out the shire horses in the yard, he eventually handed her over to the maid. A look at his pocket watch told him that his allotted half hour was up; he quickly drained the dregs of his teacup and went back to the mill.

On Wednesday evening during the first week in November, Thornton and Margaret were sitting together in the study, leisurely discussing a paragraph in one of the books from the late Mr Hale's collection, when Havers entered to announce that Mrs Latimer was waiting in the hallway, asking to speak privately and on important business with both Mr and Mrs Thornton. Realising that it was one of those evenings when the Masters Club members were generally getting together for their monthly meetings, Thornton assumed that Mrs Latimer might be visiting without her husband's knowledge.

He asked Havers to take her to the drawing room and have tea served, and to tell her that they would join her shortly. His mother was staying at York Street for the time being; therefore no-one would disturb their privacy in the common rooms. Hannah Thornton was helping Fanny to care for little Frank who had sprained an ankle by falling down some steps, and who had to be kept busy and amused—all the while he was not to stir from his rest on the sofa until the swelling abated. Considering the patient's young age, this was indeed a task to occupy two women.

"What do you think she wants?" Margaret asked, bemused.

"Frankly, I haven't the faintest idea," he replied with a frown. "I could think of a number of possibilities, but none that require to see us both and at the same time." He held out his hand to help her up. "Shall we go and find out?"

"We can hardly do otherwise, can we?"

They entered the drawing room where Mrs Latimer sat on the edge of the sofa, nervously fiddling with her netted purse. Thornton couldn't help but notice that Mrs Latimer wasn't in her usual finery. She was wearing what might have been a shopkeeper's clothes; sober, good quality and not belonging to a simple servant—but definitely not her own.

They made polite conversation until Havers was finished with putting down the tea tray and serving each of them a cup—a task usually performed by the lady of the house, but, with Margaret becoming increasingly ungainly in her movements this far into her pregnancy, Havers had taken over the honours. Finally he left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

Mrs Latimer was listening to his retreating steps for another few moments before blurting out, "You must help me! I don't know what to do!—I fear for my life!"

Margaret exclaimed in consternation, and Thornton sat up straight in his chair at her pronouncement.

"Calm yourself, Mrs Latimer," he said, his own mind abuzz with conjectures, "and tell us how you came by this idea."

"Oh, you must think me crazy," Eleanor Latimer exclaimed. "I can't blame you! I should think the same of any lady of my acquaintance who came to me with such a claim." She wrung her hands, straining the strings of her purse. "And yet it is true!"

"Has someone threatened you?" Margaret asked.

For the first time Mrs Latimer was properly looking at Margaret since the latter had entered the room at her husband's arm; her gaze swept across Margaret's protruding belly. "I shouldn't have come here!" she suddenly cried, rising from her seat. "I mustn't upset you in your condition."

"I assure you, I am quite well," Margaret said with a tight smile. "You came here for a reason, I gather. You think that we can help you—so, please, let us try."

Mrs Latimer's gaze shifted towards Thornton, who steadily regarded her. Truth be told, he agreed with Mrs Latimer that her plea for help was rather ill-considered, and he was disquieted about what he was to learn. Odds were that whatever it was had to do with Benedict Alban's death.

In a flash it occurred to him just how little of that matter he had shared with Margaret.

"I don't know if you can actually help me... if anyone can, for that matter," Mrs Latimer said, striving for calm. "But there has been so much weighing on my mind for the last half year; perhaps if I made a clean breast of it..."

"Whatever you feel might ease your situation, Mrs Latimer," Margaret said.

"Call me Eleanor—"

"Whatever you wish to confide in us; me might at least give you the relief of listening... and, if there is indeed cause for you to feel threatened, perhaps, between the three of us, we may find a solution."

"So it may be," Mrs Latimer said with a sigh. "My predicament concerns Mr Alban." For Margaret's benefit, who had creased her brow in confusion, she added, "The man who was found dead at the weir in July; he was a speaker at charity meetings."

She looked down at her lap, saying in a voice barely above a whisper, "Mr Alban and I were... intimately acquainted for some time while still in London. Of course, it had to be kept a secret because we couldn't afford to marry. It was over after a few brief weeks. But for as long as it lasted I was convinced that we were mutually attached." She raised her eyes, looking at her hosts with surprising boldness.

Thornton suddenly understood why she had chosen to confide in them; they had made a similar transgression, and therefore she was confident that they wouldn't judge her harshly.

"Our relationship had come to an end well before I met Mr Latimer, and our separation had been amicable—or so I thought. Imagine my surprise when Mr Alban came to Milton in spring." She stopped short, swallowing hard. "He was quite altered... Oh, he was kind and winsome on the outside, but he was odious with me. In fact, he threatened to expose what he called my unchaste behaviour to Mr Latimer.

"I don't claim to love Mr Latimer," she continued, "but I like and esteem him; and, knowing that he cares for me, I would never want him to get hurt... and so I agreed to 'help' Mr Alban." The scorn at her choice of expression was unmistakable.

"What was it he compelled you to do?" Thornton said.

"To spy on my husband's wealthy clients; to look into their accounts and search for traces of illicit transactions. I found some," she said. "I'm good with numbers; and I found out about Mr Slickson's tenements... and also about—" She hesitated for the briefest of moments. "—someone else keeping a mistress in another part of town. He's paying her rent."

Thinking about Henderson Thornton nodded involuntarily, and then cursed himself when he felt Margaret appraise his reaction.

"When was this?" Margaret asked tersely.

"In spring. No later than May or early in June."

"But it is only now that you are feeling threatened?" Thornton said.

Mrs Latimer laughed mirthlessly. "I've felt threatened ever since Mr Alban showed up dead. But—"

"But?"

"Someone's been watching my house! For the last few weeks there were two men—rough fellows—watching the house from the other side of the street. They don't even bother to be inconspicuous. Even the servants have started to comment on them!"

"Were they in situ tonight?"

"Yes, one of them was." Mrs Latimer shuddered. "I asked my housekeeper to borrow her dress, cloak, and bonnet—she's a good woman and didn't ask any questions—then I took the side entrance and walked to the corner where I hailed a hackney... I was terrified walking alone along that street!"

"You took quite a risk in coming to us," Margaret remarked. "Yet I don't see how we can help you."

"They may be warned off by the police for loitering," Thornton suggested, "but this is at best a temporary measure, and wouldn't deter anyone for long."

"You must tell your husband," Margaret said decisively. "He's the only one in a position to protect you."

"He might at least bring about a restraining order against those men watching your house," Thornton added.

"But I can't! He would never look at me again," Mrs Latimer cried.

Margaret laboriously rose from her seat. "You came to us because you've counted on our compassion... I assure you that you have it—but only for as long as you stand by what you did." She slowly went to the door. "I have little patience with people who try to walk away from their problems! You must admit your past to your husband along with your more recent missteps. What other choice is there? And, who knows, perhaps he may yet surprise you." In the doorway she turned. "I wish you luck," she said, and then she was gone.

"I'm sorry to say so, Mrs Latimer, but in spite of her blunt words my wife is right. There is no other feasible means to deal with the situation; admit what you did to your husband, and whoever is trying to intimidate you will hold no sway over you, henceforth—"

She looked at him in quiet desperation. "If you were in his place, would you forgive me?"

"If he actually loves you and doesn't just idolise you, he will—"

"You seem quite certain."

He chuckled wearily. "Is there anything certain in life?" He reached out to ring for Havers. "My footman will hail a cab and accompany you back home. He will wait outside until you are safely inside your home."

Once she was gone, Thornton slowly made his way to the master bedroom. He didn't relish the idea of the tongue-lashing he was about to receive from Margaret.

She sat in front of her dressing table in her robe and nightdress, brushing her hair and viciously yanking at the odd tangle. He cautiously stepped into the room; it was obvious that she was seething.

"This wasn't news to you, was it?" Margaret said. Her voice was deceptively calm.

"Mrs Latimer's part in it was," he replied. Perhaps, they could solve this amicably, after all. "However, I have known for some time that Benedict Alban was gathering incriminating information on several Miltonians."

"That man Alban... Was it murder?—and when were you intending to tell me that you've been sticking out your neck investigating violent crime?" she asked scathingly.

Here we go—"Margret, I didn't wish to worry you."

"Then I must congratulate you on your forethought!" Margaret said sarcastically. "I was not upset at all. Oh, wait!—Except for the small matter of having a dead dog chucked into our garden!... That wasn't just a prank, was it? So, what will be next?—thugs lurking in front of our gate?" The strength of her grip around the brush made her knuckles turn white. He warily watched her hand, lest she should throw the brush at him. She had never done such a thing before; but there may just be a first time for everything...

For a few moments they stared at each other; then she thrust the brush back on the table and turned her back against him.

"I'm sorry, Margaret," he said with a sigh, sitting down on the edge of the bed and addressing the back of her head. "I never intended to get involved; but I was a magistrate for too long to avert my eyes—to not investigate. Not once I became aware that something was amiss and no-one else would look into it."

"I know what you are, John, and I have never minded that. What I do mind—tremendously!—is that you've kept it from me." With surprising speed she rose and stepped in front of him, her index finger poking sharply into his chest. "You kept from me what must have preoccupied you for months... and despite the possible ramifications for all of us! Since when have you come to the conclusion that some things in our marriage are of no concern of mine?"

"Forgive me," he said, "I thought it was for the best not to alarm you unnecessarily."

"So, instead of talking to me, you simply decided over my head what was best for me?" As quickly as she had stepped in front of him she turned away, heading towards her side of their bed. "So much for being equals!"

Thornton thought to argue his point, but then deferred, remembering his wife's mercurial temper late into her first pregnancy. His mother had warned him against it at the time, telling him that expecting mothers tended to become irritable at that point; and it had proved true enough then. Up until this day Margaret hadn't shown any similar inclination in her second pregnancy; in fact, she had been a model of equanimity. But, apparently, this night things were about to change. So, he didn't press his point; instead he thought it best to give her time to calm down and settle herself.

"I understand now that it was wrong of me—" he said at last.

A rusting of bedclothes was the only reply he got.

When he eventually rose to turn down the light and follow her into bed, he saw that she lay rigid, her back turned towards him and with the quilt pulled up over her ears.

"Margaret?" he murmured.

There was no answer.

Margaret rarely held a grudge; but whenever she did, she could give the likes of Hannah Thornton a run for their money. Outwardly she was scrupulously polite, but her usual spontaneity and her warmth towards her husband were gone.

It pained Thornton to be at odds with her; in fact, with the birth being imminent and the uncertainties that came with it, it tortured him. And yet he knew better than to try and impose a reconciliation. As the injured party—and Margaret clearly saw herself as such—she obviously considered it her prerogative to dictate the terms...

—

As he entered the master bedroom on the night after their initial spat, Margaret was standing by their window, apparently absorbed in watching something in the backyard, although, in the pitch dark, there was clearly nothing to be seen.

"How can I make it up to you?" Thornton said quietly. When she didn't react, he added, "Could you turn around, Margaret? —so that we can talk?"

She kept ignoring him.

"I understand that you are upset," he said, "and I am more than willing to make amends. I have never meant to slight you, as well you know." Still no reaction. He felt a tinge of impatience creep into his voice. He was willing to eat humble pie—it was no less than he deserved, after all—but did she really have to make it so darned hard for him? "Margaret, will you please look at me?"

Of course, she reacted then; and to his tone of voice rather than to his words...

She slowly turned; her face was quite expressionless, except for her eyes which were ablaze with—something. "As you command, my lord and master," she taunted, her face hard. She might be upset, but, more than that, she was visibly angry.

Well, she wasn't the only one with a temper in the room right then. "Could we, please, talk about this like grown-up people?" he ground out.

"So, you are saying that I'm unreasonable?—is this it?"

"I am not! But... don't you think that you are making a mountain out of a molehill?"

"Actually, sir, I should not think so! I do believe that I have every right to my grievances," she said, her head held high in her erstwhile haughty manner.

A sharp retort sat on the tip of his tongue; but, rather than say something that would make things even worse, he spun away in exasperation and swore under his breath. Eventually he sighed, and turned back.

"Margaret, I am sorry... I acted like a supercilious oaf. But, try as I might, I can't change what is done. I am sorry that I kept you in the dark, and that you became aware of my sleuthing through a third party. I cannot undo it; but I can promise that it will not happen again—"

"Yet I can't help thinking that your penchant for single-handed decisions is rather an ingrained habit with you. I wonder how long until you 'slip up' the next time?"

"Give me some credit, if you please; there won't be a 'next time'!"

"If only I could believe you," she murmured, turning away and rubbing the side of her protruding belly with the heel of her hand. Her posture was rigid and her voice was just as unnatural. "Would you mind sleeping in the dressing room tonight?"

"Margaret..." He sighed again, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration, then turned to the connecting door. "Call for me if you need anything," he said over his shoulder. Then he was gone, to spend a lonely night on a narrow daybed.

—

... if only Margaret would dictate her terms... and soon.

Hannah Thornton returned from York Street in time to take tea at her own house. When she arrived, entering the drawing room at the same time as Jane, who brought in Charlotte, she saw at once that something between husband and wife was not as it should be: For once they had taken seats as far away from each other as they possibly could, leaving Hannah Thornton only with a choice of an armchair right between them. Serving as their buffer.

Charlotte, of course, was insufferable from the very moment she entered the room. She ran straight up to the plate of cakes and biscuits and grabbed a handful of the latter before anyone had a chance to intervene; and when she was made to give them up, she threw a tantrum and started to hit out at Margaret.

For once, Hannah was quicker than her son; she snatched up the screeching toddler, never mind the flailing little fists, and rang for Jane to take the child away again. Charlotte's howling could be heard all the way up the stairs until the nursery door firmly closed behind them.

"Thank you, mother," Thornton sighed. "I don't know what got into her today."

"Don't you," the elder Mrs Thornton said evenly, pointedly looking from one to the other. Thornton returned her gaze just as unfazed; Margaret kept looking down at her lap. A slim volume of poetry rested there, unopened.

"Have you chosen who to ask as a godparent yet?" Hannah Thornton said at last, lest they would sit silent throughout tea.

Margaret answered in a monosyllable, and in the negative. Thornton, taking more of an effort at normalcy, chose to elaborate. "With Charlotte it was easy; Henry Lennox, basically, pressed the offer upon us right after the trial—and he was the perfect choice!—, but now it's not so simple. If we choose either Margaret's cousin Edith or Fanny, the one missing out is bound to be offended. I would have liked young Makinson, but he's a Catholic... It may have to be Hamper in the end." He didn't disguise his lack of enthusiasm.

"Not Hamper," Margaret said brusquely, before dropping quiet again.

"Margaret thinks we should choose amongst those who stood by us when we were down on our luck," Thornton explained.

"Well, this narrows down the field quite considerably," Hannah said dryly. "You'd have to ask Higgins in the end."

"And wouldn't he be a far better choice than many others?" Margaret asked sharply.

Hannah wouldn't be drawn out. "On a personal level, I'd agree," she said calmly. "However, a godparent is a very deliberate choice; at best it should be someone in a position to give a child leverage later in life—like your Mr Bell... But then, few can expect that kind of privilege."

"Mr Bell was father's particular friend at Oxford," Margaret exclaimed. "It wasn't as if I had ever expected to inherit from him!"

"No-one is putting that in any doubt, my love," Thornton said.

"Don't patronise me!"

Thornton bit his tongue as his mother hurriedly intercepted, "Perhaps, John's not wrong, after all, wanting to ask Hamper—"

"Not Hamper!" Margaret abruptly rose from her seat and turned to leave the room. "Hamper's quick to turn his coat if it suits him!—I won't have that for my child." Without another word she left the room.

"Do I want to know what happened?" Hannah Thornton asked, once the door had snapped shut behind her daughter-in-law.

"It's a long story," her son sighed, "but I think Margaret will need to hear it first—if she ever stops to listen."

For the first time in two months Thornton was spending an evening at the Masters Club; he hadn't been keen on going, but the occasion called for his attendance.

Supported by Hamper he had proposed to admit Makinson to the club some weeks before and, as of the club's last monthly get-together—on the night Mrs Latimer had come to visit the Thorntons—, the young man had been accepted as a new member by a slim majority. Only the fact that he was a Catholic had almost proved a final stumbling block.

That night was the first time Makinson was actually making use of his new privilege, and Thornton was there to provide some moral support.

The other reason for him to come had been that, inside the walls of their members club, the Milton mill masters were a formidable bunch of gossipmongers; and with the current upheaval amongst their ranks—Slickson was rumoured to be selling up and leaving Milton, and Harkness was, of course, expelled from the club for misconduct—tongues would certainly be wagging.

Thus far the evening hadn't yielded any new information. An hour into the evening, Thornton had left Makinson at the bar in the company of Hamper, Henderson, and Watson—all of them discussing the new dyeing works—and had retreated to the billiards room for a leisurely game on his own. It was one of his few indulgences.

He had barely set up the table when Foster entered the room, whisky tumbler in hand.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, setting down his glass.

"Be my guest."

Despite his frequently turning down the Thorntons' dinner invitations over the years, John Thornton was conflicted about Colin Foster—because he actually quite liked the man! Thornton was sober enough to understand that much of the attraction arose from the fact that Foster's demeanour reminded him of one George Thornton. He had the same personable manner, the same panache, as his late father; charming but a gambler at heart. Foster was also only slightly younger than Thornton's father would have been by then.

The one big difference between the two men was that Foster was old money—and George Thornton had been bluffing on an empty hand.

They agreed on a best-out-of-three; and for the first part of the game they didn't talk very much except for the odd comment about their respective strikes.

"Have you been back at Milton for long?" Thornton eventually asked. To the best of his knowledge Foster had been spending most of autumn in Town.

"A couple of weeks," Foster vaguely replied. "I've still got a number of ongoing business affairs in Milton that require the occasional personal touch."

"There's been quite a turnaround since summer... Slickson on his way out, Harkness on his way to gaol." He frowned as, after a bungled strike, the ball wobbled towards the pouch. It came to a stop just short of it. "Your turn."

"Can't say that I'm quite abreast of the times as Milton is concerned; so, tell me, Thornton, who's taking over from Slickson?"

"From what I've heard a team of investors will be coming in. They're bound to complete what Slickson has started, namely transforming the mills out at Ashley into room-and-power schemes."

"You don't approve?"

"Do you really need to ask, considering my policies these last few years?" Thornton said sarcastically.

"So, you still think the way forward is worker participation?"

"I do."

"Well, better you than me, then!" Foster guffawed. "I wouldn't have the patience... Hang on... Drat! That was a near miss!" He reached for his drink. "Riverdale Mill might be up for grabs ere long. Are you planning to bid for it?"

"The factory floors and machinery are pretty much run down; Harkness hasn't invested in the last few years. Besides, it's a jumble of smallish sheds... It's just the grounds that might fetch a tidy sum as a future building site—"

"If you don't go for it, others might."

"But will they?" Thornton said. "Is there really so much ready money at hand here in Milton? I wonder who else has lost in that failed investment scheme." His gaze met the other man's. "Have you?"

"Goodness, no!" Foster exclaimed with a startled laugh. "I'm running my investments here in Milton—such as they are—exclusively through Watson; I'm inclined to follow his lead because the tips he shares are generally sound. I don't mind a calculated risk—but I wouldn't enter into some losing game!"

"Then I congratulate you on knowing the real odds better than your peers," Thornton said, straightening after his final strike. "Well, looks like I've won this round—"

During their second round Thornton tried to think of a way to steer their conversation towards Alban. However, as far as Milton in general was concerned, Alban was ancient news and, try as he might, there was no way to bring up the matter in a casual manner. He was so preoccupied that Foster bagged the second round.

It was only after they had finished their set of three—the third had been a near thing until Thornton had won by a whisker—and he was on his way back home that Thornton recalled their conversation and remembered the calculating look that had crossed Foster's face at his—Thornton's—congratulations for knowing the odds better than his peers.

He suddenly wondered if he had hit bullseye.