Page 7 of The Time for Love
The memory of those moments made her breath hitch. Reminded of the cause, she glanced at him. “Areyouall right?”
No one had asked him.
He straightened from retrieving his hat and cane, and his expressionless look somehow managed to convey male affront. “Yes.” The unspoken “Of course” rang loud and clear.
She turned back to Hinckley and the rest of the men and instantly saw that their attitude to Cynster had changed. Previously, they’d been as curious but also as suspicious as she. Now, he was a savior, of her and some of them, too.
Although still shaken, the four who’d escaped death courtesy of his warning pressed forward to tender their thanks.
His expression serious, he accepted the overtures, but sought to downplay his actions. “Your hearing is probably deadened through working in all this noise.” He looked at Hinckley. “I heard the clink of metal hitting the floor, followed by the rattle of chains and the whistling as the hook swung.”
Frowning, Martin took in the heavy winch hook—as tall as a man and almost as wide—that the workers had finally brought to a standstill. The hook was suspended on heavy chains, and the lower curve hung a foot or so above the ground. It had come to rest in the middle of the central aisle, about a third of the way from the rear wall.
He looked toward the rear of the shed. “I wonder what fell to the floor.”
Turning away from Miss Carmichael—whom he needed to haul his senses from—he stepped into the aisle. Tension still rode him; the impulse to lay waste to whatever had threatened pressed on him. The workers—also curious—parted and let him through, then fell in behind him. Hinckley came up on his right, and everyone scanned the floor as they walked slowly toward the shed’s rear.
“Here!” A worker darted to the left. He reached beneath the edge of a steam hammer’s platform and pulled out a large, heavy metal clamp. He carried it to Hinckley.
The foreman took the clamp and held it up where all could see.
Someone in the crowd behind Martin said, “That’s one of the clamps we use to hold the winch hooks to the gantry.”
“Aye.” Grim-faced, Hinckley pointed to the long, thick, iron bolt that was obviously only half the length it should have been. “And it’s been sawn through.”
Martin felt the men behind him part and, without looking, knew it was to let Miss Carmichael through. Some part of him—some combination of his senses—had become immutably fixed on her.
Forcing his mind to the matter at hand, he took the clamp and examined the bolt. “This was sawn partway through. Whoever did it left enough for the bolt to hold for a while, but eventually, under the weight of the hook, it snapped and released the chain.”
A younger voice piped up, “But we don’t leave the winches rolled out like that, above the aisle. That winch should’ve been hard by the wall.”
“It was!” An older man—one of the subforemen—turned to Hinckley. “I swear, me and Sam, we rolled that beast”—he pointed up at the winch from which the hook hung—“back against the wall last night, before we went home. We had it out yesterday to load that pallet of steel bars, remember?”
Hinckley nodded. “Aye. I remember. The rail tracks that went out.”
Another older man—presumably Sam—confirmed that the winch and its heavy hook had been properly stowed the previous night. “Besides, we never let out the chain like that, so the hook nearly touches the ground. We always let out just enough for the job, then haul it back up, and we did that last night as well.”
Excruciatingly aware that Miss Carmichael had halted beside him, Martin glanced her way and saw that she was staring in a disturbingly blank fashion at the sawn-off bolt. “So,” he concluded, “it seems this act of sabotage was carried out sometime last night, after the works closed, but it wasn’t designed to harm any specific person.” He looked at Miss Carmichael, as did Hinckley and most of the men. “There was no way whoever rigged this could have known who they would harm, but by moving the winch to above the aisle and lengthening the chain, they were clearly intent on hurting someone.”
A dark murmur rose from the assembled men, but Miss Carmichael didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she blinked those huge turquoise eyes and, in a curiously detached tone, murmured, “Sabotage. Just like the coal wedged into the spiegeleisen chute.”
Sophy’s wits weren’t whirling quite as badly as they had been; she could see the sense in what he’d deduced. Still, she wasn’t really thinking clearly when she added, “Just like the other accidents.”
Cynster faced her; she felt his gaze lock on her face. “What other accidents?”
She wouldn’t have chosen to tell him, but given his tone and the focused intent she could sense pouring from him, obliging seemed easier than trying to resist. She raised a finger and rubbed her temple. “Well, the first might not have been sabotage. The hoist used to lift the pig iron to the mouth of the converters failed. A cable had frayed, and it snapped. Luckily, no one was hurt.”
Hinckley growled, “It seemed odd—suspicious, even—but still, it might have been just a bad cable.”
“Next,” Jeb, a subforeman, said, “it was a gasket between one of our Cowper generators and the converter springing a leak. The bolts were loose, but they weren’t the day before.”
“No one was hurt.” Hinckley grimaced. “We just thought it was one of those things.”
Sophy drew in a breath and took up the tale. “But then, about a week later, a steam pipe blocked and nearly exploded.” She glanced around at the men. “Young Patrick got burned that time.”
“Only a little, miss!” Patrick called from the rear of the group.
She summoned a weak smile. “Yes, but those bolts…” She looked at Hinckley. “Thinking back, I really can’t see how they could have come loose without someone deliberately undoing them. All six were loose, yet we run the generators for most of the day, every day.”
