It occurred to her that she wasn’t the only freak in this timeline.
“Yes, Dr. Munroe is a real doctor,” she finally answered. “Yours isn’t?”
“Nay. Like most sawbones, Hobbs got his training on the battlefields during war. I’ll make arrangements to transport the body to his farm.” He glanced at the cottage. “Best get him out of there. The air ain’t gonna get any fresher.”
“I’ll go with you, and speak ter Hobbs,” Sam said. “If he’s agreeable, I’ll fetch Dr. Munroe from London Town.” He met Kendra’s eyes. “Does that meet with your approval, Miss Donovan?”
She smiled. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Kelly.”
“And while I’m there, I’ll make arrangements for that other matter we discussed.”
She nodded, silently thanking him for setting up the investigation into Carlotta’s background in the midst of this case.
Constable Leech sighed, looking troubled. “This is a nasty bit of business. Cookham is a peaceable village. Someone passing through must have come upon Mr. Pascoe and thought to steal from him. We’ve had peddlers come from Maidenhead during market days. And Gypsies. Course I’ve chased them off whenever I can, but they still come.”
“I don’t think that’s it; Mr. Pascoe knew his killer,” Kendra said slowly.
Constable Leech gaped at her. “How’d you know that?”
Kendra walked back to the cottage door. No, the air wasn’t going to get any fresher. From the threshold, she studied the room with a critical eye.
“The crime scene tells us what we need to know. Nothing indicates a struggle of any kind. Nothing has been knocked over or is on the floor—aside from Mr. Pascoe,” she said drily. “Mr. Pascoe even allowed his killer to get close to him.
“He stood up or was already standing when his killer came into the cottage. The knife was on the table, next to the bread and cheese.” She made a mental note to ask Munroe to check the blade under his microscope for traces of food, although knowing the doctor, he would do it without needing to be asked. “If Pascoe had felt threatened in any way, why wouldn’t he have picked up the knife, used it as a weapon? And if the killer had surprised him, the scene would be a lot more disorganized; chairs and the table tipped over, the bread and cheese and mug on the floor.”
Leech came over to peer into the cottage. “Huh.” He turned to look at her. “What if he didn’t feel threatened? Maybe it was one of those Gypsy women.”
It was possible. A man might not feel threatened by a stranger, if the stranger was a woman.
“Why would a Gypsy woman kill him?” asked Sam.
Leech glanced at the Bow Street Runner. “They’re all thieves. Mayhap Mr. Pascoe objected to being robbed.”
Sam shook his head. “That may be, but the Romany I’ve dealt with wouldn’t have stopped at taking just his purse. They would’ve taken his coat and boots, the dishes, those nice pillows on the bed, and the feather tick mattress. They’d have stripped the place bare.”
Kendra glanced at the Bow Street Runner with surprise. “You make an excellent point, Mr. Kelly,” she said. She wasn’t willing to categorize all the Romany people as thieves, but a thief who was willing to kill would probably take more than the victim’s wallet. If that was even missing. They needed to search Pascoe’s cottage in the village more thoroughly.
“There was a handkerchief in Mr. Pascoe’s pocket as well,” she added, and saw the constable’s eyebrows shoot up in understanding. Oddly enough, she’d learned months ago that handkerchiefs were prized in this era, often targeted for theft.
“Well, that’s a different kettle of fish,” conceded Constable Leech. “A Gypsy wouldn’t have left that behind.”
“How long will it take to bring Dr. Munroe here?” Kendra asked Sam.
“I’ll rent a horse; faster ter get ter town. No more than a couple of hours, I’d say.”
“It would make more sense if you took Chance,” Alec said, offering his stallion. “I will take over the gig. And, I suggest after you make your arrangements with Dr. Munroe, borrow a carriage from His Grace’s stables. At this rate, we won’t be returning to London until nightfall. I’d rather be in a carriage than on a wherry up the Thames in the dark.”
Sam nodded. “If I have time when I return with Dr. Munroe, I’ll try to find Mr. Cox.”
“While you do that, I need to have a talk with Mrs. Gavenston.”
Kendra’s stomach twisted into knots. It didn’t matter the century; some things never got easier.
First things first, though. Kendra sucked in a deep breath of fresh air, and then went back inside the stone shack. She gathered up the loose papers from the table. Like the foolscap she’d found in his cottage in Cookham, Pascoe had filled up the pages. But he’d apparently found his writing wanting, because angry slashes crossed out words, sentences, sometimes the nib digging so deeply that he’d torn tiny holes in the page.
She stuffed the papers into the writing chest and satchel. Later, she’d read through them. Studying the victim was a vital part of any murder investigation.
For a long moment, she stood with her hand resting on the wooden writing chest as her eyes roamed across the room to imprint the scene in her mind. Narrow cot, pillows, candles, tea kettle, mug… What was she missing? What was she not seeing?
Her gaze fell on the dead man lying at her feet. Leech said that he’d soon be hauled away to Hobbs’s farm. A farm, for God’s sake. She wondered if the autopsy would be conducted in the barn. It made her uneasy to leave without cordoning off the crime scene, but what would be the point? Crime scenes were preserved to allow the CSI unit time to collect trace evidence. The cottage was remote enough; maybe it would remain undisturbed.
Biting back a sigh, she started to hoist up the travel chest, but Alec came around to take it from her. She hadn’t realized he’d been standing behind her. He raised an eyebrow.
“Do you really think Mr. Pascoe’s poetry will help you find his killer?”
“You never know.” She gave a noncommittal shrug and moved to the windows, shutting them. She didn’t know how long it would take to remove the corpse, but it was best not to give larger predators an opening to get inside to feed.
She grabbed the satchel and followed Alec outside.
“God, Ramsey may quit on the spot when he gets a whiff of these clothes,” Alec muttered, waiting while she closed the door. “It might be better to toss them in the dustbin where they cannot offend my valet’s sensibilities.”
“Aye, the dead have a way of staying with a person,” Sam spoke up. He was already sitting astride Chance, controlling the skittish stallion by sawing at the reins. He looked at Kendra. “I’ll see you at Hobbs’s farm, then?”
Kendra nodded.
“Mrs. Gavenston is most likely at the brewery at this time of day,” said Constable Leech after Sam galloped off. He looked at Kendra. “Should I come with you to inform Mrs. Gavenston about Mr. Pascoe?”
“Thank you, but no. I’d like to talk with Mrs. Gavenston privately, if you don’t mind.”
The constable couldn’t hide his relief as he followed Kendra to the gig, where Alec helped her up onto the seat. “We ain’t never had anything like this happen in Cookham,” he confided. “The worst I’ve had to deal with in the six years I’ve been constable was Mrs. Mason’s housemaid selling used tea leaves to an unscrupulous peddler. Didn’t know I was the constable when he came to my store, or that I’d insist on boiling a pot ’cause the leaves didn’t look fresh. Plenty of nasty business in the tea trade, you know.”
“I guess you can’t trust anybody.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” He shook his head.
At that moment, a two-horse wagon came barreling down the hill. The 19th-century version of a coroner’s van.
Constable Leech waved at the three men on the seat. He looked back to Kendra. “I’ll ask around the village to see if anyone’s heard any gossip about Mr. Pascoe.”
“That would be helpful.” Kendra hesitated. �
��What about Mrs. Gavenston’s family? Have you heard any gossip about them?”
Leech frowned. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. I heard there might be tensions in the family.”
“I know Mrs. Gavenston’s uncle is back from India, living at White Pond Manor. There’s some gossip about him wanting a hand in Barrett Brewery.” The constable shrugged. “The family ain’t gentry, but the brewery is a sizeable operation. And it’s prosperous. Money always has a way of bringing out the worst side of a person. I’ve seen it often enough in the tea business. But what does that have to do with Mr. Pascoe? It’s not like he was family.”
Kendra remembered the worry in Mrs. Gavenston’s eyes when she begged Kendra for her help that morning. Had it only been that morning?
“Mrs. Gavenston seemed to care a lot for Mr. Pascoe,” she said. “Maybe that rubbed someone in the family the wrong way.”
For no reason at all, a vision of Carlotta sprang up in Kendra’s mind. Not the same at all. Irritated, she pushed the thought away and looked at Alec. “After we talk to Mrs. Gavenston, we need to go to Maidenhead.” Her stomach squeezed. No, it never got easier. “Mr. and Mrs. Pascoe need to be informed of their son’s death as well.”
11
Barrett Brewery was a massive compound located next to the Thames. It had an oddly cobbled-together look: four-stories of orange-red brick, narrow mullion-paned windows, steeply pitched slate roofs, and soot-darkened chimney stacks thrusting upward into the sky. A small gravel courtyard hummed with activity. A narrow one-story building, which looked like it had been attached to the main building at one point, had its bay doors open, showing a handful of men busy sawing and hammering wood, pounding metal into hoops. The finished product—casks—were stacked row upon row against the furthest wall. More men were gathered around a wagon still hitched to a draft horse, unloading large hemp bags. The air smelled of dust, grain, something citrusy, smoke, and the ever-present dung.
Even with the dung, it smelled better here than inside the cottage, Kendra decided.
A stable boy came running up to them, catching the reins that Alec tossed down. Kendra had a vision of tossing her car keys to a valet in the 21st century.
“A shilling to secure the horses,” Alec offered, and leapt down to the ground with athletic grace, before coming around to assist Kendra and Molly.
“Aye, gov’ner,” the boy said with a grin, and began to lead the horses and vehicle away.
“Wait,” Kendra called out. “Where can we find Mrs. Gavenston?”
“Over there,” he said, pointing a grimy finger toward a two-story attachment to the main building, opposite where the casks were being made.
“Thanks.”
Kendra caught the curious glances of the workers as they crunched their way across the gravel to a low stoop and a black painted door. A crest featuring the image of a woman holding a flask in one hand and what looked like shafts of barley in the other was attached to the door. The Barrett Brewery name was emblazoned across it.
The door opened to a small foyer with a wooden staircase and a set of double doors that stood ajar, revealing an office with shelves, cabinets, and three wooden chairs. An archway led to a hallway on the left. A man who looked to be in his mid-twenties was hunched over the desk, busy scribbling in a ledger with one hand and wiping his nose with a linen handkerchief with the other. He glanced up as they entered the room. His eyes were watering and as red as his nose.
“May I help you?” he asked in a nasal voice.
“We’re here to see Mrs. Gavenston—Kendra Donovan, Lord Sutcliffe,” she identified.
“Do you have… have a…” He managed to capture the sneeze with his handkerchief. “Oh, pardon me,” he said, blowing his nose. “Do you have an appointment?”
“She’ll want to see us.”
He hesitated, shifting his gaze to Alec. “Lord Sutcliffe, did you say?”
Alec inclined his head. “Yes.”
“I shall inform Mrs. Gavenston of your presence.” He rose, bowing briefly. He swept through the archway and down the hallway. He was gone for only a moment before he returned, beckoning them. “Mrs. Gavenston will see you.”
Kendra and Alec started forward, but Molly plopped down in one of the chairs. “Oi’ll wait ’ere for ye, miss.”
Kendra couldn’t blame the maid; the next few minutes wouldn’t be pleasant.
They followed the clerk down the hallway, which smelled like the outside of the brewery, minus the dung. The clerk opened the door at the end of the hall and stepped aside, allowing them to enter.
Kendra glanced around, curious to see what the office of a businesswoman in this era would look like. The space was large, less showy and more utilitarian. Shelves held both books and glass jars filled with pellet hops, which, to Kendra’s eye, looked a lot like the dried marijuana she’d seen in dispensaries. Other jars were filled with rich amber grains and what appeared to be potpourri, but was probably something relevant to the beer trade. A large map of the world and a smaller map of the East Indies were on the wall, speckled with tiny yellow flags anchored by needle-like pins. There was an elegantly carved mahogany mantel surrounding a hearth that had a coal fire blazing, and a long, gleaming credenza. Dark amber bottles, decanters, and crystal glasses were arranged on its surface. Two low-backed leather chairs faced an enormous desk.
Mrs. Gavenston stood behind the desk, in front of a large window that overlooked the Thames. Kendra could see boats bobbing and skimming across the choppy waves.
Quite a view, Kendra thought. Strategic too. Framed by the window, Mrs. Gavenston exuded strength.
“Miss Donovan, my lord.” Mrs. Gavenston’s eyes flicked between them. “Would you like something to drink? Tea? Of course, we have ale.” She smiled slightly. “Or something stronger?”
“No, thank you,” said Kendra.
Mrs. Gavenston looked at the clerk. “Thank you, Mr. West. You may leave us now.”
She waited until the clerk closed the door, then her gaze returned to Kendra. “I confess that I didn’t expect to see you so soon, Miss Donovan. Do you have news?”
Kendra hated seeing that hopeful look on the other woman’s face, hated knowing that she would be the one shattering it. “Perhaps you should sit down?”
“Of course. Please forgive me. My manners have fled.… Please sit.”
Mrs. Gavenston sat, as well, but her expression altered subtly. “You have news. I can see it in your faces. What… what have you found out?”
“We found Mr. Pascoe in an abandoned cottage on Squire Prebble’s land,” Kendra explained. “He was using it as a writer’s retreat. I’m sorry, but he’s dead.”
“Dead?” Mrs. Gavenston gasped, her face draining of color. “But… that can’t be. That simply can’t be.” She shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”
“I’m sorry,” Kendra said again. She kept her gaze on Mrs. Gavenston’s pale face. There was no way to soften the next blow. “He was murdered.”
“Murdered?” The other woman lifted a hand to her mouth. “No. I don’t believe you. Why would anyone murder Jeremy?” But tears were beginning to shimmer in the horrified eyes. “This can’t be happening.”
Alec stood and crossed the room to the credenza. Without invitation, he pulled the stopper from one of the decanters and poured what looked like brandy into a glass.
“This might steady your nerves,” he said, bringing the glass over to Mrs. Gavenston and pressing it in her palm.
Mrs. Gavenston’s hand shook as she took a swallow. “I cannot believe it,” she whispered, staring at nothing. “I was worried, but… but this. Jeremy is dead.”
She set the glass down abruptly and pulled out a dainty handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbing at the tears that trickled down her cheeks. “Forgive me,” she muttered. “I’m overwrought. What happened? Who would hurt Jeremy?”
“That’s what I intend to find out,” Kendra said. “I’m going to ask you again, Mrs. Gavenston: was ther
e anyone that Jeremy was having a problem with? Someone he might have fought with recently?”
“I already told you, no. Everyone likes—liked Jeremy.”
“You need to think about that very carefully. I believe that Mr. Pascoe was killed by someone he knew.”
Mrs. Gavenston stared at her, shocked. “How could you know such a thing? How—” she broke off when the door opened, and a young woman came in, holding a sheaf of papers.
“Mama, I have the numbers on—Oh, pardon me. I didn’t realize you had visitors. What’s wrong?” she demanded suddenly, her tone sharpening as she noticed her mother’s tears. She hurried forward, dropping the papers on the desk and whirling to confront Kendra and Alec. “What’s going on here?”
Mrs. Gavenston drew in a shuddering breath, using the handkerchief to mop up the tears. “Don’t fuss, Hester.” She made an effort to pull herself together, straightening her shoulders. “Miss Donovan, Lord Sutcliffe, this is my daughter, Hester. Hester, this is Miss Donovan, Lord Sutcliffe.”
“Miss Gavenston,” Alec murmured.
The daughter resembled her mother in the strong, elegant planes of her face and stubborn chin. Hester’s hair was lighter and brighter, more of a strawberry blond than her mother’s chestnut brown, her eyes turquoise blue rather than hazel. Unfortunately, the woman appeared to be suffering from the same cold as the clerk; her eyes were red-rimmed, her nose rubbed raw from blowing. Kendra’s throat itched just from looking at her and she made a mental note to drink some echinacea tea later. Maybe she could ask Constable Leech if he had any in his store.
Hester was frowning. “Miss Donovan… Mama told me that she asked you to find Jeremy—Mr. Pascoe.” Her face changed then, her eyes rounding in horror. “Oh, dear heavens. This is about Mr. Pascoe, isn’t it?” She looked at her mother. “Mama?”
“Jeremy… he’s dead…” Mrs. Gavenston said, her breath hitching. “Jeremy is dead.”
Hester’s hand went to her throat. “No.”
Shadows in Time Page 9
