Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Mrs. Browne put down her teacup. “Now… shall we view the Parisian fashion plates?”

  Apparently the gossip portion of the visit had concluded. Kendra lowered her teacup as well. “Actually, I have to go to a masquerade ball. Maybe you can help me with my costume?”

  “I don’t usually do costumes.” But Mrs. Browne looked intrigued. “What are you thinking? I believe Mary, Queen of Scots is quite popular at fancy dress balls. Milkmaids, lady’s maids, and Roman empresses as well.”

  “I was thinking more George Washington.”

  Mrs. Browne’s eyes widened in shock.

  Molly gasped, speaking up for the first time. “But, miss, ’e’s a cove! Ye can’t dress like a cove.”

  “I don’t see why not. It’s a costume ball.”

  “But ye’d be wearing breeches.”

  Which was sort of the point. Just for one night, she wanted to have the freedom of movement that she’d once had. Still, Washington might have been a poor choice. He’d died almost two decades earlier, but she didn’t know how hostile the British might still be toward America’s founding father.

  “Gypsies are popular. And flower girls,” Mrs. Browne said faintly.

  “How about a coachman?” Kendra said, thinking of the dour Benjamin. She might even be able to tuck a blunderbuss in her belt.

  “But ye’d still be dressing as a man,” Molly fretted. “It ain’t done, miss!”

  “Well, it would certainly be adventurous, which is what fancy dress balls are all about, aren’t they?” Mrs. Browne’s shock had subsided. “I’m not a tailor, though. I do not know how to fashion a jacket… and you’d need a jacket, shirt, waistcoat, greatcoat, breeches, and cravat. I could shop these items for you. They’d have to be resized, considerably. I would need to take your measurements.” A glimmer of excitement began to shine in the modiste’s eyes. “You’ll need boots, as well…”

  Kendra smiled. She’d engaged personal shoppers in her own timeline. This was along those lines.

  “Would you want me to supply the mask, as well?” Mrs. Browne asked.

  “Sure.”

  “When will you need the costume?”

  “The ball is Saturday night at Vauxhall.”

  The modiste paled a bit. “That is very soon.”

  “It is. Could you have everything delivered to Number 29 Grosvenor Square?”

  Mrs. Browne’s eyebrow’s shot up at the address. “You live in Grosvenor Square?”

  “It’s the Duke of Aldridge’s residence.”

  “You live with the Duke of Aldridge?”

  “She’s ’is ward,” Molly said, then frowned at Kendra. “Lady Atwood ain’t gonna like this, miss. Maybe ye should go ter her modiste in London ter get yer costume.”

  Maybe it was the thought of losing business to a London dressmaker or maybe it was the Duke of Aldridge’s name, but Mrs. Browne’s chin went up. “I’ll do it.” She stood. “If you will follow me to the back room, Miss Donovan. You’ll need to take off your dress so I can take accurate measurements.”

  Kendra glanced at her reticule. Inside, she had the muff pistol and a few coins. “I don’t have enough money with me—”

  “You are the Duke of Aldridge’s ward—your credit is good here,” Mrs. Browne cut her off with a smile and a wave of her hand. “When I send you the clothes, I’ll send the bill.”

  Kendra had never had a fitting in the middle of an investigation before, but if she had to go to a damn masquerade ball, then she’d get the costume of her choice. Once Mrs. Browne’s work was done, Kendra walked to the millinery down the street. She’d all but crossed Sabrina off her list, but it still helped when she heard the shopkeeper’s confirmation that the very fashionable Mrs. Mercer had indeed been in her establishment on Saturday afternoon and purchased one of her best creations.

  Coachman Benjamin had dropped Kendra and Molly off at the dressmaker’s shop before taking Sam to the Tip & Ship to verify Mercer’s alibi. Without the convenience of cell phones, Kendra had been forced to calculate the time it would take her to conduct her interviews beforehand. She’d suggested meeting at Barrett Brewery at four o’clock, which she figured would give her enough time to interview the shopkeepers, walk to the boys’ school to speak to Pascoe’s friend, Mr. Elwes, and fit in a quick lunch at the Green Knight, where she hoped to speak to Mrs. Doyle. What she hadn’t factored in was her much lengthier conversation with Mrs. Browne and going through the process of having her measurements taken. Kendra recalculated her schedule and mentally scratched off the Green Knight.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked Molly, her gaze on a sign outside a bakery shop.

  “Oi’m feelin’ a bit peckish,” Molly allowed.

  “Come on, then. I’ll buy you lunch.”

  The yeasty aroma of baked goods hit Kendra the second that she opened the door to the small shop. She hadn’t thought herself hungry until that moment, but her mouth began to water at the heavenly scent. A girl who looked about twelve but was probably older was behind the wood and glass counter. Kendra ordered two beef pasties.

  “Can you tell me where the Cookham Grammar School is?” Kendra asked as the girl put the pasties on what looked like a flat iron shovel and slid them into a brick wood-fire oven.

  “At the end of Bigfrith Lane.”

  “And that is where?”

  The girl put her elbows on the counter. “When ye leave the shop, take a right, yeah? Walk ter the end of High Street, then take another right until ye come ter Cookham Road, yeah? Go left. Ye’ll run into Bigfrith Lane, then go left. The lane’s a bit higgledy-piggledy, but if ye stay on it, the school will be on yer left. Unless ye’re blind, ye can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks. How much?” Kendra asked, and fished out a couple of coins from her reticule to cover the price of the pasties. The girl removed the hot pasties and carefully wrapped them in scraps of muslin before handing them to Kendra. Pasties were like the fast food of the day, easily eaten on the run. Or, in her and Molly’s case, while walking, since Cookham, unlike London, didn’t have hackney drivers queued up, waiting for fares.

  Outside, she gave one pasty to Molly and as they walked, she partially unwrapped hers and let it cool a little before taking a bite. Kendra set a brisk pace as they moved down the high street. It wasn’t congested like London, but there were plenty of men around, loading and unloading wagons.

  As a 21st century urbanite, Kendra had rarely been around live cattle. She’d seen a variety of farm animals in the distance, while driving through rural areas, but her closest relationship with a cow was the occasional steak or burger she ordered at a restaurant. When she’d first arrived in the 19th century, she’d been mildly shocked by the number of animals that were part of the daily life. Anyone who had studied history in school—or seen the cinematic version of the Wild West in movies and TV shows—knew it was true. But the photos, movies, and newsreels could never capture the reality of having horses and cattle on the streets, flies buzzing around the beasts as they lifted their tails to defecate while they lumbered along.

  In London, an army of children were employed as streetsweepers to clean up the feces. Here in Cookham, either the streetsweepers had the day off or weren’t doing a very good job.

  Kendra had been bemused to see how many other animals roamed the streets and alleyways, in addition to cattle. By the time they turned onto Bigfrith Lane, she counted at least two pigs, seven chickens, five dogs—one with feathers haphazardly sticking in its fur, making Kendra think there might have been eight chickens at one point—and two cats on the loose.

  The girl at the shop was right; it would be impossible to miss Cookham Grammar School, a large gray-stone, gothic-style structure centered on a swathe of green lawn. Because the Church of England was responsible for educating many lower- and middle-income children, Kendra wasn’t entirely surprised to see that half of the structure was a church with an imposing façade and bell tower. The school was attached to the church, and thick ivy crawled nearly to
the roof, only hacked back around the long, skinny windows so that light could get inside. It would save on oil for the lamps and candles.

  “Seems a bit dour, don’t it?” Molly whispered as they walked the path that led to the pair of heavy oak doors set in an archway.

  “It’s not the most cheerful atmosphere,” Kendra agreed, pulling open the doors.

  It was even less cheerful inside. The hallway was wide, with darkly paneled walls and a dull wood floor. The fan window above the door and the lit wall sconces did little to dispel the gloom. Most of the doors were shut, but a few were slightly ajar. Sounds drifted toward them: the low-timbered murmur of men’s voices, the higher timbre from a child, the shuffle of papers, the squeak of chairs, the now familiar scratch of slate against slate board.

  “W’ot’ll we do now?” Molly asked, looking around nervously. “ ’Ow will we find Mr. Elwes?”

  Kendra hadn’t anticipated the anonymity of this hallway. There was probably an office for the principal—or headmaster—somewhere. Instead of searching, Kendra decided to take a shortcut and approached the first door that was slightly ajar.

  “W’ot are ye doin’, miss?” Molly whispered furiously behind her.

  Kendra pushed the door open with her shoulder and gave a light rap against the frame with her gloved fist. She found herself in an old-fashioned classroom with about fifteen children—all boys, about eight years old. The schoolmaster stood in front of the slate board with a long pointer, holding a book. He was probably in his fifties, with a bald pate and muttonchop sideburns. He’d obviously been reading to the class but broke off at Kendra’s entrance. All the boys perked up, swiveling to stare at her with unabashed interest. Kendra found the experience of being studied by fifteen pairs of eyes a little unnerving. And she’d sat across from serial killers.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt.” She summoned a smile for her audience. She looked at the schoolmaster. “I’m looking for Mr. Elwes. Perhaps you can help me?”

  “Who are you?” demanded a sandy-haired boy with a pug nose and bold blue eyes. “Are you Mr. Elwes’s wife?”

  “ ’E ain’t gotta wife,” another boy muttered.

  “Then maybe she’s his beloved.” The pug-nosed boy grinned, causing the other boys in the room to titter.

  “Master James, that will be enough!” the schoolmaster said in a tone that suggested he’d had many dealings with Master James. He glared at the boy, then hurried toward Kendra. “We are in the middle of class, my good woman,” he whispered.

  “I realize that, and apologize for the interruption,” she said again. From her vantage point, she could see James roll a piece of paper into a tube. He ripped off a corner, sticking the paper into his mouth to create a small wad. A few of the other boys made faces at each other while they wriggled in their seats.

  “Mr. Elwes is also in class,” he said disapprovingly.

  “I understand, but if you could point out his classroom, I would appreciate it.”

  A boy howled when James beaned him with a spitball.

  “Silence!” The schoolmaster turned to glare at his class. Then he pivoted back to glare at Kendra, clearly holding her responsible for him losing whatever tenuous control he had had over the students. “I shall escort you to Mr. Elwes. And you lot”—he tossed an ominous frown at the boys, most of whom were still squirming—“begin reading chapter seven. There shall be a quiz when I return!”

  The kids groaned as Kendra followed the schoolmaster out the door. He stopped briefly when he spotted Molly. “Good heavens, we’re being invaded,” he said beneath his breath. He walked so briskly down the hall that the tails of his coat fluttered behind him. He stopped at a door across from a staircase. “Please stay here while I go in and speak to Mr. Elwes.” He opened the door and slipped inside.

  “ ’E’s not very friendly-like,” Molly muttered, frowning after him.

  “Would you be in a good mood if you had Master James in your class?”

  Molly grinned. “ ’E seems a bit of a devil.”

  The door opened again and the schoolmaster returned, followed by a young man with russet hair and an expression that was both baffled and curious. “You wish to speak to me?” He kept his voice low, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Kendra wasn’t sure if he closed the door to keep his class from overhearing them or the students from escaping.

  Kendra offered her hand. He eyed it in surprise, but, after a moment, shook it. “Yes, I’m Miss Donovan. And this is Molly.”

  “You’re an American.”

  The other man muttered something indecipherable under his breath. “I shall leave you, Mr. Elwes,” he said aloud, scowling at Kendra and Molly. “I advise you to be quick about… whatever this is. We must not have any disruptions.”

  “I understand. Thank you, Mr. Norton.”

  They watched the other man scuttle down the hall, and then he screeched when he yanked open the door to his classroom. “Master James! Get down this insta—” The rest of his sentence was cut off when he slammed shut the door.

  Elwes gave Kendra an apologetic look. “We don’t get many visitors, especially women. I only have a few minutes. What can I do for you?”

  “I understand that you were friends with Mr. Pascoe. I need to ask you a few questions about him.”

  The schoolmaster’s face seemed to lengthen in sorrow. “I am honored to have counted Mr. Pascoe among my friends. I confess I have been dreadfully shocked by his… by what happened. However, I don’t know how I can help you, Miss Donovan. Constable Leech approached me the other day and I had nothing to tell him. I don’t know what I can tell you.”

  “I would still appreciate it if you can make some time for me.”

  “I must return to my class.” A smile ghosted around his lips. “I have a Master James as well. I shudder to think what Master Marcus may be conspiring to do behind this closed door.” He paused. “I’ll be finished in twenty minutes and then the boys are required to go to the church for prayers. If you wish to wait, I can speak with you then.”

  “We’ll wait.”

  “I can meet you outside in the park. Unless it’s too cold for you? It’s shocking to think we’re in the month of May.”

  “The park is fine,” Kendra replied. “We’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

  Kendra and Molly spent the time wandering around the stretch of greenery that rose behind the school. The landscape crested and then tumbled down toward dappled woods, thick with oak, ash, and alder trees. The breeze was cool enough to cut through Kendra’s coat and carried the scent of the Thames, which made her think that the river was just on the other side of the forest. She imagined the boys inside the school released from their lessons and prayers, enjoying racing around this area.

  Molly tried to use the time to dissuade her from dressing like a man for the masquerade ball. “ ’Oo’s gonna want ter dance with ye, miss, with ye wearing breeches?” the maid demanded, twisting her hands.

  Kendra grinned. “Another point in my favor.”

  “ ’Er ladyship is gonna fly up into the boughs, mark me words.” Molly’s tone was dire.

  “So, what else is new? Lady Atwood is always upset with me.”

  “She may order ye ter stay ’ome.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  Molly’s face twisted in distress. “It ain’t natural, miss.”

  Kendra rolled her eyes. “It’s a costume party, not an audience with the pope.”

  That had Molly pursing her mouth in disapproval. Like most of Protestant England, the maid viewed the pope with a great deal of suspicion.

  Kendra caught sight of Mr. Elwes striding toward them. He’d put on a wool overcoat and tricorn hat. Molly moved slightly away to give them privacy.

  “Forgive me for keeping you waiting, Miss Donovan,” he apologized as he approached.

  “Thank you for meeting with me.”

  He sighed. “ ’Tis a difficult time for me. As I said, Mr. Pascoe’s death was sh
ocking. I miss him.”

  “You weren’t at the inquest.”

  His mouth twisted and he shook his head. “No. I couldn’t… I’ve been to inquests in the past and have found them to be raucous affairs. Mr. Pascoe would have hated to be… displayed in such an indecent manner.”

  Kendra couldn’t argue with that. She asked, “Did you know Mr. Pascoe from Maidenhead?”

  “No, I met him when he moved to Cookham. I noticed him at the tavern. He was reading Thomas Gray’s ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.’ Do you know it?”

  “I’m not familiar with it, sorry.”

  “It is one of my favorite poems. I approached him about it, and we began a conversation that turned into a friendship. I have tried my hand at writing a verse or two.” He gave her a self-depreciating smile. “Mr. Pascoe was much more talented than I. In fact, I was encouraging him to send his works to a publisher.”

  Kendra remembered the heavy, almost violent editing marks that Pascoe had done on the pages she’d found in the cottage. “But Mr. Pascoe didn’t feel himself good enough?”

  “The curse of an artist, I’m afraid. He was plagued by self-doubt, despite my encouragement. I thought his recent attempt at an epic poem quite good. My Star—that was the title. Or at least it was the most recent title.” Another smile flickered across his face. “He tended to quibble over that as well. I wonder if I ought to approach Mr. and Mrs. Pascoe to inquire if they would lend me his writings. I could send them to a publisher on their behalf, to possibly publish posthumously.”

  “That sounds like it would be a fitting tribute to your friend.” She waited a beat. “Did Mr. Pascoe talk to you about his job at all? Or mention if he was dealing with any stress recently?”

  “Nothing that would have gotten him killed.”

  “What about something that may have gotten him into an argument?”

  Elwes’s brow furrowed. “Well, that is different, isn’t it? I know that Mr. Pascoe had a few disagreements with Mrs. Gavenston’s uncle, Captain Sinclair. He was distressed over them.”