Mrs. Gavenston surprised her by reaching out to grasp her hand. “Please,” she whispered, her eyes glittering with some emotion that Kendra couldn’t identify. “Please, Miss Donovan, I beg of you. I am in desperate need of assistance. Will you help me?”
2
Rebecca’s maid, Mary, stayed in the carriage while they found a table at a nearby coffee shop that catered to a wealthier clientele. Mostly matrons, but a few gentlemen—a blend of nobility, Kendra surmised, and London’s increasingly affluent merchant class.
Kendra tugged off her gloves, tossing them on top of her reticule, and regarded Mrs. Gavenston with keen interest. Her earlier wariness had been replaced by curiosity and anticipation.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Gavenston?” she asked.
“Forgive my boldness, Miss Donovan. If I wasn’t so anxious, I would never have approached you in such a brazen way.” She paused when a young serving maid approached to take their order—chocolate for Rebecca, coffee for Kendra, and tea for Mrs. Galveston.
“My business manager has disappeared,” the woman said once the maid left. “I’m quite concerned. I thought perhaps you…” She drew in a breath, let it out. “Well, if you could discover the fiend who killed Sir Giles, you might also be able to find Jeremy—Mr. Pascoe.”
Mrs. Gavenston leaned forward, her hazel eyes filled with entreaty. “I shan’t insult you by offering you money for your services, but I have need of your help.”
Only in this era was it considered an insult to offer those in the upper class money for work, Kendra thought wryly. Then again, the very notion of work was something the Beau Monde seemed to abhor. It was a strange system, one that she was still learning to navigate.
The maid returned with a tray filled with silver pots, floral-patterned bone china cups and saucers, and creamer and sugar bowls. They remained silent as she served them and left.
Kendra picked up her coffee cup, studying the other woman over the rim. She saw intelligence and strength in the attractive face. And desperation.
“When was the last time you saw your business manager?” Kendra asked, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Saturday, at the brewery. I didn’t expect to see him on Sunday, as it’s his day off. But Monday…” She frowned. “He should have returned yesterday.”
“The brewery?”
“Barrett Brewery.” She said it matter-of-factly, but there was a glow of pride in her eyes.
“And what is your connection to Barrett Brewery?”
“ ’Tis my company.”
“I see. And Mr. Pascoe runs the brewery for you as your business manager.”
Mrs. Gavenston’s face changed subtly. “No, I run Barrett Brewery, Miss Donovan.”
In Kendra’s ten months in this timeline, she’d encountered female costermongers peddling flowers and fruit on the street and dressmakers who owned their own shops. But she’d never met a woman in a position of power in the business world, holding real responsibility in running a company.
Mrs. Gavenston misinterpreted her silence, continuing in a chilly tone, “Barrett Brewery has been in my family for generations, with its recipes passed down from mother to daughter. Given the rumors that I have heard about you, Miss Donovan, I would think you would not be a person who was critical of a woman in my position.”
Kendra wasn’t sure she liked the bit about rumors circulating about her, but she raised a placating hand. For all her pride at being in charge of Barrett Brewery, the older woman was clearly defensive. Kendra understood. Mrs. Gavenston was probably as much an oddity in this era as Kendra was.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Mrs. Gavenston,” Kendra said. “I’m not being critical—just surprised.” She found herself studying the older woman again. “I was under the impression that once you married, a woman’s property became her husband’s.”
Rebecca spoke up for the first time since they sat down at the table. “Unfortunately, that is true. One wonders why a woman of any means would marry at all,” she said as she set her cup down on the saucer and leaned forward. “I applaud your resourcefulness, Mrs. Gavenston, on avoiding this sad state of affairs that bedevils our sex. Your father was wise in your marriage settlement to ensure your independence.”
Kendra smiled slightly. Rebecca was a follower of the early feminist Mary Wollstonecraft, and rarely ignored an opportunity to espouse her own views on the subject.
Mrs. Gavenston appeared mollified by Rebecca’s words, some of the stiffness going out of her shoulders. “Thank you, my lady. Of course, my family is not part of the aristocracy, so nothing was entailed. And as I said, the women in my family have always been brewsters—my mother and her mother before her. I intend to pass the brewery to my eldest daughter, Hester. It’s not only tradition, it’s our legacy.”
“Impressive,” said Kendra.
Mrs. Gavenston glanced at her, unsmiling. “It shouldn’t be. Englishwomen have been brewsters in this country for centuries. My husband passed away seven years ago, but even without my father’s provision, he had little interest in running the brewery. He understood that Barrett was my company when we married. But that is neither here nor there.”
Mrs. Gavenston sighed, lifting her hand and waving it as though to dismiss the subject. “I did not force an introduction with you, Miss Donovan, to discuss Barrett Brewery or the beer industry. Will you help find Jeremy?”
The pleading look was back, so at odds with the proud tilt of her head. Kendra suspected that the other woman didn’t often ask for help.
“I’ll do whatever I can, Mrs. Gavenston,” Kendra said. She’d been involved in a few missing persons cases, though usually involving children or teenage girls.
Still, she frowned as she considered the length of time Mr. Pascoe had been missing. It had been less than forty-eight hours—not long when dealing with an adult.
“It’s only Tuesday morning,” Kendra said. “He hasn’t been gone that long.”
“He did not come into work on Monday, and he was not at home.”
“Did you just knock on his door, or did you go inside?”
“I went inside. I have a key. The cottage is owned by Barrett Brewery. I offered it to Jeremy when he came to work for me.”
“How long has he worked for you?”
“A little over a year.”
“And he’s never disappeared for a couple of days before?”
“No. Never.” Mrs. Gavenston was adamant.
“Do you have any reason to think he met with foul play? When you went into the cottage, were there indications of a fight?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Kendra took a long sip of coffee. “Tell me what his mood was like when you saw him on Saturday. Did he seem upset? Can you think of any reason why he might leave voluntarily?”
Mrs. Gavenston bit her lip, and her gaze slid to the side. It took her a moment to answer. “He… he was distressed, but I cannot believe that he would simply leave.”
Kendra eyed her closely. “What was he distressed about?”
She waved her hand. “It’s not relevant.”
“Mrs. Gavenston—”
The woman shook her head. “He would never have left without speaking to me. And even if he had been so ill-mannered—which he is not—he would have returned to his home. To his… his family. After I realized he wasn’t at the cottage, I went to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Pascoe. They live in Maidenhead, a short distance from Cookham, where I live. They haven’t seen him. I told them to send me a message if he returned. I have received nothing.”
Kendra kept her gaze on the older woman. “What was Mr. Pascoe upset about on Saturday?” she asked again.
“I’m telling you that he would never have left without resigning, regardless of the argument.”
“So, you argued?”
“It was a disagreement.”
Kendra frowned. “Mrs. Gavenston, if you want me to find your business manager, you can’t hold anything back.”
“I am telli
ng you everything.”
But again, she avoided looking at Kendra, dropping her gaze to her teacup.
Kendra waited a moment. Silence and eye contact were useful tools during interrogations. And while Mrs. Gavenston was a client—an unpaying client—rather than a suspect, Kendra’s inner antennae was quivering at her evasiveness.
“Whether you think something is irrelevant or not, I need to know,” she pressed. “I won’t be able to help you otherwise. So, what did you have a disagreement about?”
Mrs. Gavenston continued to study the pretty pattern on her china teacup as though trying to memorize it. Then she released a sigh that sounded either frustrated or exasperated (or both), and raised her eyes to meet Kendra’s.
“I’ve decided to expand the brewery,” she said. “There is new machinery in which I am considering investing to increase production. Jeremy does not agree. We had words about it.”
“But he is your business manager!” Rebecca stared at the other woman, shocked. “He works for you. Surely, he would not dare to contradict you?”
Mrs. Gavenston shrugged. “The machines will replace a few workers. Jeremy is tenderhearted and frets over the loss of jobs. He was vexed with me, but he would never have left without handing in a letter of resignation. Or speaking with his parents.”
“That’s unusual,” Kendra said. “Most business managers are about the bottom line.”
Mrs. Gavenston looked like she was going to say something, but then pressed her lips together.
Kendra asked, “How old is Mr. Pascoe?”
“He turned nine and twenty last Friday.”
Kendra was surprised. She wasn’t sure why, but she’d gotten the impression that Pascoe was much younger, more boy than man. This information changed the picture. A younger man might be more impulsive, storming off after an argument. Then again, if Pascoe was as compassionate as Mrs. Gavenston seemed to think, maybe he was holed up somewhere reevaluating his career choice and figuring out his options.
All of that was assuming he’d left voluntarily, despite Mrs. Gavenston’s refusal to believe he’d do such a thing. It was too early to rule anything out.
Kendra took another swallow of coffee, then asked, “Did Mr. Pascoe have any enemies? Anyone make any threats against him recently?”
Mrs. Gavenston knitted her brow. “I never heard of such a thing.”
“If you were considering bringing in machinery to replace workers, someone in the brewery might have blamed Mr. Pascoe,” Kendra noted. Several months earlier, she had seen firsthand the tensions in factories in the wake of the Luddite movement. Whether it was machines in this century or AI in the 21st century, no one liked being replaced. Especially when their replacement lacked a heartbeat.
“It was a private discussion,” Mrs. Gavenston replied.
“Sometimes private discussions, especially when they affect business, have a way of leaking out.”
Mrs. Gavenston shook her head. “I think I would have heard complaints, if that were the case.”
“What about something more personal? Maybe he rubbed someone the wrong way. Not everyone likes being managed.”
Mrs. Gavenston frowned as she sipped her tea. “Jeremy was well-liked inside Barrett Brewery,” she said. “But the brewery industry is competitive. Disagreements among brewers are common. ’Tis the nature of the business. Still, I cannot imagine anyone wishing him harm.”
“What about before he was in your employ?” asked Kendra. “Did he mention anyone from his past that he may have been having problems with?”
Mrs. Gavenston’s frown deepened, but she shook her head. “He never mentioned anything.”
Which only means he didn’t tell his employer, Kendra thought. Not surprising. “Where did he work before you hired him?”
“He was a clerk in the Maidenhead Banking Company. I cannot conceive that Jeremy would have made any enemies there.”
Kendra shrugged. “He worked in a place that loaned money—or refused to. Money has a way of bringing out the worst in people.”
Worry darkened Mrs. Gavenston eyes.
“I’ll need to speak with the Pascoes about their son,” Kendra continued briskly.
“Of course. I shall provide you with their address.”
“I’ll need your address as well. And Mr. Pascoe’s.”
“Certainly.” Mrs. Gavenston reached for her reticule and withdrew a flat silver case of her calling cards. She flicked it open with her thumb and slid out a thick ivory card, which she handed to Kendra. It read, in lovely embossed letters: MRS. WILLIAM GAVENSTON. WHITE POND MANOR. COOKHAM, BERKSHIRE.
“The cottage’s address is 1 Milton Road.” Mrs. Gavenston looked around. “Mayhap someone has paper to write it down on.”
Kendra waved that off. “I’ll remember.”
“If I may ask, what are you doing in London, Mrs. Gavenston?” Rebecca asked, gazing at the older woman. “Shouldn’t you have asked your local magistrate and constable to search for Mr. Pascoe?”
It was a good question. Kendra looked at Mrs. Gavenston, interested in her answer.
“Of course, I considered that, but Cookham is a small village,” she said slowly. “I confess that I did not wish to feed the rumor mill. I thought it would be more discreet if I hired a Runner.”
Kendra searched the other woman’s face. It made sense and yet… Something’s not right.
“You’d probably have better luck finding a Runner on Bow Street than inside the Tower of London,” she said.
Mrs. Gavenston’s jaw tightened at Kendra’s dry tone. “I am quite aware of that, Miss Donovan,” she said coolly. “I wanted a moment of privacy to gather my thoughts before I requested the services of a Runner. I have always enjoyed the Royal Menagerie.”
“Who was that man with you at the Tower?” Kendra asked.
Mrs. Gavenston’s eyes widened, clearly unprepared for the question. She shook her head. “He has nothing to do with Mr. Pascoe.”
“Mrs. Gavenston,” Kendra said with a sigh. “I told you. I need to know everything.”
“He has no connection to Mr. Pascoe,” she insisted.
Kendra was beginning to recognize that mulish look on Mrs. Gavenston’s face. She supposed any woman who ran a business in this male-dominated era had to have more than their fair share of stubbornness. At any other time, Kendra would have admired her for it. But not when it interfered with an investigation.
“Actually, they do have a connection—you,” she pointed out. She fixed her gaze on the other woman as she raised her cup and took a sip. “I’m going to be frank with you, Mrs. Gavenston,” she said as she lowered the cup. “If you want me to find your business manager, I’ll be asking a lot of questions. They may seem intrusive. You may think that they’re none of my business. You may even think they have nothing to do with locating Mr. Pascoe. But I can tell you that I’m not asking idle questions. They are all necessary—even if just to weed out false trails. Do you understand?”
Mrs. Gavenston glanced away, then huffed out a sigh, looking resigned. “His name is Albion Miller. His father worked as a cooper at the brewery before he died. I have known Albion since we were children.”
“Cooper?” It rang a distant bell.
Mrs. Gavenston gave Kendra a strange look. “Surely you must have coopers in America, Miss Donovan? Craftsmen who make casks and barrels.”
“What did he want from you?” Kendra asked.
“What he often wants.” She said it in a weary sort of way. “To persuade me to put money into one of his investment schemes.”
“He seemed pretty aggressive for a guy trying to persuade you to part with your money,” said Kendra. “How did he know you were going to be at the Tower?”
“As far as my household knew, the Tower was my destination—not Bow Street. I had planned to tell my driver to continue on after my visit to the Royal Menagerie. Then I met you.”
“You’re saying that someone in your household told Mr. Miller?” Kendra said.
<
br /> “Perhaps. Or he followed my carriage. It wouldn’t be the first time.” Mrs. Gavenston’s mouth tightened, but she gave an impatient flick of her wrist. “He’s harmless. And has nothing to do with Mr. Pascoe.”
“As your business manager, I would think he would have been involved if Mr. Miller wanted you to invest in something.”
“No. Mr. Pascoe is the manager at the brewery—not my personal business manager. There is no connection.”
The lady doth protest too much But who is she trying to convince? Kendra wondered. She decided to let it go—for now.
“Does Mr. Pascoe have any close friends? Or a…” She bit her tongue on the word girlfriend. “… a lady that he may have formed an attachment to?” she asked instead.
“I haven’t noticed him showing partiality to any particular young lady at the village assemblies or at our ball—my family throws one at White Pond Manor every Michaelmas. I think I would have heard something if he had developed a tendre.” Her lips curved in a wry smile. “Cookham is a small enough village for gossip to circulate quickly.”
Maybe, maybe not, thought Kendra. “What about friends?”
Mrs. Gavenston pursed her lips, considering the question. “I don’t know about his acquaintances in Maidenhead, but I believe he and Mr. Elwes are friends. They’ve been known to dine together at the local taverns and hostelries. I confess I never considered approaching him to ask about Jeremy’s whereabouts.”
“Who is Mr. Elwes?”
“He’s a schoolmaster at the Cookham Grammar School. Jeremy’s father, Mr. Pascoe, is also a schoolmaster in Maidenhead, at one of the Bluecoat schools. No doubt that provided common ground for Mr. Elwes and Jeremy. I should speak with Mr. Elwes.”
“I’d rather you leave that to me. You did ask for my help,” Kendra reminded her.
Mrs. Gavenston hesitated, but then inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Very well, but I insist that you keep me apprised of your investigation, Miss Donovan. I would like daily reports.”
Kendra leaned back in her chair to study the strong face beneath the fashionable bonnet. Mrs. Gavenston was every inch the businesswoman she purported to be, used to issuing orders. She might not have blue blood running through her veins, but she had the same kind of arrogance that Kendra often observed in the upper classes. Besides, Kendra wondered how she could manage daily updates. It wasn’t like she could pick up the phone and call the woman. And writing—with quill and paper—tended to be a painstaking process for someone used to keyboards. She’d rather stick a fork in her eye.
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