Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “Why are you taking her side?”

  “I’m not taking her side. But we need to at least consider the possibility. My uncle is.”

  Kendra’s stomach pitched and rolled. She remembered the bright flare of hope that she’d seen in the Duke’s eyes. He wants it to be true.

  “What do you remember about Charlotte?” she asked. She sounded a little breathy, but she could attribute that to the hike up the hill.

  Alec was silent for a long moment. “Adorable,” he finally said, and he smiled at the memory. “Intelligent, of course. Always running about like a hoyden. She’d follow me around like a puppy during my stays. She’d quiz me about everything, chatter nonstop.”

  His smile faded. “It broke my heart when I heard that Charlotte and Arabella died. Duke was beside himself in his grief. I shall never forget it.”

  Hearing the pain in his voice, Kendra reached out to clasp his hand, offer a comforting squeeze. Assistance took many forms, she realized. And it wasn’t one-sided. Give and take; take and give. They balanced each other out.

  He gave her a sideways look, smiling slightly, and squeezed back. They walked a bit more in silence.

  “If this woman is a charlatan playing on Duke’s affections and memories, she shall regret it,” Alec finally said. The dark promise in his voice nearly made Kendra shiver.

  “Think about the Charlotte you remember. It’s those memories that can be used to trip her up. And hopefully Mr. Kelly’s men will find something, either in Spain or Aldridge Village. I don’t think she’s working alone.”

  He looked at her sharply. “Why do you say that?”

  “Educated guess. She would have stood out if she went to Aldridge Village, asking questions. A beautiful young woman without a chaperone?” She glanced automatically over her shoulder at Molly. “Someone would remember her. That’s also vital to a good con. When you’re doing research, you want to be low-key.”

  “She may have disguised herself as a servant or someone from the lower classes, where she wouldn’t need a chaperone. Like someone else I know,” he said dryly, a not-so-oblique reference to times when Kendra had made use of a maid’s uniform to go about London incognito.

  Kendra dismissed that with a wave. “London is different than Aldridge Village. And she still would have been noticed, unless she disguised her looks. Possible, I suppose, but—” She stopped when Alec put a hand on her arm and looked at him. “What?”

  But now she saw what had caught his attention. They’d reached the crest of the hill. Below them was a charming glen, thick with woods, and a stream cutting through the fields. The land rose again in the distance, rolled green against the milky sky and dotted with bits of white.

  “Sheep,” Kendra said.

  “Not that.” Alec turned her slightly and pointed.

  It wasn’t easy to see through the copse’s foliage. But there was enough space between the branches and leaves to identify something else: gray stone jutting upward.

  A chimney stack.

  9

  The cottage wasn’t much in size—less than four hundred square feet, if Kendra had to guess—but looked like something straight out of a fairytale. It had gray stone and lichen-covered walls and a steeply slanted slate roof. Time had worn the paint off on the door, making it impossible to discern its original color. Two small windows were cut into the stone, on either side of the door. The forest, cool and green and slightly mysterious, surrounded the tiny building.

  “It looks abandoned, but it’s not,” Kendra murmured.

  “W’ot makes you say that, miss?” Molly eyed the structure dubiously.

  “The windows have been cleaned,” Kendra pointed out, and strode forward.

  They’d skirted the forest and were now approaching the cottage from the other direction. It was too quiet, Kendra thought. She’d been sure, so sure, that they’d find the missing man here.

  She knocked on the door, and called out, “Mr. Pascoe?”

  Silence.

  She knocked again, then tried the doorknob. It turned easily beneath her hand. She pushed inward. The foul smell hit her then, as vicious as a punch in the gut. Unmistakable. Instinct made her retrieve the muff pistol.

  “Wait here,” she ordered.

  Alec glanced at her sharply. He didn’t bother arguing, merely joined her, and they cleared the threshold together.

  Kendra’s gaze swept the room—one room only. Four hundred square feet; she’d been right about that, she decided. The size of a studio apartment in New York City. A narrow cot covered with a sage-green wool blanket and two plush turquoise pillows was shoved against one wall. A stone fireplace filled the other wall, a half-consumed log and cold ashes in the blackened hearth. A skinny pinewood cupboard was wedged between a cast iron stove and a washbasin. There was a small rustic pine table and two equally rustic chairs, all of which would have cost a small fortune in the 21st century, but had probably been made by whoever had once lived in the cottage. A wool coat was draped over the back of one of the chairs.

  Kendra processed the room with a quick glance before her gaze dropped to the man lying face-up on the floor, the smooth hilt of a knife protruding from his stomach.

  “Shit,” she muttered, and slipped the pistol back into her reticule. Even though the stench made her eyes water, she started forward. She didn’t need to fish out the small miniature portrait from her pouch, but she did so anyway. Taking shallow breaths, she angled the tiny painting toward Alec, who’d joined her.

  “Mr. Pascoe isn’t in his best looks,” Alec murmured, stripping off one of his gloves to hold against his nose.

  Since that wasn’t a bad idea, Kendra followed suit with her own glove. “Being dead for several days has a way of doing that to a person.”

  Molly came up behind them and let out a shriek. She whirled around and stumbled back out the door, gagging.

  Kendra ignored the commotion, her gaze traveling over Pascoe’s swollen features, noting the marbling and greenish tinge to his skin. Flies buzzed in the air and crawled across the corpse, feasting on putrid flesh.

  “I’d say that he’s been dead since Saturday, but the colder temperatures have slowed decomposition,” she said. “You know, really, he could look a lot worse.”

  “Except for the knife sticking out of his gut.”

  “Yeah, except for that.” She straightened and looked at Alec. “You need to get Mr. Kelly.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone.”

  She lifted an ironic eyebrow. “Pascoe is hardly in the position to compromise me if I’m left alone with him.”

  “And what if the fiend who murdered this poor wretch returns?”

  “I’m not defenseless, Alec,” she said, exasperation making her terse. “Besides, the killer is long gone.”

  She recognized the expression on his handsome face.

  “Fine,” she hissed, moving to the door.

  Outside, Molly was looking almost as green as the corpse.

  “Molly, you need to find Mr. Kelly and bring him here,” Kendra said.

  The maid hesitated. “Oi shouldn’t leave ye and ’is lordship alone.”

  Kendra was done with the archaic rules that governed this society. “Oh, for God’s sake! Who will know? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  She didn’t wait to see if Molly obeyed; she swung around and surveyed the room more thoroughly. Alec was in the process of opening the two windows, letting in fresh air to chase away the overwhelming stink of death. Impossible. The odor of decay had seeped into the wood and walls, and long after this day, the whiff of it would remain.

  She ignored the smell; focused on the visuals.

  The room had been kept tidy, except for the table, which was cluttered with items. Several stout candles of varying sizes, the tallow wax having pooled and hardened into stiff bubbles at each base, were scattered across the surface, along with an inkwell, its cap off, several quill pens, pages of foolscap, and a small teak chest. Next to that was a tin plate that held
a half loaf of stale bread and a wedge of yellowish cheese, waxy and hard. Kendra let her gaze travel to two earthenware bowls—one filled with crystallized lumps of sugar and one with clumps of loose-leafed tea—and a dented silver spoon next to an earthenware mug. Bits of tea leaves floated in a thimbleful of brown water. A copper tea kettle, dented and tarnished, was on the stove.

  It only took three steps to reach the table. Holding the glove pinched to her nose, Kendra lifted the lid to the chest. Inside was a removable top tray, which held wax sticks, a penknife, and more inkwells.

  “ ’Tis a traveling writer’s chest,” Alec identified.

  Kendra left the lid open and circled the table to the skinny pine cupboard. Opening the door, she surveyed the empty shelves. She closed the cupboard door, turning to look at Alec.

  “What is this place?”

  “I’d say it was probably once a cottage for one of the squire’s tenants who farmed the land,” he replied. “Most likely abandoned after the property was enclosed. There are similar cottages on many estates throughout England.”

  “And Pascoe found it and cleaned it up so he could use it as a writer’s retreat.” She glanced at the window and saw the rolling hills that Pascoe had mentioned to his mother, although from this angle, she couldn’t see the sheep. “It’s cozy. Plenty of solitude. He didn’t have to worry about the neighbors bothering him.”

  “I’m not certain that he had that worry regardless,” Alec commented.

  Grimacing, he crouched down next to the dead man. Keeping the glove pressed against his lower face, he used his other gloved hand to carefully lift up Pascoe’s jacket.

  “I don’t see a purse. I can’t imagine a brewery manager being too plump in the pockets, but it must have been a robbery.”

  “It wasn’t a robbery,” Kendra said, and shook her head.

  Still, she reached down to check the pockets of the coat hanging on the chair. Nothing except for a handkerchief. The worn, brown-leather satchel that the neighbor had mentioned was resting on the same chair. She lifted the flap, poked through. More papers, many crumpled and some torn, filled with scribbling, and a small dog-eared book. She lifted the book, saw that it was a collection of poems by Walter Scott. (It would be a couple more years before the Prince Regent granted him a baronetcy.) She slipped the book back into the satchel.

  “This was a crime of impulse,” Kendra narrated. “The killer didn’t bring the knife. Pascoe brought it with him to cut his bread and cheese. One plate, one cup. He didn’t invite the killer to lunch.”

  She knelt down beside Alec to inspect the knife in question. The hilt was plain brown, stained in places. Splattered with Pascoe’s blood. Maybe some of the killer’s, but she doubted it. Still, this was the type of disorganized crime that had tons of trace evidence scattered throughout the scene. If she were in her timeline, they’d have the killer by nightfall.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  She huffed out a frustrated breath and turned to examining the body.

  “He was stabbed repeatedly,” she murmured. Pascoe’s wool waistcoat had once been canary yellow, but was now nearly black. Pascoe’s blood had seeped into the wool that was stretched taut across his bloated abdomen. More blood spatter was visible on the trousers and jacket, a dried lake on the floor beneath the body.

  Kendra pointed to the tears in the material. “At least five times. But I’d like Dr. Munroe to verify that.” She lifted her gaze to Alec’s. “Will that be a problem? I know Cookham is probably outside his jurisdiction.”

  “The local doctor or sawbones will have authority, but mayhap we can convince him to relinquish it to Dr. Munroe. But what do you expect to learn from an autopsy that we don’t already know? Clearly he died from the knife wounds.”

  “It’s part of the process. You never know what else you might find,” she said with a shrug. Maybe it was foolish, but she wanted to stick with the procedures she’d been trained in as much as possible.

  She leaned forward, put on her glove, and picked up the dead man’s hands, first one, then the other, to scrutinize the fingers and palms.

  “Defensive wounds,” she said, noting several cuts that gouged the flesh. “He tried to take hold of the weapon at one point.” She lowered his arm to the floor. “He’s no longer in rigor mortis.”

  “Which means?”

  “He’s been dead longer than thirty-six hours.”

  “God’s teeth!”

  They glanced around to see Sam reel back slightly in the doorway. He lifted his arm, burying his nose in the crook of his elbow, then determinedly advanced into the room. Amber eyes hard, he studied the dead man for long minute before looking at Kendra.

  “Well, lass… I guess Mr. Pascoe ain’t missing any longer.”

  10

  This ain’t good,” Constable Leech said, casting a leery eye toward the open door of the cottage. He was a short, chubby, middle-aged man with a shock of bright blond hair and a florid face that could probably be traced back to the ale he’d been drinking in the tavern where Sam had finally located him.

  “Mrs. Gavenston ain’t gonna like it one bit that her man has cocked up his toes.” Leech shook his head, his brow creasing. “Mr. Pascoe seemed a decent enough fellow.”

  “How well did you know him?” Kendra asked curiously.

  “Ack, not well, I suppose. We weren’t friends, if that’s what you’re askin’. But he was friendly enough when he came into my shop.”

  “Your shop?”

  “Aye. I’ve got a tea shop on High Street.”

  The job of a parish constable was unpaid and part-time, which meant whoever held it also had another job. Last fall, Kendra had dealt with a thoroughly unpleasant constable-cum-blacksmith. So far, Constable Leech appeared to have a more congenial disposition.

  “He was an Assam man,” confided the constable.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mr. Pascoe. Always came in for my Assam black tea blend.”

  “Oh.”

  Constable Leech went on, “A very robust tea. I was a bit surprised he favored it, to be quite honest. Mr. Pascoe never struck me as a particularly robust man. More… studious, I suppose.” He rocked back and forth on his heels, with his hands clasped behind his back as he pondered the dead man’s choice in tea. “Thought he’d be a Darjeeling man.”

  Kendra caught the amused glint in Alec’s eyes and had to suppress an answering smile. She focused her attention on the constable.

  “What can you tell me about Mr. Pascoe? Was he involved in any altercations recently?” Besides the disagreement he’d had with Mrs. Gavenston, Kendra amended silently.

  “Nay. Least-wise, not that I heard.” Leech glanced at the door to the cottage again, frowning. “What’s he here for anyways? Mrs. Gavenston gave him a fine cottage in the village.”

  “Apparently Mr. Pascoe was trying his hand at poetry, and found inspiration in this area,” Alec answered. “He made the cottage comfortable enough.”

  Constable Leech scratched his chin. “I wonder if Squire Prebble knew?”

  “Would that be a problem? If he discovered Mr. Pascoe on his property?” asked Kendra.

  “Hard to say. If he knew, he wouldn’t have made a fuss, since Mr. Pascoe worked for Mrs. Gavenston. Barrett Brewery holds powerful sway here in the village.”

  “Even with the squire?”

  That was a surprise. A squire was landed gentry, while Mrs. Gavenston was only a merchant.

  “Squire Prebble likes his ale as much as the next man,” the constable said.

  “What kind of temperament does the squire have?” Kendra persisted. “If he came across a stranger squatting in his cottage… some people like to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “Well, Squire Prebble would definitely be shooting, not stabbing someone in the breadbasket, if it came to that.” He pursed his lips, shaking his head. “Nay, miss. Mr. Pascoe is a recognizable enough figure. He attended the assemblies in the village; danced with the squire’s daughters,
if I recollect properly. In fact, the squire’s been in London for the last month because he’s got to marry them off. All three of them, God help him. They’re all a bit whey-faced, if you must know, so it ain’t gonna be easy. The villagers are placing wagers on whether the squire and his wife will be able to unload them in the marriage mart before the season is over.”

  Sam asked, “Does the squire have any sons to run the estate while the family is gone ter town?”

  “No sons, more’s the pity. Mr. Cox is his land steward.”

  “We’ll need his address,” Kendra said. “Would you object if we have the body transported back to London for the autopsy?”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Dr. Munroe is an anatomist that we’ve worked with before.” And he’s one of the few men in this era who treated me with respect, she thought, but didn’t say it.

  Leech stared at her, clearly baffled by the request. “We’ve got a village surgeon, you know. Although it seems clear as day how the poor wretch died. What could a London sawbones tell you that Hobbs couldn’t?”

  “I don’t know,” Kendra had to admit.

  Constable Leech shook his head. “We’ve got to keep Mr. Pascoe in Cookham until the inquest. The autopsy needs to be done here. Since you and Lord Sutcliffe discovered the body, you may be called upon to testify too.”

  “What if Dr. Munroe comes here?” asked Kendra, reluctant to let the matter go.

  “It’s up to Hobbs, I reckon,” he said and peered at her closely. “Your man is a real doctor?”

  She understood the question. The medical field in this era had a strange social hierarchy, with doctors at the top, surgeons on the middle tier, and apothecaries at the bottom. Most doctors shied away from getting their hands dirty—literally—which meant they were socially acceptable and invited into the homes of the Beau Monde.

  Dr. Ethan Munroe was something of an anomaly. He had trained to be a medical doctor in Edinburgh before switching careers to work as a surgeon. And if that wasn’t shocking enough, he had then turned his attention to the world of the dead. An anatomist didn’t even rank on the medical hierarchy. It probably fell somewhere in the category of an occultist.