“I’m sorry,” Kendra said, and wondered how many times she would say those useless words that day.
“I can’t believe it.” Hester made it to a chair before collapsing.
“He was murdered,” Mrs. Gavenston told her daughter.
Hester shook her head. Her gaze wandered to the window, becoming unfocused. Tears welled swiftly. “This doesn’t seem real.”
“We’re going to find out who killed him,” Kendra promised. “But I need to ask you a few questions. They could help find who killed him. Can you tell me your connection to Mr. Pascoe?”
Hester brought her eyes back around to stare at Kendra blankly. “What?”
“I know he was your mother’s business manager here at the brewery. Did you work with him?”
“Oh. I… Yes,” Hester mumbled, dazed and distracted.
“What is your role at Barrett Brewery?”
“My daughter is my successor,” Mrs. Gavenston spoke up. “I told you that Barrett Brewery is passed from mother to daughter—the eldest daughter. One day Hester will take over.”
Hester produced a hankie much in the same way her mother had, out of the cuff of her sleeve, like a magician. She wiped her nose. “Mr. Pascoe was responsible for controlling Barrett Brewery’s cash flow, tax liabilities, bookkeeping…” Her voice trailed away.
“CFO,” Kendra said.
Hester frowned. “Pardon?”
“Chief financial officer,” Kendra supplied. “Where I come from—in America—Mr. Pascoe’s duties would make him chief financial officer. Did you know that he was interested in poetry?”
“Of course. We… we would talk about it often. Poetry happens to be an interest of mine as well. Not writing it, but reading—”
She broke off with a ragged sob and pressed a hand against her mouth, much like her mother had. “Forgive me but I…” Tears glittered in her eyes as she looked at Kendra. “How can something change so quickly?”
Kendra felt a pang at the desolation she saw swimming in the other woman’s eyes. She had no answer for that. Unless you were dealing with a lingering illness, death tended to strike without warning. Too often Kendra had seen the same shattered expression on the faces of those who’d lost loved ones to senseless crime. Why? Why them? Why me? How could this happen?
Alec splashed brandy into another glass and brought it to Hester.
Kendra asked the young woman, “Did he mention to you if he’d argued with anyone recently? Had any trouble with anyone? Anyone giving him trouble?”
Hester struggled to compose herself. “No. Well, yes. There was Mr. Logan. They had words the other week.”
“Jeremy quarreled with Mr. Logan?” Mrs. Gavenston’s tone was sharp. “This is the first I am hearing about this.”
Kendra looked at the older woman for an explanation.
“He’s a local farmer. We buy hops and apples from him,” said Mrs. Gavenston. Her gaze returned to her daughter. “What did they argue about?”
Hester wiped her eyes and her nose, sniffling. “Mr. Logan was being difficult about selling us what he’d promised.”
“Why didn’t I hear of this?” Mrs. Gavenston demanded, then shook her head. “Never mind. ’Tis not the time to speak of this.” She brought her hands up to rub her temples. Grief cut lines into her face, making her appear suddenly older. “I can’t think.”
“We’ll need to talk to Mr. Logan,” Kendra said. Even though she didn’t believe Pascoe had been murdered because of an argument over crops, he still needed to be questioned and ruled out as a suspect. “And anyone else who worked with Mr. Pascoe.”
Mrs. Gavenston dropped her hands. “Will you really find out who did this, Miss Donovan? The… the monster who murdered Jeremy?”
Hester drew in a harsh breath, shaking her head as though to ward off the truth. “I cannot believe he’s gone,” she murmured, wiping away more tears.
“I will do everything I can,” Kendra promised. She shifted her gaze to Hester. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Pascoe?”
Hester’s brow creased. “Friday? I did not go into the brewery on Saturday.”
“My daughter has been in her sickbed. She probably should be there still.”
“When you saw Mr. Pascoe on Friday, how did he seem to you?” Kendra asked. “Was he upset in anyway?”
Hester shook her head. “No. Everything was normal.” She suddenly thrust herself to her feet. “I’m sorry, but I can’t…” Her lips trembled. She pressed them together. She looked at her mother, eyes glazed with tears. “Forgive me, Mama, but… I cannot speak of this anymore.”
“Miss Gavenston—” Kendra began, rising.
“Leave her be,” Mrs. Gavenston said as her daughter raced across the room in a flurry of skirts. She was weeping openly by the time she opened the door and disappeared. “This has been such a shock. For both of us. I was afraid… but I never expected this. Who would ever expect this?”
Kendra bit back the desire to express her sympathy again. “Do you mind if we speak to your employees? They may have heard something.”
Mrs. Gavenston’s eyebrows pulled together. “I would have heard.”
“You didn’t hear about Mr. Logan,” Kendra reminded her mildly.
Mrs. Gavenston drew in a swift breath, anger flaring in her eyes. But as quickly as it came, the anger vanished. “You are correct. I shall get my coat—”
“I think it will be better if we introduce ourselves.” Employees were always more talkative without their boss hovering around.
Mrs. Gavenston looked like she was about to protest, then reconsidered. The fight went out of her shoulders abruptly and she sighed.
“Very well. I ought to look in on Hester, convince her to go home. She shouldn’t have even come in today.” She hesitated, her gaze leveling on Kendra. “And… thank you, Miss Donovan. I am aware this is not what you first agreed to do when we met this morning.”
Kendra thought of how often missing persons case turned into murder investigations in the 21st century. Too damned often, the lost beauty queen ended up in a garbage heap, the five-year-old in a drainage ditch.
She exchanged a look with Alec. There was nothing more to be said, no comfort to be offered. He gave an imperceptible nod, and they crossed the room together.
Kendra glanced back briefly. Horatia Gavenston had moved to the window, rubbing her arms as though chilled, fresh tears trickling down her cheeks.
12
They started in Jeremy’s office, which was next to Mrs. Gavenston’s. Similar look—cabinets, shelves, maps on the walls, desk and chairs—but smaller, and no fireplace or window. The map on the wall was of Great Britain rather than the West Indies but also thick with the yellow flag pins. The desk reminded Kendra of the one in the Cookham cottage, except most of the papers were filled with the calculations of a bookkeeper, not the lyrical brainstorming of poet. She opened drawers, sifted through more papers. There were no poetry books or novels here, only ledgers containing what looked like contracts.
“Pascoe clearly made a delineation between his work and his private life,” she murmured, putting away a ledger.
“I wonder which one got him killed?”
“I can’t imagine he got in an argument over poetry.”
“I shall have to introduce you to Bryon.” Alec smiled. “Suffice to say, poetry has a way of inflaming passions. And poets have been known to be… eccentric. And temperamental.”
“And we’re back to Lord Byron.”
Alec laughed. “Not just him. William Blake is considered mad, but it probably didn’t help that he denounced the Royal Academy as idiots. Of course, the man was also charged with assaulting a soldier. And there was that incident with Lady Caroline Lamb at Lady Heathcote’s ball, when she broke a wine bottle and attempted to slash her wrists because Bryon insulted her.”
“Jesus. Never mind. You’ve made your point. We won’t ignore it if we run into a rabid poet who took exception to Pascoe’s unpublished work. For now, thoug
h, I suggest that we concentrate on his day job.”
For the next forty minutes, they roamed the brewery, pulling aside workers to break the news that Jeremy Pascoe wouldn’t be coming in the next morning—or ever again. Most of the men seemed genuinely shocked. A few didn’t seem to care. Everyone expressed the same sentiment: Jeremy Pascoe had been a pleasant enough fellow, although a bit bookish. But no one held that against him. Certainly, they couldn’t imagine anyone disliking him enough to do him in.
“Never heard a bad word spoken against him,” insisted Wilbur. The old man was one of the brewery’s coopers. He was sitting on a stool, using a drawknife to expertly shave bits of oak wood, shaping the staves that would form the body of the keg. He paused, cocked an eyebrow at Kendra. “Are ye sure it weren’t Gypsies who did this vile thing?”
“Aye.” Another man nearby looked up from measuring the top of a barrel with a compass. “They’re heathens. They’d cut yer heart out just as soon as look at ye.”
Molly, who was waiting near the bay doors, overheard and shuddered.
Kendra tried not to roll her eyes. Every society had their bogeyman. “It was someone Mr. Pascoe knew.”
Wilbur scratched behind his ear. “Makes no sense.”
“What about Mr. Logan?” Alec asked. “We heard that he and Mr. Pascoe argued recently.”
“Ack, that weren’t nothin’,” said the second cooper. “Andy Logan was just tryin’ ter renegotiate the price of his crop. Mr. Pascoe didn’t take kindly ter it, but Andy ain’t gonna kill him over blunt words.”
“How long have you both worked at Barrett Brewery?” Kendra asked the men.
“I’ve been a cooper ’ere for nearly forty years,” said Wilbur. “Bevin there”—he jerked a thumb at his coworker—“almost as long.”
“Thirty-seven years come September,” said Bevin.
“So, you know Albion Miller?” Kendra asked, referencing the man Mrs. Gavenston had argued with at the Tower the day before. “I was told that his father was a cooper here before he died.”
“Aye,” the old man nodded. “George Miller, God rest ’is soul. Been gone for about… what do ye think, Bevin? Eight years?”
“Thereabouts.”
“We worked together. He was a good God-fearing man. Wish Oi could say the same of his son.”
Kendra raised an eyebrow. “He’s not God-fearing?”
“He’s a wastrel, that’s what he is. Nothing like ’is da. Hard ter believe there was a time when Miss Horatia—Mrs. Gavenston, before she married, o’ course—was sweet on him.”
Before Kendra could comment on that, the other cooper waved his compass in the air. “Nay, it weren’t Albion that Miss Horatia was sweet on. It was his brother, Robby. They were as thick as thieves until Robby went up ter London Town and cocked up ’is toes.”
The older man nodded and grinned. “Aye, that’s right. Thought for sure George would be visitin’ his son in the big house one day.”
Bevin snorted. “Not bleeding likely. Mrs. Dyer wouldn’t let Miss Horatia get leg-shackled ter a cooper’s son, even though Robby went ter London ter apprentice as a silversmith. That’s why she sent Miss Horatia off ter that fancy finishing school, ter get her away from Robby. But then he goes and dies anyway…” He shook his head, clucking his tongue. “Terrible thing ter happen. Would have been better if Albion had been the one ter take ill. But it’s always the good ones, ain’t it? Robby, George, now Mr. Pascoe.”
Kendra felt like she was losing the thread of the conversation. “Mrs. Dyer is Mrs. Gavenston’s mother?”
“Aye,” said the first cooper, nodding. He leaned forward, gliding the wickedly sharp blade over the slates. Wood shavings curled and dropped to the floor. He peered up at her. “What do ye wanna know about Albion for, anyways?”
“I’m curious,” Kendra replied. “Do you know if he ever met with Mr. Pascoe? I was told that he sometimes comes around here looking for investors. Maybe he spoke to Mr. Pascoe about it, and it didn’t go over so well. Maybe they argued too.”
The first cooper snorted. “Investors, is that what ye call it? More like gulls.” He paused in his wood shaving, considered it, then shook his head. “Albion is around, doing this and that. The devil takes care of his own. But I don’t recall him fighting with Mr. Pascoe. You should speak ter Mrs. Doyle.”
“Who’s Mrs. Doyle?”
“She owns the Green Knight. It’s a tavern on High Street. No one knows the rumor mill better than Mrs. Doyle.”
“That’s because she’s churning out most of it,” laughed the other cooper.
Kendra thought that both men were doing a pretty good job at churning out gossip themselves, but put Mrs. Doyle on her list of people to interview.
“Were you working on Saturday? Did you see Mr. Pascoe?” she asked.
“Aye, I was here Saturday morning,” the first cooper said. “I saw him come in. But I didn’t see him leave.”
“I saw him leave,” Bevin said, then frowned. “It was early yet. We keep the doors open.” He used his compass to point at the bay doors, which had a view of the larger building beyond. “I saw when he left. Now that I think on it, he seemed ter be pettish. Tore up the gravel leavin’. Miss Horatia came after him, called his name, but he paid her no mind. Just kept walkin’. Thought it was peculiar, but…” He shrugged.
“What time was this?”
“Two. Around that time, anyway.”
“I heard they argued that day. Any idea what that was about?”
He frowned and shook his head. “Nay.”
The first cooper rolled his shoulders. “Miss Horatia is… was fond of Mr. Pascoe. Took him under her wing ter show him the business after she pensioned off Mr. Carter.”
“Her previous manager?”
“Aye.”
“Was Mr. Carter upset about being let go?” Kendra asked.
“Nay,” Bevin said. “Mr. Carter worked here even longer than us, eh, Wilbur? Worked for Mrs. Dyer, maybe even her ma. He’s at least five-and-eighty, if he’s a day.”
The old man—Wilbur—laughed. “Spry, though. Said Barrett ale kept him youthful. Probably misses the free sampling, but he was pleased ter move up north where his two sons live. His wife passed on more than twelve years back, if I recollect rightly. Don’t think he had any other family around here. Leastwise not living.”
“Thank you,” Kendra said. “If you think of anything else, send word to Number 29 Grosvenor Square in London.” She started to turn, but hesitated, then glanced back at the two old men. “How are people reacting to the news of new machinery coming in, replacing a few workers?”
Both men stared at her. Bevin was the first to break the silence. “What are ye talkin’ about? I haven’t heard about any new machinery. Have ye, Wilbur?”
“Nay.” He shook his head. “Not a word. And I don’t believe it.”
“Maybe I was mistaken. Thank you for your time.”
She summoned a smile and walked toward the bay doors with Alec.
“Mrs. Gavenston might not have told the brewery workers yet,” Alec said in a low voice as they walked outside, Molly trailing behind them.
“Maybe. Or maybe she lied to me.” Kendra frowned.
“Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know.”
The boy who’d taken charge of their horse and gig spotted their approach and went to fetch them.
Alec asked, “Do you wish to go to the Green Knight and speak to Mrs. Doyle or to Mr. Hobbs’s farm to see if Mr. Kelly has arrived with Dr. Munroe?”
Kendra huffed. “Neither. We have to go to Maidenhead. The Pascoes have to be told.”
* * *
Mrs. Pascoe knew the moment she opened the door and met Kendra’s eyes. She took a step back and pressed a hand against her trembling mouth. “No. Oh, no.”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Pascoe,” Kendra said sincerely. “May we come in?”
“Who is it, Hazel?”
A man materialized behind Mrs. Pasc
oe—her husband, Kendra guessed. He was tall and thin, with a long face and studious air that suited his role as a schoolmaster at a boys’ school. His hair was salt-and-pepper—more salt than pepper—and receding, giving him a high forehead that somehow served to make him look even more intellectual. Like his wife, he wore glasses, and behind the lenses, brown eyes flashed with concern when his wife turned and clutched at him.
“What is it?” His voice sharpened and his arm came around his wife protectively as he glared at Alec and Kendra.
“We are here about your son, Mr. Pascoe. May we come in?”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Mrs. Pascoe’s glanced over her shoulder at Kendra, tears welling up and flowing down her face. “You’ve come to tell us that Jeremy is dead.”
Kendra had to brace herself for the awful pain in Mrs. Pascoe’s eyes. “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Pascoe gave a raw sob and buried her face in her husband’s chest. Kendra met Mr. Pascoe’s stunned eyes over her head.
“How?” he asked hoarsely.
“May we come in?”
For a moment, he stared at her in blank shock. Then he drew in a harsh breath, his face tightening as he made the effort to compose himself.
“Of course. Pardon me…” He shifted his wife to the side so Kendra and Alec could enter the narrow foyer. Molly had again chosen to wait outside. Lucky her, Kendra thought.
Mr. Pascoe gestured to the door that led to the drawing room. “Please go into the parlor while I… I must take care of my wife.” The maid came trotting down the hall and Mr. Pascoe looked at her. “Oh, Martha. Good. Take Mrs. Pascoe to her bedchamber. And find the laudanum, give her a spoonful—”
“No.” Mrs. Pascoe straightened. She removed her spectacles and wiped away tears. “I must hear what happened. I’m his mother.” Her breath hitched, but she steadied it. “Let’s go into the parlor. Martha will take your coats. Would you like tea? Martha…”
“No, thank you. We won’t be staying long,” Kendra said. In times of great stress and grief, she had noticed that people often fell back on banalities. There was comfort in the mundane when nothing in the world would be normal again.
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