Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “Please, be seated.” Mr. Pascoe indicated the chairs.

  After Kendra and Alec sat, he and his wife settled on the sofa. Mr. Pascoe reached for his wife’s hand. In a matter of minutes, anguish had etched itself in his face, deepening every line.

  Mr. Pascoe cleared his throat. “My wife told me of your earlier inquiry, that Mrs. Gavenston asked you to find Jeremy. You are Miss Donovan and Mr. Kelly, correct?”

  Mr. Pascoe’s somber gaze traveled between Kendra and Alec, and he frowned slightly as his eyes rested on Alec, whose exquisite tailoring didn’t match with the idea of a Bow Street Runner.

  “I’m Kendra Donovan, but this is Lord Sutcliffe,” Kendra introduced. “Mr. Kelly…” She thought of how the Bow Street Runner was bringing Dr. Munroe back to Cookham to attend the autopsy of their son. “Mr. Kelly is performing another task at the moment.”

  “I was so certain there was nothing to worry about.” Guilt seeped into Mr. Pascoe’s grief. “Was it some sort of accident?”

  There was no way to soften what was coming next. Kendra said, “Your son was murdered.”

  Mrs. Pascoe let out a gasp, her knuckles whitening as she squeezed her husband’s hand. “Murdered. But… why? Who would wish to hurt Jeremy?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out—I promise you,” Kendra said gently. “But I need you to help us. Mrs. Pascoe, you said that the last time she saw Jeremy was a month ago.”

  She nodded, dabbing at her eyes.

  Kendra looked at her husband. “And what about you, Mr. Pascoe?”

  “Yes. He came to Sunday dinner.”

  “How did he seem to you? Did he seem worried about anything? Anyone?”

  “I told you earlier that he was… he was in excellent spirits,” Mrs. Pascoe said. Her breath hitched. Abruptly, she pushed herself to her feet. Her husband and Alec quickly stood as well. “Forgive me, but I… If you’ll excuse me…” Tears falling, she ran from the room.

  Mr. Pascoe stood for a moment at loss, then crossed the room with a jerky stride to a small table. “Would you care for a brandy?” he asked, reaching for a decanter.

  Alec said, “No, thank you.”

  He nodded vaguely, splashing brandy into a glass.

  “Mr. Pascoe, I realize this is a difficult time for you and your wife, and I am sorry,” Kendra said. “But it’s important for me to ask these questions now. They could lead me to your son’s killer.”

  Pain bracketed Mr. Pascoe’s mouth as he stared down into his brandy. “Jeremy did not want to worry Hazel,” he said. “But once we were alone, he confided to me that he was considering leaving Barrett Brewery.”

  This was news. “Why?” Kendra asked, searching Mr. Pascoe’s face as he sat down again.

  “Because he was becoming uncomfortable with some things that were happening.” Frowning, Mr. Pascoe took a long sip of his brandy. “What do you know of Barrett Brewery?”

  “Not a lot, except Mrs. Gavenston owns and runs the company. That is both unusual and impressive, I think, for a woman during this time.” Kendra caught Alec’s eye briefly before focusing her attention again on the older man.

  Mr. Pascoe nodded. “Mrs. Gavenston is a formidable woman.”

  “Why was your son thinking of leaving Barrett Brewery?”

  “There have been family challenges. Mrs. Gavenston’s uncle, Captain Sinclair, returned from living in India about nine months ago, a few months after Jeremy began his position. Initially, Jeremy had little to do with him. Or Captain Sinclair had little to do with Jeremy. But in the last few months, the captain has been pressuring Mrs. Gavenston to create a position for him in the company. He is of the opinion that Barrett Brewery is too large a company for a woman to run.”

  Kendra could just imagine how Mrs. Gavenston reacted to that but kept her focus on the murder. She asked, “How was your son involved?”

  “Captain Sinclair approached Jeremy, hoping to receive his support.”

  Kendra raised her eyebrows. “Mrs. Gavenston’s uncle is attempting a coup?”

  “I don’t know if it would be considered that, but he is trying to form alliances. My son is a good man. He would never behave in such a shabby manner toward Mrs. Gavenston, and told the captain so. Unfortunately, Captain Sinclair was put out by Jeremy’s rejection. I believe he became quite intimidating to Jeremy whenever he was around the man.”

  “He threatened your son?”

  “Not physically. At least I don’t believe so.” Mr. Pascoe frowned as he considered the possibility. “No, I think Jeremy would have said something to me. But even so, I cannot imagine him hurting Jeremy. Why would he? What would he accomplish with Jeremy’s death?” He took another swallow of brandy.

  “It’s too early to say,” Kendra said. “Did Jeremy talk to Mrs. Gavenston about her uncle’s intimidation?”

  “He warned her. He told me that she wasn’t concerned.” Mr. Pascoe shook his head, his face crumbling a little. “Again, I have to say, what does Jeremy have to do with this?”

  Mrs. Pascoe came into the room again. Her face was blotchy from crying, but she’d managed to compose herself. Mr. Pascoe and Alec rose.

  “What was Jeremy involved in?” she asked her husband, searching his face. “Was it something dangerous?”

  “No. No, of course not.” He crossed the room, laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “That is what I was explaining to Miss Donovan. Though he was upset by it, the politics and family drama at Barrett Brewery had nothing to do with Jeremy.”

  “Did he mention to you that he was upset about Mrs. Gavenston’s decision to bring machinery into the brewery?” Kendra asked.

  Mr. Pascoe frowned. “No. He never said anything.”

  Mrs. Pascoe twisted her hands together, looking at Kendra. “How was he killed? Where did you find him?”

  “He was using a vacant cottage on the local squire’s land to write.”

  “And someone hurt him there? How?”

  Kendra had considered sparing the Pascoes the details, but they would find out the truth soon enough. “His assailant stabbed him.”

  Mrs. Pascoe gasped, tears spilling over again. “Why? Who? Who would do such a thing?”

  Because everyone else was standing, Kendra rose too. “I intend to find that out.”

  “You think someone from Barrett Brewery killed Jeremy?” Mr. Pascoe said slowly. “How do you know that it wasn’t done by a vagrant, just a horrible, random act? We rarely deal with murder in these parts, and when it happens, it’s usually a robbery.”

  “It wasn’t robbery,” said Kendra.

  “How do you know?” Mr. Pascoe pressed.

  Kendra hesitated, then said, “Your son never attempted to protect himself. He let the killer enter the cottage and get close enough to pick up a knife from the table. I think—based on the crime scene—your son didn’t feel threatened by his killer until it was too late.”

  At length, Mr. Pascoe shook his head. “Then it would not have been Captain Sinclair. While I don’t believe he threatened Jeremy physically, Jeremy would have been uncomfortable if the captain had interrupted his solitude.”

  “Not necessarily. Most people don’t think someone they know will become violent. I think the person came in and talked to your son. They were standing next to the table.” In truth, given how small the cottage was, there weren’t many places to stand. But the proximity went to her theory, regardless. “They argued, perhaps, and, in an impulsive act, the assailant grabbed the knife and struck out.”

  Kendra opened her reticule and retrieved the tiny portrait of Jeremy. For a moment, she studied the painted features. Jeremy Pascoe would never get older than this. And that was heartbreaking. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said again, feeling inadequate, as always. She offered the painting to Mrs. Pascoe, who reached out and clasped it tightly to her breast.

  Kendra and Alec stood to go.

  “Champion.” Mrs. Pascoe said the word softly.

  Kendra glanced back at the grievin
g woman. “Excuse me?”

  “After you left, I researched your Christian name.” Mrs. Pascoe’s red-rimmed eyes met Kendra’s. “I told you researching names is a hobby of mine. Jeremy and I used to…” She bit her trembling lip. She had to clear her throat before she continued. “Kendra is an old Welsh name. It means greatest champion.” She searched Kendra’s face, a bit desperately. “I pray that is true, Miss Donovan. I pray that it is true, because my Jeremy needs a champion now.”

  13

  The day was fading into the soft purplish hues of twilight by the time they reached Hobbs’s farm, which was located right on the border of Cookham, within easy walking distance of the village. A handful of plump chickens pecked and scratched the ground inside a fenced-in area that contained a rickety-looking coop. There was a pen of about half a dozen snuffling pigs on the other side of the stone barn. Kendra was relieved to discover that the country doctor had set up his practice in the large, two-story stucco house with black shutters rather than the barn.

  The Duke’s gleaming black carriage, his crest on the door, was parked on the pebbled drive. Coachman Benjamin and another man, both with blunderbusses tucked in their wide leather belts—highwaymen were a concern for nighttime travelers—watched the younger groom brush down the four horses.

  “Molly, why don’t you wait in the carriage for us?” Kendra suggested, eyeing her maid.

  “Aye.” Relief flooded the girl’s face. “Thank ye, miss.”

  They walked up the path. There was no knocker to use, so Alec banged his fist against the sturdy black door. A pretty, dark-haired woman opened it a moment later. She wore an unadorned dress that countless laundering had faded to a peach hue. She curtsied after Alec introduced himself and Kendra.

  “I’m Mrs. Hobbs. Come in. We’ve been expecting you. Mr. Kelly and Dr. Munroe are with my husband. May I take your coats, hats?” She smiled at them as they divested themselves of their outerwear. “Would you like tea? Or something stronger? Dr. Munroe certainly appears to enjoy his spirits.”

  Kendra looked at her in surprise. She hadn’t known the London anatomist to indulge any more than anyone else in this era. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he brought his own bottle of whiskey.” Mrs. Hobbs’s brown eyes twinkled with amusement as she folded their coats over her arm.

  Kendra had to suppress a smile. The last time she had dealt with Dr. Munroe, she’d introduced washing their hands with whiskey as a quasi-antiseptic after autopsy. Despite her worry that the littlest things might change history—and therefore the future—in ways she couldn’t imagine, she was also gratified to know that the doctor had listened to her and modified his behavior.

  They followed Mrs. Hobbs down the hallway to the back of the house, which had been converted into an office and examining room. Oil lamps cast a golden light across dark bookshelves filled with heavy medical tomes, glass cabinets, and an old-fashioned desk cluttered with papers and medical instruments. A narrow table near the windows held the naked corpse of Jeremy Pascoe.

  The room’s floor was stone tile instead of the wood throughout the rest of the house. Better for mopping up blood, Kendra supposed.

  Sam, Dr. Munroe, and Constable Leech were standing next to a slim blond man, who looked to be the same age as his wife. They broke off their conversation as Mrs. Hobbs, Alec, and Kendra swept into the room.

  “His lordship and Miss Donovan,” Mrs. Hobbs said unnecessarily.

  Hobbs leapt forward to grab a linen cloth from a nearby cabinet and drape it over Pascoe’s nether regions. “Apologies, Miss Donovan,” he said and blushed a bright red. “We didn’t expect you so soon.”

  “Forgive me, but the door was open,” his wife said. “I shall leave you to it, then. If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen.” Her gaze traveled over the occupants in the room briefly before she departed, pulling the door shut behind her.

  Dr. Ethan Munroe came forward with a smile. He reached out to take Kendra’s gloved hands in his. “ ’Tis good to see you again, although the circumstances leave much to be desired.”

  Kendra smiled at the doctor. He was in his early fifties, and his most distinctive feature was a thick silvery mane that he wore longer than was fashionable and tied into a queue. His light hair contrasted with his heavy black brows. His eyes were dark gray and shrewd behind round gold spectacles he’d pinched onto the bridge of his hawklike nose.

  “We always seem to meet because of murder,” Kendra replied, and tilted her head toward the corpse. “You haven’t started the autopsy, but is there anything you can tell me? I estimate that Pascoe was killed on Saturday based on the state of decomposition. I’m factoring in the colder temperature, which would have preserved the body somewhat.”

  Munroe’s eyes gleamed with amusement, as though he still found it funny to have a female speak so freely and matter-of-factly about such topics. “We have just arrived, but I can tell you that Mr. Pascoe was stabbed exactly five times in the lower abdomen. The tears in his clothing are consistent with the puncture wounds, so he was dressed when the assault took place.”

  Kendra nodded. She’d figured as much, but that was why she wanted to work with the doctor; he took nothing for granted, which made him extremely thorough in his approach.

  “Hobbs had already removed the knife…” Munroe pivoted, picking up the item in question. Pascoe’s blood, dried to a blackish rust, was on the blade. Kendra tried not to wince to see a murder weapon handled without gloves.

  The doctor went on, “ ’Tis a French knife—the blade is eight inches in length, one-and-a-half inches in width at its base, tapering to the tip. If you notice, the tip is broken. I have already measured Mr. Pascoe’s injuries. Three are fully eight inches deep, the remaining five inches and seven inches. Given the width of the two other injuries, I would say the same knife—this knife—was used to make the other injuries as well, indicating only one assailant. Although I shall caution you that the very act of stabbing, possibly twisting, the knife can change the size of the wound, so I cannot confirm that is one hundred percent positive. I can say that the assailant did not twist the knife upon withdrawal, as that would have resulted in more of an X-shaped injury to the flesh.”

  Thorough, Kendra thought again. “That’s consistent with the crime scene. The killer didn’t bring the knife with him. Pascoe had it on the table, had been using it to cut his bread and cheese. You could check the blade under a microscope for that. I don’t see this as a premeditated murder, but more a crime of opportunity.”

  “But why?” Hobbs spoke up. “Mr. Kelly said this wasn’t a robbery. I’ve met Mr. Pascoe.” His troubled gaze traveled to the man lying on the autopsy table. “I was not an intimate acquaintance of his, but he seemed harmless enough. Certainly not a man to whom someone would wish ill-will.”

  Kendra regarded the surgeon curiously. She hadn’t realized that he knew the victim, but Cookham was a relatively small village. “Did you ever treat Mr. Pascoe?”

  “I only met the man a few times at the village assemblies.” Hobbs lifted his gaze to look at her. “He’s had no need of my services while he’s been in Cookham. Most folks go to the apothecary for their maladies, unless they’re dealing with broken bones or a serious accident. Such things mostly result from farming accidents. I’ve never had a corpse on this table who was murdered. I’m grateful for Dr. Munroe’s assistance.” Hobbs cast an admiring look at the doctor. “I had the pleasure of attending one of Dr. Munroe’s lectures when I was in London last year.”

  Dr. Munroe graciously waved off the compliment, although Kendra could tell that he was pleased. “Obviously I cannot tell you why the fiend decided to attack our victim, only how Mr. Pascoe died. Once I open him up, I’ll be able to give you more information.”

  “It doesn’t take a huge amount of force to stab someone,” Kendra mused. “Our killer could be a man or a woman.”

  Constable Leech’s eyes widened. “You can’t think a female would do such a terrible thing, do you?
”

  “You thought a Gypsy woman could have done it,” she reminded him.

  “Well… aye. But that’s a Gypsy woman, not a proper English female.” He flushed then, as though just realizing that Kendra was an American.

  “We can’t rule anyone out,” Kendra said.

  “I would have liked to have seen the body at the crime scene, but Kelly here tells me that he was inside the cottage, near the table,” Munroe interjected. “Being stabbed in the abdomen results in exsanguination, but the time that it actually takes for a person to bleed out varies widely. The fact that the victim didn’t attempt to crawl away suggests that he died quickly. Again, I will not be able to determine this until I perform the postmortem, but I suspect the killer managed to puncture the aorta, which would collapse the circulatory system as he bled internally and externally.”

  Hobbs tsked. “If that happened, he would die within minutes.”

  “And fall unconscious immediately,” Kendra added. “He tried to grab the knife—he’s got defensive wounds on his hands,” she pointed out when Hobbs looked at her. “He reacted, but not quickly enough to stop the assailant from striking again. If the aorta was penetrated, it was probably the last blow. He would have crumpled to the floor right after. The killer let go of the knife as Pascoe fell, so it was still in him when we found him. He was already unconscious, so he never attempted to remove it.”

  Stabbing victims often instinctively tried to yank out the knife. Ironically, in some cases, removing the knife—or other object—was what actually caused the victim to bleed out.

  “At least that fits with the crime scene,” she murmured with a shrug. “Can I have some paper and a pencil?”

  Mr. Hobbs was staring at her like she was a new species. Which I probably am to him, Kendra thought wryly. Still, he went to the desk to retrieve foolscap and a graphite stick for her.

  Aware of his puzzled gaze on her, Kendra quickly made a crude outline of a man, front and back. Carefully, she marked the position of the knife injuries, noted the defensive wounds, then handed the graphite pencil back to Hobbs.