Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Rebecca broke the silence. “I don’t believe it,” she said emphatically. “I do not believe that Mrs. Gavenston is capable of such… such perfidy. Or is the sort of woman who succumbs to that kind of rage. She is a businesswoman, for heaven’s sakes!”

  Kendra remembered the occasional flashes of temper that she’d seen in Mrs. Gavenston’s eyes. “Sometimes it’s the people who seem to be the most in control who end up snapping.”

  “She was distraught when she asked for your help,” Rebecca argued, looking at Kendra. There was a combative light in her eyes. “I was there. She was genuinely distraught over the disappearance of Mr. Pascoe.”

  “Again, two different things. Maybe she was distraught because she’d killed him. Even if she murdered Pascoe, she still mourns him,” Kendra said slowly. She remembered Mrs. Gavenston’s tears when they’d told her that Pascoe was dead. They’d been genuine, Kendra was certain. Although they could have been genuine tears of remorse.

  “But… I like her,” Rebecca whispered, but her expression had lost some of its belligerence, becoming more uncertain.

  “So do I. This isn’t a popularity contest. And I’m not saying she did it. I don’t know who is responsible for Pascoe’s death. I’m saying that she can’t be discounted as a possibility.”

  There was another short silence. “Who is Albion Miller?” Muldoon asked, eyes dropping to the next name on the list.

  “A far more likely suspect than Mrs. Gavenston,” Rebecca said tightly.

  “He was harassing Mrs. Gavenston when we met,” Kendra told the reporter. “Mrs. Gavenston says there’s no connection between Pascoe and Miller.”

  The Duke regarded Kendra closely, reading something in her face. “You don’t believe her?”

  Kendra hesitated. “I don’t know what I believe,” she admitted. “She says he’s harmless.”

  Rebecca said, “He didn’t seem harmless when we met him yesterday.”

  “She’s known him for a long time, since they were children together. His father used to work at the brewery as a cooper.”

  Alec leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs. “The coopers mentioned Mrs. Gavenston having a tendre for the brother, who later died. Bonds formed in childhood can be surprisingly strong throughout one’s life. Perhaps it’s her remembered affection for the brother that makes her tolerate Mr. Miller.”

  “Possible,” Kendra agreed. She moved on to the last name on the list. “Mr. Kelly, I’d like you to interview Mr. Logan today. He’s a local farmer who recently argued with Pascoe.”

  “What did they have a row about?”

  “Some sort of supply issue. He’s low on the list, but he still needs to be checked out, if only to be eliminated. Hopefully he’ll have an alibi for Saturday afternoon. I think Pascoe was killed on Saturday between four and… when is sunset? Eight?”

  “Aye, thereabouts,” Sam nodded.

  “If it had been night, he would have lit the candles,” Kendra continued. “There was a burnt log in the fireplace, lots of ash. He could have lit that, and then it went out on its own accord without anyone to keep it going. But the candles… if he’d lit them, they would have burnt down to puddles of wax.

  “After the unsub stabbed Pascoe, he would have been panicking, horrified at what had happened. I just don’t see the killer taking the time to go through the cottage, blowing out candles before he left. Do you?”

  “Brilliantly done, my dear,” the Duke shot Kendra an approving look.

  She smiled back at him, more gratified than she should have been at his admiration. “We can’t eliminate the possibility that he may have been killed during the daylight hours of Sunday, though. Pascoe had a bed with blankets and pillows, so one has to assume there were a few times he stayed overnight. He could have kept the bread and cheese for the next morning when he made himself tea for breakfast.”

  Muldoon shook his head, his gaze on the timeline on the slate board. “No, I don’t think so. If he left the brewery at two and his home at three, as you’ve written here, to make his way to the cottage, he wouldn’t have eaten since breakfast. He’s not gonna wait until the next day to have his meal. I know I would have been gutfoundered if I had to wait so long to eat.”

  “He could have eaten a little bit on Saturday and brought out the remainder for Sunday,” Rebecca pointed out.

  “If he was a mouse, maybe,” Muldoon muttered, and grinned when Rebecca narrowed her eyes at him. “But as he was a man, I think he ate on Saturday.”

  Kendra looked at him. “You make a good point, Mr. Muldoon. But we can’t ignore the slight possibility that it could have been Sunday, so we ask about both days.” Time-wise, the window was big enough to fly a 747 through. She didn’t like it, but there was nothing she could do to narrow it down further.

  “I spoke ter Mr. Cox—Squire Prebble’s land steward—last night,” Sam spoke up. “He didn’t know that Mr. Pascoe was making use of the cottage. He didn’t think the squire knew either. But if he had known, he didn’t think he would’ve cared. Not like he had tenants ter make use of it.”

  “Mrs. Gavenston must not have known about it either or else she would have pointed us in that direction,” Rebecca said. “Surely, that absolves her as a possible suspect?”

  Kendra thought Rebecca was trying too hard to prove Mrs. Gavenston’s innocence, but didn’t argue the point. She understood what was behind Rebecca’s advocacy, but she wouldn’t look the other way just because she admired the brewster.

  “Not necessarily,” she said. “If she was the killer, pretending that she didn’t know about the cottage is in her best interest.”

  Rebecca’s nostril’s flared with annoyance, but she said nothing.

  “The killer might not have known about the cottage, either, but followed Pascoe there,” Alec pointed out.

  “That’s another possibility,” Kendra nodded. “It works with the spontaneity of the murder. The unsub didn’t follow him immediately. Pascoe had enough time to unpack his lunch, make tea, even look over his poetry.”

  Muldoon’s eyebrows bobbed up. “How do you know he looked over his poetry?”

  “There were pages on the table, and he had time to cross out a lot of words. I think he was still angry, considering how violently he marked up the pages.”

  The journalist grinned. “Well, I can sympathize with the poor wretch in that regard.” Muldoon’s smile faded as he looked at Kendra. “What you’re really saying is that there is no motive behind Mr. Pascoe’s demise. It was only a moment of uncontrolled temper.”

  “That’s what I’m saying, yes.”

  Muldoon’s jaw tightened as he nodded. “In other words, it’s like Fletcher’s uncontrolled temper when he broke that whiskey bottle and stabbed that poor bloke to death.”

  A chill raced down Kendra’s arms as she met the Irishman’s eyes. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”

  Fletcher’s involvement in a death similar in style to Pascoe was an interesting coincidence, and Kendra had never been a fan of coincidences. But making connections because of coincidences could also ruin an investigation. She decided to push it to the back of her mind for now, let it percolate.

  Rebecca stood up. “Well, I must go. I promised Mama to accompany her to the dressmaker to retrieve our new gowns for Lady Merriweather’s ball tomorrow night.”

  “I shall escort you out, Lady Rebecca,” Muldoon offered, scrambling to his feet.

  Rebecca looked briefly surprised, then smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Muldoon.”

  Kendra frowned at them. Was Rebecca blushing again? Christ, was Muldoon?

  Rebecca dragged her gaze away from the reporter to look at Kendra. “You will attending the ball, won’t you?”

  Kendra froze. “I’m a little busy—”

  “Caro has already sent our acceptance,” the Duke interrupted, also standing.

  Damn, and double damn. The countess believed it was her sacred duty to make sure her brother—and by extension, his ward—attended all of the
Ton’s functions whenever they were in London.

  “Don’t look so Friday-faced, Miss Donovan,” Rebecca said with a laugh. “It should be entertaining—but not as amusing as Sir Howe’s fete at Vauxhall on Saturday. That is a masquerade ball. I’m quite looking forward to it.”

  Kendra cut her eyes to the Duke, who inclined his head and said, “Yes, we shall be attending that as well. I believe Caro was going to seek you out about shopping for costumes.”

  Alec lifted his coffee cup, green eyes gleaming. “I think you would make a lovely Cleopatra, Miss Donovan.”

  She glowered at him. Then an idea came to her. She managed to keep a straight face as she gave him a look. “Maybe I’ll go as a woman from the future.”

  Alec choked on the swallow of coffee he’d just taken. “Good God. Pardon me,” he muttered, reaching for a linen napkin.

  Kendra smiled.

  “That would be… unique,” Rebecca said, her eyebrows drawn together in a perplexed frown. “Pray tell, what would a woman from the future look like?”

  That was a question no one in the 21st century would ever ask. In her era, imagining the future was commonplace. Hell, you couldn’t go to a Halloween party without bumping into a Princess Leia or a Trekkie. But here, literature swung toward the Romantic movement, not science fiction.

  “I’ve read Memoirs of the Twentieth Century,” said Muldoon. “But I don’t recall it describing how those in the future dressed.”

  Startled, Kendra looked at him. “I’ve never heard of the book.”

  He grinned. “No doubt because it was little read. The author was a fellow countryman of mine—Samuel Madden. As an Anglican clergyman, he was more interested in vilifying the pope and decrying Catholicism than writing an interesting novel. Although the time-travel aspect was a fascinating premise, I thought. Probably why I read it.” He peered at her closely. “Are you all right, Miss Donovan?”

  “I’m fine.” She was little faint—maybe she needed Lady Atwood’s smelling salts. It was strange to talk about time travel with people who didn’t know her secret.

  “Well, no doubt I shall see you later at the inquest,” Muldoon said, glancing at Rebecca, waiting for her signal to leave.

  Rebecca said, “I want all the details later.” She spoke to the room at large but looked at Kendra specifically. Then she lifted her hand, and Muldoon hastily offered his elbow. What was going on with them? If Kendra didn’t know better…

  “You must take the carriage to Cookham for the inquest,” the Duke said, interrupting Kendra’s thoughts.

  She looked over at him. He was standing, preparing to leave as well. She followed him to the door. “You’re not coming with us?”

  “No. Last night, I promised Carlotta that I would take her and Caro in the barouche for a drive in Hyde Park, weather permitting.” He glanced at the window, as though to assure himself that the sun still shone. “We should be able to do the Ring before they visit Caro’s dressmaker.”

  “Whose idea was that?” Kendra winced a little. Even to her own ears, the question came off as strident. The Ring was the road in Hyde Park where the fashionable people would show off their expensive carriages, horses, and finery. Or their guests.

  “I’m not certain. Still, Caro thought a drive in the park would be an excellent way to ease Carlotta into society. We shall introduce her as a family acquaintance from Spain.”

  Kendra felt a thrill of alarm at how quickly Carlotta was insinuating herself into the household. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “Well, tongues will most certainly wag if the Polite World knew we had a guest in our home but chose to hide her away,” he pointed out mildly.

  “Mr. Kelly’s men will be leaving for Spain soon. Maybe you should wait to show off your guest—”

  “You know as well as I do that it could be weeks, even months, before we hear word,” he said gently.

  “I’m going to find out the truth about Carlotta.”

  “I have no doubt you will, my dear. Your skill as an investigator is without parallel. However, we cannot ignore Carlotta’s existence. I cannot.”

  “I understand that, but—”

  “Enough has been said on the subject,” the Duke interrupted, his voice suddenly needle-sharp and as cold as ice. He paused, perhaps recognizing his own harsh tone. “I understand your concern, my dear, but I’m hardly a lad wet behind the ears. I will proceed with this situation in the manner I think best. Now, I do have other matters to attend to. Good day.”

  Kendra bit her lip at the rebuke. He rarely used what she always considered his “duke voice”—coldly autocratic, brooking no opposition—and never with her. She swallowed against the hot lump that had suddenly lodged in her throat and automatically lifted a hand to press against her breastbone. She could feel the bulge of the arrowhead pendant beneath the fabric. She drew in an unsteady breath, feeling unexpected tears in her eyes.

  Get a grip, Donovan. You’re twenty-six, not six And he’s not your father.

  Thank God, since her own father hadn’t been so great.

  She leaned against the doorframe, drawing in a steadying breath to regain her composure. Behind her, she heard the murmur of Alec and Sam’s voices. And ahead of her, the creak of floorboards.

  Kendra straightened, skin prickling. Then she heard the stealthy tread of footsteps moving away. Instinct more than anything propelled Kendra down the hall to where it branched off into another corridor. She caught the flutter of a skirt disappearing around the corner.

  “Miss Donovan?”

  Kendra glanced back. Sam had stepped outside the study, his coat on and his hat in his hands.

  “I need ter meet me men at the docks before they sail. Did Lady Rebecca sketch the lass’s face like you wanted?” He peered at her more closely. “Is somethin’ wrong?”

  “No. I thought…” She sighed, shaking her head. “It’s nothing. I’ll get you the sketches.”

  She retraced her footsteps to the study and retrieved the rolled foolscap from the desk. She handed the pages to the Bow Street Runner, watching as he untied the ribbon and unrolled the paper to study the pastel sketches that Rebecca had done the night before.

  Sam nodded approvingly. “Good thinking, lass. You know, Bow Street ought ter come up with a system of using sketches like these. ’Tis a clever idea you have, much more useful than offering a description. This should help me men considerably—there aren’t gonna be many who’d forget a face like this. She’s a prime article, ter be sure.” Quickly, he rolled up the foolscap and retied the ribbon, tucking the sketches under his arm. “I’ll find my own way ter Cookham. See you at the inquest.”

  After the Bow Street Runner departed, Alec walked over to Kendra. He framed her face with his palms, his gaze searching hers. “What is wrong?”

  “What makes you think anything’s wrong?”

  “Because I know you.”

  For some reason, the lump returned to her throat. She gave him a tremulous smile. “I think Carlotta was eavesdropping,” she said, instead of the truth.

  Alec gave her a long look, seeming to know that she was hiding something from him. But he didn’t press it, for which she was grateful. Instead, he asked, “Are you certain it was Carlotta? Servants have been known to listen at keyholes.” He snagged both of her wrists. His thumbs began making circles against the delicate skin. “Duke’s household isn’t usually so raggedy-mannered. Maybe it was a young maid still being trained.”

  “Hmm,” was all Kendra managed. Her heart was accelerating, which, by his smile, he could probably feel against his thumbs.

  He leaned down, his breath feathering against her lips. “It occurs to me that I have yet to wish you a good morning, Miss Donovan.”

  She pretended to frown. “Apparently the servants aren’t the only ones who are raggedy mannered.”

  He laughed. “I’ll do my best to make up for it.”

  She kissed him. This felt right, she thought, and gave herself up to the joy of the moment.<
br />
  But in the back of her mind, she saw the flutter of skirt before it disappeared around the corner. She knew she hadn’t seen the light blue fabric from a maid’s uniform, but rather a deep, dusky rose.

  18

  Kendra had attended an inquest before, so she wasn’t surprised that Pascoe’s would be held in the Green Knight tavern. Nor was she surprised to find a rowdy, almost jovial crowd already inside the taproom when she, Alec, and Molly arrived fifteen minutes before the inquest was to begin at two. However, she was a bit disconcerted to see the dead man laid out on a table in the center of the room, naked except for a linen sheet draped over his loins. Someone had also placed posies on the table around the body, an attempt no doubt to counteract the stench of rotting flesh.

  “Gor,” Molly whispered, eyes rounding as she stared at the corpse. Without the embalming process, the gases from natural decomposition had rapidly turned Pascoe’s skin a putrid green, the flesh blackened and shriveling where he’d been cut open with the standard Y incision during autopsy and stitched back together.

  “We ought to be thankful they left Mr. Pascoe with a little dignity,” Alec murmured.

  Kendra lifted her eyebrows. “This is what you call dignity?”

  “ ’Tis normal to leave them in the buff, you know.”

  “They knew Miss Donovan would be here to testify,” Dr. Munroe said, overhearing Alec’s comment as he shouldered his way through the churning knot of humanity to join them. “They thought it would be unsuitable for a duke’s unmarried ward to see such a sight.” His gray eyes gleamed at Kendra from behind his spectacles. “They don’t realize you are not a faint-hearted miss. Good afternoon.”

  “Dr. Munroe.” Kendra nodded in greeting.

  “Come. Mr. Kelly and I have saved a table,” he said. “These affairs tend to draw most of the village and beyond, so we thought to arrive early.”

  They followed Munroe’s gaze to where the Bow Street Runner was guarding a table across the room. Even as they watched, several men tried to sit down, only backing away when Sam brought out his gold-tipped baton and thrusted it under their noses.