“What did you discover in autopsy?” Kendra asked Munroe as they pushed their way through the mob to the table.
“Nothing unexpected.” The doctor paused when they reached the table. Sam stood up until Kendra and Molly were seated. Once everyone had settled into the chairs, he continued, “Mr. Pascoe’s wounds were not caused by the assailant slashing at the victim. The fiend thrust the knife into Mr. Pascoe’s abdomen. As I suspected, the aorta was punctured, which resulted in Mr. Pascoe’s death. The assailant stabbed him once, twice, thrice, puncturing the stomach, spleen, and small intestine. I found the tip of the knife, which had broken off, embedded in the pelvic bone. This, I believe, was the last thrust the killer made, with the knife remaining in the body. Unfortunately, Mr. Hobbs could not remember the exact wound from which he’d removed the knife, but I suspect it was the injury that had the most downward trajectory.”
“Because Pascoe was already falling,” Kendra said.
“Yes. And that injury, I suspect, perforated the abdominal aorta. As you are aware, death would have been rapid.”
Kendra could visualize it, the unsub withdrawing the knife only to plunge it back with enough force to nick the pelvic bone. Pascoe crumpling to the floor could have caused the assailant to release the weapon.
“With only five stab wounds—compared to fifteen, twenty-five, or even fifty—this was not a frenzied attack,” Munroe went on. “Yet there was rage behind it.”
Sam snorted. “Gotta have some rage ter stab someone in the belly, even if it was only five times.”
“Yes, but there are different levels,” Kendra said. “A frenzy implies uncontrollable fury and hatred. The difference between the two is the hatred. Pascoe’s killer did not hate him, but he did lose control. If he’d hated him, he would have followed Pascoe to the ground and continued to stab him, even after he was dead.”
“All the injuries that the victim sustained bled considerably, internally and externally,” said Munroe.
“Which means the heart was still pumping for most of the attack,” Kendra added, pausing when a buxom barmaid with riotous red curls poking out of her mobcap and a slightly harassed expression approached the table.
“What can I get for ye?” She looked at Sam. “Another whiskey?”
“Aye.” Sam picked up his glass with its drop of whiskey and drained it.
“Do you have coffee?” Kendra asked after Alec, Munroe, and Molly ordered ale.
The barmaid gave her an incredulous look. “Do we look like a coffee shop to ye?”
Smart-asses didn’t originate in the 21st century, Kendra thought wryly. “Okay. I’ll have an ale.”
“Another, if you please,” Muldoon said, materializing next to her.
The woman snatched up Sam’s empty glass and shoved her way through the crowd to the bar.
Muldoon scanned the taproom. “The proprietor of the Green Knight ought to be pleased. His purse will be plumper for certain after today.”
“Her,” Sam corrected with a scowl at the reporter. “Mrs. Doyle owns the place.”
“Cookham appears to be a progressive town,” Kendra said, and smiled.
“Well, Mr. Doyle actually owned the Green Knight, but he stuck a spoon in the wall more than fifteen years ago, I was told,” said Sam. “Now his wife’s the proprietress.”
Kendra studied the occupants in the room. Mostly working-class men, based on their rougher clothing, and about a dozen fashionably dressed men with starched cravats and pressed superfine coats. She guessed those to be merchants and office clerks. Besides herself and Molly, there were only four women in the room. Two were barmaids. The other two women were sitting at a small table near the tap. One looked middle-aged, wearing sober colors on her petite frame and a lace cap that hung limply on her head. The other woman looked ancient, gray hair also covered by a frilly lace cap. She was twice as large as her companion, although that could have been an optical illusion, created by the many shawls that she’d wrapped around her. Kendra counted at least six. The woman was smoking a long, skinny pipe, her beady eyes in the fleshy, wrinkled face, darting around the room. Kendra wasn’t surprised to hear Sam identify her as Mrs. Doyle.
“I guess she’s out of the sickroom,” commented Kendra.
Sam grunted. “Probably should still be there—she’s up barkin’ creek.”
Which Kendra took to mean that she was having coughing fits. The old woman began hacking, each shawl shuddering with the force of her wheezing. In what looked to be a practiced move, the other woman bent over and produced a porcelain vase from below the table. She tilted it toward Mrs. Doyle, who spit into it. Then the vase—or, rather, spittoon, Kendra realized—vanished back to its spot on the floor. The old woman tossed back a shot of hot whiskey with the flick of her wrist and was already sucking her pipe by the time the dark-haired barmaid hurried over to replenish her drink.
Kendra didn’t know whether to be impressed or appalled by how smoothly the entire process had been done.
Muldoon leaned over to whisper in Kendra’s ear. “Mrs. Gavenston’s uncle, Captain Sinclair, is the gentleman standing next to the portrait of the Prince of Wales. Brown as a Christmas pudding. Looks like he thinks all his geese are swans.”
“What?”
Alec translated, “Mr. Muldoon apparently thinks Captain Sinclair is a boastful sort.”
“Definitely has that look about him,” the reporter insisted.
Kendra fixed her eyes on the gentleman in question. Forty years in the hot Indian sun had baked his complexion into a permanently swarthy state. His hair was silvery white, which probably made him look even more tanned. He wore a beaver top hat, which gave the illusion that he was taller than his average height of five-ten. He had a military bearing in the way he stood, in the way that he appeared to size up the crowd as though expecting trouble. Then she remembered that his wife and daughter had been killed in an uprising in India. After such a tragedy, maybe he always expected trouble in crowds.
Muldoon said, his voice hardening, “Fletcher is here too. Not surprising, really. Inquests have a tendency to bring out the curiosity seekers.”
And murderers, Kendra thought.
The barmaid returned, carrying a full tray. Kendra waited until she’d deposited the glasses on the table, collected the coins that Alec tossed, and once again was twisting her way through the knots of humanity.
Kendra’s gaze was already scanning the crowd again. “Where is he?”
Muldoon pointed. It took a moment of shifting bodies before she saw a tall, broad-shouldered man leaning against the bar, one hand wrapped around a tankard of ale, the other holding a silver-tipped cane. The crowd shifted again, obscuring Fletcher but revealing another familiar face.
Albion Miller.
“Oy! Quiet down, you lot!” Constable Leech yelled, coming into the room. He was followed by a man who was older, shorter, and rounder than Leech, and had a book tucked under his arm. “Make way for the Honorable Mr. Peyton! Make way for His Honor!”
Like the Red Sea parting on Moses’s command, the crowd split to make a path for the Constable and Mr. Peyton to walk to where nineteen chairs had been arranged across the room. Mr. Peyton paused briefly to eye the corpse on the table, then moved ahead, plopping down on the chair nearest a small table. He set the book down. The redheaded barmaid hurried over with a tankard of ale, earning a smile (but, Kendra noticed, no coin) from the coroner. He lifted the tankard, gulping down the beer like he’d been wandering in a desert for the last week.
“Let’s begin,” he finally said, lowering his tankard and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Swear in the jurors, if you will, Constable Leech.”
Seventeen men, a mixture of working class and merchants, separated themselves from the crowd. Constable Leech swore them in on a bible while Mr. Peyton finished his ale. The same barmaid hurried over to replenish the tankard, not looking impressed when she again received nothing but a smile and thank you from the coroner.
“Who gave
the hue and cry?” Mr. Peyton asked, setting his half-finished tankard down on the table after taking another long swallow.
“That would be Lord Sutcliffe and Miss Donovan,” Constable Leech supplied. “She’s the ward of the Duke of Aldridge, like I told you.”
Heads swiveled to gawk at Kendra.
“You and Lord Sutcliffe discovered the body?” Mr. Peyton addressed her directly, frowning. “I was given to understand the deceased was found in a remote cottage on Squire Prebble’s land, which is why the jury couldn’t view him in situ.”
Although she didn’t understand the disapproval she saw in the coroner’s face, she nodded. “Yes, we found the body.”
“Miss Donovan had her maid with her,” Constable Leech hastened to add.
“Ah.” Mr. Peyton’s expression cleared. “Very good.”
Kendra’s lips parted in disbelief. Had the coroner really just concerned himself with her virtue? During a court proceeding? She glanced at Alec, and caught the gleam of laughter in his eyes.
“Mr. Hobbs, if you’ll please come up and give the name of the deceased, and how he came to be in such a sorry state,” the coroner ordered.
Hobbs pushed his way to where the jurors were sitting. “I can testify that the victim’s name is Mr. Jeremy Pascoe. As to the rest, I’d rather have the esteemed Dr. Munroe explain. He was the one who conducted the autopsy.”
“A doctor, you say?” Mr. Peyton raised his brows. “What’s a doctor doin’ poking about in someone’s innards?”
“I was trained as a doctor, but I am now an anatomist,” Munroe said, stepping forward. “I run an anatomy school in London.”
His answer caused a startled murmur to ripple through the room.
“Huh.” Mr. Peyton seemed genuinely baffled. “Why’d you lower yourself to such a degree, Dr. Munroe?”
Munroe smiled. “I confess that I am more fascinated by the secrets of the dead than I am in writing out prescriptions for laudanum to ladies of the Ton.”
That drew a mixed reaction, with some chuckles, some nodding of heads, and a few looks at the doctor like he’d just admitted to necrophilia.
“Huh,” Mr. Peyton said again. “Well, I suppose you have a right to choose your own living, no matter how peculiar it might be. Now, then…” He picked up the tankard, finished the ale, then waved the empty mug at the redheaded barmaid. With an increasingly disgruntled expression, she marched over to grab the stein. Mr. Peyton flicked a hand at Munroe. “Carry on, doctor, with your testimony regarding how the poor wretch came to cock up his toes.”
Munroe faced the jurors as he explained Pascoe’s injuries, as well as estimating the time of death as Saturday afternoon, though he couldn’t rule out Sunday. As he spoke, the barmaid returned with a fresh tankard for the coroner. Mrs. Doyle began coughing with enough force to give Munroe pause. Everyone looked at the proprietress.
“Bloody hell,” she gasped, hacking, and spat into the spittoon that her companion produced once more. “Carry on! Carry on!”
Looking amused, Munroe concluded his testimony. Mr. Peyton allowed him to return to his seat and ordered the jury to examine the body. The seventeen jurors pushed themselves to their feet and walked over to the table to inspect Pascoe for about five minutes, and then they were back in their seats.
Mr. Peyton cleared his throat. “Let’s swear in the witnesses who found the body. Miss Donovan, if you would please come forward?”
Constable Leech held out a bible and swore her in, and then Mr. Peyton said, “Tell us how you found the body, Miss Donovan.”
“Mr. Pascoe was lying on the floor next to the table. He was face-up. He’d been stabbed five times.”
“Did ye see anything suspicious?” asked one of the jurors.
“Aye,” another nodded. “Did you see anyone in the woods?”
It was a little odd having the jury question her directly, but she took it in stride. “No. We found the body late Tuesday afternoon. As Dr. Munroe said, the victim was most likely killed on Saturday.”
“And he was killed there?” someone else asked. “Maybe somebody killed him someplace else and put him there?”
It was actually a reasonable question, but Kendra shook her head. “There was no indication that the body was moved. The unsub—ah, the killer used the knife on the table. Mr. Pascoe had been using the knife for bread and cheese, which were also on the table.”
“Is it true that yer lookin’ inter who murdered the poor sod?” demanded an elderly juror. “Oi heard that Mrs. Gavenston hired ye to find Mr. Pascoe, and now yer set on finding who murdered him.”
That caused even more murmurs to break out in the room than Munroe’s admission that he was a doctor for the dead. Mr. Peyton banged his empty tankard on the table and glared at the juror.
“That ain’t a proper question for these proceedings, and you know it, Mr. Rooker! We ain’t here to identify the fiend who has done this terrible deed. The Crown only wishes to know if Mr. Pascoe’s death was the result of murder, manslaughter, self-murder, an accident, or a visitation by God. Now, does anyone else wish to question this witness? A relevant question, if you please!” When the jurors remained silent, the coroner nodded. “Very well. Miss Donovan, you may return to your seat. And you there”—he pointed at the redheaded barmaid—“bring me more ale!”
Kendra turned to go and found herself staring into Albion Miller’s narrow, hostile eyes.
“Still poking your long nose where it don’t belong, I see,” he growled, his lips peeling back into a sneer.
“Let’s have the next witness,” the coroner announced. “Your lordship, if you could come up here and testify to what you saw when you found Mr. Pascoe, though I suspect it’ll be the same as Miss Donovan.”
Kendra moved back to the table while Alec took his place as a witness. She scanned the crowd. Albion Miller was gone.
* * *
After Alec added his testimony, the coroner declared that the inquest had concluded. The jury deliberated for several minutes before the foreman announced their verdict: death by stabbing. Whether that was caused by murderous intent or manslaughter, they couldn’t say. Kendra wanted to roll her eyes. Mr. Peyton opened the book that he’d carried with him, and produced a coroner’s inquisition document for each juror to sign. The room was oddly silent, like everyone was holding their collective breath. This was a solemn act—even if it took place in a tavern.
“Very good.” Mr. Peyton huffed in satisfaction when the last man scratched his name on the paper. He picked up the quill pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and added his own name to the document. “I suggest Mr. Pascoe be removed from the premises forthwith. He’s a bit moldy.”
Chairs scraped back, some men shuffled toward the corpse to remove it, and most of the crowd headed toward the tap, talking and laughing. Kendra noticed coins exchange hands. It wasn’t unheard of for those attending inquests to wager on the outcome.
Kendra pushed herself to her feet. Oscar Fletcher apparently had finished his ale and was setting the tankard on the bar. She started forward. “I need a word with Mr. Fletcher.”
“Not alone, you don’t,” Alec muttered, coming after her.
Kendra ignored him as well as Molly, who had leapt up in pursuit. Maybe she was getting used to having an entourage; she was barely irritated. Fletcher was pulling open the tavern door.
“Mr. Fletcher!” she called, threading her way through the crowd. “Excuse me! Mr. Fletcher!”
He didn’t seem to hear her, disappearing through the door.
She finally reached the door and yanked it open. Fletcher was walking on the pavement, about twenty feet away. “Mr. Fletcher?”
He halted and turned. His expression was only mildly curious as he studied her. His eyes were pale blue beneath heavy lids. But Kendra recognized the hard, calculating gleam in the icy depths. His face was long, with sharp features and thin lips. She estimated him to be in his late forties or early fifties.
“Miss Donovan,” he acknowled
ged. In a gentlemanly gesture, he raised his black beaver hat to reveal grayish blond hair cropped close to his head. He shifted his gaze to Alec. “My lord. How can I help you?”
Kendra stepped forward to catch his attention again. “You can answer a few questions,” she said. “I’m curious, what is a London brewer doing at an inquest in Cookham? Did you know Mr. Pascoe?”
Something flashed in his eyes. Maybe humor. Maybe irritation. “I was acquainted with the man, yes. Hardly unusual. The brewery business is relatively small, compared to other trades.”
“I heard you’re trying to make it even smaller. You’ve been expanding your operation by buying out your competitors, and you want Barrett Brewery. But Mrs. Gavenston doesn’t want to sell.”
He smiled without warmth. “For the moment.”
“You think you can change her mind?”
“I think Mrs. Gavenston is a reasonable woman. She recognizes that the industry is becoming increasingly competitive, with costs rising, suppliers and clientele becoming more discriminating in who they do business with. Barrett Brewery does not have the wherewithal to survive with Mrs. Gavenston running it. Mrs. Gavenston’s own family understands this.”
His patronizing tone set Kendra’s teeth on edge. “It seems to me that she’s been running the business just fine for years.”
“You speak of the past, Miss Donovan. I speak of the future. Many brewers do not wish to do business with a female.” He glanced at Alec. “You must agree with me, my lord? A brewery is no place for a woman.”
“I’ve sampled Barrett Brewery ale and found it exceptional,” Alec said coolly. “If that is the kind of product Mrs. Gavenston offers, I have no complaints.”
A gleam of amusement came into the cold eyes. “I agree that Barrett’s recipes are excellent, which is one of the main reasons I am interested in acquiring the brewery. I am, of course, speaking of the realities of the beer trade.” Fletcher paused to flick a piece of lint off his cuff. He smiled and continued, “It is those realities that will eventually force Mrs. Gavenston to sell.”
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