Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Kendra drew in a breath, but she wasn’t here to argue on Mrs. Gavenston’s behalf. Pushing aside her desire to become the brewster’s advocate—much like Rebecca had been that morning—she asked, “How well acquainted were you with Mr. Pascoe?”

  “I would say not at all. I met the man less than a handful of times. Mrs. Gavenston invited him to sit down with us at our initial meeting, along with the chit… her daughter. Hester, I think is her name. There were other times. I scarcely remember,” he said dismissively.

  “We have witnesses who said that you argued with Mr. Pascoe,” she lied, watching him closely. Fletcher’s sleepy eyelids fell even more, but she saw how his eyes bounced from side to side as though reading an invisible newspaper. Trying to recall his meetings with Pascoe, she decided. Wondering who had seen them and whether to bluff or not.

  “I don’t recall arguing,” he finally said. “He may have taken exception to my blunt talk on why Mrs. Gavenston ought to sell.” Now his thin lips curled. “There is no place for chivalry in business, which is why there is no place for females. Men must feel free to speak with a frankness that would offend the delicate sensibilities of the fairer sex.”

  “Mrs. Gavenston doesn’t strike me as delicate.”

  “Nevertheless, Mr. Pascoe felt the need to act as her personal knight.” His hands tightened on his cane, his expression contemptuous. “I must bid you good day, Miss Donovan, my lord. As I am not Quality, I have to work for my bread and butter.”

  “One more question.” Kendra said, and waited for him to look at her again. “Where were you Saturday, four to eight?”

  He hesitated for only a moment. “I was where I spend most of my time—at Appleton Ale, working.”

  “And Sunday?”

  “Also working.”

  Kendra raised an eyebrow. “On the Sabbath?”

  His smile was cold again. “I am not a religious man, Miss Donovan. Nor do I have a wife and children. The business requires my full attention. If you don’t believe me, I have plenty of witnesses. You have my permission to query them.”

  “Are they the same witnesses who backed up your claim of self-defense when you killed a man?”

  He stared at her for a long moment. The look made her feel like something cold and scaly had slithered across her foot. Alec said nothing but shifted closer. She didn’t look up at him; she kept her gaze on Fletcher and summoned a smile. “I thought you appreciated frankness, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “Touché.” Instead of answering, he touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Miss Donovan… my lord.”

  Fletcher turned, the skirt of his greatcoat flaring, and strode to a gleaming black carriage with the steps already down. His coachman hurried to open the door.

  Kendra glanced up at Alec, who looked grim.

  “Cor,” Molly breathed next to her. “Oi ’ope ye don’t ’ave nothin’ more ter do with ’im, miss. ’E’s a queer cove. Evil.” She shivered. “Ye can tell in the eyes. ’E’s got evil eyes.”

  Kendra said nothing, mainly because she thought Molly was right.

  19

  Inside the Green Knight, Sam pushed his way through the press of bodies across the room to where Mrs. Doyle and her companion were still sitting. By the way the old woman was continuing to hack, he suspected that she would soon be seeking her sickbed, so he wanted to talk to her before she left.

  “Mrs. Doyle,” he said, pulling out his baton from his deep pocket. “Sam Kelly. If I could have a word?”

  Her dark brown eyes, set deep in a round face that had gone crepey with age, were as cunning as a street whore eyeing a gentry cove. “Ye’re the thief-taker that was asking ter speak with me yesterday.”

  Sam disliked the term thief-taker, with its taint of past corruption, but he nodded. “Aye, I’m lookin’ into Mr. Pascoe’s murder.”

  “Ye, and that chit—the Duke of Aldridge’s ward—by the look of it.” She studied him for a moment, her expression sly. Her face crumbled into irritation, though, when she was overtaken by another fit of coughing. Her companion thumped her on the back. She muttered hoarsely, “Blasted influenza!”

  “I told you, you should’ve stayed in bed,” chided her companion.

  “Don’t start, Myrtle,” gasped Mrs. Doyle. She snatched the whiskey on the table and tossed back the remainder of the drink, then wheezed a couple more times. “I ain’t staying,” she warned Sam. “But I could hardly miss an inquest in me very own tavern, could I? Especially with that bloody Peyton presiding.” She shot a look in the direction of the coroner, who remained though his duties were finished. He was currently at a table with a group of men, laughing and drinking. “If the River Thames were ale, I swear that blasted creature could drink it dry. And never leavin’ a coin for all our troubles.”

  Sam grunted. He knew most tavern owners supplied free drink to the coroner. Given the business that the tavern received from the inquest, Sam considered it a fair trade. However, he’d seen the number of tankards the coroner had gulped down. Maybe Mrs. Doyle had a point.

  “Gawd, me lungs are burning somethin’ fierce,” she muttered, her talon-like fingers tugging closer the many shawls she’d wrapped around her body. She picked up the pipe, which she’d left burning on the table, a delicate stream of white smoke curling around the tiny bowl. She put the stem between her lips and sucked. She caught Sam’s eye. “Ye’ve got five minutes afore I take meself home.”

  Sam sat down. “Heard tell not much goes on in this village that you don’t know about.”

  Mrs. Doyle grinned, revealing stained, crooked teeth. “I keep me ears and peepers open, I do.”

  “So, what have you heard about Mr. Pascoe? Who’d want ter kill him?”

  She sucked the pipe’s stem in contemplative silence. “I don’t know anyone who was murderous against him. Oh, there were complaints, but nothing vicious-like. And from what I saw over there”—she nodded toward the spot where Pascoe had been laid out on the table—“that was vicious.”

  “What sort of complaints were lodged against him?”

  “Maybe it weren’t so much complaints as it was a few people grumblin’. Horatia’s kin weren’t happy at how she seemed ter indulge the boy.”

  “Horatia?” Sam lifted his eyebrows.

  Mrs. Doyle’s chuckle turned into another bout of coughing. “You’re thinkin’ I’m being too familiar with me betters, but I’ve known that girl since she was Horatia Dyer, runnin’ around in braids. Elizabeth—her ma, God rest her soul—and I did business together. Mr. Doyle—me husband, God rest his soul—may have owned this tavern, but we ran it together. Elizabeth had inherited Barrett Brewery from her mother. Ye know about Barrett Brewery?”

  “I know it’s passed down the female line.”

  “And ye think that’s queer, don’t ye?”

  Before he’d met Kendra Donovan, he’d have thought it was damned queer. But now… He shrugged. “As far as I can tell, the women have been doing a bang-up job of it.”

  “Aye, they all have, since Violet Taylor married Will Barrett back in 1722 or thereabouts. Like most wives at the time, she began brewin’ ale in her kitchen. But she had the gift, no two ways about it. Those days, ye sold small lots ter the locals. Now the tale is that Will weren’t no fool and saw his wife’s talent in the area.”

  “And he started Barrett Brewery,” Sam finished for her. He’d learned a long time ago to let people talk. Besides, by letting the old woman talk, he’d already gone over the five minutes she’d allowed him.

  Mrs. Doyle nodded. “They had four children that lived. Daisy was the oldest and took a keen interest in ale making. Like her mama, she had the gift.”

  “The other children didn’t have any interest?”

  “I reckon not, since the other daughter married and emigrated ter Scotland or some other heathenish place. The two sons joined the army. Mind ye, at the time, Barrett Brewery was still a homespun trade. So maybe they didn’t see any reason ter stay in the village. But Daisy took ter it like a d
uck ter water. When she married George Sinclair, a local boy, she was smart enough ter protect Barrett Brewery, wantin’ it ter be passed ter the eldest female daughter, just like her ma had passed it ter her.”

  Mrs. Doyle waved at the redheaded barmaid, who came over with a tray of drinks. She set a glass down in front of Mrs. Doyle and eyed Sam. Her harassed expression eased a little when he tugged out a coin from his breast pocket to give to her.

  “Still, that must’ve created grumblin’ with the other children, ter be cut out like that,” he said finally, raising his glass and eyeing the old woman over the rim. “I know Mrs. Sinclair had a son—Lucian Sinclair.” He sipped the whiskey, enjoying the pleasant fire it lit in his belly.

  “They actually had three children who lived—Elizabeth, Lucian, and Diana. As the eldest female, Elizabeth inherited Barrett Brewery.” Mrs. Doyle sucked on her pipe, wheezed a bit. “Daisy took her under her wing when she was a babe ter teach her the business, just like Horatia is teachin’ her eldest, Hester. But don’t ye think that the other children were forgotten, because they weren’t. They each got a sizeable inheritance and shares in the company. More than some second sons of the Patrician order get,” she sniffed. “Gave Diana a plump dowry ter marry herself off ter one of those second sons, just like Sabrina. Heard tell she’s living in Ireland.”

  Sam blinked. He was losing the thread of the conversation. “Who? Sabrina?”

  “Don’t be daft! Diana is in Ireland. Sabrina is Horatia’s other daughter. Married herself a viscount’s son who’s got four older brothers, so no chance ter inherit that title. Which is the only thing left ter inherit. Poor as a church mouse, Mr. Mercer was, until he married the chit and moved inter the manor.” Mrs. Doyle began to cough. “Damnation! This bloody grippe will be the death of me!”

  Sam waited while Myrtle brought up the spittoon for Mrs. Doyle.

  “They live at White Pond Manor as well?” he continued after she was finished.

  “It’s big enough,” she said, wiping her mouth with the edges of the shawl. “Leastwise, Mr. Mercer don’t have creditors knockin’ on his door anymore since he and Sabrina got spliced.”

  “And when was that?”

  She thought about it. “Two years ago. Caused a bit of a stir here in the village, ’cause they ran off ter Gretna Green ter do the deed.”

  The only reason couples eloped to Gretna Green in Scotland was if the family didn’t approve of the marriage. “Why would they do that?” Sam asked. “I suppose his family was against the match, beings Mrs. Gavenston is in trade.”

  Mrs. Doyle snorted which turned into another hacking cough. Myrtle thumped her a couple of times on the back, and she took a swallow of whiskey. “Aye. They might be in dun territory, but that don’t mean they want any connection ter folks in trade,” she finally said. “Especially the ale business. Closed their doors ter him, the family did. They cut him off, but from what? Eh? They have nothin’.”

  Except entry to the Beau Monde, Sam thought. Now Polite Society’s drawing room doors would be closed to Mercer and his wife. He would, in effect, be shunned from the social circle that he had once occupied. But Sam didn’t say any of that. He had a feeling Mrs. Doyle wasn’t impressed with the lineage of the Ton.

  She proved it a moment later when she said, “They may be our betters, but if ye ain’t got any money, I ask ye, how’s that any better than Horatia or her family line? She’s as much a lady as any gentry mort. Elizabeth even sent her off ter a fancy finishin’ school to polish up her manners. She’s as good as any of ’em.”

  Sam eyed her. Mrs. Doyle sounded aggrieved on Mrs. Gavenston’s behalf.

  “How did Mr. Mercer get on with Mr. Pascoe?” Sam asked.

  “Ack, Mr. Mercer’s too busy getting his wardrobe tailored and acting like a lord ter bother with Mr. Pascoe. Mark me words, he’ll have went through Sabrina’s dowry and inheritance by the end of the year.” She picked up her pipe, puffed. “Course, Sabrina ain’t much better. Chit has feathers for brains. Horatia’s too indulgent with her. Suppose she had ter put more attention on Hester, as she’s the eldest and set to take over.”

  “What was Mrs. Mercer’s relationship with Mr. Pascoe?” Sam asked, thinking of Kendra’s contention that the killer could have been a woman.

  “Same as her husband’s, I expect,” Mrs. Doyle with a dismissive wave.

  Sam said nothing for the moment, then asked, “What will Mrs. Gavenston do if they run through the girl’s fortune?”

  The old woman leaned back, clamping the stem of the pipe between her lips. “Well, she ain’t likely ter throw them out. They’ve got shares in the brewery from Sabrina’s portion, so they’ll get an allowance from that.”

  “Could they sell their shares?” And would Mr.—or Mrs.—Mercer, Sam wondered silently, approach Mr. Pascoe about it?

  Mrs. Doyle frowned at him. “Now, why would they go and do a fool thing like that? It might be a smaller allowance than they’re used ter, but it’s not like they’ll be going ter debtor’s prison.”

  “What about the uncle?” Sam asked, circling back to the main subject. “I heard Captain Sinclair is back because he ain’t satisfied with his previous inheritance. Wants a hand in running Barrett Brewery. Seems ter think females don’t have a head for business.”

  “Bloody sod!” The old woman plucked the pipe out of her mouth and pointed it at Sam. “Horatia and his ma—and all the women that came before—are the reason Barrett Brewery is where it’s at! Ye wanna know why Lucian came back? Because he saw Barrett ale being served over in that foreign country that he’s been living for the past forty years, that’s why! Probably never gave it a thought since the day he left home.”

  Mrs. Doyle was outraged on Mrs. Gavenston’s behalf again. Sam couldn’t blame her.

  “Mrs. Gavenston is shipping Barrett ale ter India?” he asked to diffuse the tension.

  “Horatia’s keen on foreign markets. Now that we’ve made peace with America and France again, she’ll probably be lookin’ there as well.”

  “Captain Sinclair can’t have any legal standing in getting his hands on the business.”

  Mrs. Doyle gave him a cynical look. “The courts ain’t exactly sympathetic ter me sex. Thought that was why Horatia hired Mr. Pascoe. Horatia is a wily creature, but it made no sense that she hired the man.” She finished her whiskey and signaled the barmaid for another.

  “What’s wrong with Mr. Pascoe?” Sam asked.

  “Nothin’ wrong with him, but he ain’t—wasn’t—a brewer, didn’t know heads or tails about the ale business. Was a clerk at a bank in Maidenhead, so I reckon he knew money. But folks thought it peculiar that she’d choose someone wet behind the ears when there are better men for the job.” She paused when the barmaid delivered their drinks, and Sam fished out another coin. “But I think Horatia was being canny. Mr. Pascoe didn’t have a brewing background, but that allowed her ter groom him ter be the man ter represent Barrett Brewery. To stop her uncle from trying ter take control.”

  “But I thought the brewery is always passed ter the eldest daughter.”

  “Aye. But right now, Horatia’s eldest daughter ain’t wed.”

  Sam blinked. “Hor—Mrs. Gavenston was hoping for a match between Hester and Mr. Pascoe?”

  “Ack, I can’t be sure of that, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Horatia has a ruthless streak in her,” she said. “I’m not speaking ill of her. Any woman in business needs ter be able ter be ruthless, meself included. But if the shifting winds mean havin’ a man at the helm—a man ye’ve picked for your daughter and mayhap can control…” She shrugged. “That fancy finishing school didn’t jest polish up her manners. It polished some hardness inter her too. She was softer afore she was sent off there.”

  Mrs. Doyle finished her drink, then went through another fit of coughing. “Gawd. I’m done up,” she muttered, looking suddenly exhausted. Slowly, the old woman hoisted herself to her feet. “A rest will do me wonders.”

  Sam scrambled
to his feet as well. He hadn’t yet quizzed her about Albion Miller or Mr. Fletcher, but he saw the grayness of her complexion and said only, “I’d like ter speak with you again when you feel better.”

  The old woman nodded and turned away, allowing her companion to help her through the thinning crowd. Slowly, Sam sat down again. He took a long sip of whiskey as he thought about everything Mrs. Doyle had said.

  Arranged marriages were common enough in the Polite World, but Sam didn’t think it put Mrs. Gavenston in an entirely flattering light. It certainly revealed a more ruthless side to the brewster than he’d first imagined.

  He thought of Kendra’s supposition that Mrs. Gavenston could have killed her manager in a fit of temper, and then remorse had propelled her into wanting his body found. Maybe it wasn’t quite as outlandish an idea as he had first thought.

  20

  Sam scowled at Phineas Muldoon when he slipped into the seat that Mrs. Doyle had vacated.

  “So, do you believe Mrs. Gavenston was hoping for a match between her manager and her daughter?” the reporter asked.

  “You’ve got sharp ears, lad. And that ain’t a compliment.”

  Muldoon grinned, unfazed. When the barmaid circled around again, Sam ordered a whiskey and Muldoon an ale.

  “I spoke with Mr. Shaw,” Muldoon said. “He was distressed to hear about Mr. Pascoe’s demise. He’d been his clerk for nearly nine years.”

  Sam had to think a moment. “Ah. Mr. Pascoe’s employer at the Maidenhead Banking Company. He’s here?”

  “He’s gone now,” Muldoon said when Sam turned to seek the man out. “Here’s the odd thing. Turns out Mrs. Gavenston is one of their largest depositors. She’s been banking there for nigh on fifteen years.”

  Sam raised his eyebrows. “If she knew Mr. Pascoe before, saw the kind of man he was, maybe she took a liking ter him. And when her manager was ready ter be pensioned off, she naturally thought of him as a replacement.”

  “Possible,” Muldoon conceded, inclining his head. “Or maybe that’s when she got the idea to do a little matchmaking. Either way, it’s odd that Mrs. Gavenston never mentioned she knew Mr. Pascoe prior to her hiring him.”