Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Sam frowned. “I’m not certain what that has ter do with the man’s murder.”

  Muldoon shrugged. “I’m not certain either.” He grinned at the barmaid when she returned. “A moment of your time, my good woman,” he said, handing her a coin.

  “What can I do for ye?” She eyed him warily as she tucked the coin into her blouse.

  “Everyone in the village must pass through here. What can you tell us about Mr. Pascoe?”

  She pursed her lips. “A gentleman, he was,” she said. “Real polite and quick with the coin—not like some of the coves around here. He came in for meals mostly.”

  “Alone or with anyone?”

  “Depends. When he was alone, he was always scribbling. Must’ve been interested in… what do ye call it when ye look up at the stars?”

  “Astronomy? Astrology?”

  “Aye, one of those. Told me once that he was paying homage to a star.” She shook her head and laughed lightly at the memory. “Thought he was dicked in the knob, I did, but it weren’t that. He was interested in poetry, of all things. Can you imagine? I never learned ter read or write, so I can’t say I cared one way or the other, but he got all dreamy-eyed when he was scribbling his verses.”

  “When he wasn’t alone, who’d he come in with?” Sam asked.

  “Sometimes he’d come in with Mr. Elwes. He’s a schoolmaster here. I think they both liked ter read and write poetry. Sometimes he’d come in with Mrs. Gavenston or Miss Gavenston.”

  Muldoon leaned forward. “He’d be with Miss Gavenston alone?”

  “She’s not gentry, needin’ a chaperone,” the barmaid pointed out. “Everyone knows they work—worked—together at the brewery. They probably were alone over in their offices more than they were here with the village keeping their peepers on them. I told ye, he was an honorable cove. It’s a shame what happened, really.” She shifted on her feet, glancing around. “I gotta get back ter work.”

  Sam held up a finger. “One more question. Did you see him argue with anyone in particular? Or hear that he might’ve gotten into a quarrel with someone?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Any thought ter who may have killed him?”

  “Nay.” She shivered a little. “Other than whoever did it had ter be mad.”

  “It’s a puzzle,” Muldoon murmured, drinking his ale with a thoughtful frown after she’d departed. “Who kills a man who was essentially a clerk, whose hobby was writing verses?”

  “Like Miss Donovan said, whoever did the deed got angry and then stabbed him. Unfortunately, that means it could’ve been anybody.”

  “Yes and no. Yes, anyone with a temper could be the fiend who attacked Mr. Pascoe. And I don’t know anyone on God’s green earth that doesn’t fly off the boughs every once in a while, with the exception of my sainted mother. And no, because the possibilities are narrowed down to people who knew him and what he may have been involved in—as Miss Donovan also said.”

  “Victimology,” Sam said. “That’s what Miss Donovan calls it. Says by studying the victim, you can figure out the killer.”

  Muldoon cocked his head to the side. “She’s an Original, isn’t she? What do you know about Miss Donovan? Truly know?”

  Sam narrowed his eyes at the reporter. He’d come to have great affection for the American and wasn’t about to put up with anyone disparaging her. “What are you gettin’ at?”

  “I meant no offense,” Muldoon said. “I’ve just never met anyone like her. You have to admit that she’s a strange one.”

  “Oh, you’re not giving offense at all,” Sam muttered drily.

  “Lady Rebecca is as fiery, independent, and intelligent as Miss Donovan, but she has a sense of what is proper. Most ladies would not attend an inquest. His Grace only had to send word, and no one would have thought her absence odd.”

  “She attends autopsies. Why would she not attend an inquest?”

  “Exactly.” Muldoon jabbed a finger at him. “I’m only saying she’s a strange creature. Strange in a good way, if you take my meaning. Different.”

  Sam had the same thoughts but would never admit to them. Now he shrugged. “She’s an American. They set great store in liberty. They started a whole war over that notion. I even heard tales of females dressin’ as men so they could fight us when they started their war of independence.”

  “I haven’t been to America, but it sounds like the womenfolk there are a fearsome lot, if those tales are true. As fearsome as Scottish lasses. It’s not difficult to envision Miss Donovan doing such a thing, but I feel like there’s something more…” He tapped his nose and grinned. “There’s a story with Miss Donovan. I can feel it in me Irish bones.”

  “Your Irish bones will be broken if you cause Miss Donovan one bit of embarrassment,” Sam snapped. “The Duke of Aldridge ain’t a man ter be trifled with, for all his geniality. He protects his own. And I don’t think the marquis would simply stand aside either. You’ll find yourself at Leighton Field at dawn with your dueling pistol.”

  “I would never cause Miss Donovan a moment of embarrassment. And that’s not because me poor blood runs cold at the thought of facing his lordship over a pair of barking irons. I happen to like Miss Donovan. She may be a peculiar creature, but I admire her courage and cleverness, and her commitment to avenging those who suffered an untimely death.”

  “Oh, you like her, do you? And here I thought you were reserving your affection for Lady Rebecca,” Sam teased, chuckling. He was surprised when Muldoon turned red.

  “I have great admiration for Lady Rebecca, as well,” the younger man said stiffly.

  Sam eyed him carefully. “Well, as long as you admire her from afar. Lord Blackburn will hardly look kindly upon a romance between his daughter and an Irish scribbler. You’re beneath her touch, me lad.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Muldoon stood suddenly, his eyes ablaze with temper. “You think… oh, to hell with you!”

  Sam gaped as the reporter spun on his heel and shoved his way through the knots of men, disappearing out the door with a bang.

  “What was that about?”

  Sam glanced at Munroe as he materialized next to the table. “The folly of youth,” Sam murmured, lifting his whiskey for a long, slow sip. He sighed, feeling older than his forty-two years and unaccountably depressed. “And dreaming of a world that doesn’t exist.”

  21

  Kendra spotted Captain Sinclair as he was crossing the street. She called his name, not only capturing the captain’s attention but that of several bystanders, and sprinted across the cobblestones after him. “I’d like to speak to you, if I may.”

  Up close, Kendra noticed that his eyes were hazel, the same shade as his niece’s. He didn’t smile, inspecting her like she was a new recruit that he found wanting.

  “Miss Donovan, my lord.” Sinclair nodded, his gaze sliding past her to Alec. “I’m afraid that I do not have much time to spare. I am scheduled to meet Lord Davies at his estate in Wycombe for a fox hunt.” He pulled out his watch fob. “In exactly one hour.”

  “This won’t take long. Are you going now to Wycombe?”

  He looked at Kendra with scorn. “Of course not. I must change into my riding habit.”

  “I planned to go to White Pond Manor as well. Do you mind if I get a ride with you?”

  Even Kendra knew this was audacious. His eyes widened with shock, but he recovered almost instantly.

  “As you can see, my gig is not built for four people—”

  “Lord Sutcliffe and my maid will follow us in the carriage,” Kendra broke in. The last thing she wanted to do was to go hurtling across the countryside with Sinclair, but this was too good an opportunity to miss. It wasn’t like he could jump off if he didn’t like her questions.

  Sinclair’s lips tightened, but like any military man, he knew when he’d been outmaneuvered. “Very well, Miss Donovan.”

  Alec stepped forward to help Kendra into the gig. His eyes gleamed with humor
. “The royals could take lessons on being imperious from you, my sweet,” he whispered as he lifted her.

  “Whatever works,” she murmured back.

  Captain Sinclair clambered up on the other side and picked up the reins. He steered the horse onto the street behind two riders. Even though they couldn’t have been going more than two miles an hour, Kendra’s heart jolted. She grabbed the bottom of the seat to secure herself.

  “I am aware that my niece had asked you to look into Mr. Pascoe’s disappearance—and now his murder,” Sinclair said, his gaze on the road ahead. “I hope you do not take offense, but I find your involvement in this affair quite peculiar.”

  Kendra had always wondered why people bothered saying “no offense” when they usually followed it by saying something offensive. “You think it’s peculiar to want justice for a man who was murdered?”

  He gave her a sideways look. “I think you are well aware to what I’m referring, Miss Donovan. In India, women understand the natural order and are content to be nurturers in the home, to provide succor to their husbands and tend their children.”

  “I find that interesting coming from you, given that your own mother was in charge of Barrett Brewery.”

  For the first time, Kendra wondered if that might have caused resentment. He’d basically been bypassed in favor of his sister in a time when males usually inherited. She thought she might have struck a nerve by the way his hands clenched on the reins.

  “It’s probably strange to be in a family that rebels against traditional primogeniture,” she remarked.

  He sighed angrily. “My family is in trade—there is no primogeniture, as such. And there is no estate. White Pond Manor belongs to me as much as it does to my niece or anyone else in the family.”

  Which was probably why Mrs. Gavenston hadn’t booted him out on his ass when he started trying to insert himself into running the brewery.

  “My mother had ridiculous notions fostered by Violet Barrett.” His nostrils flared. “My father should have put a stop to the nonsense, but he did not. I joined the British Army and was sent to India.”

  “Did you marry an Indian woman?” she asked curiously.

  “What?” He looked genuinely appalled. “Good God, no! My wife was a good, God-fearing Englishwoman, the daughter of a lieutenant colonel. I would never have married a pagan. The very idea is absurd.”

  She decided not to point out his hypocrisy in venerating an Indian woman’s subservient behavior, and yet reviling the natural-born citizens of an entire country in which he’d lived. Instead, she asked, “Why did you come back? If there’s nothing here for you at Barrett Brewery?”

  “I returned because I realized the brewery is as much my heritage as my niece’s. ’Tis time for me to take a more active role in the company. I have connections that would be of use in business.”

  “Connections?”

  His expression turned smug. “Lord Davies, for one. He is influential in the West Indies trade, having considerable investments in that area,” he said. “And I have many contacts in India, as well as the British military. I don’t expect you to understand the nuances of business, Miss Donovan. Suffice to say, I would be a great asset to Barrett Brewery in these matters.”

  “It’s not that complicated. You’re hoping to leverage your connections—and the promise of increasing the brewery’s markets internationally—for a position in your niece’s company.” Asshole.

  “Barrett Brewery is my family’s company,” he snapped.

  “Maybe in spirit. But in reality, Mrs. Gavenston is in control.”

  Her fingers tightened on the seat when the gig’s wheel hit a rut in the road, and her heart lurched into her throat. They were leaving the village. On one side of the country lane was the familiar patchwork farmland, on the other, thick woods. She recognized some of the landscape. They were going in the same direction as Squire Prebble’s land, where Pascoe had been found.

  “Horatia has to realize that if Barrett Brewery is to compete internationally, certain sensibilities must be recognized. Men—even savages—do not want to do business with the female sex. ’Tis beneath them. Horatia cannot even go into a gentleman’s club in London. Where do you think most business is done, Miss Donovan? In the drawing room?”

  He sounded exactly like Fletcher. Unfortunately, as appalled as she was by both men, she knew there was truth in those snide words.

  “That’s why Mrs. Gavenston had Mr. Pascoe—to negotiate on her behalf,” she said, watching him carefully. “Is that why you disliked him? As long as he was around, offering that manly handshake when it came to making deals, you couldn’t get your foot in the door.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “Who said that I disliked him?”

  “I heard that you were upset when you asked him to support you in having more say in Barrett Brewery and he refused to go against Mrs. Gavenston. Did you threaten him?”

  “Don’t be preposterous. Why would I bother?”

  “Because Mrs. Gavenston gave Mr. Pascoe a lot of responsibility at Barrett Brewery. More, it sounds like, than she is willing to give you.”

  That got a rise out of him, just as she’d intended.

  “Bah! It only proves what I’ve been saying. Horatia is too soft. Mr. Pascoe had no experience in the brewery business. He was a bank clerk, for God’s sakes. Tallying up numbers for a living.”

  “And you were a captain in the army.”

  “Barrett Brewery is in my blood. Before I joined the army, I worked at the brewery with my family.”

  “Well, I’d say tallying up numbers is what a good manager is supposed to do,” she said.

  “Mr. Pascoe was more than a good manager, I think,” he retorted, lips curling. “My niece invited him often to dine with us. I saw the way that she looked at him.”

  Kendra’s skin prickled at the implication. She tried to keep her expression blank and asked steadily, “How did she look at him?”

  Sinclair gave her another sideways look. “In a way no woman her age should be looking at a pup like him. It was revolting.”

  Kendra said nothing. She’d sensed that Mrs. Gavenston had been hiding something from her. Was this it? An illicit love affair? Was their argument on Saturday a lover’s quarrel?

  Mrs. Gavenston was perhaps forty-five. Pascoe had just turned twenty-nine. So, only a fifteen- or sixteen-year age gap. Which wouldn’t have raised eyebrows at all if the man had been the older one. Even in the 21st century, more people were likely to disapprove of an older woman falling in love with a younger man. If Mrs. Gavenston had been having an affair with Pascoe, Kendra could see her not wanting that to become known.

  “You’re saying that Mrs. Gavenston and Mr. Pascoe were having an affair?” she asked directly, done with innuendo.

  He shrugged, but seemed reluctant to put his suspicion into actual words. “Whatever their relationship, it was not appropriate.”

  Kendra frowned, clutching again at the seat as Sinclair turned the gig down another lane, the Duke’s carriage following some distance behind. Ancient oaks rose up on either side of the road, creating a tunnel of spreading foliage. Kendra caught glimpses of blond stone and glass through the greenery. She got the impression of size, but still wasn’t prepared for the majesty and beauty of White Pond Manor when they emerged from the long, leafy tunnel and she had her first unobstructed view of the house. It wasn’t as enormous as Aldridge Castle. But then what was? Nor did it evoke the sheer power of the castle’s gray stones. Instead, White Pond Manor was four stories of elegance, its architecture paying homage to the romantic Renaissance style.

  Apparently, the beer business was quite lucrative.

  “How long has your family lived here?” she asked.

  “My father purchased the property from a lord who was sent to debtor’s prison. The house had fallen into disrepair.” Sinclair actually smiled, the first flicker of genuine amusement that Kendra had seen from him. “Most of my childhood was spent dodging mason workers and scaffol
ding.”

  She thought of the Yarborough residence back in London, and let her eyes travel over the lush green lawns, carefully placed trees, and the glimmer of blue from a small lake curving gracefully around the manor on its left side. “It’s beautiful.”

  Sinclair acknowledged that with a brief incline of his head. He concentrated on driving the gig around to the stables. Stable hands rushed forward to take the reins he threw at them. Kendra hopped down from the contraption before he could come around to give her assistance, earning a disapproving frown from Sinclair.

  She glanced around when she heard the distinct crack of gunfire in the distance. Instinct nearly had her diving into her reticule for her muff pistol, but since Sinclair and the stable hands didn’t appear disturbed by the noise, she relaxed her hands.

  “Someone’s shooting?” she asked Sinclair.

  His lips thinned. “No doubt that dandy that Sabrina married. Horatia ought to be at the brewery at this time of day. If you wish to speak to her, you’ll need to send word.”

  “I suppose Hester is at the brewery as well, since she’ll be taking over one day.”

  It was a deliberate jibe, which Sinclair must have recognized, because he smiled like the cat that ate the canary. “We shall see,” was all he said, and he fished out his pocket watch. “I must be off. Unless you wish to wait for Lord Sutcliffe here, I shall escort you into the manor. Brentworth will see to tea and get word to Horatia.”

  Brentworth, she assumed, was the butler. A place like White Pond Manor would have a butler. And a housekeeper. And an army of servants.

  “I’d love some tea,” Kendra lied, falling into step beside the captain. “By the way, where were you on Saturday afternoon and Sunday?”

  He looked at her sharply. He knew what she was asking, and, by the way he pursed his lips, he didn’t like it. Kendra wondered if he was going to ignore her question, but he finally said, “I had business in London on Saturday. On Sunday, I attended a cricket match in Windsor.”