Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “Anyone to verify your whereabouts on both days?”

  “My business is private. As far as Sunday goes, speak to Sir William Lloyd, as I joined his party. But anyone who attended the match between Harlequins and Lewes would be able to confirm my attendance.”

  “It would be helpful if you could tell me your business on Saturday to eliminate you as a suspect.”

  “Ah, but that is just it, Miss Donovan.” His smiled humorlessly. “I don’t feel particularly helpful. You have no authority to compel me to state my private business.”

  Usually her connection to the Duke was enough to motivate people to talk, even if they lied to her. But she had no power in this era beyond that.

  “People who are reluctant to talk about their whereabouts during a murder makes me wonder what they’re hiding,” she tried.

  But Captain Sinclair had spent forty years in the British military, occupying a country that didn’t necessarily want to be occupied. He was not easily intimidated. “You may wonder all you like, Miss Donovan.”

  More gunfire sounded in the distance. The sharp reports were oddly spaced out. Two shots in rapid succession, then silence, and then two more shots.

  Kendra walked with Sinclair on the flagstone path that angled away from the stables, up an incline. At the crest of the hill, Kendra paused to survey the rolling hills and woodlands.

  “Isn’t that Squire Prebble’s land over there?” she asked, pointing.

  He glanced briefly in the direction she indicated. “Yes.”

  Standing here, Kendra had a pretty good idea that as the crow flies, the cottage was maybe a mile, a mile and a half away, over rough fields and through dense woods.

  Not an easy hike, but still close enough to walk.

  22

  Brentworth, Mrs. Gavenston’s old, stoop-shouldered butler, ushered Kendra into a drawing room decorated in light, bright seafoam greens and pearl grays. The windows were large, letting in the afternoon sun, and evenly spaced. French doors led out to a stone verandah and overlooked a lawn that sloped down toward the lake and woods.

  “I shall send word to Mrs. Gavenston,” the butler said, “and see if Miss Hester is at home.”

  Which meant that she was, but might not want to see anyone. Kendra was getting used to the shorthand in this era.

  She thanked him, and then instead of sitting, she wandered to the window. She saw a handful of people gathered near the lake. Here was the source of the gunfire.

  They made an interesting tableau, Kendra thought. A woman was sitting next to a small round table draped in pristine white linen. Sunlight bounced off the silver tea service, porcelain, and crystal. Though the woman wore a bonnet with a wide brim and topped with what looked like a bouquet of flowers and two luxurious ostrich feathers that fluttered in the wind, she also held a tiny parasol angled to keep her face in the shade.

  Three men and a young boy stood several paces away from the woman. The boy held the leash of a yellow Labrador retriever while an old man loaded a large-bore, single-barrel flintlock shotgun. A younger man was standing with a similar shotgun tucked under his arm. Another older man seemed to be keeping a watchful eye on a wooden crate filled with pigeons. Both old men and the boy wore working attire. The younger man was blond and dashing in a navy greatcoat over a scarlet jacket, deerskin breeches, and shiny black hessians.

  Behind her, Brentworth arrived with Alec and Molly in tow. “Miss Hester is at home,” he informed them. “She has not been well. She shall be with you shortly.”

  Kendra nodded, then indicated the group outside. “Who are they?”

  “That is Miss Sabrina… ah, Mrs. Mercer, I should say. And her husband, Mr. Mercer.” The butler bowed out of the room.

  “I suppose it’s bad manners to go down there and introduce ourselves?” Kendra murmured.

  “Very shabby indeed,” Alec replied.

  She glanced at him and grinned. “So let’s go.”

  He laughed and they started for the French doors that opened to the gardens. Kendra paused, looking pointedly at Molly. “I don’t think I need a chaperone. Why don’t you see if you can get a cup of tea in the kitchens?”

  “Oh, but—”

  “And maybe you can find out where everybody was on Saturday and Sunday.”

  Understanding dawned in Molly’s eyes. “Oh. Aye, miss. Oi’m suddenly parched.”

  Alec cocked an eyebrow at Kendra as Molly left the drawing room. “That’s inventive, darling.”

  “The servants will be more comfortable talking to Molly than me,” she said with a shrug.

  Alec offered his elbow to her and opened the French doors. The yellow Lab was the first to see them, yipping excitedly, his body quivering in excitement as he strained at his leash. The boy brought him back. “Whoa, boy! Sit! Sit!”

  The dog sat, tail thumping on the ground. Everyone turned their heads to look at them.

  “Good day,” Alec said easily. “Forgive the intrusion, but we saw you from the drawing room. Is that a James Purdey?”

  The younger man—Mr. Mercer—glanced at the gun in his hands with the same kind of affection that a proud papa would display in showing off his firstborn. “It is. I bought both of them last month.”

  “Mr. Purdey only set up his shop a couple of years ago, but everyone is speaking of him in the same admiring tones as they speak of Manton. Of course, given that Mr. Purdey once worked for Joseph Manton, the skill he’s demonstrated in gun making is hardly surprising. A true craftsman. I am Sutcliffe, by the by, and this is Miss Donovan.”

  “Mr. Mercer,” said the man. He gestured to the woman sitting. “And my wife, Mrs. Mercer.” He turned to regard Alec with curious eyes. “You are the Marquis of Sutcliffe?”

  Alec inclined his head to indicate this was true.

  Mercer smiled. “My father is Lord Redgrave.”

  “We have been introduced.”

  Sabrina tilted her head to look at Kendra. “Miss Donovan, my mother has spoken of you. You found poor Mr. Pascoe. The inquest was today, was it not? I suppose that’s why you are here in Cookham.”

  “Yes,” Kendra said, studying the other woman. She had the look of both her sister and her mother in her bone structure. But her hair was ash blond and her eyes a deeper, darker blue, twinkling now with inquisitiveness. Her skin was creamy but flushed from the cool breeze blowing off the lake waters.

  “Would you like to try it, my lord? We both can have a go.” Mr. Mercer reached for the other shotgun that the older man was holding and offered it to Alec. “Unfortunately, we had to set up the pigeons in the old way. We don’t have spring traps yet.”

  He waved his hand to indicate the two top hats on the ground about fifty feet away from where they were standing.

  “Fair warning, your lordship, Mr. Mercer is a crack shot,” his wife said with a laugh.

  Mr. Mercer gave her a charming, playful bow. “As always, madam, I am your humble servant.”

  “Please, sit down, Miss Donovan.” Sabrina offered the chair on the other side of the table as Mercer and Alec took their positions.

  “Pull!” Mercer yelled.

  The old man jerked the string, sending the top hats tumbling to the side. Instantly, two pigeons flew out of shallow holes that had been dug into the earth. The birds darted toward the trees. Both Alec and Mercer squeezed their triggers, gunfire cracking the air. One pigeon kept flying into the safety of the woods; the other spiraled to the ground. The boy released the yellow Lab and the dog sprang into action to retrieve the fallen bird.

  “Excellent shot, my lord,” complimented Mercer, but Kendra thought the dandy’s smile was a little forced.

  Kendra watched the two older men reset the traps—which meant taking two more pigeons from the cage and stuffing them into the holes, then replacing the top hats for another round. She’d seen a lot of strange things in this era, but this might have been the strangest.

  She shifted her gaze to Sabrina. “How well did you know Mr. Pascoe?”

&
nbsp; “He is—was—Mama’s manager,” said Sabrina. “He came to dinner at White Pond Manor many times.”

  “Highly irregular,” her husband said, overhearing. “I tried to advise your mother on the matter, to explain that one does not invite one’s man of affairs to family dinners. ’Tis simply not done.”

  Kendra could imagine how Mrs. Gavenston had reacted to that advice.

  “Mama has done things her way for so long… since Papa died.” Sabrina shrugged lightly. “That’s been seven years now. And even when Papa was alive, he indulged her.”

  “Did your mother invite her previous business manager to dinner?” asked Kendra. “I understand that Mr. Pascoe has only worked for Barrett Brewery for about a year.”

  Sabrina looked surprised. “Mr. Carter? Good heavens, no. I hadn’t realized it before, but… no. She only invited Mr. Pascoe.”

  “Did they discuss business at dinner?” Kendra wondered.

  Sabrina frowned. “Sometimes.”

  “ ’Tis what I said,” Mercer put in, in that same, puffed-up, authoritative tone. “ ’Tis ill-mannered to discuss business at the dinner table.”

  “It wasn’t often,” Sabrina said mildly. “They—well, everyone, really—would speak about books, art, poetry. Mama and Hester were quite taken with Mr. Pascoe’s interest in poetry. He dabbled, you know.”

  Mercer shook his head. “Why would she encourage him to pursue such frivolous interests outside his position at the brewery? And a poet, of all things! Mr. Pascoe was already too bookish by half. Comes from being a schoolmaster’s son, I suppose.”

  Sabrina smiled slightly. “I suspect that Mama secretly had such yearnings when she was a young girl. However, the brewery was her legacy. Her destiny.”

  Sabrina’s words opened up a new perspective. Kendra had been quick to admire how Mrs. Gavenston’s mother and grandmother had set up their business, allowing their daughters to flourish. She hadn’t considered that Barrett Brewery might not have been Mrs. Gavenston’s dream. And Kendra understood only too well the weight of family expectations.

  Had Mrs. Gavenston wanted to be a writer instead—one of the few socially accepted hobbies for women of the era? Literary salons were popular among the ladies of the Ton, although if women were too enthusiastic about the written word—whether they were reading or writing—they could be mocked as bluestockings. The key, of course, was to keep it a hobby. If they wanted their works published, ladies would either take a male non de plume like Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin, who became famous as George Sand, or publish anonymously, like Jane Austen, a fact that had tripped Kendra up when she’d first found herself in this timeline.

  Women brewsters were in the same position, Kendra realized. Society was fine with them brewing their ale in their homes. But when they stepped outside the home and made it into a business, all hell broke loose.

  “I cannot imagine who would want to hurt Mr. Pascoe,” Sabrina was saying now.

  Kendra turned to look at her. “He didn’t mention having difficulties with anyone?”

  “Well, not with me.” Sabrina laughed at the idea. “You ought to ask Mama and Hester.”

  “What about your uncle, Captain Sinclair?”

  Sabrina was silent, her eyes narrowing as she appeared to debate how much she should say.

  Her husband had no such qualms. He glanced at her as he accepted the newly loaded shotgun from the old man and said, “Captain Sinclair felt Mr. Pascoe was too inexperienced to hold such an important position at Barrett Brewery. I must say, I agreed with him. Mrs. Gavenston allowed Mr. Pascoe too much freedom, letting him be her voice.”

  “I heard that Captain Sinclair and Mr. Pascoe argued. What do you know about that?”

  “My uncle is of the mind that a woman’s place is in the home,” Sabrina said. “I think he actually thought to persuade Mr. Pascoe to his side, but Mr. Pascoe was quite loyal to Mama.”

  Mercer said, “The captain makes a persuasive argument. Your mother should at least consider it.”

  Sabrina smiled lazily. “Oh, darling, what would poor Hester do if Uncle Lucian took over?”

  Kendra eyed the other woman. “What about you? Would you be upset?”

  Sabrina looked surprised. “Me?” She smiled at her husband. “I have Mr. Mercer.”

  Mercer laughed, pleased.

  It took tremendous effort for Kendra not to roll her eyes, especially when she caught the amused glint in Alec’s eyes. She switched topics. “Where were you on Saturday afternoon—three to eight—and Sunday during the day?”

  For a moment, Mercer eyed her as though trying to figure out if he should be insulted or amused. Then he shrugged, apparently settling on amusement. “Saturday afternoon I was at the Tip & Ship.”

  “Tip and Ship?” She wondered if that was slang for something.

  “The Tip & Ship—’tis a public hostelry. They have mills twice a month on Saturday. Tom Belcher himself actually was said to have been in a boxing match there.”

  Kendra had never heard of the man, but Mercer said his name with the same kind of veneration that someone would have said Muhammad Ali or Joe Louis.

  “So, you attended a boxing match at the Tip & Ship. What time?”

  “The match was at four, but I was there at two. I wanted to get a good spot to view the fight. I’m not certain what time I came home. Eleven?” He looked at his wife for confirmation.

  Sabrina nodded. “I believe so. You can ask Brentworth. He would have still been awake.”

  “And Frederick. The head groomsman. He took care of my horse.”

  “What about you, Mrs. Mercer?” Kendra asked. “If you don’t mind…”

  “I went into the village after nuncheon. I had a dress fitting with my modiste, spent a few hours looking over fashion plates.” She smiled. “You have my permission to speak with Mrs. Browne, my dressmaker. She has a shop on High Street.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  Sabrina laughed. “I spent most of the afternoon with her. The latest styles coming out of Paris are simply divine, don’t you think? No one does fashion like the French. Thank heavens the war is over so we ladies can dress properly again. Then I went to the millinery shop and purchased this.” She touched her bonnet, stroked one of the plumes. “I thought it quite dashing.”

  “You are a diamond of the first water,” her husband complimented.

  “I nearly purchased another—it was exquisite. A primrose satin, with silk flowers and the most amusing feather placed on the side.”

  “What about Sunday?” Kendra persisted. She didn’t think either of the Mercers were good for Pascoe’s murder, but she’d follow up with their alibis to cross them off completely.

  Sabrina said, “We attended church, of course. And spent the day here. Right here, actually.” She smiled and spread her gloved hands to indicate the table and chairs. “Mr. Mercer was pigeon shooting. I was watching. You can ask Walter and George over there.”

  “Aye, that they were, miss,” one of the old men spoke up.

  Kendra smiled at the man but knew that servants might lie to keep their jobs and not contradict their so-called betters. She asked Sabrina, “Was your mother home on Sunday?”

  “Yes. I told you. We attended church. Well, except Hester. She’s been ill. Then we had our nuncheon. I think Mama went into her study, I assume to work.”

  Her husband shook his head. “No, she went riding. I saw her when I walked out here.”

  “Oh. Well, she has been known to do that on occasion as well.”

  Kendra asked, “How about Captain Sinclair?”

  Sabrina’s eyes gleamed with humor. “Pray tell, Miss Donovan, are you going to inquire about every member of my family? I have no notion where my uncle was on Saturday or Sunday during the day. I suggest you ask him. He dined with us on both evenings, though. And Hester has been in her sickbed, as I said. Does this satisfy your gauche curiosity?”

  “Oh, my gauche curiosity tends to be insatiable.” Kendra smiled at her. �
��But this helps. For now.”

  23

  Alec and Mercer were on their third round of shooting pigeons when Kendra saw Mrs. Gavenston striding toward them, not Hester, as she’d expected. She wore a hunter green merino pelisse trimmed with chinchilla along the hem, cuffs, and shawl collar. Her quick stride made the pelisse flare open to reveal a somber, umber-colored walking dress beneath. Maybe Mrs. Gavenston would have worn the gown any other time, but Kendra thought the dark color resembled widow’s weeds. Only family members—and maybe servants—wore mourning colors to honor their dead.

  “Good afternoon,” Mrs. Gavenston said, a little breathlessly, as she came to a stop next to her daughter. She looked at Kendra. “Brentworth sent a message that you were here. I was at the brewery. I… I suppose you went to the inquest?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Gavenston’s jaw tightened and she looked away. “I couldn’t go. I simply couldn’t go.”

  Sabrina looked up at her mother. “No one would expect you to, Mama. It’s hardly the thing.”

  Mrs. Gavenston looked back to Kendra. “Have you any news, Miss Donovan?”

  Kendra studied Mrs. Gavenston for a long moment. Her eyes were slightly swollen and red. She’d been crying. Her complexion was pale. Her grief appeared genuine. But that would fit with the scenario that she’d laid out. One instant of fury, a lifetime of regret.

  “Could we walk?” Kendra asked.

  She watched Mrs. Gavenston’s eyes slide to Mercer and Alec, to her daughter, and then back to Kendra. She nodded. “Of course.”

  They began walking toward the manor house, but as they neared the stone verandah, Mrs. Gavenston veered away, in the direction of the formal gardens. Kendra admired the way the flagstone path curled around colorful rose, lilac, lavender, abelia, and hydrangea bushes, meticulously trimmed hedges. Insects droned in the scented air. It was peaceful except for the crack-boom of pigeon shooting that continued behind them.

  “Your home and gardens are beautiful,” Kendra finally said when the silence stretched out and Mrs. Gavenston seemed in no hurry to break it.