Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  “My grandfather designed the gardens.” Mrs. Gavenston smiled slightly, correctly reading Kendra’s surprise. “He was fascinated by horticulture, I was told. He died when I was a little girl. I have very few memories of him.”

  Kendra couldn’t help but think of Carlotta and her vague memories of childhood.

  Mrs. Gavenston continued, “I remember my grandmother, Daisy. She was a frightfully competent woman, I thought. I admired her and was terrified of her at the same time. I was eleven when she passed away, but she and my mother had already taken me in hand, teaching me the beer trade. My own father died shortly after my grandfather. So, for a time, my grandmother and mother were both widows. My great-grandmother—Violet—had envisioned the brewery being passed down the female line, but I have often wondered if my grandmother and mother would have been as ambitious as Violet had been if they hadn’t lost their husbands. I’m not certain about my mother. The brewery became her entire life after my father died.”

  She blew out a breath. “Forgive me, Miss Donovan. I’m rambling.”

  “I don’t mind. I find it interesting.” And it was always helpful to know the background of those involved in a murder investigation. It wasn’t like Kendra could Google her suspects or check their social media.

  They stopped in front of a small oval man-made pool with lily pads dotting the placid gray-green water, and a sleek Carrara marble statue rising from its center. It was a woman, carved life-size in exquisite detail, wearing an ancient headdress and attire. Her back was gently arched, her head thrown back, eyes closed in an expression of ecstasy or exultation. Her stone arms were uplifted to the sky, the hands holding a chalice.

  “The Sumerian goddess Ninkasi,” Mrs. Gavenston commented. “She was said to have been born in sparkling freshwater to the King of Uruk and the high priestess Inanna. Her duty was to prepare beer daily. Scholars only recently translated ancient clay tablets from the Mesopotamia region, including what they called a hymn to Ninkasi, but it’s actually a recipe for brewing beer. Beer making has always been a respected occupation for women, often done in tandem with bread making.”

  Kendra studied Mrs. Gavenston’s face. She seemed… older, sadder. Jeremy Pascoe’s death had clearly taken its toll. Again, she thought there was more to the woman’s sorrow. If she scraped away the grief, would she see guilt?

  Mrs. Gavenston went on, “In Egypt, Tenenet was the goddess of childbirth and beer, although the goddess Hathor was also believed to have created beer and was celebrated as the goddess of drunkenness. The ancient Finns believed the goddess Kalevatar mixed a bear’s saliva, wild honey, and beer to create ale.”

  “I’m not sure that should be put in an advertisement.”

  Mrs. Gavenston smiled. “I am merely emphasizing the historical significance women have always played in beer making.”

  “I understand,” Kendra nodded. “And not just myths. In reality. It must be hard for you to have to fight against a culture that now says women have no place in the business. I spoke to Mr. Fletcher.”

  Mrs. Gavenston pressed her lips together. “Indeed.”

  “He wants to buy Barrett Brewery, and has a reputation for getting what he wants.”

  “I am aware of his reputation.”

  “Are you aware that he killed a man in a fight years ago, and many of his competitors have suffered unfortunate accidents?”

  “As I said, I am aware of his reputation.” She looked at Kendra. “Do you think he killed Jeremy? For what purpose? I own Barrett Brewery. Jeremy’s death would not further his cause.”

  “If Mr. Pascoe was killed in cold blood, I would agree with you. But that’s not what happened. It was done in a flash of temper, a loss of control.” She eyed Mrs. Gavenston closely. “The killer may have regretted it afterwards.”

  Mrs. Gavenston gazed into the distance, her expression revealing nothing. Then she seemed to rouse herself, shaking her head. “Mr. Fletcher is not a man to lose control—or have regrets.”

  “What about Captain Sinclair?”

  “Why should my uncle harm Jeremy?”

  “No one set out to harm Mr. Pascoe,” Kendra repeated. “But he could have followed him to the cottage. Argued with him. Again, killed him in a moment of anger.” She waited a moment, but when Mrs. Gavenston said nothing, she continued, “Your uncle seems to have the same views as Mr. Fletcher about a woman’s role in the brewery business. He wants to take a more active part in Barrett Brewery. He told me that deals are made in clubs that women have no access to. Did you ever send Mr. Pascoe to make deals on your behalf?”

  The older woman frowned. “There have been a few such times. But I still control Barrett Brewery. I approve all deals, regardless of who negotiates them. Hurting Jeremy would not alter that fact.”

  Jeremy. Not the more formal address of Mr. Pascoe. She remembered what Sinclair had suggested, that his niece may have had an intimate relationship with her younger employee.

  “No, but it might cause an argument,” Kendra replied. There was no delicate way to ask the next question. “Mrs. Gavenston, were you and Mr. Pascoe… involved?”

  “Involved?” The other woman seemed genuinely perplexed, then stiffened in shock. “What are you implying, Miss Donovan?”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m asking outright. Were you having an affair with Mr. Pascoe?”

  “No! Of course not!” She clenched her hand into a tight fist, her knuckles blanching. “My God, why would you ask such a thing? That is… that is absolutely ridiculous!”

  “It’s not unheard of. You are an attractive woman and he was—”

  “No! I was not… we were not having an affair.”

  Kendra tried a different tack. “What did you argue about when you last saw him on Saturday?”

  “What?” The change of subject threw Mrs. Gavenston. She focused on the statue of Ninkasi. “I told you this. It was business. He was upset about the new machinery.”

  She’s lying. What else was she lying about? Kendra let it go for the moment, and asked instead, “After you argued and Mr. Pascoe left the brewery, what did you do?”

  “I worked, of course.”

  “How long did you stay at the brewery working?”

  “I don’t know. Late.”

  “You never looked at a clock?”

  Mrs. Gavenston sighed, frustrated. “I was home for dinner at seven.”

  “Can anyone verify that you were at the brewery after Mr. Pascoe left? Your clerk, Mr. West?”

  “No, he was ill. What is this?” The older woman was no longer pale. Her cheeks burned with anger as she turned to face Kendra fully. “Are you, perchance, suggesting that I am responsible for Jeremy’s death? That I could have hurt him? Have you forgotten that I was the one who asked you to look into his disappearance?”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten.” Kendra didn’t bother to explain her theories. If Mrs. Gavenston was the killer, she already knew. “Where did you ride to on Sunday?”

  That startled Mrs. Gavenston. “How do you know I rode anywhere?”

  “Was it supposed to be a secret?”

  “No,” she snapped. “I went riding. I had no particular destination.”

  “Did you go into the village? Did anyone see you?”

  “I rode into the woods, by the river. I was not looking for company.”

  Kendra deliberately switched subjects again. “Why did you hire Mr. Pascoe?” she asked, and saw something flicker across Mrs. Gavenston’s face—Surprise? Anger? Fear?—before it smoothed back into careful impassivity.

  “I needed a manager, of course. I think we’re done here.”

  “I will find Mr. Pascoe’s killer.”

  Mrs. Gavenston looked at her. “I hope so. But your questions are beyond the pale. If you think that I… I would never hurt Jeremy,” she asserted.

  “I told you from the beginning that I would be asking uncomfortable questions,” Kendra replied steadily. The other woman’s lips tightened at the reminder. Kendra sighed.
“Mrs. Gavenston—”

  “What is this?”

  Hester was coming toward them. She was wearing a brown velvet pelisse over a dark violet walking gown trimmed with three ribbons at the hem, but she still looked like she’d just crawled out of bed. Which, Kendra realized, she probably had. Her face was pinched and as pale as a wraith, except for the tip of her nose, which was bright red, and her eyes, also crimson. Her bright hair, though she’d taken the time to have it styled into a topknot and curled, hung listlessly, and her blue eyes appeared dull.

  “Did I hear correctly?” she demanded. “Are you accusing Mama of hurting Jeremy?”

  Mrs. Gavenston spoke up quickly. “This is nothing for you to be concerned about, darling.” She looked at Kendra and there was almost a pleading look in her eyes. “My daughter has had a relapse and has been confined to bed. She does not need to be disturbed.”

  “I’m sorry that you aren’t feeling well, Miss Gavenston.” Kendra studied the younger woman’s eyes. More than sickness had robbed Hester of her alertness. If Kendra wasn’t mistaken, she’d taken laudanum. It was a common enough practice during this era.

  “Today was the inquest,” Hester said foggily. “You attended, didn’t you, Miss Donovan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did anyone…? What was said?”

  “Mr. Pascoe’s death was determined a homicide.” Like it could have been anything else. She waited a beat, then said, “I spoke to Mr. Fletcher.”

  Hester frowned vaguely. “Mr. Fletcher from Appleton Ale? Jeremy didn’t like him. He’d offered to pay Jeremy if he could give him our recipes.”

  Mrs. Gavenston stared at her daughter. “Mr. Fletcher tried to bribe Jeremy?”

  Hester blinked at her mother’s sharp tone. “I-I—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t Jeremy?”

  “Because he… we didn’t want to worry you, Mama. Jeremy would never had done such a thing. He found the suggestion repugnant. He would never betray you in such a way, Mama.” Tears rose in Hester’s eyes. “He wouldn’t have betrayed you.”

  “Of course not,” Mrs. Gavenston murmured, looking troubled. “Still, you should have told me.”

  Kendra looked at Hester. “Why didn’t you tell me when I first spoke to you? You mentioned Mr. Pascoe’s altercation with Mr. Logan, but not with Mr. Fletcher.”

  “I-I don’t know,” she admitted. “You asked about who quarreled with Jeremy. Mr. Logan had quarreled with him. I don’t think Jeremy and Mr. Fletcher actually argued.”

  “How did Mr. Fletcher react when Mr. Pascoe refused him?” Kendra asked.

  “He told Jeremy to think about it.”

  Kendra remembered the gleam of amusement in Fletcher’s eyes when he’d agreed that Barrett Brewery’s recipes were excellent. She asked, “How valuable are your recipes?”

  “Very valuable,” Mrs. Gavenston responded tersely. “Hester and I are experimenting with new recipes all the time, but Barrett is known for certain ales and stouts that come from recipes that have been passed down from generation to generation, even before my great-grandmother Violet’s time. Naturally, there is considerable secrecy involved.”

  Mrs. Gavenston stepped forward to put her arm around her daughter. “I don’t wish to be rude, Miss Donovan, but I must take Hester back to her bedchamber.”

  “Oh, Mama…” Hester began to protest, but her mother hustled her down the path toward the manor.

  Kendra followed behind, her mind on this new possibility. Industrial espionage. The FBI had an entire corporate espionage unit devoted to busting companies and countries involved in stealing trade secrets. The public generally thought of corporate espionage as a white-collar crime, and therefore less harmful. But it cost millions (and in her era, billions and sometimes trillions) in lost revenue. Whenever you were dealing with that kind of money, there was no such thing as harmless stealing. In fact, a few people would kill for it.

  Pascoe hadn’t been murdered to silence him after Fletcher tried to bribe him to steal Barrett Brewery’s recipes. But Fletcher could have approached him about it again at the cottage. And if Pascoe said the wrong thing, maybe threatened to expose the other brewer…

  It was definitely a possibility. And that was the problem. Right now, there were too damn many possibilities.

  24

  While Kendra conducted her interviews, Sam found Mr. Logan inside his stone barn, the other man’s big, calloused hands wrapped around a pitchfork as he mucked one of the stalls. The man was in his mid-forties, with a weather-beaten face, currently glistening with sweat, and a hard-muscled body reflecting the long days he spent toiling in his fields.

  The farmer paused, eyes narrowing with suspicion when he saw Sam. He demanded, “Who are you?”

  Sam fished out the baton from his greatcoat. “Sam Kelly—Bow Street.”

  Logan grunted and went back to work, stabbing clumps of rotten hay with the pitchfork. “This is about Mr. Pascoe. I don’t know what I can tell you. It ain’t got nothing ter do with me.”

  “You were seen quarreling with Mr. Pascoe.”

  Logan paused again, leaning against his pitchfork as he eyed Sam incredulously. “That was business. I’ve been dealin’ with Barrett Brewery all me life. Before me, me da dealt with Mrs. Dyer and Mrs. Sinclair. Plenty of folks think it’s peculiar tradin’ with a woman, but I don’t care about that.”

  He lifted his arm, wiping the sweat that ran in dirty rivulets down his face with the sleeve of his work smock. “We made our deal last year. How was I ter know that this bloody cold weather would ruin half me crops and grain prices would be what they are? Seems ter me that I should be able ter renegotiate the terms of our deal, especially since I had other parties interested in me harvest.”

  “Other parties, or one other party—Appleton Ale?”

  Logan scowled. “Aye, Mr. Fletcher approached me about selling me harvest ter him. He offered me a sum that was considerably more than Barrett Brewery, I can tell you that. I’d have been a fool not ter consider it. I ain’t no welcher, but I have a family ter feed too. The way I figured it, it didn’t hurt ter talk ter Mr. Pascoe when I saw him havin’ a meal at the Green Knight. I explained the situation ter him.”

  “I take it he wasn’t accommodating ter any new arrangement with you.”

  “Well, he wasn’t unsympathetic. He said that he’d need ter speak ter Mrs. Gavenston about it, but he doubted she’d change her mind. Blathered on about how margins were tight at Barrett Brewery, with the bloody grain prices rising everywhere in the kingdom. Like I don’t know grain prices are rising?”

  “If he was going ter speak ter Mrs. Gavenston, what did you quarrel about?”

  “It was when I mentioned Mr. Fletcher’s name and told him that he was offering ter buy me harvest that Mr. Pascoe got all het up. Said I should be ashamed ter deal with the cove! Why should I be ashamed? If you were offered twice as much for yer services, wouldn’t you take it?”

  “It would certainly be tempting,” Sam conceded diplomatically.

  “Damned right it is! I don’t need no greenhead who’d never broken a sweat afore tellin’ me what’s what.” He grabbed the pitchfork again, starting again on the hay. “Bloody whelp.”

  “Sounds like you were quite aggravated with Mr. Pascoe.”

  Logan shot him a sideways look. “I’ll admit that he got me back up, lookin’ down his nose at me like he was. It wasn’t like I was cheatin’ Barrett Brewery. That’s why I spoke ter him in the first place, ter tell him about Fletcher’s offer. If I was gonna kill him, it would have been then. I certainly wouldn’t seek him out ter knife the bugger. What do you take me for?”

  “Maybe you wanted ter talk ter him more about your arrangement with Barrett Brewery, and you flew up into the boughs.” Just as Kendra described.

  Logan snorted. “I saw him at the tavern, that’s the only reason I spoke ter him in the first place. I didn’t seek him out deliberate-like, and I certainly didn’t seek him out afterwards.
Christ, I didn’t even know that he was makin’ use of that cottage on Squire Prebble’s land! Why’d he do that when Barrett Brewery supplied him with a perfectly fine house in the village? Sounds mighty fishy ter me. Like he was the one who had somethin’ ter hide.”

  “He was a writer. Sometimes they get fool notions in their heads.”

  “Aye, well, I had no reason ter kill him.” Logan stopped forking up the straw and manure long enough to scowl at Sam. “It’s not like killin’ him would change me contract with Barrett Brewery.”

  Sam scratched his nose. “Do you know if Mr. Fletcher had any dealings with Mr. Pascoe? Maybe he approached him like he approached you?”

  “If he did, it wouldn’t have been a pleasant encounter. I told you—it was when I mentioned Mr. Fletcher’s name that Mr. Pascoe got right put out.” Logan sighed. “Can’t say I blame ’em for being on guard against Mr. Fletcher. He wants Barrett Brewery, and I expect he’ll do just about anythin’ ter get it.”

  “I heard Mrs. Gavenston’s uncle, Captain Sinclair, has been trying ter get his hands in the business. Spent his life in India, then returns ter Cookham thinking he can just take over.”

  “You think it’s a shabby thing for him ter do, do you?”

  “Aye. Don’t you?”

  “Oh, I do.” Logan turned his head to spit on the ground. “Except it weren’t Captain Sinclair who’s the weasel in Mrs. Gavenston’s hen house.”

  Sam didn’t think he was successful at hiding his surprise because Logan smiled and nodded.

  “Aye. It’s the other one,” the farmer said. “The fancy nob. The viscount’s son.”

  “Mr. Mercer.”

  “Aye.” Logan nodded. “That’s the one.”

  “You’re saying Mr. Mercer had some sort of deal goin’ on with Mr. Fletcher? How do you know?”

  “ ’Cause I saw them together. Once was at the Tip & Ship. Maybe that weren’t nothin’, but I also saw Mr. Mercer leavin’ Appleton Ale when I went up ter talk ter Mr. Fletcher about me crop. Mr. Fletcher said that it weren’t him, but I’ve got peepers. I know it was him. Got me thinking. Why lie about it? What are they hidin’?”