Shadows in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Kendra let her gaze travel down the road, locking on the only carriage that was parked next to the curb. The coachman was huddled on his seat, dressed all in black, smoking a cigarette. He watched her approach, then tossed the cigarette to the side, clambering down.

  “Yer the Yank?”

  Kendra arched her eyebrows. “Who are you?”

  “Come ter fetch ye.”

  She allowed her hand to inch forward, so the gun wasn’t concealed by the cloak anymore. “Not until we come to an understanding.”

  His mouth dropped open as his gaze landed on the gun. “Jesus, are ye mad? Yer pointing a barkin’ iron at me? She’s pointing a barkin’ iron at me!” he yelled to someone inside the carriage.

  There was a rumble inside the carriage that sounded a lot like laughter. “God’s blood. I told ye that she was a peculiar wench!”

  Kendra’s lips parted in surprise. She knew that voice.

  “Open the door!” she ordered, gun still in hand and trained on the coachman.

  With a wary eye on Kendra, the coachman yanked open the door. She glanced passed him to the man sitting inside: Guy Ackerman, better known as Bear. The rumor was that he’d earned the nickname by fighting a bear. Anyone else, Kendra would have dismissed it as hyperbole. With Bear, she wasn’t so sure. He was gigantic. His gleaming bald pate nearly touched the ceiling, six-foot seven-inches of beefy muscle. He was also a crime lord.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Are ye gonna stand out in the rain quizzing me?”

  Kendra frowned, debating the wisdom of getting into the carriage. They had a strange relationship. He’d once threatened to kill Alec and do some very nasty things to her. She’d threatened to make him sing in soprano for the rest of his life. But as far as she was concerned, they’d reached a détente. It reminded her of the relationships she’d developed with some unsavory informants when she was an FBI agent.

  “I ain’t gonna harm ye,” he said, and smiled, little more than baring his teeth. The smile narrowed his eyes and the puckered scar near his left eye wriggled like a worm.

  “Someone has been trying to kill me, so forgive me if I’m a little cautious,” she said drily.

  The smile, if that was what it could be called, vanished. His face hardened with ruthless purpose. “Aye, and that’s what I want ter talk ter ye about.”

  Kendra regarded him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Okay. You.” She pointed her pistol at the coachman. “Put both of your hands on the carriage.”

  “W’ot?”

  Bear’s smile returned. Amusement glinted in his flat brown eyes. “Do as she says.”

  The coachman complied. Kendra shoved the muzzle of her gun at the base of his skull, patting him down while she kept an eye on Bear. The crime lord’s smile grew wider, as though he found the scene genuinely funny. The coachman gave a squawk of outrage when she took his blunderbuss and the knife from his pocket.

  The coachman turned to her “Oy, ye can’t just—”

  “Shut it,” Bear said. He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t have to. The coachman’s mouth snapped shut.

  Kendra swiveled the gun in Bear’s direction. “Now, you. Sit back as far as you can go and put your palms on the ceiling.”

  For a second, he looked startled. Then he laughed, sliding backward on the leather seat and raising his arms, splaying his hands as instructed. It wasn’t much of a comfort, as he’d still be within arm’s reach of her, and one swipe from those giant hands could break her jaw. Still, she’d be able to get off one shot.

  And if things went sideways, one shot was all she needed.

  Kendra kept her gun trained on him as she climbed into the carriage and settled on the seat opposite him.

  “Can I rest me arms?”

  She nodded. “No sudden moves, though.”

  He grinned. “Let’s take a drive. Just around the square,” he added when she stiffened. “The watch might find a parked carriage with no crest on its door a might peculiar.”

  “Okay.”

  The coachman glared at her as he slammed the door shut. She heard him fold the steps. The carriage rocked slightly as he climbed onto his seat. A moment later, the vehicle jolted forward, wheels splashing through puddles.

  “Yer still with yer tulip?” asked Bear.

  Kendra suppressed a shudder. Bear called Alec a tulip. The fact that he always asked whether they were still together was a little creepy.

  “I don’t think you’re calling on me to ask about my love life. What’s this about? Snake?”

  Snake was a young street thief who’d worked for Bear until she’d lured him away a couple of months ago. Now the boy was being trained to be a stable hand at Aldridge Castle. And hopefully a law-abiding citizen, although given the number of pies that had gone missing from the kitchens, she wasn’t so sure about that.

  Bear gave her a blank look. “What about Snake?”

  “I thought you might be checking up on him.”

  “He’s workin’ for a duke. He’s landed in cream.”

  “Okay, then what’s this about?”

  His gaze traveled over her face, lingering on the bruise. “I heard about last night. Ye were kidnapped out of some swell’s party. Heard that there were two blokes and ye killed one of them. With a shovel. Is that true?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  The glint in his eyes was one of admiration. “It’s true,” he decided. “Ye’re a bloodthirsty wench.”

  “I take exception to someone trying to kill me. And there were technically three blokes. The coachman was killed when the carriage rolled over.”

  “Aye. Can ye describe the bloke who got away?”

  “Why?”

  In a blink, the humor vanished, leaving Bear’s face merciless. “Because I take exception ter someone operating in me city without me permission.”

  Kendra lifted her eyebrows. “Your territory is the whole of London?”

  The flat brown eyes were hard. “Your lot sees London Town in its finery. Me lot lives in the real London. And I’m its lord.”

  It wasn’t a boast, but a cold declaration. Kendra asked, “Every petty criminal asks for your permission to commit a crime?”

  “Nabbing a gentry mort from a countess’s party ain’t a petty crime. It’s the kind of thing that brings out the beaks and thief-takers. We don’t need that kind of attention from the law or swells.”

  Kendra nodded. Now Bear’s unprecedented visit was making sense. It was less about her, and more about keeping control of his own operation. In his own way, Bear held as much power as the Prince Regent, except he did it like any mafia don, by murdering his opponents and exacting retribution on those who didn’t follow his rules.

  Then again, thinking about how the British monarchy and its nobility rose to power, there wasn’t that much difference between the lords of the realm and a lord of London’s underworld.

  She said, “You object to someone going freelance.”

  “Freelance…” He tested the word out on his tongue, like he was unfamiliar with it.

  Which he probably was, Kendra realized. The word was originally two—free lance—referring to mercenaries in medieval times who rented out their lances. The word freelance probably hadn’t been invented yet.

  Bear got the gist of it. He smiled his scary smile and nodded. “Aye, I object ter me men going freelance. Tell me about the blokes who took ye.”

  “We didn’t exactly exchange calling cards. I don’t know their names. The one that got away was tall, maybe six-foot. Thin. Long face. Weaselly looking. He had a nervous tic in his right eye.”

  “Ah.” Bear settled back in his seat with a satisfied grunt. “Twitch.”

  “Yeah, he had a twitch in his right eye… oh. That’s his nickname. Makes sense.”

  “It’s ’cause of that, but mostly on account that he’s a cloak twitcher. He hides in alleys and snatches cloaks from those goin’ by.”

  She eyed Bear. “Do
you think you’ll be able to find him?”

  “Course I’ll find the bastard. He can try ter disguise himself, but he won’t be able ter hide from me.”

  “I want to—”

  The words ended in a sharp intake of breath. Nickname. Disguise.

  Kendra’s mental shift was so sudden it was disorienting. The truth—or what she believed was the truth—became clear. “Stop the carriage!”

  Bear stared at her. “Ye know we’ve moved a bit, don’t ye?”

  “Take me home then.”

  “What’s ailing ye? Something ter do with last night?”

  “No. I have another idea about that. When you find Twitch, I want to talk to him. I need to know who hired him and his friend.”

  “That’s what I mean ter find out. I’ll let you know what he says.”

  Kendra studied the criminal. Bear hadn’t promised to bring her to her assailant. By the time Bear extracted the information from the man who’d dared become a freelancer, she had a feeling that Twitch was as good as dead.

  * * *

  Kendra didn’t bother with the servant’s entrance upon her return. She sprinted up the front steps, throwing open the door The maid and footman in the foyer turned to gape at her. Harding came in as she hiked up her skirts and raced to the grand staircase.

  “Miss Donovan…”

  The rest of the butler’s words were lost to her as she rushed down the corridor to her bedchamber.

  Molly sprang out of the chair. “Oh, miss, Oi’ve been ever so worried!”

  Kendra ignored her. Laying the pistol down on the nightstand, she crossed the room to the desk. She snatched up the pages of foolscap containing the words that Pascoe had written.

  “ ’Oo’d ye meet?”

  “Bear,” she mumbled absently, her eyes focusing on the angrily slashed out words on each page.

  “Good ’eavens.”

  She’d been wrong, she thought now, as she sifted through the pages. She’d mistaken the stricken words as a poet’s frustration. Now she realized it was something else. There was a pattern here that made sense, if you looked at it from a different perspective.

  She straightened abruptly, gathering the pages into a neat pile. “I need to go to Maidenhead.”

  Molly looked confused. “W’ot? Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oi’ll get a carriage dress for ye ter change into.” She moved to the wardrobe.

  “Don’t bother. This isn’t a social call.”

  “Oi’m going with ye.”

  “That’s fine. I’m not expecting trouble.” Still, she slipped her pistol back into the reticule, and rolled up the foolscap, tucking the pages into the pouch as well.

  “Oi ’ave ter get me coat and bonnet.”

  They left the room. The maid peeled off toward the servant’s stairs; Kendra headed to the grand staircase, pulling up short when she saw the Duke and Carlotta on the verge of descending. They both paused to look at her.

  “Good morning. How are you feeling, my dear?” the Duke asked as she joined them.

  “Fine, thanks. Can I borrow the carriage?” She was aware of Carlotta’s gaze on her, but she kept her attention on the Duke.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Certainly. What’s this about? Have you been outside this morning?” he asked suddenly, his gaze roaming over the damp cloak she was wearing and the wetness of her skirt’s hem.

  “Yes. I have to go to Maidenhead.”

  “Maidenhead? To Mr. and Mrs. Pascoe?”

  “They’ll be my first stop.”

  His gaze was shrewd as he searched her face. “You know who killed Mr. Pascoe,” he stated.

  “I think so, but I need to follow up on something first.”

  “I shall come with you.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you certain you should venture out alone?” Carlotta said. “His Grace told me what happened last evening. I shudder to think what you must have endured.”

  Kendra turned to eye the other woman. “Do you?”

  “Of course. It must have been frightening.”

  “I’m not letting you go to Maidenhead alone,” the Duke said firmly.

  A knock sounded in the foyer below. Harding opened the door to Sam Kelly.

  Kendra smiled. “I won’t be alone. I’ll have Mr. Kelly with me. Mr. Kelly, you’ll come to Maidenhead with me, won’t you?” she called down to him.

  The Bow Street Runner glanced up as he removed his hat. “Certainly, lass. Why are we going to Maidenhead?”

  “Following a lead.”

  Kendra saw that the Duke still looked troubled. She assured him, “Don’t worry. I told you Pascoe wasn’t murdered cold-bloodedly. I won’t be in any danger.”

  “That’s what I thought last night at the Merriweather ball. But we were wrong.”

  * * *

  The drive to Maidenhead seemed to take forever. Maybe it was the drizzle that at times turned into rain, which forced Coachman Benjamin to slow. Or maybe it was the anticipation building in Kendra’s chest. Molly sat silently in the corner while Sam explained that he’d had his men canvasing the seedier areas of London to identify Kendra’s assailants. They’d managed to discover the dead man as Stanley Butler, a known footpad with a violent reputation. They figured the other man was Vernon Melling, also known as—

  “Twitch,” Kendra finished for him. “Partly because of his facial tic and party because he’s a cloak twitcher.”

  Sam stared at her.

  “Bear paid me a visit this morning.”

  The Bow Street Runner’s jaw dropped. “God’s teeth, why?”

  “He wasn’t happy that the chain of command was broken. I guess Twitch and Stanley should have asked permission first before accepting the job to abduct me.”

  Sam frowned, his gold eyes searching her face as though he were perplexed about something. “So, why’d he come ter see you?” he asked finally.

  “He wanted a description of the man who’d gotten away.”

  “Hmm,” was all Sam said.

  They both went quiet for a moment. The only noise was the rumbling of wheels over macadam and the steely tap of rain against the carriage top. Kendra felt a pinch of guilt that Coachman Benjamin and the other groomsman were getting soaked.

  Sam spoke up. “Tell me why we’re gonna visit Mr. and Mrs. Pascoe.”

  So, Kendra told him.

  * * *

  The Pascoes’ maid-of-all-work, Martha, answered the door and stepped back so that Kendra and Sam could crowd into the foyer. Molly had stayed behind in the carriage.

  Mrs. Pascoe came bustling in from the kitchen, her eyes behind her gold-rimmed spectacles widening. The desperation in her eyes was almost painful as she fixed her gaze on Kendra.

  “Miss Donovan, have you news? Do you know who killed Jeremy?”

  Her gaze flickered over the bruise on Kendra’s face, but she didn’t inquire about it.

  Kendra hesitated. “I wanted to bring you back some of your son’s papers.” She opened her reticule and withdrew the rolled foolscap.

  “Oh. Thank you.” Mrs. Pascoe started forward, her hand outstretched.

  “Actually, I was hoping you could help me.” Kendra unrolled the pages. “It’s about your pastime. You said that you and Jeremy would research names. Can you tell me if this word is connected to any particular name?”

  Mrs. Pascoe frowned as she took the paper. “Star? It’s crossed out.”

  “I know, but you can still see what it is. I want to know if there’s a name connected to it.”

  “I’m not certain. I shall have to consult my book. If you would wait in the parlor… Martha will take your coats. Would you like tea? ’Tis a miserable day.”

  “No, thanks. We’ll wait here for you.”

  “Very well.”

  The older woman left and Martha stood for a moment staring at them, apparently not sure what to do. She eventually drifted back into the kitchen. They heard the repetitive thunk of a
knife against a cutting board and the soft tick of a clock.

  It took probably about ten minutes for Mrs. Pascoe to return, holding an enormous leather-bound book to her bosom. “I found several references, actually,” she told them. “Tara means star in Gaelic. And in ancient Greek, there’s Astara. And, of course, the Hebrew name Esther.”

  Kendra didn’t need to look in Mrs. Pascoe’s book to know the English variant.

  Hester.

  34

  The cold drizzle had eased into a clammy mist by the time the carriage pulled up to Barrett Brewery. Again, Molly stayed in the carriage while Kendra and Sam jumped down and hurried into the building. Mr. West was working at his desk when they came down the corridor.

  He glanced up, quill pen poised. “May I help you?”

  “We need ter speak ter Miss Gavenston,” Sam said, bringing out his baton.

  Mr. West’s eyes widened at the sight of the gold tip. He rose. “I-I must speak to Mrs. Gavenston.”

  Kendra ignored the clerk, striding past him to the hall that led to the offices.

  “Now, see here! You can’t go back there!” Mr. West gasped, chasing after her.

  “Watch me.”

  “Stay back,” Sam warned the clerk as he hurried after Kendra.

  Kendra threw open the door to Hester’s office, but the room was empty. She was turning away when the door to Mrs. Gavenston’s office opened. The older woman stared at Kendra and Sam, shocked. Then anger tightened her face.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “I have nothing to say to you, Miss Donovan. I told you that you are no longer welcome here.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way. I need to speak with your daughter, Hester.”

  “Why?”

  “Where is she? Is she in there?” Kendra looked beyond Mrs. Gavenston but saw no movement in her office. Hester, she was certain, would have come to the door when she heard her name.

  “No. She’s unwell.” The brewster glared at Kendra. “Why do you want to speak to my daughter?” Then her face paled. “You are not going to tell her…?”