An Earl Out of Time: Time After Time Book One (Time Out of Time 1)

by Louise Allen

  An Earl Out of Time

  Time Into Time: Book One

  Louise Allen

  Copyright © Louise Allen 2017. All rights reserved.

  First edition 2017.

  The right of Louise Allen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover design by JD Smith Design.

  Requests to publish extracts from this book should be made via www.louiseallenregency.com/contact

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Did you know that time travel doesn’t need any high tech equipment or scientific knowledge? That there’s a lot of painful bumping about and serious queasiness and you can’t steer? No, me neither, but I certainly have the bruises to show for it – body and heart. Let me tell you about it. It all began with a talking bear…

  ‘May I help you, Officer?’ the stuffed bear at the back of the antiques shop enquired. It had a precise, somewhat elderly, voice.

  ‘Er…yes.’ Keep calm. They hadn’t warned me about this in training. There certainly was nothing about talking taxidermy in any of the required reading.

  Then the shadows shifted to reveal a slight gentleman in a sagging beige cardigan. Much of his face was obscured by large black-rimmed spectacles but he was definitely man, not bear.

  I huffed out a breath and aimed for a more confident and professional delivery. ‘Good morning. I am Special Constable Cassandra Lawrence and I’m distributing this month’s list of stolen art and antiques.’ I held out the flyer, reluctant to risk causing damage by squeezing through the clutter. The dealer merely smiled and gestured me forward.

  The china statuette of a shepherdess with a stupid-looking sheep at her feet swayed wildly on a pie crust table. I grabbed for it and my baton knocked against a copper kettle with a clang that echoed around the cluttered shop like the dinner gong in a stately home. I glared at the simpering figurine in my hands and she smirked back while I scanned the interior for more hazards.

  I’m not a size zero, I’d be the first to admit, but being hung about with equipment was taking some getting used to. Perhaps it was like learning to drive a car and my awareness of my personal space would expand to allow for baton, handcuffs, radio, CS spray, notebook, hat, shoulder bag and a fluorescent jacket that was quite capable of standing up by itself. If that was the case, it hadn’t happened yet in three outings as a Special Constable.

  ‘I haven’t seen you before have I, Officer? The kettle has just boiled. Would you care for a cup of tea? Earl Grey?’

  I almost glanced over my shoulder for a of glimpse of the aristocracy, then remembered that this was a type of tea, something far removed from my usual Economy Special tea bags. It was tempting after the raw cold outside.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got a whole list of addresses to deliver these to and I’ve only just started. Perhaps another time Mr…?’ Learn people’s names, make connections, that was advice from early on in training. It was one reason for taking the stolen goods lists round personally, as well as ensuring the recipients didn’t simply, and conveniently, ‘lose’ the message in their spam folder.

  ‘Grimswade. Aristotle Grimswade.’ Gramma Lawrence would have said that someone had to be called Aristotle Grimswade. I couldn’t see it myself, but perhaps being called Cassandra makes me abnormally sensitive to names. I usually go by Cassie, people tend to giggle otherwise. And that includes the men.

  ‘Mr Grimswade. Right. Well, we’d be grateful if you’d have a look through the list as usual and let us know if anyone approaches you with anything similar. There’ve been a series of domestic break-ins recently, a lot of small stuff taken – silver, miniatures and so on.’ I reached the battered desk which served as a counter without actually knocking anything over and looked vainly for somewhere to set down the list.

  I glanced at it. ‘Cow creamers, for example.’ Goodness knows what one of those was. How did you cream a cow anyway? And why would you want to?

  The antiques dealer darted forward and took the list from my hand. He bent over it, revealing the shiny top of his head. I gave him extra points for not attempting a comb-over. ‘Miniatures you say? I acquired a few of those from Hickson’s auction rooms last week. Six in fact, all in a pretty Tunbridge box.’

  Mr Grimswade wove his way through the shop like a skinny alley cat, negotiating the obstacles with an ease which made me feel even larger and more unwieldy. He rummaged on a shelf, then shook his head. ‘No, not here. I remember now, they’re in the back room. I hadn’t got round to looking at them since I brought them back. Let’s do that now over a nice cup of tea.’

  I followed him through a doorway hung with a tattered shawl in lieu of draft-proofing and into a marginally less cluttered living room behind. An ancient gas fire spluttered in the grate and piles of auction catalogues made unstable coffee tables for everything from cups to snuff boxes. It smelled of dust and old leather and, faintly, of bacon.

  My host gestured towards a sagging armchair and I sat down. Various pieces of equipment dug into my hips and ribs as I tried to get comfortable, reminding me that wandering off for unscheduled tea breaks without reporting to base was probably not an approved activity.

  They usually send us out in twos, but the local PC and Community Support Officer pairing were down the High Street somewhere and sending a just-trained Special out with the stolen items list was apparently considered safe enough. Welhamstead is not exactly the crime capital of England, unless you count high-level white-collar frauds – we’re prime London commuter country and the locals have to pay the mortgage and train season ticket somehow.

  ‘I’d better just call in.’ Aristotle Grimswade hardly looked like a crazed axe murderer, but then, how do you tell?

  He tactfully turned his back and busied himself with his tea-making with an electric kettle balanced precariously on an old sewing machine case while I used my radio. ‘I’m at St Christopher Antiques in Church Street,’ I reported. ‘The owner is just checking some items against the list.’ That sounded suitably official and would cover me for as long as it took to drink my tea.

  I accepted th
e cup of clear pale liquid with a slice of lemon floating in it with caution. Definitely not Economy Special. There was, as in all the best cosy murder stories, a large aspidistra to hand, so if it proved undrinkable I could always pour it into that.

  ‘How did you become a Special Constable?’ Mr Grimswade asked as he rummaged on the shelves. ‘It’s unpaid voluntary work, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I’m self-employed so I work from home a lot and it seemed like a good way to get out and meet people.’ And using the dojo was a real saving on a gym sub, plus it was fascinating being on the fringes of real police work.

  ‘Here we are.’ Mr Grimswade unearthed a box from beneath some papers and set down his burden carefully on one of the larger stacks.

  It was a wooden box covered with a design which, when I looked closely, was made up of a mosaic of thousands of tiny pieces of wood. I eyed it cautiously without touching. It was probably priceless and would fall to pieces if I did.

  ‘How do you know the box came from Tunbridge? It doesn’t have any labels on it.’

  ‘Tunbridge ware,’ he explained. ‘They were made in the nineteenth century for visitors to the spa there.’

  ‘Oh. Souvenirs.’ That sounded reassuringly cheap. I reached out a hand and touched the lid. Under my fingers the wood felt warm.

  ‘Very collectable now, of course,’ Mr Grimswade continued chattily as he settled down in the chair opposite. ‘A large box in good condition like this may well prove to be worth more than some of the miniatures.’

  I jerked back my hand, rubbing the heated fingers that had touched the inlaid pattern against the other palm. How odd. But then, it was so miserable outside that wood that had been indoors would probably feel warm to me.

  ‘Now then, let’s have a look. This wasn’t what I went for, you understand, a bit of an impulse buy really, which isn’t always the wisest thing. Hmm.’

  He wrinkled his nose at a small picture of a woman in a black gown. She glowered out of the oval gilt frame with an air of frigid disapproval and I felt a pang of sympathy for the long-dead artist. ‘Not well painted, and a disagreeable subject. What’s this?’ He rooted round some more and came up with two studies of small children, nodded approvingly and delved again. ‘Now, these are better quality.’ Two more portraits followed, this time of a man and a woman.

  I tried to look intelligently at them. They were certainly more appealing, but were they well painted? Still, I wasn’t there for art appreciation so I flipped through the list looking for the descriptions of the stolen miniatures. ‘Nothing matches.’ Disappointed, I took a gulp of tea and almost choked. Whoever Earl Grey was, he could keep his tea.

  Mr Grimswade produced a magnifying glass. ‘Oh yes, very nice. Late eighteenth century, as are the children. The old harridan is Victorian of course.’

  I peered into the depths of the box, obscurely disappointed with the results, then saw the glint of light on glass. ‘There is one more. A man.’ It was a little larger than the others, perhaps five inches high inside the frame. I reached in cautiously and lifted the miniature out.

  A saturnine face regarded me from the battered oval wooden fame, lips quirking at the corners into what might have been a smile, but, I suspected, could just as easily not.

  His dark hair was cut short and tousled into a style that today would involve a variety of products from the men’s grooming shelves. His clothes – dark blue coat, high white neckcloth – definitely weren’t modern, yet were familiar. The eyes watched me haughtily, mocking me as I puzzled him out.

  He’s Regency, I realised, delighted. Enjoying classic serials on TV had led on to immersion in Regency romances and Regency mysteries. Then, about six months ago I really got hooked – exhibitions, museums, a visit to Bath and Brighton and a growing collection of non-fiction books. There’s plenty of stuff on-line, of course, but somehow the real printed page felt right for this new obsession.

  The man’s eyes were hooded, his nose straight and he had a mole by the corner of his mouth. The sea-green gaze held mine and something hot and wicked stirred inside me as I stared back. I am a man, that look said, and you are a woman and we could…

  ‘May I see it?’ Aristotle Grimswade was waiting patiently.

  ‘Sorry.’ I gave him the miniature, fighting a ridiculous urge to hold onto it. Yes, we definitely could…

  ‘Now this is nice. Regency, using the term in its general sense of style, you understand, so early nineteenth century. I would say this one is somewhere between 1805 and 1810. Signed…’ He picked up the lens again and squinted at the bottom of the picture. ‘No, can’t read it. And no label on the back. A pity, it would be worth more if we could identify the artist or subject and the frame was in better condition. The glass is cracked too.’

  ‘How much?’ The words were out of my mouth before I could think.

  ‘Hmm? Just this one? About three hundred I should say.’

  ‘Oh.’ That was a ridiculous amount of money to spend on a whim, on an irrational desire to possess the image of a man long dead. An unthinkable extravagance on a freelance technical translator’s income when I had to budget for a mortgage, car loan, food, clothes – to say nothing of a cat with gourmet tastes.

  ‘I am sure we could arrive at a price. Let me think. I paid…’ Mr Grimswade was jotting rapidly on a scrap of paper. ‘…and I could expect, let me see… those children are very saleable. About seventy five at most for the old harridan… And there’s the box of course.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly accept a discount. I mean, we have to be very careful. There are rules.’ A cup of tea was within acceptable bounds, I’d gathered from the lecture on ethics, but any other favours were out of the question.

  ‘You should always negotiate with an antiques dealer, my dear, no-one with any sense pays full price. It’s nothing to do with you being on the force.’ He frowned over his calculations. ‘I could go down to two sixty five. I’ll put it on the side if you want to think about it for a day or so.’

  ‘No. No, I’ll take it.’ I would have paid the full price, I realised. More. Suddenly a miniature of this Regency gentleman was more desirable than the prospect of the holiday I was saving for, more tempting than the thought of eating meat for a month and certainly much more interesting than the subscription to the on-line dictionary of Russian engineering terms I’d been thinking of taking out.

  I scrabbled in my shoulder bag for my credit card and thrust it into his hand as though a mob of other buyers was clamouring at my back at the first day of the sales.

  ‘I’ll just process this, write you a full receipt for insurance and wrap it up.‘ Mr Grimswade got to his feet and made for the door. ‘You sit there and warm up a bit more and finish your tea.’

  It was odd, but I didn’t feel cold any more. I tipped the remains of the tea into the base of the aspidistra and hoped that their legendary reputation for toughness was correct. As I got to my feet Mr Grimswade came back holding a small tissue-wrapped parcel.

  ‘Shall I put it in the desk until you have finished your patrol, Officer?’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ll take it with me.’ I couldn’t leave it – him – now and there was just room in my crowded shoulder bag. When the package was safely stowed I let out a long breath, strangely apprehensive. No, that was the wrong word. I felt as though something was going to happen but I didn’t know what. Very odd.

  I said goodbye to Mr Grimswade and walked off down the street towards Tompkins and Hethersett, Jewellers of Distinction, my next call. As I turned into the High Street I passed the Georgian frontage of Polworth, Prendergast and Ponsonby, Solicitors. They’d been there since 1760, apparently. I could imagine my Regency gentleman walking through that door.

  I shivered, uneasy. Perhaps I was developing some sort of copper’s instinct for trouble. I scanned the street as I had been taught, but there was not even a minor parking violation or a litterbug to be seen. I gave myself a brisk shake. It was probably only a guilty conscience about doing personal sh
opping on duty. I opened the jeweller’s door to the accompaniment of buzzers and dug in my bag for another list.

  Chapter Two

  Whatever else distributing flyers on a raw Spring day did, it allowed far too much time for erotic fantasy, not the kind of thoughts a Special Constable should be having, not if she wanted to keep her mind on the job. By the time I got home I was simmering gently in a state that would normally only be produced by too much chocolate, a steamy novel and the sight of a semi-clad hero sweatily scything in a TV costume drama, all in one evening. And all I could think about was those dark eyes watching me from the portrait.

  It didn’t help having broken up with Mike four weeks before, I knew that. After six months he was enough to make my ears bleed with boredom – everywhere except in bed, when he would finally stop talking and demonstrate his undoubted, if selfish, skill between the sheets. But there were limits to what a girl will do for good sex and pretending passionate interest in his job as sales director for a local company making designer kitchenware was more difficult than faking orgasms. There are, after all, only so many responses you can come up with when confronted with a radical new interpretation of spaghetti tongs. For an awful moment when I’d first seen the drawings I’d thought they were some kinky sex toy.

  I stood in the hall stripping off the layers of kit and gently pulsating with lust for my Regency gentleman while trying to ignore Trubshaw’s Oscar-winning impersonation of a cat dying of starvation. He wound his way between my feet, tail up, purring like a tractor.

  ‘That’s all very well, Trubble, but what I want is someone gorgeous in breeches and boots stroking almost any other part of my body, and not with his moulting tail either. Obviously what I need,’ I explained to him as he followed me into the kitchen for his smoked salmon off-cuts, ‘is another man. And time to find him in. An intelligent one who’s interested in more than himself. Then I wouldn’t be fantasising about historical hunks.’