by Sandra Heath
The microfilmed pages were so tightly packed that finding anything seemed impossible, but suddenly Kathryn saw what she was looking for. It was tucked away at the foot of a column, between a report on a horrid murder and robbery, and an item about the sad loss of one of His Majesty’s frigates during a storm off Iceland.
“At the Royal Well in Cheltenham the noble victory of Waterloo was celebrated with the greatest festivity at a grand ball attended by all the nobility and gentry of the country. At one time the number of carriages seen approaching the venue exceeded seventy. Among those present were the Duke and Duchess of Beaufort, the Marquesses of Worcester and Lorne, the Earls and Countesses of...”
Kathryn hurried through the list, and at last saw the names she sought. Sir Dane and Lady Marchwood. And there, much further down the list, Mr. Thomas Denham. She also saw another name she knew, Dr. George Eden, the trusted, well-respected man who was one of the few people Dane thought worthy of close friendship. She half expected to see Jeremiah Pendle’s name as well, but it wasn’t included. She read on.
“The ball was opened by the Duke and Duchess of Beaufort. Country dances and reels were elegantly interspersed with minuets, ländlers, polonaises, and that newest addition to fashionable and superior occasions, the waltz, which was executed with particular distinction by Sir Dane and Lady Marchwood.”
Kathryn raised an eyebrow. Executed with particular distinction? What exactly did that mean? She continued.
“There was a supper of such magnificence that it was advantageously compared with anything Mr. Gunter could supply. Favorite airs were played during the repast. After supper the company repaired outside to witness a great number of beautiful fireworks, consisting of rockets, brilliant suns and stars, wheels, and emblematical devices displayed in radiant fire, the whole concluding with a grand discharge of rockets, fireballs, Indian trees, serpents, etc. The guests began to disperse at daylight, and the occasion was universally acknowledged to be the most suitable and laudable for such a momentous time in our history.”
It had sure been quite a Regency wingding, Kathryn thought, sitting back as she finished. Update it a little, and it could be a modern embassy reception, or something at the White House.
She began to scan the screen again, this time searching for a report on the Lady Marchwood. The ship had set off on her maiden voyage on the day after the ball, so anything about it must follow fairly quickly. She found it almost straightaway.
“On this day was the deep-sea vessel, the Lady Marchwood, seen off in splendid style as she departed on her first voyage to bring timber from the Baltic. Watched by Sir Dane and Lady Marchwood, and to the acclaim and cheers of a large gathering of notable persons, the ship was hauled through the lock from the dock basin, and on entering the river was turned by means of ropes in order to sail downstream on the full tide. A band played sea shanties, and the general populace was entertained by a fair which went on until midnight. The vessel is expected to return to Gloucester in one month’s time.”
The report ended there, and the column ran on without break into something about a large importation of prime Westphalia hams being sold at Portsmouth. Prime Westphalia hams? It hardly seemed possible that such an inconsequential fact was considered important enough to put into print! On second thoughts, though, maybe it wasn’t all that inconsequential. In the days before refrigeration, the arrival of such a commodity was probably of considerable significance.
Putting the hams from her thoughts, she looked again at the report on the Lady Marchwood. There was no mention of anything untoward, and certainly no mention of Dane’s challenging Thomas Denham to a duel. Thomas’s name didn’t even crop up. Maybe she’d find a few lines about the duel itself...
She wound the film on, but almost immediately saw Jeremiah Pendle’s name. “The Death of Mr. Jeremiah Pendle. It is with great regret that we report the demise of one of Gloucester’s foremost citizens. Mr. Jeremiah Pendle passed away this morning after suffering a tremendous seizure of the heart. He was found at his desk in his premises at the Cross, and is believed to have been stricken by the unfortunate death yesterday of his nephew, Mr. Thomas Denham, who was misguided enough to enter into a dawn meeting with Sir D—e M———d.
Mr. Pendle leaves no immediate heir, and his estate therefore devolves upon the only remaining member of the Denham family, a gentleman farmer believed to be at present residing in Norwich.”
As before, the column then ran on into another item, this time the prices of ewes at Gloucester market. She wound swiftly ahead, searching for anything else about the duel, but it wasn’t mentioned again.
The librarian came in to see how she was managing. “Have you found all you wanted?” she asked.
“Yes, I think so. The duel doesn’t get much of a mention, though. Sir Dane Marchwood’s name isn’t even printed properly, just the first and last letters of each word.”
“That was frequently the case in those days. Most publications are littered with disguised but excruciatingly obvious names. I can only suppose it was to get around the then libel laws. As to no proper report on the duel itself, there wouldn’t be. Duels were illegal, you see, and to make a lengthy report might lead to the authorities suspecting participation of some sort by the newspapers or their proprietors. Jails weren’t terribly savory places then. Anyway, I’ve looked out the copy of Pendle’s diary. It’s strange, but the events you’re looking up appear to be very popular all of a sudden. My colleague logged the microfilm and diary out this morning. Usually they don’t get looked at from one month to the next.” She nodded back at a rather dapper man standing in the doorway. He was looking at Kathryn rather curiously, and the woman laughed. “Take no notice of Simon, my dear. He thinks you’re the same woman come back again. Apparently you’re her spitting image, if you’ll excuse the phrase. I told him it was clear you hadn’t been here at all before now. They say everyone has a double somewhere. Anyway, the final few pages are all you’ll really be concerned with, because the duel was the last thing Pendle wrote about before he died. Actually, I’ve just had another read myself, it really is a curious and intriguing story.”
Kathryn looked at it with distaste. The reporter in her always loathed distorted writing, and she knew before she started that Pendle’s account would be very slanted indeed. Still, if it was the only record of the duel, she had no choice but to read it. Unless, of course ... She looked up hopefully at the librarian. “I’m told this is the only authority on the duel, but perhaps there’s another one? Surely someone else wrote about it?”
The woman shook her head. “Everyone in Gloucester knew about it, of course, for the challenge was rather publicly issued the day before, but if anyone wrote about it, their version has never come to light. The only people present at the actual duel were the duelists themselves, and their seconds, Jeremiah Pendle himself, and a local doctor, George Eden. Pendle was apparently the only one to put pen to paper. The real so-called lowdown only got out when Pendle died and a distant member of the Denham family got the inheritance. The diary was found and the new heir wanted to bring Sir Dane to book for Thomas Denham’s murder, but for this he needed Dr. Eden’s evidence, and the doctor had gone to America. So it didn’t come to a trial, but there was whispering ever after. Not that Sir Dane was the sort of man to care what was said of him; he’d as likely tell the Devil to go to hell.”
Kathryn smiled at that. “Yes, he would,” she murmured.
“Anyway, I’ll leave you to it.”
“Thank you.” Kathryn took a deep breath and opened the book a few pages from the end.
“Lammastide. This is yet another sad and harsh day, for once again has black-hearted Sir Dane Marchwood robbed me of a nephew. Oh, that such a devil incarnate should live and breathe, while my nephews must sleep forever beneath the earth. The truth must out, so that Marchwood is brought to account for his fiendish crimes. His villainy today leads me to conclude that similar villainy prevailed ten years ago, when he laid waste the fine l
ife of William Denham, who was as noble and laudable a gentleman as ever existed.
“But I rush ahead of myself, for the tale must start at daybreak, when I accompanied Thomas to the oak grove on Marchwood estate, where at the allotted time Sir Dane arrived for the confrontation. His second, Dr. Eden, was also there.
“The pistols used for the duel were Sir Dane’s, for Thomas, being a law-abiding citizen of the realm, possessed no such infamous weapons. Sir Dane himself presented one of the pistols to his opponent, saying that it was the very weapon he had used to kill William and two other victims, and that he did not wish to be accused of unfair advantage by using such a fortunate firearm. Oh, ignoble soul, for the pistol he thus foisted upon Thomas offered no protection to the user or threat to the opponent, having been rendered useless by clever means.
“Dr. Eden called the commands, and the two adversaries commenced to walk apart. At the command to turn and fire, Thomas’s pistol failed to discharge. Sir Dane, with cold pleasure, took steady aim and fired directly into his helpless foe’s heart. Thomas fell dead.
“Sir Dane might as well have fired into my heart as well, for as surely as if the shot had entered my feeble frame, I can feel my life ebbing. With Thomas has died my will to live, and my heart will surely soon beat its last.
“There was no mistaking Sir Dane’s lack of fear, or his knowledge that he had time to make certain of his accuracy. He knew the pistol would not operate because he had interfered with it. Was this same infamy practiced ten years ago to eliminate William? Did Sir Dane also dispatch his other unfortunate victims by the same despicable means? I vow he is no gentleman, and has no claim to honor. Let Beelzebub soon claim his evil soul, and have no mercy upon him. That I should lose one beloved nephew to his rapacious thirst for blood would be cross enough to bear, but to lose two is burden beyond endurance. And to think that Thomas died because of a harlot, for by what other name can one speak of Lady Marchwood? She promised my nephew her unswerving love, and when she tired of the liaison, deliberately lured him into hazard with a Judas kiss. She knew what her husband would do, and felt no pity for the man whose love led to the forfeiture of his life. I curse the Marchwoods, may they suffer plague and pestilence for what remains of their wicked lives.
“God rest my nephews’ souls. And God rest mine, for I know I am not long for this world.”
Kathryn found her hands were trembling as she closed the book. Pendle’s vitriolic hatred for Dane had almost reached out of the pages, but where did fact end and fiction begin? Just how much did the diary follow actuality? God, if ever she needed her so-called infallible intuition, it was now. It would be interesting to meet Dr. George Eden, whose name she now knew figured among the guests at the ball. Maybe she’d look him up when she was there tonight. The casual way she thought it brought her up with a start. When she was there tonight? She’d just read an ancient newspaper report about a ball in 1815, a ball she was actually going to attend in a few hours’ time. It was weird, almost too weird to contemplate.
Putting the ball from her mind for the moment, she decided to read the account again, just to be certain of what Pendle said, then she closed down the microfilm console, and took the film and book out to the librarian. “Thank you, I’ve finished now.”
“I hope it was informative?”
“Very, but I certainly don’t believe that was how it happened.”
“Ah, there has been debate in plenty ever since, but few people are inclined to take Sir Dane’s side. You see, with his track record of dueling, and the astonishing way he managed to dispatch every opponent, people were inclined to think there couldn’t be smoke without fire.”
“Thanks again.”
“Not at all.”
Jack was watering the roses when she returned to the apartments, and he was still listening to his radio, for she could hear it as she reached the courtyard. But when she got to him, she was startled to see he was now using a headset and portable mini-player. He must be stone deaf to have it so loud she could hear it from a distance!
Seeing her, he switched off the hose and removed the headset. “My wife said I’d get water on the other radio, and made me use this newfangled thing instead,” he explained, but then a look of puzzlement crossed his face, for the music continued as loudly as before. “That’s odd,” he said, glancing at her. “I... I heard your radio playing earlier and thought you must already be back from the library.”
She smiled. “No, I’m just back now, and anyway, classical music isn’t my thing, I’m more into blues guitar.”
“Well, your radio’s tuned in to the same concert I’m listening to,” he pointed out, gazing up at her open window, from which the unmistakable sound of a Mozart symphony carried clearly into the afternoon air.
She looked up as well, and her heart began to sink. She hadn’t had the radio on at all, not since the bedside alarm first thing, and that hadn’t been for more than a few seconds! Besides which, it had been tuned to a rock station, not anything highbrow. Then she remembered the strange stereo effect she’d noticed on returning from Marchwood. Her radio must have been playing then as well!
Jack saw her unease. “Is something wrong, miss?”
“Does anyone else have the keys to my apartment?”
“Only me, miss. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, it’s probably nothing.” No, darn it! Someone had been in her apartment the night before, and now this. She felt distinctly rattled. “Look, Jack, I’m sure someone was in my apartment last night, but I decided not to do anything because nothing was taken and I thought I’d look a bit stupid, but now I’m beginning to wonder if...” She looked up at the open window again. “I haven’t had my radio on, and if I did, it wouldn’t be to that sort of concert.”
“Right, well I reckon I’d better take a look, just to be on the safe side.” He shoved the earphones in his pocket, took off his gardening gloves, and moved toward the door.
“I’m coming too,” she said determinedly. If anyone was there, she wanted to confront the person.
“As you wish, but keep behind me.” He preceded her up the staircase, and the music got louder all the time. He knocked loudly at the door, and Kathryn held her breath, expecting the music to be abruptly switched off, but that didn’t happen. In fact, nothing happened, and after a moment they used her keys to go in.
The apartment appeared deserted, but someone had definitely been there, because it was the living room radio that was playing, and she knew she definitely hadn’t touched it. She switched it off, and then looked uneasily around. Just as before, the few dishes she’d used had been washed and put away. And this time the TV and radio magazine lay open on the settee, together with an empty chocolate wrapper. Whoever it was liked dark chocolate and almonds!
“Someone’s been here,” she said emphatically, pointing at the wrapper. “That’s not mine.”
Jack looked swiftly at her. “I’ll make sure they aren’t still around, and if all’s well you can check if anything’s missing. Then we’ll call the police.”
“Okay.” She remained by the door while he went carefully from room to room. Then he returned. “Whoever it was has gone now, miss. It’s safe for you to take a look at your belongings.”
The first thing she thought of was her jewelry, but nothing had gone. And all her clothes were as she’d left them. Like last night, it seemed someone had just come in, stayed a while, then left. What was going on?
“Is anything missing, miss?” Jack asked as she returned.
“No.”
“Well, reckon we’d best report it to the coppers anyway.”
“Is that a good idea?” she asked doubtfully.
“I don’t follow.”
“What’s to tell them? Nothing’s been taken, and what will they think if I say someone washed the dishes, played a little Mozart, and ate some chocolate? It’s crazy! They’ll think I’m crazy. Maybe I am,” she added, thinking about the unbelievable events of the past hours.
“Lo
rd knows what they’ll think, but I feel they should be told. Whoever’s coming in might be some head case. There’s a prison down by the docks, though I don’t think anyone’s escaped. It would be on TV if that happened.”
“Look, I don’t want to look a fool, and that’s what will happen if we report this. Maybe if you could just have the lock changed? If anyone’s got another set of keys, they’ll be useless then.” She didn’t want any hassle, not when she had other more important things on her mind. If some creep found it funny to play house in her apartment, a new lock should put a stop to it. Apart from that, something inside told her not to take this any further. It felt like intuition again, and that was enough for her.
But Jack wasn’t happy about not telling the police. “I don’t know, miss...”
“Please, Jack. I’ll pay for another lock,” she offered hopefully.
He still wasn’t happy, but gave in. “All right, but you must promise that if anything else happens, anything at all, you’ll tell me and we’ll report it.”
“Okay, I promise.”
He glanced around again. “A rum do, and no mistake,” he muttered, then left.
She closed the door thankfully, but as she turned her gaze was drawn to something she hadn’t noticed before. A piece of paper lay on the floor beneath the windowsill, and she could see something written on it.
Curiously she picked it up, and then her heart almost stopped, for in an elegant old-fashioned hand, someone had written the name Rosalind over and over again.
Stunned with sudden realization, she could only stare at it. Why hadn’t she guessed before? Why hadn’t her wonderful new intuition told her that if she was going back in time, the real Rosalind might be coming here to the present? They’d been changing places! Suddenly a great deal was explained. The second call to Richard, the washed dishes, the jewelry box, make-up, radio, and so on, were all Rosalind’s doing!
Trying to think, Kathryn sat down at the windowsill. Alice had spoken of Rosalind’s great love for Thomas Denham, and her quest for happiness, but how could that equate with coming here into the future? Why make conciliatory overtures to Richard? Why tell him she wanted to start again and was going home this weekend? It was as if Rosalind were undoing the damage to Kathryn Vansomeren’s marriage, just as she, Kathryn, was doing to Rosalind’s in the past. But why? Why?