Murder at Keyhaven Castle

by Clara McKenna

  Stella sighed. So that’s why he wanted to meet the Swensons in Southampton. He wanted to show off the carriage he’d bought on impulse last month and its passenger, the soon-to-be Viscountess Lyndhurst.

  “And how about that? They’ve brought their darling daughter with them,” he added. “That should make you happy.”

  Stella leaned forward, searching where her father pointed until she’d spotted Penny Swenson, one of Stella’s few childhood companions. Penny, crinkling her upturned nose in distaste, raised a lavender nosegay to her face to ward off the warring scents of smoke, horse dung, tar, and wet wood. She lifted the hem of her skirt as she skittered around a cluster of men, their caps worn, their shirtsleeves rolled up as they hauled and stacked cargo. Once past the workers, Penny smoothed the thick auburn curls softly swirling around her forehead.

  Stella sank back into the padded wall of the carriage and blew at the wisp of hair framing her forehead. Darling Penny Swenson. Now there was a wedding guest Stella could do without.

  * * *

  So many easy pickings. The man skirted a stack of wooden crates, fiddling the contents of his deep, bulging pockets. A coat two sizes too big had its uses. His fingers flipped through and caressed leather wallets, watch fobs, a small gold watch, three pocketknives, a silver cigar case, and a gold-filigree fountain pen. He hadn’t done this well since the World’s Fair. He chuckled. Heaven bless the ruckus. With the distracting crush of passengers, porters, wagons, and horses, he could dip into pockets and bags, freeing unsuspecting marks of their valuables, as easy as collecting eggs in a henhouse.

  He ducked into the darkened doorway of a nondescript warehouse, crushed the nub of his cigar under his toe, and, dropping his sack, squatted down to one knee as if in need of retying his bootlaces. Instead, he unwound the string cinching the mouth of his bag. Alert and focused, he deftly emptied his pockets. In the span of five heartbeats, the pocketknives, the wallets, and watch fobs disappeared into the folds of laundry in his bag. With one quick downward glance to assure the sack blocked any view of his leg, he shimmed his trouser leg up over a gun, a pearl-handled thirty-eight revolver, shoved into the top of his woolen stocking. A shiny bit of the nickel-plated barrel shone through a frayed hole. He waited until a passing team of horses shielded him from view before slipping it out.

  His heart raced at his luck. Just the touch of the cold metal of the thirty-eight in his hand made him feel like a gunslinger. He had his share of shotguns back home, come by honestly, for the most part. But this was a first. He’d never lifted a gun off a mark before. His target had figured himself somewhat of a cowboy, bandanna around his neck and all, but who knew, here on the Southampton wharf, the fella would be packing a valuable revolver?

  They say God will provide.

  Until now, he hadn’t believed it. But here now was this revolver, its handle glowing in the sun like the pearly gates themselves. But he wasn’t pawning this, no siree, Bob! Money was nothing compared with how this beauty was going to get him his due.

  He ran his hand down the revolver’s barrel before setting it reverently into his sack and securing the ties. He straightened up, swung the bag over his shoulder, and eased back into the passing traffic, whistling “Hello! Ma Baby.” He’d been swindled out of what was rightfully his and had come over, thinking it was high time he did something about it. It had been a long shot. But he sensed the odds just shifted in his favor. His bet just might pay off.

  * * *

  “Theo, over here!” Stella’s father leaned out of the window, waving his arm frantically.

  Mrs. Sarah Swenson, a blue feathery hat perched high on her head, spied them first. She placed her hand on her husband’s arm and directed his attention toward the Kendricks’ carriage. Set into a chiseled face accentuated by a neatly trimmed beard, Theo Swenson’s eyes widened in alarm.

  Stella stuck her head out the carriage window, curious. Surrounding the carriage and beyond were men with sacks strung across their backs, ladies in traveling suits stepping into coaches, awestruck children clutching their mother’s hands. Nothing worthy of rattling a man like Mr. Theo Swenson.

  Stella returned her attention to the couple. Both Mr. and Mrs. Swenson were waving and smiling as the family approached. Unlike his wife, whose etched forehead gave her a maternal air, the crinkling wrinkles Mr. Swenson bore gave him an impish, ageless charm. Had Stella imagined his distress? She certainly wasn’t imagining the condescension on Penny’s face as she and Mr. Swenson laced arms. With deep dimples defining her pouting lips, and curves tightly defined by her tan and black traveling suit, Penny hadn’t changed a bit.

  “You made it,” Daddy said, bounding from the carriage like a man half his age. Stella reluctantly followed. “How was the journey? My, you’re pretty as ever, Sarah.”

  “Why, thank you, Elijah.” Mrs. Swenson tilted her head, offering him her upturned cheek. With hat in hand, he obliged her with a peck. “The food was tolerable, and the sailing was as smooth as we could ask for.”

  “And you, Theo,” Daddy said, shoving out his hand. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

  “We sure are glad to be here,” Mr. Swenson said, enthusiastically returning his handshake. “But there was no need for y’all to meet us. We expected to take the train.”

  “Anyone can take the train. I wanted you to ride in style.” Daddy stepped back and, with outstretched arms, gestured toward the carriage. “Not every day you get to ride in a coach once owned by Queen Victoria.”

  Although the body of the carriage had been repainted, Stella’s father had insisted he could still detect the outline of the royal crest on the door. Either way, it was a stately landau with bright red wheels that would seat all five of them comfortably. He’d had to buy two gray Irish Draught horses to pull it.

  “Oh, my, Elijah,” Mrs. Swenson twittered in appreciation, tapping her fingertips together. “I don’t know what to say. May we ride with the top down?”

  Daddy rubbed his hands together, pleased with her reaction. “Of course.” He gestured to the coachman to fold back the top.

  “I want one of these,” Penny cooed, lovingly stroking the carriage’s gold lacquered curves.

  “We have to find you one of those noble husbands first, Penelope, darling,” Mr. Swenson joked.

  Now it all made sense. The Swenson family weren’t here to oblige Stella’s father or to help her celebrate the joyous occasion. With Stella able to make the necessary introductions at the wedding, they were hoping to find an aristocrat to marry Penny.

  Good luck!

  Though Penny’s inheritance was almost as much as Stella’s, Penny’s disposition would be the stumbling block. Stella pitied the unsuspecting nobleman Penny set her sights on.

  “Which reminds me,” Mr. Swenson added. “I’ve been so rude. Congratulations, Stella, darling, on your upcoming nuptials.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Swenson.”

  “Yes, indeed,” his wife echoed. “And my, how you have changed. For a poor motherless child, Stella, you’re so . . .”

  “Freckled and scrawny?” Penny offered.

  Leave it to Penny to say something so ridiculous. No one gets freckles under a cloudy, rainy English sky. But Penny had picked on Stella since they were children, even if it meant pulling insults from thin air.

  “I was going to say radiant and sophisticated,” Mrs. Swenson said, plucking a thread from around one of Penny’s jacket buttons. “You should take note, Penny.” Penny glowered at Stella. “It seems this new life agrees with our little Stella.”

  “Thank you,” Stella said, out of politeness.

  Despite Mrs. Swenson’s perceptiveness that Stella was flourishing here, Stella didn’t care much for the lady’s comments. When they were children, Penny’s mother had a way of using compliments to compare the two girls, with Penny always coming up short. If left unprovoked, Penny could be friendly and generous. But one “compliment” from Mrs. Swenson to Stella and Penny would vent her frustrations by teasi
ng Stella or pulling her hair. Luckily, Mrs. Swenson was rarely around. Desperate for a friend her age after her mother died, Stella had endured the occasional taunts, until Penny, particularly outraged one day at Mrs. Swenson’s fawning over the “poor motherless girl,” threw rocks at Stella. Stella had barely managed to be civil to either of them ever since.

  “When are we going to meet this viscount of yours?” Penny sneered.

  “Excellent question, Penny,” Daddy said, jabbing his finger into the air. “And the answer is tonight! I’ve arranged for us to all dine at Morrington Hall. What do you think of that!”

  “I don’t know, Elijah. We’ve just stepped off the boat. I don’t think . . .” Mr. Swenson, stroking his beard, surveyed the crowd. “Where are those trunks, anyway?”

  “Watch out, Theo!” Mrs. Swenson warned just as a small black and white dog with a studded collar darted between Mr. Swenson’s legs and across Stella’s father’s feet, leaving muddy paw prints on his boots.

  It bolted down the pier toward town. A harried footman, spouting apologizes as he dashed past, scurried after the loose pet. Stella followed the escapee and his would-be captor’s progress, curious how far the dog would get. She turned her attention back to their guests at the sound of Mr. Swenson’s sigh.

  “I’m sorry, Elijah. I don’t think any of us are up to a formal dinner engagement.”

  “Speak for yourself, Dad.” Penny, using her handbag’s hidden beveled mirror, dabbed stray red lip rouge from the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief. “I’m dying to have a proper meal that doesn’t involve a view of the endless ocean.”

  “Especially if it is of a table teeming with eligible aristocratic bachelors,” Mrs. Swenson added, without a hint of sarcasm.

  “But we still have to collect our bags, travel to Rosehurst, rest up, unpack. . . .” Mr. Swenson complained, craning his neck to see around a group of black-haired women wearing loose, billowy skirts and colorful scarfs draped around their necks. Stella had met a few women like them once while riding on the Forest. They’d been cooking over a campfire next to a colorful patchwork tent.

  “I won’t take no for an answer,” Daddy said, “since I’ve also arranged a surprise for you.” A surprise? Stella’s stomach fluttered. What was he up to? “Since you couldn’t make it for the St. Leger Stakes . . . I still don’t understand why you didn’t come.”

  “Neither do I, Elijah,” Mrs. Swenson pouted, mimicking her daughter. “I so wanted to, but Theo insisted he had business to attend to.”

  “It was unavoidable, darling,” Mr. Swenson said, still preoccupied with finding his luggage in the crowd. “I’ve already explained it to you.”

  “And I still don’t understand,” Mrs. Swenson said, seizing on what must have been a point of contention. “Why couldn’t we have come sooner? What difference does a few days make when we could’ve attended the oldest of England’s classic races?”

  “Not to mention the countless men I would’ve met,” Penny lamented.

  Penny was right. St. Leger’s was one of the highlights of the Season. As Lady Atherly would say, everyone who was anyone was there. For Stella, it had been a riveting event, and her first trek into the rolling, stone-fence-covered hills of Yorkshire. She’d enjoyed every minute.

  “You should’ve been there, Mr. Swenson,” Stella said. “Tupper was magnificent.”

  Mr. Swenson abandoned his searching to focus on Stella. “Did you say Tupper won? I thought—”

  “No, Challacombe won. I was talking about—”

  “You remember my filly Tupper, don’t you, Theo?” Daddy interrupted. “Did you ever think she’d place?”

  Mr. Swenson smiled warmly. “Of course. I remember Tupper. And you’re right, Stella, darling. I do wish I could’ve been there.” He returned to searching the crowd. “Now, if I could spot that porter who took off with our trunks.”

  “Speaking of the race,” Daddy said, “that’s my surprise. The winner, Challacombe, will be at Morrington Hall for your inspection after dinner tonight.”

  “Hold on. What?” Mr. Swenson said incredulously, whipping his head around as if expecting the horse to emerge from the crowd.

  “Incredible, isn’t it? I have so many connections over here, now that my name is attached to that of the local earl. You’ll see. Marry Penny to one of these impoverished lords, and the world is your oyster, Theo. Mrs. Astor be damned!” Daddy laughed.

  Penny, who had been silently admiring her reflection, snapped her handbag shut, unamused. Penny was more than willing to trade her inheritance for a title. What was it Stella’s father said that made it less appealing?

  “That may be, Elijah, but Challacombe?” Mrs. Swenson said. “How did you manage it?”

  “There’s a local buffoon who collects horses like souvenir spoons and is close friends of the earl. He purchased the stallion, and I’ve convinced him to bring the champion racehorse around to Morrington Hall tonight.”

  Her father’s mention of souvenir spoons aside, Stella was unnerved that Baron Branson-Hill, the “horse collector” her father referred to, was carting Challacombe over from the Isle of Wight. A rough crossing on the ferry could spell disaster.

  “What do you say, Theo?” Daddy said. “Aren’t my temptations worth leaving your napping and unpacking until tomorrow?”

  Mr. Swenson stroked his beard but said nothing.

  “If the racehorse isn’t enough to convince you, Theo, do it for Penny’s sake,” Mrs. Swenson said. “Elijah has gone out of his way to accommodate and amuse us.”

  “Please, Dad.” Penny laid her hand on her father’s arm, pouting, and batted her lashes at him. Stella knew that plea well. Penny had employed it effectively their whole lives.

  Mr. Swenson patted his daughter’s hand. “Of course we’ll go, Penelope, darling. How can I say no? But first, I have to go see where those trunks are.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Jesse tossed the apple core onto the street and watched it land in the path of a chestnut Morgan lashed to a nearby post. The horse plucked it up, dirt and all.

  What in the Sam Hill is taking the boss so long?

  Jesse continued combing the faces of the passersby, panic building in the pit of his stomach. What would he do if the boss didn’t show up? How would Jesse get paid? What if the boss planned to cheat him, or worse, turn him in? No, sir. Jesse wasn’t going to let that happen again. Besides, a gun’s got more than one bullet. As Jesse’s hand strayed toward his hidden revolver, he spotted a face in the crowd and froze, midmotion.

  Well, I’ll be a son of a bucktoothed goat. Who knew that bastard would be here?

  The scoundrel, sporting a spiffy suit with a gold watch chain dangling from his pocket, leaned against a carriage like the fanciest Wells Fargo stagecoach Jesse had ever seen. Jesse self-consciously noticed the muck on his boots and stomped his feet to loosen the dried manure; he agitated a fat black fly instead. It buzzed about his head and face before settling on the top button of Jesse’s dusty, rumpled jacket. Jesse swatted at it, with the impatience of a man incensed by having to do it at all. Easily avoiding Jesse’s hand, it flew toward the bunch of bananas dangling above Jesse’s head. Jesse, curling his lip, brushed off other nonexistent offenders.

  It wasn’t fair.

  How come the scoundrel, who couldn’t keep his mouth shut, had everything, and Jesse, who’d done what he’d been told, had nothing? Well, Jesse did have one thing that bastard didn’t, and it was going to shut him up for good.

  The thrill of revenge ran hot in his blood. Pins and needles tingled his arms, face, and feet just thinking about what he was about to do.

  In one concentrated motion, Jesse kicked off away from the wall, stepped off the curb, and reached for his gun. When his boot squished into a pile of fresh horse dung, he stopped in his tracks. It wasn’t there. His revolver wasn’t there.

  He desperately patted the length of his jacket, thinking the gun might’ve slipped. He checked his vest pockets, his pants pockets
. Nothing. He whirled around, searching the sidewalk, the doorway, the wheel-treads crisscrossing the hard-packed gravel road. A man stepped out of the fruit market and into his path, and Jesse shoved him aside.

  “Oi! What’s the big idea?” the grocer complained when Jesse rummaged frantically through the fruit stand nearest to where he’d waited, apples, oranges, and pears dropping onto the dirty pavement. Jesse kicked one out of his way. He threw another at the grocer when the man approached to intervene.

  Where is it? Where could it be?

  “Police! Police!” the grocer yelled; his shrill voice like a screech owl rang in Jesse’s ears.

  Jesse clumsily swung at the grocer to shut him up and caught a glimpse of the rich scoundrel and his party moving away, disappearing into the crowd. Jesse couldn’t lose his chance. He didn’t have a weapon, but his hands, despite his small stature, were big and strong. If Jesse had to, he could choke the bastard to death, and search for his gun after.

  Jesse shoved his way across the street, knocking into a lady carrying a straw basket, dodging several horse and buggies, and tripping over an apple that had rolled onto the road. Whistles blared, and a hand grabbed him, slowing his progress. He whirled around, blinded by rage, and the futility that finally caught up with him, and punched the face belonging to the hand. Only after blood started streaming from the man’s hawkish nose did Jesse notice the man’s brass buttons and the distinctive domed cap. Dang it!

  Struggling against the policeman’s hold, Jesse hollered, “I’m gonna kill the bastard!”

  Perhaps it was the pain of the policeman’s broken nose or the shock of Jesse’s words that got to him, but either way, the policeman’s hold slipped. At that moment, Jesse yanked free, dodged the policeman’s attempts to reapprehend him, and ran headfirst into the scattering crowd.

  * * *

  “Now, Elijah, tell me more about—” Shouts, muffled curses, and a policeman’s whistle cut Mrs. Swenson off midsentence. “What’s going on?”