Murder at Keyhaven Castle

by Clara McKenna

  “That’s why I didn’t want to talk about it,” Sammy said, injured by the maid’s disapproval. “I wasn’t even supposed to tell anybody,” he muttered under his breath when Gertie moaned in her sleep.

  Why would that be?

  Ethel crouched down, slid her arms beneath the blanket and the girl, and easily hoisted them both onto her shoulder. When the maid, with her precious burden, tiptoed from the room, Stella ignored her earlier caution and wrapped her arm around Sammy, pulling him into a cuddle. He resisted for a moment, his muscles taut, his head turned away, but he eased into her embrace when he realized she wasn’t letting go.

  “I’m glad you told me,” Stella whispered. She laid the book in his lap, opened to the page for Keyhaven Castle. “And I’ll be happy to take you to Keyhaven Castle tomorrow.” Sammy snuggled closer, his eyelids drooping as he read the history of the castle.

  And I’ll be even happier when I get some answers from Uncle Jed.

  CHAPTER 12

  It was no use. Stella couldn’t sleep.

  She threw off the heavy bedclothes, slipped out of bed, and padded over to the wardrobe. The bed had been warm, almost stifling, but the chill in the air raised goose bumps on her skin. She snatched a pink, flower-embroidered satin robe from the wardrobe and wrapped it around her. Her wedding dress, on the back of the door, floated like a ghost in the moonlight. She caressed the silky fabric, listening, as she had for hours, to every hum, every creak, every tick of a clock.

  Thud! Click!

  Finally! Uncle Jed was back.

  When Stella’s father and the Swensons had returned from Morrington Hall, Uncle Jed wasn’t with them. According to Penny, smiling and aglow from the evening, Stella had missed an eventful night. Between “Sir Owen this” and “Sir Owen that,” Stella gleaned her father and Uncle Jed had quarreled again. Only with Mrs. Swenson’s gentle persuasion did her father concede to let Uncle Jed and the children stay. But Uncle Jed never returned.

  Stella had so many questions for him. Why had he kept quiet about speaking to the jockey and about Prescott’s threats that frightened Sammy so? What else was Uncle Jed hiding? Had Prescott revealed something to him: what score he needed to settle, whom he planned to kill, or why he had a clipping of her wedding in his pocket? Stella imagined Prescott traveling the ocean, scheming, and planning to carry out his evil task. Or had he made idle threats in a heated moment? Could Uncle Jed tell which when he talked to him?

  Tightening the sash around her waist, she stepped into the hall, her feet bare against the hall carpet, and tiptoed toward the stairs. She had no intention of waking the children sleeping in the guest room beside hers. But someone else was already awake. A bedroom door creaked open, a line of candlelight streaking across the hall and onto the opposite wall. Stella waited, but no one emerged. She couldn’t remember whose room it was—one of the Swensons. When the door slowly closed, the light retreated with it. Unlike her, whoever it was chose to return to bed rather than satisfy their curiosity. Stella padded on.

  Reaching the bottom step, she stopped, startled to hear muffled voices drifting from under the library door. She approached slowly, avoiding the loose board that creaked, and put her ear against the door.

  “. . . get caught?” A man’s voice whispered so low Stella only heard part of what was said. Who was it? Uncle Jed? Probably. Was he talking to himself? And what was he going to get caught doing?

  Stella was reaching for the doorknob when a different voice said something. The words were unintelligible through the thickness of the door. Who else was up at this hour? Frustrated, Stella knelt and peered through the keyhole, but the room was bathed in only the dim light of the fire’s embers. She couldn’t see a thing. She held her ear against the keyhole, but the people stopped talking.

  Should she open the door? Could she justify barging in on whoever was on the other side? If it was Uncle Jed, she could. But what if it was Mr. Swenson, or worse, her father? How would she explain her nosiness?

  Her knees, pressed against the hardwood floor, began to ache as she tried to decide what to do.

  Bam!

  Stella jumped when the front door swung open. With muffled voices and hurried footsteps, the people in the library scurried around. Not wanting to be caught snooping, Stella leaped to her feet and dashed toward the stairs. Uncle Jed staggered through the front door.

  “Uncle Jed?” Then who was in the library?

  “Hello, my girl, fine evening we’re having.”

  He tossed his hat toward the hall tree. It missed by several feet and floated to the floor. He stumbled forward, tripped on the edge of the hall carpet, and bumped against the wall. Stella hurried over to steady him. He waved her attempts off, his breath reeking of whiskey.

  “Fine pub ya have in this town too.” He swayed, zigzagging across the hall toward the library.

  “Your room is upstairs, Uncle Jed.”

  “Elijah forbade me to sleep under his roof, but he didn’t say I couldn’t drink his liquor.”

  “Daddy changed his mind. You’re welcome to stay.”

  “Then, I’ll just get me a little nightcap first.” He grabbed for the doorknob, and overcompensating, stumbled into the library when the door opened. Stella was a step behind him.

  The room was empty, but one of the French windows was ajar. Whoever had been in here had left by the window. Leaving Uncle Jed to pour himself another drink, Stella crossed the room, passing the pile of makeshift toys. She glanced over her shoulder at a clink of glass and a thud. Uncle Jed had collapsed in the overstuffed chair, his legs stretched out before him, his head, with his mouth wide open, plopped against the headrest, his arms flopped over the armrests like a rag doll. A glass of whiskey lay beside him on the floor, tipped over and empty.

  So much for getting her answers tonight.

  She latched the window, her breath fogging the glass, and stared out at the moonlit night, calm and clear after the storm. The distant call of a nightjar pierced the silence. She traced a question mark in the condensation and glimpsed Sir Owen disappearing around a hedge.

  Sir Owen? What was he doing here?

  * * *

  Side by side on the bench nestled against the wall in the Pilley Manor garden, Stella shuddered as Lyndy traced the outline of her lips. And not from the chill morning air. Dried leaves rustled in the oak overhead. Holding her chin gently with the tip of his finger, he dipped his head to kiss her.

  “Now, now, you two,” Aunt Rachel called from her spot under the tree, startling the pair apart.

  Stella and Lyndy had met almost every day after breakfast alone in this secluded spot. To talk, to commiserate, to snuggle, to kiss. And no one had ever disturbed them. Why Stella’s aunt had decided to join them this morning, Stella could only guess.

  “It’s fine you’re so sweet on each other, but you’re going to have to wait.” Aunt Rachel’s eyelids drooped, then closed when a ray of warm sun lit her wrinkled face. Her thin, parchment-like skin seemed to glow from within. “And don’t get thinking I’m going to fall asleep. With the wedding so close, I promised your mama, Lyndy, that I’d keep an eye on you.” Her left eye popped open. She squeezed it shut, opening her right one instead. “Just haven’t figured which one yet.”

  Lyndy glanced askew at their chaperone, who cackled at their expense. “Two more days,” he whispered.

  “Should’ve eloped while you had the chance,” Aunt Rachel said, resting her head against the back of her wicker chair.

  Maybe we should have. Nothing about the days leading up to the wedding had been blissful.

  When she was a little girl, picturing her wedding, Stella couldn’t have imagined the exotic landscape, the ancient church, the aristocratic husband, the castle-like estate that was to be her home, the most beautiful dress in the world. It was like a fairy tale. And with Uncle Jed, Gertie, Sammy, Aunt Ivy, Aunt Rachel, the Swensons, and her father all here to sit on her side of the aisle, she should be basking in love. Instead, her friends and fam
ily had done nothing but bicker and lie and sneak around since they got here. And according to what Lyndy told her about the fight between Daddy and Uncle Jed last night, the belligerence and animosity were getting worse.

  And that was nothing compared to the questions. Peace of mind was elusive enough, on the cusp of trading her old life for a new one, without adding to the uncertainty. Why did someone send the souvenir spoon anonymously? What could be more important to her beloved Aunt Ivy than spending time with her? Why would Uncle Jed, whom she remembered as carefree and loving, deceive her about Pistol Prescott, and not tell the police everything he knew? What was Sir Owen doing in the library late last night (presuming that’s why he was sneaking past the bushes) and with whom? What were they afraid of getting caught doing? Why did Daddy and Uncle Jed hate each other so much? How could the tragedy Stella witnessed, the trampling of a stranger, be a possible blessing in disguise, his death saving someone she cared about?

  Considering the wedding had been the impetus for it all, Stella wasn’t so sure they had made the right decision not to elope. She laced her fingers with Lyndy’s and smiled halfheartedly. At least she didn’t doubt her decision to marry her viscount.

  “Too late now,” she chuckled mirthlessly. “Though if Mrs. Swenson repeats the ‘poor motherless child’ quip one more time . . .”

  “At this point, the best we can do is avoid Mother and Mrs. Swenson until the wedding,” Lyndy said.

  “I’m ahead of you there,” Stella said, brightening. With such an adventure in store, she sloughed off her melancholy like a dirty pair of gloves. “I’m planning an outing to Keyhaven Castle. Care to join me?”

  “That’s a brilliant idea. I haven’t visited there in years.”

  “We’re bringing a picnic and making a day of it.”

  “We?”

  “Pretty much everyone.”

  Stella still wasn’t sure how it had evolved into such a large party. She’d planned for her, Ethel, and the children. But Aunt Ivy was coming, happily accepting the invitation to spend time together, and so too was Uncle Jed, to “make sure promises were kept.” Whatever that meant. Her father had no intention of joining them until, overhearing Stella and Sammy discuss it at breakfast, Mr. Swenson had shown an interest and persuaded her father to come too. Stella wished Mr. Swenson had the urge to take a trip to London or, even better, Timbuktu. Maybe her father would be miles away by now. But instead, he threatened to spoil the day.

  “Everyone except Mrs. Swenson, that is,” Stella asked. “Your mother invited her to luncheon with her and Reverend Paine.”

  “Better her than us,” Lyndy said.

  “And better you than me at that haunted castle,” Aunt Rachel chimed in. “I wouldn’t step foot in that place if you told me I’d come out a giggling schoolgirl again.”

  “It’s not haunted, Aunt,” Stella said. “That’s just what Ethel told Sammy.”

  “Even so.” Aunt Rachel shifted nervously in her wicker lounge chair. “You got enough chaperones. You don’t need me tagging along.”

  “Well, if we need more strong protectors,” Stella said, chuckling at her aunt, “Sir Owen and Sir Alfred are welcome to come too. Though that would mean putting up with Penny.” Penny had declared she’d go if Sir Owen went, though Stella had never invited her.

  “Alfred has a prior engagement,” Lyndy said when a bee buzzed past his head on its way to the last of the small blush-colored roses climbing the trellis against the wall, “but I’m certain Owen will be game. We used to explore ruins as boys. And you can ask him to explain himself.”

  The first thing Lyndy had told Stella when they sat down was the suspicions surrounding Baron Branson-Hill’s “Challacombe.” She never condoned the baron’s way of acquiring horses simply to parade them around, but she empathized with the sting of betrayal the baron must be experiencing. The first thing Stella had told Lyndy was about finding Sir Owen outside last night.

  “I can’t fathom what he was doing here.”

  Lyndy wasn’t being completely honest. Was it his lack of eye contact or the way his jaw muscles simultaneously slackened as his forehead tightened? Either way, Stella had learned to detect when he couldn’t bring himself, for his sake or someone else’s, to voice an ugly thought that had crossed his mind. Stella also knew, if it were important, he would tell her eventually.

  “Brown came by again,” Lyndy said, obviously changing the subject. He’d lowered his voice when Aunt Rachel’s soft snores echoed the garden’s birdsong. He slid closer again until their thighs and shoulders touched.

  “He did?” Why hadn’t Lyndy told her this sooner? “What did he say?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. The police still haven’t found the gun. A bystander must’ve pilfered it. But they did discover he’d been in the country for a week. Seems he went to the Island at least once and attended the St. Leger Stakes.” Stella focused her memory. Had she seen him there? Could something have happened there that caused him to want to kill someone at Morrington Hall?

  “Tupper,” was all she said.

  “What?”

  “Tupper placed at the St. Leger Stakes. That’s the connection between Morrington Hall and Pistol Prescott. We need to figure out who the jockey bet on and whether he won or lost. We have to know—”

  “So, it is conceivable . . .” Lyndy interrupted, his voice trailing to a whisper, disbelief permeating his voice and facial expression. “I could’ve been the man’s intended victim.”

  Stella squeezed his hand to reassure herself as much as him, but his hand was clammy and cold. She forced a smile at him, but staring off into the middle distance, he didn’t notice.

  “But like Daddy told me at breakfast when I voiced my concern, ‘The man’s dead. He couldn’t squash a bug when he was alive, let alone shoot a gun. I’d bet the farm his ghost won’t do any better.’ ”

  “I never thought I’d say this . . .” Lyndy pointed to Aunt Rachel. As she slumbered, a brave squirrel gathered the acorns littering the ground under her chaise lounge. “But your father is right. If we consider it rationally, we have no more to fear from the dead jockey than Aunt Rachel does Keyhaven Castle.”

  * * *

  Ivy Mitchell stepped through the iron gates of Pilley Manor. Servants passed her, lugging chairs, rugs, and the wherewithal of a picnic to a dogcart. Two children chased each other, whooping and hollering. A barking mongrel dog playfully dodged through everyone’s legs. Only the saddled horses, kept at bay by the grooms, stood still.

  Surely, they aren’t all fixin’ to go to the castle? Stella had mentioned the children and a maid.

  Elijah Kendrick, his arms folded across his chest, sauntered to Ivy’s side. He wore a tweed coat and riding boots. Without a sideways glance, Elijah kept his attention focused on the commotion. “I don’t know why you came all the way here just to disappoint the girl,” he said.

  Ivy adjusted the fingers of her glove. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

  If Ivy had known Stella’s daddy would be along for the ride, she wouldn’t have come now either.

  “Didn’t have any more ‘things to tend to’?” he scoffed, throwing her words back at her. “Couldn’t come up with another pathetic excuse not to visit the girl?”

  Ivy bristled at the implication. Of course, Ivy wanted to come before now. She’d missed Stella like paper misses a pen (just look how lovely Stella had become), but she couldn’t. She had something she had to do first.

  “Mock if you like, it was the truth. I did have important things to attend to. Unlike you, I don’t lie to your daughter.”

  He laughed, a deep bellow that jiggled his whole body. What had Katherine ever seen in this man? He was uncouth, with gray hairs sticking out of his ears, barely taller than her but carrying more weight and wearing a perpetual smirk that marred his face. Ivy had attended Katherine’s wedding, and granted, on that day, Elijah Kendrick had cut a handsome figure. He was also successful and lorded over the most successful horse breeding oper
ation in Kentucky. He’d entertained and charmed the likes of the then Prince of Wales, who’d bought one of Elijah’s most promising stallions once during a visit to the States. But that charming man was long gone. Beside her stood a self-indulgent bully who cared little but for his vainglory. Without Katherine to keep him in check, he’d failed at self-restraint, in his choice of words, his appetite, or his acquisitions. Who else would pay millions to buy a British title for his family?

  “But you haven’t told her the whole truth either, have you, Ivy?” Elijah said, his tone light, as if reminding her which spoon to use for ice cream.

  Elijah was right. But unlike him, Ivy was lying to Stella for the right reasons.

  “When you tell her the truth, I will,” Ivy said.

  Elijah turned to her for the first time. “You’d have me ruin the memories the girl holds so dear? My, you are more ruthless than I gave you credit.”

  Ivy wanted to wipe the self-satisfied smile off his face.

  “You don’t care about Stella’s memories. You know as well as I do that if she knew the truth, you wouldn’t be able to control her. This wedding would never take place, and you would never see the inside of Caroline Astor’s ballroom.”

  “I don’t control anyone. I facilitated the match, and the girl recognized the necessities of it. She’s nearly twenty-three with no other prospects, after all.”

  “Then maybe I should tell her everything if you aren’t going to.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Ivy hadn’t expected him to say that.

  “As long as you don’t leave out the part you played.”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Oh, no? Do you want to find out if the girl would see it the same way? She idolizes you. You would not only taint the memories of her mother, but she’d never trust you again. If you can live with that, I bow to your ruthlessness.”

  Ivy blanched. She’d never considered Stella wouldn’t understand her motives. But would she? Or would Stella believe Ivy conspired with her father all these years?

  Noticing her reaction, Kendrick smirked. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe, when we toast the happy couple at the wedding, I tell the girl everything. That way, everyone will know. Clean slate and all that. Then we’ll find out where the blame lies.”