Murder at Keyhaven Castle

by Clara McKenna

  Lyndy, who was most comfortable in motion, froze.

  Why had she mentioned that? Wasn’t that all behind them? Had her father’s death made her change her mind? He’d barely considered it, but now, with the wedding postponed and Kendrick dead, of course, she could.

  “Yes.” The word came out strained and angry.

  She didn’t notice the sudden tension between them but continued as if confident of his sympathy. “That is how I now feel about his death. But not in the way I should. I don’t mourn the loss of him. I mourn the loss of ever having a loving father. I grieve for how his death is now preventing us from being together.”

  Lyndy let out a long, steady stream of breath. He was so relieved, almost giddy. He tugged on his sleeve and joined her in the aisle.

  “For a moment there, I thought you’d changed your mind.”

  Stella touched his arm, holding him in thrall with the warmth of that brilliant, all-in smile he adored so much.

  “No, Lyndy. Daddy did a good thing bringing us together, even if he did it for the wrong reasons. But I wish we could start the life he wanted for us without his murder hounding us. It reminds me of what happened with Reverend Bullmore, except this time, it’s so personal. Not just who died but who the killer is.”

  “I thought you didn’t suspect Owen.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t.”

  Lyndy could guess whom she suspected but didn’t want to volunteer the name. “We did it before; we’ll do it again. We’ll find out who killed your father. I promise.”

  “I knew you’d understand.”

  When her soft lips brushed against his, her warm breath mingling with his own, Lyndy would’ve promised her anything.

  * * *

  Stella lifted the brass knocker, taking gratification in the clanking Rap, tap, tap.

  She was refreshed but wary. With trunks of her things brought up to Morrington Hall, she’d had a bath and with Ethel’s help changed for riding. With a late breakfast to fortify her, she’d made up her mind. While Lyndy ferreted out answers in London (meeting with a friend who owned one of the racing papers, in hopes of learning more about Jesse Prescott), she would seek them closer to home—Pilley Manor to be exact. But when she’d arrived, the black ribbon hanging against the familiar red door, conjuring up all her conflicting emotions, she wondered if she was doing the right thing.

  Would she be able to riffle through her father’s things? Would she find anything about who did this to him, and why?

  She glanced back at Tully, her reins wrapped around the hitching post. The horse was nibbling on what she could from the green, newly mowed lawn. Stella could easily hop back into the saddle and be gone, with no one the wiser.

  And squander a chance to find answers?

  The black ribbon hanging on the door fluttered when Tims, the butler at Pilley Manor, flung it open. Stella was poised to knock yet again.

  “Miss Kendrick! I hope I didn’t keep you waiting. I was made to believe you’d be staying indefinitely up at Morrington Hall.”

  The stoic butler was flustered. He’d always kept an eye out for her return, and, like magic, the door would open before she had a chance to knock.

  “I am staying at Morrington,” she said, reassuring him with all the smile she could muster when she stepped inside, “but I came back for a few things.”

  “Of course.” The butler closed the door behind them. “Shall I inform your guests you are home?”

  Home. Stella glanced at the silver tray piled high with black-lined calling cards on the side table in the hall. This will never be my home again.

  Tims had never adapted to her unconventional ways, as the female staff had done, so she appreciated the butler’s meaning, nonetheless.

  “No, thank you. I’ll find everyone myself.”

  When she handed him her riding hat and gloves, the butler coughed nervously. “And may I say on behalf of all the staff, how sorry we are about Mr. Kendrick.”

  “Thank you, Tims.”

  “Stella!”

  The Swensons, as one, streamed down the stairs into the hall. Mrs. Swenson and Penny, already wearing their hats, were dressed for an outing, in white gloves and similar lace-layered day dresses but of different accenting hues—Penny’s hem piped in yellow, Mrs. Swenson’s sash in dark blue. Despite the black crape on the door, nothing about them indicated a death—no, a murder had descended on this house. Granted, they were visiting, and her father wasn’t their kin, but still, the vividness of their clothes, the vitality in their faces irked Stella. Even Penny came across as fully recovered from the ordeal.

  “You poor thing,” Mrs. Swenson lamented.

  Stella took a step back to avoid the woman’s attempt at an embrace.

  “Penny told me everything that happened, including Sir Owen’s involvement, and to think we were considering Sir Owen as a match for our darling girl.” She raised a hand to her chest as if to slow her fretting heart. “I shudder to think of it now.”

  When had that happened?

  Stella had noticed the two flirting, but they’d only met yesterday. When had they had time to talk of marriage? Then again, Stella and Lyndy were engaged before they’d even met.

  “. . . and about that dreadful policeman interrogating her and Theo,” Mrs. Swenson was saying.

  “Inspector Brown is just doing his job,” Stella said, wondering why he hadn’t spoken to her yet.

  “He could’ve been nicer about it,” Penny fussed, adjusting the tilt of her straw hat. “I don’t think he even believed me.”

  “Of course he did, Penelope, darling. Why wouldn’t he?”

  Penny shot her father a sideways glance but refrained from explaining further. Instead, she brushed past Stella toward Tims, holding the door open. Her parents followed when a carriage came into sight and rumbled up the drive. Two gray Irish Draught horses pulled it.

  “Where are you going?” Stella asked. She wanted to add, “In Daddy’s precious landau,” but she held her tongue.

  “Lady Atherly has been kind enough to invite us to Morrington Hall,” Mrs. Swenson said.

  “I reckon she wants to commiserate about the postponement of the wedding,” Mr. Swenson said. “Aren’t you joining us?”

  Instead of answering, Stella asked, “Where’s Aunt Rachel? Uncle Jed and the children?”

  “How should I know?” Mrs. Swenson said, eying Stella critically. “By the way, if you want my advice, I wouldn’t go around like that, Stella, dear. You are supposed to be in mourning. You aren’t wearing all black.”

  Stella glanced down at her riding costume. Although her jacket and skirt were black, her blouse was white. How appropriate. She had mixed emotions about her father’s death. And it shows.

  “Shall we, Theo?” Mrs. Swenson said, reaching for her husband’s arm. “And don’t dawdle, Penny.”

  They crossed the drive toward the carriage, the pebbles crunching beneath their shoes. Stella turned her back on them, and Mr. Tims shut the door.

  “Mr. Jedidiah Kendrick left moments before you arrived, Miss Kendrick,” the butler said, answering Stella’s earlier question. “He did not inform me of his plans.”

  Where Uncle Jed stole off to, Stella could hazard a guess, but she had no intention of tracking him down at the pub.

  “The children are in the kitchen with Mrs. Downie, and Miss Luckett and Mrs. Mitchell are in the library.”

  “Thank you, Tims.”

  Stella found Aunt Ivy on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, reading a letter while Aunt Rachel snored quietly in the overstuffed chair. On the low table between them was a small wooden-handled silver coffeepot and two cups, empty but the dregs. The crackling fire in the grate added to the peaceful domestic scene.

  “It’s so good to see you, Aunt Ivy,” Stella said quietly, hoping not to waken her elderly aunt.

  “Stella!” Aunt Ivy, startled by her sudden arrival, dropped her stocking feet to the floor and slipped the letter she’d been reading behind a tas
seled throw pillow.

  Great Aunt Rachel snorted, shifted her in the chair, and fell silent again.

  “I didn’t expect you so soon.”

  Obviously. But why? What was it about the letter she didn’t want Stella to see?

  “Thank you for coming here,” Stella said as if the awkward moment hadn’t occurred. “It’s so nice to have you closer.” Stella had proposed Aunt Ivy leave the White Hart Inn in Lyndhurst and stay at Pilley Manor. But after she’d declined Stella’s first invitation to join her there, Stella wasn’t so sure Aunt Ivy would agree.

  “Anything for you, dear girl,” Aunt Ivy said.

  “What were you reading?” Stella wanted to point to the pillow hiding the letter but instead indicated the book lying open across her aunt’s lap.

  Ivy lifted the blue and yellow cover to show it to Stella, Mrs. Oliphant’s A House in Bloomsbury. Stella had been reading it when Miss Naplock, the seamstress, had arrived for Stella’s final dress fitting.

  Was that only two days ago? It was hard to believe.

  “I found it on top of this stack. You might remember, I’m a sucker for romances.”

  Stella did remember because she was too. Back in Kentucky, her father hadn’t approved of ladies reading novels. But Aunt Ivy used to sneak them to her. Before Aunt Ivy stopped visiting them at Bronson Ridge Farm, that is.

  “I hadn’t read this one before,” her aunt carried on. “I haven’t been able to put it down.”

  “You’ve been here all morning then? Reading?”

  Aunt Ivy nodded. “Considering what happened yesterday, I couldn’t imagine what else to do. And I needed the escape.”

  But that couldn’t be. When Ethel helped Stella dress, her maid mentioned she’d noticed Aunt Ivy coming out of the post office when Ethel was returning from Pilley Manor with Stella’s trunks. Why was Aunt Ivy lying about that too?

  “I did telephone Morrington Hall, but they reckoned you’d gone out.”

  “I was on my way over here. It’s another beautiful day. The ride over was wonderful. I recommend it.”

  “I’m surprised you’re up to it.”

  “I’m always up for a ride with Tully. Besides, I’ve come to go through Daddy’s things.”

  Great Aunt Rachel suddenly groaned softly, as if in pain, before settling down peacefully again.

  Aunt Ivy scooched over and patted the space beside her, careful to put her back against the pillow hiding the letter. Stella took the invitation, dropping heavily onto the couch.

  “And why’s that?” her aunt asked. “What do you think you’re gonna find?”

  “Clues as to why someone killed him.”

  “I don’t mean to be crass.” Aunt Ivy placed her hand over Stella’s. “Or speak ill of the dead, but do you need to go through his things to learn that? Your daddy wasn’t a well-liked man.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? Every person at the castle yesterday had a reason to dislike him,” Stella said, sharper-tongued than she would’ve liked. She was suddenly angry, and Aunt Ivy was partially to blame. She yanked her hand out from her aunt’s. “So much so that one of them killed him.”

  “I’m sorry, Stella. I didn’t mean to upset you further. You’ve been through so much. I can’t imagine how you must feel. What can I do to help?”

  The offer was appealing. Stella was reluctant to do the task alone. She wanted to get it over with. But Aunt Ivy couldn’t be entirely trusted. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I’m here.” She smiled empathetically. “You holler if you need me.”

  I need you now, Stella wanted to say.

  With the hidden letter burning a hole through the pillow, and her aunt’s denial about being in town still ringing in her ears, Stella couldn’t trust herself not to blurt out the questions sitting on the tip of her tongue. What are you hiding? What were you and Daddy arguing about? Why have you been acting so strange? It was no use asking. Aunt Ivy wouldn’t tell her the truth anyway.

  Stella rose, muttered an excuse, and left, closing the library door behind her. But not quite. Holding her breath, she peeked through the crack she’d left. Assuming the door closed, Aunt Ivy snatched the letter from its hiding place and began reading again. A triumphant grin slowly stretched across her face. Stella’s heart sank.

  The Cheshire cat smile reminded her too much of her father’s. And like when her father had smiled, nothing good would come of it.

  * * *

  Stella took a deep breath and opened the door. It was pitch black. Stella crept across the carpet, warily feeling her way toward the crack of light seeping through from the window. When her outstretched hand touched the thick, hanging damask fabric, she flung open the drawn curtains, revealing the green, broad-leaved woodland that encroached right up to the stone wall encircling Pilley Manor. Some of the trees, although not yet changing in color, had shed dried leaves into the backyard. A tiny, long-tailed, brown and white bird captivated her attention as it spiraled up a thick tree trunk, picking at the bark with its delicate, downturned bill. When it flitted away, startled by the cry of a more aggressive bird approaching, Stella turned her back on the view and faced the bedroom.

  It was a man’s room with dark green and eggplant striped walls, a towering Eastlake mahogany bed with matching nightstand, and writing desk. There wasn’t a hint of a flower anywhere: not woven as a pattern in the rug, not painted on the walls, not carved into the bedstand, not wilting in a crystal vase. Instead, books were everywhere: on the nightstand, stacked beside the desk, packed into the trunk pushed against the footboard. With rare exceptions, they were accounting ledgers, studbooks, and books about husbandry and horses. On the desk, slitted envelopes and letters of correspondence filled the shallow wooden tray. A pair of reading spectacles lay on a copy of the Sporting Times Life, open to an article describing Challacombe’s win at Doncaster. An empty crystal ashtray sat side by side with the inkstand. Despite the servants’ best efforts, the stale stench of cigar still lingered in the air. As if Daddy might come through the door at any moment and reprimand me. Stella’s heart raced.

  As a child, Stella hadn’t been allowed in her father’s bedroom. But being curious, Stella had snuck in anyway. She’d pour over the engraved wooden boxes and tidy dresser drawers filled with the oddities only found in a gentleman’s wardrobe. She’d run her fingers lightly over cuff links and shirt studs, watch chains and fobs, black silk ties and white detachable collars, admiring how strange and wonderful they were.

  But she wasn’t a child anymore. And her father wasn’t going to walk through the door. Yet she still gravitated toward the boxes of glittering gold cuff links and bejeweled shirt studs, knowing she’d learn nothing about his death there. But they’d belong to him, things he’d purchased and prized, and that was enough. When the moment for loss and nostalgia was over, she tackled the business of sorting through his business and private papers.

  Most of what she found, not surprisingly, concerned the breeding and selling of his horses in Kentucky, correspondences, bills of sale, and the like. His time in England hadn’t diminished his involvement in the farm. Among these, she discovered the marriage settlement agreement between him and Lord Atherly. The language read, with words such as asset, trustee, and benefactors sprinkled throughout, as a dry, cold testament to what she thought marriage should be. She couldn’t read more than a few lines before tossing it back in the drawer.

  After rummaging through the drawers and the piles of correspondence, she thumbed through his studbooks and accounting ledgers. She was starting to doubt she’d find anything of use when she discovered a studbook under the desk on the floor. Tucked between two seemingly random pages recording the birth of two foals more than a decade ago was a copy of her father’s will. Why had he brought it to England? Perhaps Lord Atherly had requested proof Stella was to inherit the fortune necessary to pay off his debts and fund his future fossil expeditions? If so, Lord Atherly would be pleased. Initially, her father had promised that Stella would be
bestowed ten million dollars on her wedding day. But now that he was dead, her wedding gift wasn’t the half of it. Assuming Stella agreed to marry Lyndy, and her father didn’t live to attend the wedding, she was to be his sole beneficiary. She inherited everything: his vast monetary fortune, the house in New York, the cottage in Newport, the horse farm in Kentucky, the horses, his railroad stocks, his priceless books, his Daimler car, even the diamond cuff links she’d admired earlier. Everything.

  Stella gasped, her throat tightening, overwhelmed by the generosity she hadn’t expected. Was his will proof, not just for Lord Atherly that he’d provide for her upon her wedding but for Stella, that he’d loved her all along?

  She continued to read, her gratitude dissipating with every word as she discovered her inheritance had been entirely contingent on her doing his bidding. He wanted her obedience, not her love. If she’d refused to agree to marry Lyndy, he would’ve cut her out completely. Upon his death, the entirety of his wealth would’ve gone to building and funding a racetrack in Lexington, one to rival Churchill Downs, to be named Kendrick Park. Without an allowance to live on, Stella would’ve been destitute. Her father’s threats had been real, startling so. Luckily, she’d agreed to his terms, and now her fortune was secured.

  Staring at her father’s wishes, she wondered. Did she wish she’d never known, blissfully believing he’d given her his fortune out of love? No. She was glad to learn the truth, however painful. Then Stella noticed the date, April 21, 1905, typed into the top of the page. He’d made this new will days before they’d left for England. What had the old one said? Had the contents of the old one been drastically different? A sourness seeped up from the pit of her stomach. Stella dropped into her father’s desk chair.

  Did Uncle Jed or Aunt Ivy or any of the others know the contents of the previous will and, not knowing it had been changed, expected to inherit a fortune? Was that why Daddy was killed?

  CHAPTER 18

  Lyndy couldn’t remember being on Fleet Street before. But then again, it was an unremarkable section of the city, block after block of grimy, soot-coated, multistoried gray and red stone buildings squashed together lining the street. Lyndy abhorred London. Luckily, he wouldn’t be stopping for long. When the hansom cab rumbled to a halt, Lyndy squinted up at number 52, a towering, drab monstrosity that rose seven stories, with rows of windows that reflected the bleak buildings across the street and stretched half the block. What a dreary place to have to spend one’s day.