“You’re not making sense,” Brown said, unsuccessfully suppressing his exasperation. “How could he die of a broken neck, and yet the broken neck not be the cause of his death?”
Dr. Lipscombe scowled, his white, bushy eyebrows meeting in the middle. “What I said was that the broken vertebrae didn’t cause his death. He also suffered from a fractured hyoid bone.” He pointed to a bone near the victim’s Adam’s apple.
“His neck was broken in two different places, front and back?”
“Exactly. And each was caused by two different actions.” Dr. Lipscombe directed Brown’s attention to the back of the victim’s neck again. “This injury resulted from the fall, and this”—he then pointed to the front of the dead man’s neck—“is from strangulation, the direct cause of death. Your victim, Inspector, was dead before he hit the stairs.”
But that can’t be. A castle full of witnesses said otherwise.
“And there’s more,” Dr. Lipscombe carried on, frustrating Brown’s desire to dispute the surgeon’s findings. “Do you recall the black flecks you found on the victim’s skin?” With a slow and measured gait, the medical examiner strolled to a small table neatly lined with shiny metal instruments and retrieved a small, shallow, glass dish.
“Was it coal dust?”
“No, see for yourself.”
Brown took the proffered hand lens and studied the sparkle of the dark flakes, holding the glass closer to the low-hanging lamp. “They’re metal?”
“Wrought iron to be precise.” Dr. Lipscombe gently seized the glass dish away from Brown, setting it carefully on the table beside the body’s right arm. “Do you recall any such thing at Keyhaven Castle?”
“It was a medieval fortress, Doctor. Have you never been? The use of wrought iron at Keyhaven Castle was compulsory. They made everything with it: pots, poles, lances, lanterns, hooks, gates, cannons, coal storage doors, window casings, stairwell railings . . .”
“We’re looking for something circular that might’ve made these.” Dr. Lipscombe indicated the marks on Mr. Kendrick’s neck, which Brown had assumed were strangulation marks.
“Not finger bruises, then?”
“Indeed not. I found additional flecks of wrought iron in the folds of the neck, on the palm of the right hand, and under three fingernails, two on the right hand and one on the left. And no evidence of blood on the victim, either.”
“But what does that tell us?”
“That the killer didn’t use his or her hands to strangle the victim. From the location of the marks, I believe whatever caused these marks is also what broke the victim’s hyoid bone.”
But that would broaden Brown’s scope of suspects. (Without a motive, Sir Owen Rountree was the least likely of them.) If a weapon was used, even a woman might’ve been able to subjugate a bigger, stronger man.
“And it tells us he struggled against it.” With his fingers curled, the medical examiner illustrated how someone would get the metal under his nails when he attempted to put space between his windpipe and the thing that was choking him.
“There are quite a few rings built into the walls for securing cannons, horses, and the like, but nothing . . .” Suddenly Brown remembered the purpose of the room at the top of the tower stairs.
“Inspector?”
“The drawbridge chains. The pulleys are housed at the top of the stairs from where the victim lay. From there, the chains are easily accessible and surprisingly pliable. You believe our killer wrapped the medieval chain around Mr. Kendrick’s neck to throttle him?”
“That would indeed fit the pattern.”
“And our killer then shoved the body down the stairs?”
“Yes, that would be my conclusion.” Dr. Lipscombe lifted the cotton sheet over Mr. Kendrick’s face. “I know you are a busy man, Inspector. If you are satisfied, I think we’re done here.”
“I have but one question.”
“And what would that be?”
“If our man was dead before he hit the stairs, how could he scream as he fell?”
* * *
Stella stared at the drab, unadorned wall where the cracks of a break in the plaster resembled a whitewashed spiderweb. Inspector Brown was out on another call but should be back shortly, or so she’d been told. She could wait or come back. The room smelled of burnt coffee. The policeman at the desk, with sticky brown bits of the drink still clinging to his blond mustache, ignored her as he typed up a report, one key at a time. Click. Pause. Clack. Pause. Click. She rubbed her hand against the pile of the red velvet on the photo album, distorting the color and shine, then smoothed the fabric again. How long was she going to have to wait? Click. Pause. Clack. She sprang up, as if the hidden gun was burning a hole in her lap, and approached the desk again.
“May I speak to Sir Owen Rountree while I wait for Inspector Brown?”
“I don’t think—” the officer behind the typewriter began.
“It’s all right, Betts,” Constable Waterman reassured his colleague when he rounded the corner. He acknowledged Stella with a respectful tip of his head. “I know Miss Kendrick.”
The other shrugged, his attention focused a moment longer than was polite on Stella’s forehead. “If you say so, sir.”
Stella self-consciously tugged the brim of her short top riding hat lower, hoping to hide the cut there.
Constable Waterman waved for her to follow him to the end of the long, stark hallway to a row of painted metal doors. When the constable slid back the plate of the small opening set at eye level in the first door, Stella caught a glimpse of the man incarcerated inside. Seated on the wooden plank attached to the cell’s back wall, his elbows resting on his knees, Sir Owen cradled his head in his hands, his tie dangling toward the floor. He wore the same brown suit he’d been wearing for the picnic yesterday.
At the sound of the constable wrangling an impressive set of keys, he glanced up. Stella flinched. Stubble dotted his cheeks, dark rings shadowed his eyes, and the gash on his face had scabbed over, a greenish yellow bruise spread beyond it. The family resemblance to Lyndy unnerved her.
The constable swung open the door. “Someone to see you, Sir Owen.”
Sir Owen leaped to his feet. “Oh, Miss Kendrick. Am I to be released?”
Stella, stepping forward into the bleak, gray cell with more confidence than she felt, answered, “No, I’m here to ask you a few questions.” She glanced over her shoulder at the constable. “In private, if that’s possible.”
“Of course. I’ll be through there if you need me.” The constable wagged his thumb in the direction of the offices they’d passed.
As if in silent agreement, neither spoke until the policeman’s footfalls were no longer audible in the cell. Sir Owen spoke first.
“I didn’t hurt your father, Miss Kendrick. I didn’t even see him after we all parted ways in the courtyard. I swear to you on the honor of my family, our family.” He motioned back and forth between them. “You have my sincerest condolences.”
He was right. When Stella married Lyndy, this man would be her cousin too. She so wanted to believe him.
“Then what happened to your face?”
He touched his cheek as if he’d forgotten about the wound. “I’m ashamed to say.”
“This is not the time for coyness, Sir Owen. You owe me an explanation.”
“Will you promise not to repeat what I say? I shan’t be party to damaging the young lady’s reputation. It could cause quite the scandal.”
“Scandal? You could hang.” His face turned pale as if he hadn’t considered that. “Is this about Penny? You claim she’d been with you.”
“Because it’s the truth.” He plunked back down on the wooden bench. “Why won’t Miss Swenson admit to it?”
“Probably for the reason you said. Penny’s worried about tarnishing her reputation.”
“But simply admitting she was with me wouldn’t do that.”
There was more to this story. Why else would Penny lie? She wasn�
��t that cruel.
“You still haven’t told me about your wound.”
“That was her doing,” He searched Stella’s face as if trying to read whether she believed him or not. When she frowned, he rested his head against the wall. “Not that I didn’t deserve it.”
Why wasn’t Stella surprised? Penny had been a bully of a child. It didn’t take much imagination to picture her translating that into tantrums when she didn’t get her way with men.
“If I’m going to help you . . .” What made her say that? Did she believe him? Sir Owen hadn’t argued with her father, nor had he any reason to kill him. They hadn’t known each other long enough.
“You will help me?” Sir Owen’s head perked up; his face brightened. “Will you secure my release?”
“Maybe.” Stella joined him on the plank bench, clutching the photo album to her chest. “But you must tell me everything. And I want the truth.”
So, he did. Sir Owen jumped to his feet and paced the tiny bare cell, again reminding her of Lyndy, and admitted to flirting with Penny during the dinner party Stella had missed and to stealing off together at the castle.
“We were stealing kisses in a room off the tower when Miss Swenson asked when we were to be wed.” He paused, staring at the concrete floor as if reliving the moment. Luckily, he couldn’t see Stella’s ears redden when she remembered her own intimate moment in the castle. “When I informed her I was soon to be engaged to another, she slapped me.”
Stella was skeptical. He wasn’t telling her the whole truth.
“One thing I don’t understand is why, after a little flirting and kissing, Penny would expect you to marry her.”
Sir Owen tugged on his lapels, a gesture she’d seen Lyndy do hundreds of times, reminding her again of their family ties. He shot a nervous glance at the open cell door, knowing the constable was close at hand. He approached and leaned slightly toward her to whisper. “We might’ve arranged an assignation after the dinner party.”
“And?”
“And we . . . huh . . . were . . . uhmm . . . we . . .” He began pacing again.
“You didn’t!” Stella was mortified. No wonder Penny was upset. Stella resisted the urge to slap Sir Owen on Penny’s behalf. “And you call yourself a gentleman?”
“No, no,” Sir Owen stammered, waving his hands in denial. “Steady on. I would never go so far as that.”
Stella was relieved to hear it, but a suspicion flashed in her mind, and her question stopped him, midpace.
“That’s why you were at Pilley Manor that night. You were in the library canoodling with Penny, weren’t you?”
Sir Owen grew pink in the face and nodded sheepishly.
Oh, Penny. What was she thinking, being alone with a man in the middle of the night? No wonder Sir Owen worried about Penny’s reputation. No wonder they worried about getting caught. If this had gotten out, it would’ve ruined her. “Go on. Tell me what happened at the castle.”
“As I said, I didn’t touch your father. Miss Swenson’s outburst caused the gash.”
“But Penny was wearing gloves, Sir Owen. No slap could’ve caused that.” She pointed to his wound.
“No, you’re right, of course. And do call me Owen. But Miss Swenson and I were in a dark recess and hadn’t noticed how close we were to the wrought iron hooks on the wall. That bit was true enough.”
Stella had noticed the hooks throughout the castle. Mounted in pairs, at about Sir Owen’s height, according to Lyndy, they were used to store long musket rifles along the walls. She’d also noticed how rough and pointed the ends were. Smashing his cheek into one of them could’ve caused an ugly cut.
“Right after she stormed away is when I heard the shout. Concerned, I sought her out, despite our row, and ended up spotting you and your father at the bottom of the stairwell instead.”
If he was telling the truth, then Penny could’ve killed her father. But despite Penny’s capacity for lashing out, Stella couldn’t think of a motive for Penny any more than she could Sir Owen. From what she’d discovered in her uncle’s room, Uncle Jed had a perfect reason to want his brother dead.
But Uncle Jed had been nowhere near the castle, and Daddy was strangled, not shot. Stella hugged the photo album tighter.
“Do you believe me?” Sir Owen’s pleading pulled Stella out of her reverie.
“I do.”
The muscles in his face, his shoulders, his back relaxed as relief visibly washed over him.
“Miss Kendrick?” Constable Waterman approached, the echo of his footfalls preceding him. “The inspector is back and can see you now.”
Stella followed the constable out of the cell, noting the fresh muddy boot prints that ran down the middle of the hall, and stopped at the inspector’s office door. She turned back to Owen. “I’ll do what I can to get you released. And to keep your secret.”
Stella ignored the raised eyebrow on the constable’s face when he grasped the metal door handle and tugged it to get the heavy door moving.
As the open space between them shrank, Sir Owen called, “My God, Lyndy is a lucky man. He told me you were cracking, but now I know he wasn’t exaggerating.”
“You’re not a free man yet,” she reminded him when the door shut with a loud clang.
No, he wasn’t free, but she was convinced of his innocence. Her father’s killer was still out there.
CHAPTER 20
Inspector Brown couldn’t believe what he was hearing. They’d combed every inch of the Southampton docks, conducted thorough witness interviews, and had spoken to every resident and landowner within a half mile from the spot where Jesse Prescott died. They’d found not a trace of the dead man’s billfold or revolver. Yet here was Miss Kendrick offering up the evidence he and the entirety of the Southampton County Borough Police couldn’t track down.
How does she do it?
“And you found this, where?”
“In the steam trunk that belongs to my uncle,” she said, pulling the long, pearl-tipped pin from her hair and setting her hat on his desk.
Brown wondered but said nothing of the cut that stretched across her brow.
“I had my suspicions, so I searched all the guest rooms.”
Upon Brown returning from Dr. Lipscombe’s, Miss Kendrick had arrived, thrusting the photo album at him as if it were a lump of hot coal, insisting he inspect it. He’d been dubious. But having learned to trust her instincts, despite her tactics being highly irregular, he’d flipped through the photographs and been rewarded. In a hollowed-out middle of the album lay the dead jockey’s missing wallet and pocket revolver. An ingenious hiding place. But not clever enough for the inquisitive Miss Kendrick. If the implications weren’t so dire, Brown would’ve offered her a congratulatory handshake. Instead, he was to add to the poor young woman’s misery.
“You know what this means, don’t you, Miss Kendrick?” Brown said, setting aside the near-empty wallet to inspect the gun more closely. “Considering what you told me of the contents of your father’s will?”
She nodded. “At best, Uncle Jed is lying about how he came to have these in his possession. At worst, he killed my father.”
“Either way, I’m obliged to arrest your uncle, if only for obstructing the investigation into Mr. Prescott’s death.”
“But that’s the least of it, Inspector.”
Miss Kendrick eased herself onto the edge of his desk; Brown, much to his chagrin, was seated in the sole chair in the room. She looked askew at the bookshelf mounted on the wall and bit her lip in concentration. “Somehow, all three men are connected: Uncle Jed, my father, and Jesse Prescott.” She wrinkled her nose. “You repainted the walls.”
She was referring to the smell of paint and Brown’s penchant to give his walls a fresh coat each time he started a new murder case. For years, his office had been pale blue, the color of a cuckoo’s egg. Since this spring, his walls had been gray, yellow, and now olive.
“I did. You were saying?”
“All
three men are connected. Before he died, Jesse Prescott wanted to kill someone. I think that someone was my father.”
She explained the confusion over her father’s place of residence. Brown, having to agree it made sense, leaned back in his chair, and patiently listened as she puzzled out the whole business out loud.
“Why the jockey hated my father so much, I don’t know yet. But Uncle Jed had an obvious reason to want him dead—to make sure he, or more specifically Sammy, inherits. That gives us two men who wanted Daddy dead, neither of whom could’ve killed him.” She held up one finger on her gloved right hand. “One because he was killed on the wharf the day before.” She lifted a second finger. “And the other because he was supposedly out on the spit at the time of the murder.”
She shook her head in disbelief and slipped from the desk. Brown straightened the pile of papers she’d inadvertently sat upon.
“And yet, my father was killed.”
“That is the unfortunate truth.” Brown sympathized, not only with the young woman’s loss but with the difficulty this case presented for both of them.
“And then there’s Uncle Jed’s connection with Jesse Prescott.” She continued as if she hadn’t heard, staring into the corner of the ceiling, thinking.
Brown followed her gaze and spotted a large, dried paint drip partway down the wall.
“Did Uncle Jed know the jockey from Kentucky?” she continued her musing. “Or did he happen to pick up Pistol Prescott’s gun and wallet from the street? No,” she said, answering her own question. “If he’d come by the jockey’s possessions honestly, he wouldn’t have hidden them; he wouldn’t have lied.”
“Quite!” Brown agreed.
“But how did he get them?” she wondered aloud. “No matter what he’s done, I can’t imagine my uncle stealing them off a dead man’s body.”
“From what I know of the witness statements, no one would’ve been able to. There were too many people about.”
“And what does Uncle Jed possessing Pistol Prescott’s wallet and gun have to do with my father’s death? Daddy wasn’t shot. He broke his neck.”
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