Murder at Keyhaven Castle

by Clara McKenna

  “It was your niece who gave them to us. And before you say they belong to you, we’ve been able to verify the gun is the same as that which Jesse Prescott was known to carry.”

  “So, what if it is? Maybe he gave it to me.”

  “Or maybe you stole them?”

  “You’ll never know, will ya?” Jed Kendrick straightened up his stool and inquired if anyone had a match. Heads shook despite the visible matchbox on the mantelpiece.

  “Oh, I know, Mr. Kendrick. I’ve put a call in to Scotland Yard, who’ll, in turn, contact the authorities in Kentucky. But I don’t have to wait to hear what they say. You’re a thief, Mr. Kendrick. There’s no use in pretending. But what I’m not certain of is whether you’re a murderer too.”

  Brown had never seen scrawny Old Joe move so fast. When he slipped down from his stool, he collided with Silas backing away from the bar. The two men wrangled with each other, trying to beat the other to a safe distance.

  “I didn’t kill my brother,” Jed Kendrick insisted, swiping the unlit cigar from his mouth. “I reckon whoever did had good reason, though. Lord knows I’ve thought about it, but ya can’t pin this on me; I wasn’t anywhere near that tower.”

  “Right!” Brown declared, snatching up his hat and standing. “I can’t prove it yet, so for now, Jedidiah Kendrick, I’m arresting you for theft.”

  “What about my kids?” the American demanded when Brown grabbed his arm and deftly handcuffed the man’s wrists together. “What will happen to Sammy and Gertrude?”

  “You should’ve thought about them when you were stealing some else’s property.”

  Jed Kendrick laughed mirthlessly. “Why do ya think I steal in the first place? Elijah’s a heartless bastard, that’s why. All my life he’s been stingy with his money. But I came all this way, and still, he wouldn’t give me a red cent, even when I begged for the sake of my kids.”

  The inspector pushed the cuffed man in front of him with difficulty. The drunken American lurched forward, tripping over his own feet. As they navigated the tables, customers scraped back their chairs to avoid the pair.

  “Waterman!” Brown called when he reached the front door. His burly constable was quick to relieve Brown of the staggering criminal. “Who’s going to provide for your children now, Mr. Kendrick? With you in prison? Did you not think of that?”

  “Don’t you worry about it. My brother’s death did us all a favor. I’ve seen his will. He’s left my boy a small fortune.”

  He thinks he’s to inherit. Quite the motive, I’d say.

  All Brown had to do now was prove Jed Kendrick was in the castle, and not out on the spit as he claimed, and he could peg him for that murder too.

  “Didn’t you know, Mr. Kendrick?” Brown said when he escorted him toward the police wagon. Brown unwrapped Matilda’s reins from the post and climbed up onto the box seat as Waterman wrangled the American into the back. “Your brother made a new will in April. He cut out your Sammy completely. Miss Kendrick inherits the lot.”

  “Augh!” Jed Kendrick cried, kicking the boards so hard the wagon rocked to the side. Waterman pulled out his billy club, the gold paint of the royal crest flashing in the setting sun, and threatened to give the suspect a good wallop. That stopped the kicking.

  “Which means,” Brown called over his shoulder, as he snapped the reins and the wagon lurched forward, “if you did kill your brother, you did it for nothing.”

  * * *

  On her way back from the stables, large drops of rain splattered around Stella. The sky had darkened since she left Lyndhurst. She dodged the garden fountain, cut across the lawn, and ran for the front door, missing the worst of the downpour. Shaking off her hat, she handed it to James, the first footman, and asked after Lyndy. He was in the music room, she was told. An odd choice, given it was only used when Lord and Lady Atherly hosted a large party, which was rare these days, considering their recent financial problems. Perhaps that’s why Lyndy chose it.

  Stella lingered in the open doorway, watching Lyndy pace, like a wildcat in a cage, from the grand piano to the window overlooking the pond and back, each time tapping different, discordant piano keys. When he caught sight of her in the doorway, he bounded toward her with an expression of concern, mingled with anger and frustration, subtle though it was.

  “There you are! Almost called in the bloodhounds to track you down.” His voice was stern and scolding, but the lightness to his step belied his anger. He took her in his arms, his skin smelling of soap and shaving cream. He was dressed for dinner. Stella expected him to pull back when he realized she was wet, but he didn’t. Instead, the muscles in his back and shoulders relaxed in her embrace. “Come, sit. I know you’d like to change, but I have news that can’t wait.” Lyndy rang the bell. “I’ll have someone bring you a cup of tea.”

  “I have news too,” she said, settling beside him on the settee set closest to the piano. Like most everything else in the room, the jacquard fabric was a light shade of blue. From there, Stella had a perfect view of the tan, white-spotted deer at the water’s edge, taking a drink as the splattering rain created circular ripples across the pond. She had to ask. “But why were you waiting in here?”

  “To avoid Mother and the Swensons.”

  Stella nodded in appreciation. She was in no mood to cross any of their paths either. “They’re still here?”

  “They left to change, but their return is imminent. Seems Mother invited them to dinner, given their host is dead. Speaking of, how are you holding up?”

  She smiled but, overwhelmed with emotion, didn’t want to talk about it. “But why hide in here?”

  “This being a highly neglected room, I thought it our best bet.”

  “Unless, of course, Mrs. Swenson insists on showing off Penny’s musical talents,” Stella teased. How often had she’d listened to Penny complain about having to practice? “She’s an accomplished pianist.”

  Lyndy groaned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Never mind. Did you learn anything in London?”

  Lyndy, turning to face her, took her hand and kissed it. “I did indeed. I learned a great deal about Mr. Jesse James Prescott today.”

  “Was there a connection with Daddy?”

  He leaned toward her as if about to reveal a secret. “You were right. It was none other than your father who informed the authorities about the criminal actions of Mr. Prescott and his cohorts.”

  Stella leaned back against the wooden scrollwork of the settee. She knew it. She knew there had to be a connection between the two men. “A good reason to want to kill my father, don’t you think?”

  Lyndy nodded. “And considering the jockey wasn’t the only one implicated or who had his life ruined, one might easily assume Prescott wasn’t here in this country alone. An accomplice, you might say. Perhaps that’s who killed your father, or perhaps who has the jockey’s gun.”

  It was Stella’s turn to relay her news.

  “What?” Lyndy exclaimed when she’d told him where she found the gun. “How did your uncle get them? Do you think your uncle is Prescott’s accomplice?”

  Stella shook her head. “I don’t know. But I do know Jesse Prescott wasn’t the only one with a motive to want Daddy dead.” She told him about the will.

  She thought Lyndy would be pleased (she knew Lady Atherly would be) considering her inheritance would soon be his. But as Stella laid out its details, Lyndy visibly reigned in his emotions: his admiration of her, the puzzlement over Uncle Jed’s role in all this, the excitement in sharing his news. It had taken her months to be able to read his expressions, and one by one, they slipped from his face. He gently set her hand aside, though she reached for him, stood, and stepped over to stare out the rain-streaked window. The fallow deer was gone. The pond seemed bleak and lonely.

  “Then you truly are free, to do as you like, to follow your heart’s desire.” His voice was flat and apathetic.

  Like the first day I met him. She’d forgotten how open
he’d become.

  “Yes, I feel guilty about it, but relieved too. So relieved.”

  Lyndy turned back to her. His face was a blank, as flat as his voice. Had she said too much? Did he think less of her now?

  “So, what will you do?”

  “I’ll follow my heart’s desire, as you said. No matter what your mother and Reverend Paine say, we’re going to marry, one way or another. It’s what my father wanted. It’s what I want.”

  He crossed the room with a few long strides, dropped to one knee, and took her face in his hands. He regarded her in silence as if committing her features to memory before leaning in. Stella hungered in anticipation of his kiss. But at the sound of approaching footsteps, Lyndy merely touched his forehead to hers and sighed. “I’d forgotten about the tea.” He pushed himself back to his feet.

  “Ah, finally back, are you, Miss Kendrick?” Lady Atherly said, entering the room, Lord Atherly, Lady Alice, and the Swensons right behind her. Lyndy immediately stepped back over to the window.

  “What are you doing in here, Mother?” he asked, his arms folded across his chest.

  Lady Atherly ignored him. “Whatever have you two been up to today? You didn’t tell me you were going to miss tea. Shouldn’t you get dressed, Miss Kendrick?” Stella still wore her damp riding clothes.

  “Miss Swenson and I are going to play a duet on the piano.” Lady Alice, setting her ever-present stack of American magazines on the piano, answered her brother’s question. The top one had a bright red cover to match its name, Redbook. “When we’d exhausted reading my latest magazines, Mrs. Swenson suggested Miss Swenson and I entertain everyone before dinner.”

  Stella and Lyndy shared a smile at their earlier joke.

  “And you, Miss Kendrick,” Lady Atherly disapprovingly droned on, as if her daughter hadn’t spoken, “are supposed to be in mourning.”

  “She couldn’t have been out riding for this long,” Penny muttered snidely, fluffing the pink ribbon roses sewn into the neckline of her dress.

  “No, among other things, I had an illuminating discussion with Sir Owen.”

  Penny’s jaw dropped. Then suddenly, the contents of her handbag seemed more compelling to Penny than learning more about Stella’s day. But Lyndy and Lord Atherly were anxious to know more.

  “How is Owen?” Lyndy asked.

  “I do hope our young chap isn’t buckling under the pressure down at the station,” Lord Atherly said. “Sir Charles promised to have him out by tomorrow’s supper.”

  “I think he’ll be out before then,” Stella reassured him. “Inspector Brown’s decided Sir Owen didn’t have anything to do with killing my father.”

  “Really?” Mr. Swenson said, voicing the question on Lyndy’s face. Stella hadn’t gotten a chance to tell Lyndy about that part of it yet.

  Before Stella could explain further, Lord Atherly said, “That is jolly good news. I never did think he had it in him. Are you going to play something for us, Alice?”

  When Lady Alice urged Penny to join her at the piano, Mrs. Swenson sat beside Stella on the settee, caressing the diamond chain around her neck with one hand, patting Stella on the knee with the other. “I thought you were going to change, Stella,” she whispered from the side of her mouth while keeping her attention on Penny. “Lady Atherly’s right. It’s not decent for a young woman in mourning.”

  When Stella didn’t reply, Mrs. Swenson continued.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you more suitable attire from Jay’s of Regent Street in London. They should arrive early tomorrow.” Mrs. Swenson paused, waiting, no doubt, for a show of Stella’s gratitude. It wasn’t forthcoming.

  As the young women arranged themselves on the piano bench, the others took a seat. Fulton arrived with a silver tray holding a small silver teapot, a delicate ivory teacup with bands of gold around the rim, and a stack of black-rimmed envelopes tucked beneath the saucer.

  “Those arrived at Pilley Manor,” Mrs. Swenson said, pointed to the envelopes. “Since Stella is staying here, I asked Mr. Tims to send them up. I left the wedding packages there. I hope I did the right thing, Lady Atherly.”

  “You did, Mrs. Swenson,” Lady Atherly said, reassuring her guest. “Miss Kendrick needs to learn who remembers her in this trying time . . . and who doesn’t.”

  Stella’s ears burned in repressed irritation. Leave it to Lady Atherly to point out how people might still snub Stella, even now, after all this time.

  “I dare say,” Lady Atherly continued, “condolences and wedding presents arriving at the same time is unprecedented in my experience.” As if such a thing happened all the time to Stella.

  “The presents must’ve been sent before we learned of . . . well, before the wedding was postponed,” Lord Atherly offered. “Ladies?” He motioned for Lady Alice and Penny to play. “I do so love Schubert’s Fantasia.”

  They obliged, with Mr. Swenson volunteering to turn the pages.

  As the soft strains of the music filled the room, Stella sipped her tea and stared at the window, imagining the pond and the garden and the paddocks she could no longer see for the rain and darkened sky. Instead, it reflected the women at the piano, their fingers moving with agility and accuracy, Mr. Swenson beside them, periodically turning the score. The music was beautiful, and Stella appreciated the talent it took to play, but oh, how she wished she were somewhere else. Stella began sifting through the condolence cards. She recognized most of the names: those of Lord Atherly’s neighbors, her neighbors in Rosehurst, acquaintances she’d met at dinners and balls across the Forest, merchants from the nearby towns. Even Mr. Heppenstall, the owner of the Knightwood Oak, had taken the time to send a note. But one envelope had no return address, though the handwriting was faintly familiar. Wasn’t it the same as on the card enclosed with the thoughtful, though anonymous, souvenir spoon wedding gift? If so, she was eager to read their kind words.

  Not waiting to find a letter opener, she ripped the fold of the envelope with her finger. Inside was a card of a beautifully embossed blue and green butterfly that appeared to lift off the ivory paper and flitter through the surrounding field of forget-me-nots. The caption read, Sincere Regards. Stella turned the card over, hoping it was signed. It wasn’t. But in the same handwriting as the anonymous gift, the inscription read, My dearest Stella, I thank God you are finally free of him.

  Stella flung the card as if it had burned her fingers. It soared past the piano, nearly clipping Penny in the ear, and landed short of the fireplace. The music stopped abruptly.

  “What is it, Stella?”

  Lyndy jumped from his chair, but Penny bolted off the piano bench, the first to retrieve the card. She read it out loud.

  “That is awful,” Penny said, in a rare show of agreeance after reading it. She handed the card to Lyndy, who tossed it onto the fire grate. It flared into flame and quickly dissolved into the ashes. “Who sent it?”

  Stella shook her head. “It wasn’t signed.”

  “How could anyone be so cruel?” Lady Alice said.

  “And so cowardly,” Lyndy added.

  Everyone, even Lady Atherly, showed various heartfelt signs of agreement and disbelief. Yet guilt warred with Stella’s initial anger and revulsion. Hadn’t she had the same thoughts, the same relief to be free of her father’s control? But who was this person, who refused to be known, to put into words such an ugly thing?

  “Perhaps Tims saw who delivered it,” Lyndy mused, thinking like Stella that they needed to know who this was.

  “I would dismiss it altogether. Brush it completely from your mind,” Lady Atherly said, with a sweep of her hand, as if that would do the job. “As you said, we have no idea who this person is. Therefore, they do not matter, and neither does what they say.”

  Mrs. Swenson nodded in hearty agreement, patting Stella’s knee again. “You poor orphaned child, you shouldn’t add to your troubles by giving it another thought.”

  “But the sender seems to have such perverse inten
tions,” Penny said, ignoring the advice of the older women. “Besides the killer, who would possibly be happy Mr. Kendrick is dead?”

  The crackle in the grate and the call of a far-off bird alone pierced the silence that ensued. The chime of the grandfather clock in the hall announced seven o’clock. And still, no one responded.

  How could anyone answer a question like that?

  Lord Atherly cleared his throat. “More Schubert, anyone?”

  CHAPTER 22

  Stella lifted her skirts, made of black crape to satisfy convention, and stepped off the gangplank unto the ferry’s deck. She spied the upper promenade and, wanting a better view, made her way up. She gravitated toward the railing at the front, raised her face to the sun, and smiled.

  Has it only been two days since I got the anonymous sympathy card? Two of the most miserable days of her life.

  The rain and the mud had kept her from riding. Dark clouds had closed in on the Forest, shutting out the sun and all sense of color. The wind had whistled through tiny cracks in the window seams, slicing through every jacket and overcoat Stella had worn. But the weather hadn’t been the half of it. The first day Stella had called at Pilley Manor. It had been stuffed to the rafters with bouquets of cut flowers sent by dignitaries, local merchants, and varied horse racing enthusiasts. She had appreciated the irony; her father had never been so well-liked. Stella loved fresh flowers, though not as much as Lady Atherly, and the color had been a welcome reprieve from the dreariness outside. But the fragrance of hundreds of them, set on every tabletop, had been overpoweringly sweet. Among this circus of color and scent, Stella had sat through a tedious recount of all the ways Mrs. Swenson had helped with the funeral arrangements. She’d endured Penny’s searching glare as Penny wondered how much Stella knew about her and Sir Owen. And worst of all, she’d had to face the short, tearful encounter with Sammy and Gertie when she’d told them their father might not be coming home. It had taken up much of her day, keeping her from doing much else. She’d hoped to hear news from Inspector Brown, but no word came, nothing further about Uncle Jed and the case against him, nothing about the inspector’s interview with the baron, nothing. The highlight of that day had been Sir Owen’s humble and abashed return to Morrington Hall after breakfast. Justice, for him at least, had been served.