Murder at Keyhaven Castle

by Clara McKenna

  Yesterday, taken up with her father’s funeral, had been even worse. Stella painfully remembered listening to eulogies by people who barely knew her father who said kind words that didn’t ring true as she searched their faces for a hint of who might’ve sent the anonymous gift and card. Only when Mr. Swenson had spoken—of her father’s well-earned standing in the world of horse racing, his integrity on the turf (almost to a fault), his knack for knowing which foal was a champion, his love of winning, his tireless determination to get his own way—had Stella sensed any sincerity. Congregated beside the grave site, everyone dressed in black, their hats and umbrellas dripping with rain, Stella had heard Reverend Paine drone on but could no longer remember a word the vicar said. She couldn’t picture how she’d gotten to the churchyard or how she got back. All she remembered were regrets: that her father wasn’t being buried with his parents in the plot in Kentucky, that he’d never see her marry Lyndy and brag about it back home, that she wasn’t crying or mourning him the way she should. She remembered only that, and Lyndy beside her, their shoulders touching, his hand clasped in hers. They should’ve been on their honeymoon.

  So when Stella woke up this morning and learned of Baron Branson-Hill’s invitation to join him for a “distraction from the recent unpleasantries,” Stella wasn’t about to let the rules of mourning stop her from going to the Isle of Wight with the rest of them.

  If Inspector Brown isn’t going to tell me whether the baron knew anything about Pistol Prescott or not, I will have to ask the baron myself.

  Stella swiveled around and leaned against the railing. The full length of the promenade stretched before her. Dozens of fellow passengers milled about. She spotted Mr. Swenson, Penny, and Aunt Ivy emerge from the lower deck, the latter searching for Stella. Stella quickly turned her back, hoping to avoid detection. After so many social interactions these past two days, Stella craved to be alone, even for a few minutes.

  Of those invited, Lady Alice and Penny had been the most enthusiastic. The others were less so. Lady Atherly had declined to join them, having no interest in the baron’s horses (he’d promised to show off his most recent equine acquisition, the champion, Sceptre). However, she still insisted Stella, Lady Alice, and Penny be chaperoned. Aunt Rachel, having a proclivity to seasickness, had offered instead to care for the children. Mrs. Swenson was the obvious choice, but Mr. Swenson, eager to meet another famed racehorse, had graciously volunteered for the post. Lord Atherly had retired to his study, as usual. Sir Owen, still recovering from his time in the cell at the Lyndhurst police station, had begged off due to a terrible headache. Stella suspected he was fine but avoiding Penny. Aunt Ivy, who couldn’t decide, caught up with them on Lymington Pier a few minutes ago when Stella and the others boarded the ferry, P.S. Solent.

  Stella’s heart pounded with excitement when the two giant paddle wheels on each side of the boat revolved, churning the blue-gray water of the Lymington River. A white cloud of smoke, from the steam engine, billowed from the ferry’s smokestack, and they were off.

  The ferry paddled slowly, imperceivably at first, passing several idle barges, anchored rowboats, and yachts. It glided by the open courtyard-like public slip where an unshaven man, who dangled his legs and a fishing rod over the edge of the landing wall, raised his hat in greeting. It passed the two-story white-washed warehouses and breweries of brick and stone lining the town quay. The ferry paddled by the squat wooden buildings and partially built yachts of a boatyard before finally breaking free of the town. Only once before had Stella been on a boat, the ship that had carried her across the ocean. On this low-lying ferry, the passage felt personal; she could sense the roll of the waves, taste the spray of the cold, salty water on her face. She loved it.

  The paddle steamer slowly picked up speed, navigating between the sprawling thick brownish-green mats of floating marsh that marked the approaching mouth of the river. Stella breathed in their fresh, earthy, damp fragrance. Lyndy, restless as usual, complained of thirst and left with Lady Alice in search of refreshments. A loose flock of small, loudly honking, black-bellied geese flew overhead as Penny sidled up beside Stella at the railing. The geese landed on a nearby marsh bed, the little white patches on the bird’s necks flashing in the sunlight.

  “I hear I have you to thank for getting Sir Owen released.” Penny stared out at the geese, her sarcasm as sharp as nails on slate. “I thought you’d outgrown your need to be little miss goody-two-shoes. I see I was wrong.”

  “And I see you haven’t outgrown your propensity to lie when it suits you.” Penny sniffed at the comment but didn’t deny it. “Would you really have let Sir Owen take the blame for my daddy’s murder because he took some liberties with you?”

  “Took some liberties?” Penny snarled, turning on Stella. “The only reason I came to this cold, gloomy godforsaken country is to find myself a husband. What chances would I have if the truth got out?”

  “So, it would’ve been better Sir Owen hanged than you be forced to find a husband back home?” It was Stella’s turn to be sarcastic.

  “You have no idea. You have your Lord Lyndhurst to fawn over you. You’ve always had everyone fawn all over you.”

  How could Penny have such a skewed view of reality? Penny was the one all the boys at home had adored.

  “Who do you mean?”

  “Your dad, for one. After your mama died, he gave you everything you wanted.”

  “Except for his attention and affection. At least your parents love you. My mother died, and my father left me to be raised by stable hands and housemaids, who thank goodness had more compassion on a little girl than he did.”

  “And you had Miss Ivy,” Penny retorted. She clicked open her beaded handbag, the silver clasp reflecting the sun into a spot on the deck, and pulled out a handkerchief to dab at her watery eyes, “caused by the wind,” or so Penny said.

  Stella glanced toward her aunt, who was enjoying a laugh with Mr. Swenson farther down the promenade as a large gull, following the ferry, hovered with its outstretched wings not far above their heads.

  “Yes, for a little while, I had Aunt Ivy. But when I was old enough to marry, Daddy sold me to the highest bidder. When I refused to do what he wanted me to, he crushed my hand until I thought my bones would break. Is that what you mean by fawning over me?”

  Penny’s lip curled as she shoved the handkerchief back into her handbag. “You’re despicable, Stella. Do you know that? Your dad is dead, and here you are making up these horrendous stories about him. He can’t even defend himself from your lies. He loved you. He found you a husband you’d never get, or deserve, on your own. He secured your future, and this is how you show your gratitude? By vilifying his memory? Mama was right about you.”

  Mrs. Swenson? What had she told Penny? Stella asked, but Penny continued as if Stella hadn’t spoken.

  “You know why I was never nice to you? Because I was jealous. I always wished I could be you. Now I can’t even stand to be around you.” Penny turned on her heels but called over her shoulder, “One day, you’ll realize these British men are all the same. Sir Owen, Sir Alfred, Lord Lyndhurst. One day, you’ll realize how I feel. Used and then tossed aside.”

  Stella was speechless. Penny, jealous of her? How could Penny have gotten it so wrong? And to accuse her of lying about her father’s ill-treatment? Why would Stella do such a thing? The memories, the truth hurt. What tales had Mrs. Swenson been telling Penny? But something Penny said hit a nerve. Just as Sir Owen had taken advantage of Penny, endangering her reputation and prospects, Stella’s father had manipulated her, changed the whole course of her life for his selfish purposes. But Lyndy wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t using Stella, being kind and affectionate to get her money. He wasn’t going to throw her aside for someone else the moment they were married. No, Penny got everything else wrong. She was wrong about that too. Wasn’t she?

  Stella quickly aimed her face directly into the wind, letting it lash at her cheeks. It snatched at her
hat, threatening to loosen it from the pins. Then she pushed off from the railing, marched across the promenade and down the metal stairs. She’d seek out Lyndy. She’d find all the reassurance she needed in his eyes. When Stella reached the lower deck, lying so close to the water that if she kneeled she could put her hand in, she aimed for the first-class saloon cabin. She was sure to find Lyndy there. But when she stepped into deep shadow, she paused to discover what caused it. A lifeboat dangled directly over her head, blocking both the sun and her view of the promenade above. She slowly closed her eyes, relishing the momentary solitude of the spot. Setting aside the doubts, the guilt, the sorrow, the unanswered questions, she listened to the rush of the waves, the hum of the engine, the cry of birds, the laughter from distant passengers. It was the first moment of absolute peace she’d had in days.

  The sound of someone’s approach marked the end of the moment. She regrettably opened her eyes and took a step forward, toward the saloon door. In the next instant, someone grabbed her shoulder. Before she could identify who it was, they slapped the brim of her hat over her face and shoved her off the edge of the boat. She frantically clutched for a hold that wasn’t there, her scream drowned out by the whistling blast of steam from the ferry’s engine. Airborne, like the gulls, squawking and cawing overhead, the skirts of her black mourning dress flapped and fluttered in the wind like a flag for an excruciatingly long second. Her breath caught in her throat, cutting off any chance of crying out again, when she crashed into the frigid water and was enveloped by the ferry’s waves.

  * * *

  “Lord Lyndhurst! Lord Lyndhurst!”

  Mrs. Mitchell, waving to get his attention, hurried toward Lyndy, the netting and rosettes swathed about her hat flopping as she moved. He and Alice met the aunt halfway on their way out of the saloon.

  “Is Stella with you?” Stella’s aunt breathlessly asked while searching the faces of the passengers seated nearby. A great many had decided to pass the journey out of the wind.

  “No. She was enjoying the view on the promenade. Why?”

  “I saw her against the railing in front of the boat earlier, but then she was gone. I’ve searched everywhere. It’s as if she’s vanished.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Seven or eight minutes ago.”

  “Here!” Lyndy unceremoniously shoved the glasses of lemonade he’d purchased into his sister’s hands, the liquid sloshing over the rims and onto Alice’s gloves.

  “What is it, Lyndy?” Alice asked.

  Lyndy didn’t stay to answer but ran, racing up the metal staircase to the promenade, dodging passengers who got in his way. He reached the stretch of railing where he’d left Stella, and spun around, searching the deck in all directions. Lyndy spied Mr. Swenson and his daughter, but nowhere did he see Stella. Lyndy did as Mrs. Mitchell must have. He strode the length of the promenade, descended the far stairs, and crossed the entire span of the ferry on the lower deck, peering into the windows of the second-class cabin, and then entered the saloon again before ascending the stairs on the other side. Where was she?

  “Did you find her?” Alice asked when she and Mrs. Mitchell joined him.

  “No.”

  “What’s the problem, Lord Lyndhurst?” Mr. Swenson asked when he and Miss Swenson gathered around, searching Lyndy’s face for answers. “What’s happened?”

  Lyndy shook his head. He could hardly breathe.

  “Miss Kendrick’s gone missing,” Alice, still holding the glasses of lemonade, answered for him.

  Miss Swenson forced a laugh. “Of course she has.”

  “I’m sure she’s around somewhere,” Mr. Swenson said, casting an admonishing glare at his daughter.

  A lad, with the poor makings of a mustache, in a navy-blue seaman’s cap, dashed by. Lyndy snatched him by the sleeve, swinging him around.

  “Oi! Let me go.”

  “I’m unable to find my fiancée,” Lyndy informed him.

  “We’ve searched everywhere,” Mrs. Mitchell added.

  Grappling to keep his hat from flying off, the lad answered nervously, “Have you checked the ladies’ toilet room?”

  Lyndy glanced at Mrs. Mitchell, who was nodding her head. “I want her found.”

  “Of course you do, sir. I’m sure she’s simply—”

  Infuriated by the sailor’s tone, Lyndy grabbed him by the lapels. “Do you know who I am? I said I want her found.” Lyndy shook the lad as if the answer to Stella’s whereabouts might fall from his pockets.

  “Lord Lyndhurst,” Mr. Swenson admonished. “There’s no need for this.”

  Mr. Swenson be damned. Lyndy wasn’t going to be persuaded to release this man until he agreed to help.

  “I’m sure he’ll help any way he can,” the older American added as if reading Lyndy’s mind.

  “Of course, of course, milord. This isn’t a large vessel. If she’s onboard, we’ll find her. I promise. Please let me go.”

  Dear God! He said, “if.”

  Lyndy released his grip, and the lad ducked away and sped down the wooden planks.

  “Oh, Lyndy,” Alice said. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Could she have . . . ?”

  “Fallen overboard?” Lyndy said. He gripped the railing to steady himself and peered down. There was nothing but the roiling Solent beneath them.

  Mrs. Mitchell’s cheeks drained of color. “No. No, it can’t be.”

  “Do you think it’s possible . . .” Miss Swenson suggested, without a hint of petulance or pettiness, “that the death of her dad was too much? And with the wedding postponed and all, do you think maybe she . . . ?”

  With his fists clenched at his sides, his heart pounding so hard it hurt, Lyndy rounded on the woman, who stumbled back, startled to be the object of his anger.

  “Never, ever suggest such an un-Christian idea again,” he quietly warned.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I was simply suggesting that maybe . . .”

  “I know what you were suggesting, Miss Swenson,” Lyndy seethed. “If you knew Stella, as you claim, you’d never entertain such an absurd idea.”

  Mr. Swenson, whether to protect her daughter or assuage Lyndy’s anger, stepped between them and gripped Lyndy’s shoulder. “Now, now, this isn’t helping, is it?”

  Lyndy shrugged the man off and began to pace in a tight, clipped manner a few feet down the railing and back.

  “I wouldn’t worry so much, Lord Lyndhurst,” Mr. Swenson said, smoothing a curl from his daughter’s brow. “If Stella has gone overboard, the girl’s a strong swimmer. Do you remember, Penelope, darling, how you and she once swam in the Kentucky River?”

  Miss Swenson, too self-absorbed with her wounded pride, pouted and didn’t reply.

  How could the man be so nonchalant? Lyndy wanted to throttle him. Did Mr. Swenson not mark the churning water? The power of the paddle wheels? Did he not realize how cold it was?

  “I doubt Miss Kendrick was wearing mourning attire on that occasion,” Lyndy sneered.

  Mr. Swenson stroked his beard and frowned as if he hadn’t considered that. Suddenly the whistle blew, and the ferry picked up speed.

  “What the bloody hell!”

  Lyndy rocketed down the promenade and up to the ferry’s wheelhouse. He threw open the door, sending it smashing against the inner wall. The captain, presumably, in his white cap and a double row of brass buttons on his jacket, stood rooted like a giant before the wooden steering wheel. The man must be six and a half feet tall.

  “Steady on! You’re not allowed in here,” another man in a seaman’s cap, consulting a clipboard, protested.

  “Why are you continuing? If anything, we need to turn back,” Lyndy demanded. “We haven’t found her yet.”

  The captain calmly nodded to the sailor to take the helm and motioned to Lyndy to join him on the small platform beyond the wheelhouse door. “Lord Lyndhurst, is it not?”

  “It is. And I demand you turn around this instant.”

 
“I know of your request, my lord, and we are searching the ferry for your lady friend as we speak.”

  “But what if she’s not on the ferry?”

  “You think she’s gone overboard?”

  “It’s possible. That’s why I insist you go back.”

  “When was the last time she was seen?”

  “Going on ten minutes, maybe a little more.”

  The captain solemnly removed his cap and tucked it under his arm, his carriage stiff and unwavering, as if bracing himself for what he was about to convey.

  “If that is the tragic case, my lord, I regret the time has passed for any type of rescue mission. We should be almost two miles away by now. I am sorry.”

  “Is that it? Is that all you’re willing to do?”

  “I shall, of course, inform His Majesty’s Coastguard, but I have an obligation to my other passengers. But let’s not give up hope she’ll be found onboard.”

  The ferry wasn’t that big, and the captain knew it. If Stella were onboard, they would’ve found her by now. Lyndy pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, willing the pounding in his head to go away. She couldn’t be dead. He wouldn’t accept it.

  “You have a lifeboat. I shall search for Miss Kendrick myself.” Lyndy stepped forward to leave, but the captain’s outstretched arm blocked his path.

  “I can’t let you do that, my lord. Your safety is my responsibility, and it is not safe out there right now.”

  “Which is exactly my point. Now, out of my way,” Lyndy commanded, but the captain didn’t budge.

  “I understand your anger and frustration, my lord, but aboard this boat, I am in charge. You’re more than welcome to stay aboard when the others disembark in Yarmouth and return with us to Lymington straightaway, but I must insist you calm down and return to your party. I, in turn, shall do my utmost to ensure a timely return.”