“My lord?”
Lord Atherly slid open a drawer in the desk, pulled out a small, blue, oval-shaped, velvet box, and opened it. Instead of a ring, a horse premolar protruded from the crease in the velvet. “A cheek tooth of what I believe belongs to Equus spelaeus.”
Gridley had come to Morrington Hall prepared to impress Lord Atherly. Suddenly, the boot was on the other foot. Gridley snatched up a hand lens and held the tooth beneath the light of the lamp.
“It would be the first example of its kind ever found in Britain. Have you told anyone?” If Clive Hale found out about this discovery, Gridley’s rival would stop at nothing to get his hands on it. “Where did you uncover it?”
“In one of the barrows, not far from here.” Gridley was skeptical. Could the ancient horses discovered near Bruniquel, France, have found their way onto the British Isles?
“When was this?”
“Years ago, when I lent a hand at excavating one of many Bronze Age burial grounds found throughout the Forest. I’ve been waiting to show someone who could verify my find. What do you think?”
“Based on one tooth, it’s hard to tell. Is there any way we can go back and see what more we can find?” Gridley felt the familiar flutter of excitement in his stomach. Even if the tooth proved to be from a recently deceased pony, to excavate a Bronze Age barrow would be a unique experience.
“Of course. I shall arrange for us to go—”
Squeak, click, squeak, rattle, click. Someone was turning the doorknob and trying to get in.
“What in the world . . .” Professor Gridley muttered under his breath.
Lord Atherly held up a hand to silence him. The rattling continued as the intruder persisted in trying to get past the locked door. Eventually, they abandoned their attempt to get in. After several seconds of continued silence, Lord Atherly lowered his hand.
“You certainly employ persistent maids,” Gridley said.
Lord Atherly, still wearing a concerned frown on his face, shook his head. “The maids know better.” Gridley had wondered about the dirty teacup and overflowing wastebasket. “No one is permitted in here without express permission.”
“Your wife, then?”
“She would’ve complained to me through the door.”
“Miss Stella? You did invite her to join us.”
“No, she and my son went fishing instead.”
“Then, who?”
Lord Atherly stroked his chin. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“When we leave, you can lock this room from the outside, can’t you?” he said. Lord Atherly shook his head. Gridley’s stomach churned; his excitement had transformed into fear.
“I shall ring Fulton immediately,” Lord Atherly said. “The fossils will be safe with the silver downstairs.”
Will they? Gridley stared down at the precious jawbone on the desk. He’d thought his concerns for his fossils were over. Who would’ve thought they wouldn’t be safe at Morrington Hall? But then again, hadn’t someone been killed in this house a couple of months ago?
CHAPTER 9
“Must you do this now, Inspector?” Mr. Barlow demanded.
Stella cringed at his high-handed tone.
The plant hunter had arrived moments after Lyndy unceremoniously plopped Lady Philippa on the couch—Lyndy’s second act of ungentlemanly behavior toward the lady in so many days. She’d revived from her stupor with miraculous speed. Now, the lady sat glaring at Lyndy, with the plant hunter’s arm protectively around her shoulders, nearly crushing the fresh orchid in his lapel. She had yet to shed a tear.
“Can’t you see Lady Philippa has had a shock?” Mr. Barlow insisted.
Was Lady Philippa in shock or had she allowed her understandable anger at Lyndy’s rough treatment and Mr. Barlow’s presumptuousness to supplant her grief? Stella couldn’t tell. Nor could Stella fathom what had gotten into the two men.
Inspector Brown nodded. “Yes, needs must, I’m afraid.”
“Then do it quickly and leave the poor lady in peace.” Inspector Brown bristled at the command but said nothing.
“He is only doing his job, Mr. Barlow,” Stella said. “He knows only too well how necessary it is to get all of the facts as soon as possible.”
Stella glanced over at Lyndy. He leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, and stared out the French windows at their automobile parked in the gravel drive. She didn’t have to guess what he was thinking. She couldn’t wait to jump in the car and get out of here either, since the atmosphere in the room was stifling. But she couldn’t go, not yet. Not until she learned if the police suspected Harvey was involved. Happily, he’d cracked open the window to let some fresh air in.
“I agree with Cecil,” Lady Philippa said, patting the plant hunter’s hand. “Be quick about it so I can get on with things. I do have a funeral to arrange.”
Stella was stunned by Lady Philippa’s callousness. But she held back judgment. She’d learned long ago that everyone reacted to the news of a loved one’s death differently.
“Of course, my lady,” Inspector Brown said, nodding to the constable standing unobtrusively near the door. The constable pulled out his notebook, flipped it open, and poised his pencil at the ready. “Would you mind telling me—”
“You say my husband drowned?” Lady Philippa interrupted. She’d taken a moment to smell the bouquet of gardenias on the table nearby. Stella couldn’t understand why. Their scent pervaded the room.
“I said we found him in the Blackwater,” the inspector corrected.
“How could that be? My husband was an excellent swimmer. We have a yacht moored near Lymington that he sailed quite often, and the pony show wasn’t the only competition he won. He also placed first in the swimming race across the Solent three years running.”
“That may be, Lady Philippa, but I suspect Lord Fairbrother died before he entered the water. The medical examiner will determine if I’m correct.”
“Are you saying my husband was murdered?”
“No, my dear,” Mr. Barlow said, squeezing her shoulder. “He could’ve had an accident, bumped his head or had his heart give out before he fell in.”
If only Stella could believe it was an accident. From the expression on his face, Lyndy didn’t believe it either. Neither did Lady Philippa. She was shaking her head.
“What Mr. Barlow says may be true,” the inspector said, surprising Stella by giving credence to Mr. Barlow’s speculation. “Why do you think someone killed him, Lady Philippa?”
“Do you know nothing?” Lady Philippa snapped. “Just yesterday, that vile snake-catching man threatened my husband at the fete. Threw a sack full of slimy fish at him.”
There it was. The accusation Stella had been waiting to hear. She held her breath, wondering what the inspector would make of it.
“And why would he have occasion to do that, Lady Philippa?”
Lady Philippa, fuming, said nothing.
“The odd, old fellow blamed Lord Fairbrother for the destruction of his house, Inspector,” Mr. Barlow offered.
“Thank you, Mr. Barlow,” Inspector Brown said, with a hint of annoyance. He’d wanted Lady Philippa to answer the question. “I’ve read the report about the fire. The cause was blatant arson. Harvey Milkham was right. Someone did purposely burn down his hut and cared little who knew it.”
“You think my poor dead husband had something to do with it?”
Lady Philippa dabbed her dry eyes with a handkerchief. It had an L embroidered on it in navy blue. How did Lady Philippa get one of Lyndy’s handkerchiefs? Stella hadn’t seen him offer the grieving widow one. Stella looked to Lyndy for an explanation, but he’d left his post at the window. He’d pulled out his watch and was now comparing the time on it to that of the clock on the mantel. Stella’s heart started pounding. The tips of her ears burned as she remembered the way Lady Philippa had greeted Lyndy, the way she’d clung to him, demanded of him, called him cruel as if she knew him well, stared at him, e
ven now, as if he were something to her, or had been once.
Had he been?
In all the time they’d spent together, Lyndy had never once mentioned Lady Philippa. Was Stella imagining things? With her father’s recent betrayal so fresh in her mind, could she be letting her father’s deception cloud her judgment? No. Stella hadn’t imagined Lyndy’s unusually rude behavior toward Lady Philippa, and the handkerchief was real enough. Something wasn’t right. Stella had believed Lyndy was different from the others. She’d come to trust him. She relied on him to help her tackle this strange predicament they’d found themselves in. Could she have been wrong? Were all men like her father, after all? Stella tried to brush aside her questions, and her fears, concentrating on Lord Fairbrother’s death and Harvey’s possible involvement, but seeing the handkerchief in Lady Philippa’s hand made it impossible.
Lady Atherly had made no pretense of approving Stella and Lyndy’s engagement. Lyndy’s mother liked Lady Philippa. Perhaps she had preferred her to be Lyndy’s future bride. Maybe Lady Philippa had wanted that too. There seemed no love lost between her and Lord Fairbrother. But what of Lyndy? Had he been courting Lady Philippa before circumstances forced him into a match with Stella? Had the relationship turned sour and hence the need to find another bride? Or had money been the only obstacle? Either way, why keep her ignorant of it? He’d told her about women in his past, mostly silly girls at balls his mother insisted he dance with. Why not Lady Philippa? Did he think so little of Stella’s constitution? Did he think he was sparing her pain? Or was she a case of wishful thinking and he didn’t tell her because he was still in love with Lady Philippa?
She had to ask him. She had to know. But with him standing across the room with his back to her, she couldn’t even get his attention.
“Why else would Harvey accuse Lord Fairbrother of burning down his house, if he didn’t think he did it?” Stella blurted, in response to Lady Philippa’s question, her frustration, her fears seeping into her voice. Harvey doesn’t lie or hide behind false civility, is what she wanted to say.
Lyndy snapped his watch closed and looked over at her. Stella avoided his gaze and watched in anticipation of Lady Philippa’s reaction. Everyone else’s gaze followed. Indignation flashed in Lady Philippa’s eyes.
“How should I know?” Lady Philippa retorted.
Thump! Stella shuddered, and Lady Philippa twitched around in her seat as a bird smashed into the glass of the French window. Relief washed over Stella as she saw the blackbird soar away.
“Perhaps you know, Mr. Barlow?” the inspector said, drawing everyone’s attention back from the window by not hiding his sarcasm.
“Me? Why would I know anything?” Mr. Barlow said.
“Quite,” Inspector Brown said, seemingly satisfied, before shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and turning his gaze on Lyndy. “Lord Lyndhurst?” Lyndy shrugged before tugging on the collar of his shirt. He wasn’t going to endure this much longer. And neither was Stella. She had to get out of here. “Miss Kendrick? Do you have anything more to tell me?”
Now was not the time to tell the inspector what she knew: about the burlap sack hidden in her glove compartment, George Parley’s accusations of cheating, Harvey’s hints of bribery. She would wait and speak to the policeman in private, away from Lady Philippa, away from this house.
“What would she know?” Lady Philippa mocked. “She’s only been here a few months. What does she know about anything?” Stella bristled at the insult but held her tongue. For now.
“Do you recognize this, Lady Philippa?” Inspector Brown pulled out a tweed cap from his pocket. “Could this have belonged to your husband?”
Lady Philippa shrugged. “I can’t be sure, but it looks like the one my husband was wearing last night.”
The policeman nodded. “I confirmed it with your husband’s valet. And what about this?” From his inside pocket, the inspector produced a thick, wet envelope. He peeled back the top flap. A stack of matted pound notes filled the inside. Stella hadn’t seen that much money in one place since the Derby.
And see all the good that did.
“I say, it looks like money,” Barlow offered. “A great deal of it.”
Inspector Brown clamped his lips together. “My question is for Lady Philippa, if you don’t mind, Mr. Barlow.”
“But why? Why would you expect me to recognize it? I never carry the filthy stuff around with me. My husband dealt with all that.”
“We found this on your husband when we pulled him from the river. Can you explain why he would be carrying such a large amount of money on him?”
“I have no idea,” Lady Philippa said, without her usual rancor. “He’d only gone out for his nightly walk.” Despite herself, Stella believed her. Lady Philippa seemed as puzzled as the rest of them were.
“Do you think the money has something to do with his murder?” Stella asked. As usual, the inspector refused to answer. Frustrated, Stella blurted, “But Harvey couldn’t have gotten his hands on that kind of money.”
“Who says that he did?” Inspector Brown asked. Stella pressed her hand to her forehead. Had she just made things worse for Harvey? Had she made things worse for herself? From Lyndy’s frown and Lady Philippa’s expectant glare, the answer was yes. “Is there something you want to tell me, Miss Kendrick?”
So much for waiting for a private word.
“Lady Atherly to see you, my lady,” Hodgson announced. Lady Philippa’s attention turned immediately toward her visitor. Stella sighed in relief. She’d never been so happy to see Lady Atherly. Then she caught the frown on Inspector Brown’s face. He wasn’t as pleased with the interruption.
“Oh, my dear Lady Philippa,” Lady Atherly said as she swept into the room. “I know this is unexpected, but I just had to—” She stopped midsentence, noticing the somber faces in the crowded room. “Whatever is going on? What are you doing here, Lyndy?”
Lady Philippa let out a soft sob. Cecil Barlow tightened his grip around her shoulders.
“Mother, you may want to sit down.”
Lady Philippa, dabbing her eyes with Lyndy’s handkerchief again, nodded. Stella dug her nails into the palms of her hands as Lady Atherly settled on the edge of the nearest chair.
“I’m sorry to inform you, Lady Atherly,” Inspector Brown said, “but Lord Fairbrother is dead.”
“Murdered by that snake man,” Lady Philippa hissed.
“We have no evidence of that, Lady Philippa,” Inspector Brown said.
“But you are here, are you not, Inspector?” Lady Atherly said. “Is that not reason enough, to suspect something untoward has happened?”
“We do believe he was murdered, yes, Lady Atherly, but as to who—”
Lady Atherly cut him off. “Lyndy, you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here? And, Miss Kendrick, where is your chaperone?”
A man was dead, Lyndy might be hiding a past relationship with his widow, and all Lady Atherly could think of was the whereabouts of Aunt Rachel? Would Stella ever understand this woman?
“Lord Fairbrother was found this morning in the Blackwater,” Inspector Brown said. “Your son and Miss Kendrick found him.”
Lady Atherly didn’t gasp or clutch a fist in her mouth or faint. Instead, she turned slowly to face Stella. “You found him?” she said, her words clipped and seething with accusation, as if Stella had killed Lord Fairbrother herself. “How is this even possible? What could you possibly have been doing there?”
“Lyndy is teaching me how to fish.”
Lady Atherly blinked twice before raising her nose and turning away, dismissing Stella from her mind. “Don’t fret, Philippa,” Lady Atherly said tenderly. “You’ll see. Everything will be right as rain.” Stella had never heard the countess speak to anyone like that, not even her children. “Everything will be as it should be, especially if I have anything to do with it.”
What did Lady Atherly mean by that? A man was dead. Nothing would ever be “as it should b
e” again. Would she soon say the same for her relationship with Lyndy too?
Lady Atherly rose from her chair and, without asking, strolled over and rang for the butler. “Until you have news that will soothe this poor, suffering soul, Inspector, I would leave Lady Philippa to her grief.”
Inspector Brown hesitated before nodding. “I may have further questions, my lady,” he said to Lady Philippa as Hodgson appeared in the door, “but they can wait.”
“You may all go,” Lady Atherly said, staring at Stella.
“With pleasure,” Lyndy muttered as he bolted toward the door.
“I will stay and comfort my lady,” Cecil Barlow said. Lady Philippa looked up into his eyes and gave him a weak smile.
“That’s lovely of you, Mr. Barlow,” Lady Philippa said. From Lady Atherly’s expression, she didn’t find anything lovely about it.
“Is there anything I can do, Lady Philippa?” Stella said, hoping to make up for the ill-will she felt toward this woman. Whoever she may or may not have been to Lyndy, she had just lost a husband.
Lady Philippa, lowering Lyndy’s handkerchief, turned to face her and sneered. “Haven’t you done enough?”
Before she said or did something she’d regret, Stella dug her nails into her palms, swiveled on her heels, and strode from the room, head held high.
CHAPTER 10
Lyndy took a deep breath of fresh air and struck out toward the motorcar. More than talk of the dead had been oppressive inside. He couldn’t wait to see Outwick House disappear into the distance.
“Lyndy?” Stella caught up with him in the middle of the gravel drive. Creases of worry marred her porcelain brow. She reached out to touch him but thought better of it. He snatched her hand in his, irritated by her hesitation, or the cause of it. Her hand was icy cold.
“What is it?”
Why had he asked? He knew what Stella was going to say. How could he not? Only a blind man would’ve missed that handkerchief. Why had Philippa kept it? He couldn’t even remember when he’d given it to her. Or could he be mistaken? Was it Philippa’s cruel treatment that troubled Stella, and not the handkerchief? Or lingering sorrow for Fairbrother and the shock of finding him dead? He could only hope. He suddenly felt wretched.
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