Murder at Blackwater Bend

by Clara McKenna

  Stella stood up too quickly. She started toward the dogcart, but she was still a bit dizzy when she reached the plank that bridged the ditch around the barrow. Misjudging the width of the board, Stella stepped off the edge and fell straight down into the sunken ring ditch.

  “Ow!” Her hands met with soft, grassy earth as she caught herself, but a sharp rock jutted into her knee. She sat back, rubbed her knee, silently apologizing to Ethel, her maid, for the grass and dirt stains on her skirt, and waited for the world to settle.

  “Miss Stella? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Professor,” she called, thankful the men hadn’t seen her clumsiness. That’s what you get for not eating anything but a piece of toast all day, she chided herself.

  She stood, slower this time, and brushed herself off. Not wanting to clamber back up onto the plank, she followed the circular path of the ring ditch around the barrow, loosening her sore knee. Almost halfway around, she spotted something hidden in the grass. She crouched down and picked it up. It was a dagger. The blade, plain but smooth and highly polished, sparkled as the late morning sun broke through the clouds. The copper-colored grip and pommel were intricately decorated with winged female figures and braided wire. Light to hold, it fit perfectly in her hand. It was stunning.

  How could any of the excavators have missed this?

  “Oi!”

  Stella looked up at the shout. George Parley, with his horse cantering toward her, stood up in the stirrups, his legs as thick as tree trunks.

  “What are you doing here?” He leaped off his chestnut Hanoverian, leaving the reins to fall to the ground, and stomped toward her. She stood to meet him. “Bloody hell,” he cursed, holding up his hands and retreating.

  Stella looked down. She was inadvertently pointing the dagger, clutched tightly in her fist, out before her. Directly at the oncoming George Parley. When had she done that? And why? She hastily dropped her hand, and the dagger, to her side.

  “What are you doing, woman?”

  “You will address my future daughter-in-law as Miss Kendrick if you don’t mind, Mr. Parley,” Lord Atherly said, appearing from inside the barrow. Professor Gridley’s head poked up beside him. He was squinting in the sun.

  “My apologies, Lord Atherly,” George Parley said, bowing his head slightly. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “I thought you were finished here, milord.”

  “As did I, Mr. Parley.”

  “But I wanted a crack at it before it was filled in again,” Professor Gridley said.

  “Find anything of interest?” Mr. Parley said, shifting his gaze from the men to Stella.

  “Miss Stella found a fine urn earlier,” Professor Gridley offered.

  “I also found this.” Stella held up the dagger, point down, for the professor and Lord Atherly to see. Immediately the two older men scrambled down to her side. “Did this, too, belong to the Bronze Age people?”

  “It’s marvelous,” Professor Gridley said, as Stella placed it in his outstretched hands. He turned it over and over. “But I wouldn’t have said Bronze Age. What do you say, Lord Atherly?” Professor Gridley handed the dagger to Lord Atherly.

  “Medieval, I should think.”

  “Look at the gleam on that blade,” Professor Gridley said. “I can’t imagine how it hasn’t tarnished. How on earth it got here must be some story.” He handed it back to Stella.

  “How it got on me land, you mean,” George Parley said, wiping the back of his neck with a handkerchief. “I’ll take that now, miss.” He held out his hand. He scowled when Stella hesitated. “Miss.” He shoved his outstretched palm closer, insistent. Stella gripped the hilt of the dagger tighter.

  This man had threatened Lord Fairbrother in front of hundreds of people. Now Lord Fairbrother was dead. She wasn’t giving him anything.

  “No need for that, Miss Kendrick,” Lord Atherly said. “You found it. You shall keep it. Good day to you, Mr. Parley.” Stella loosened her grip; her knuckles ached.

  “As you say, milord,” George Parley said, his lip curling. He spun on his heels and stalked toward his grazing horse. “But mind that she’s careful,” he called over his shoulder. “I fear your daughter-in-law is bound to get hurt.”

  “If I didn’t know better, that man just threatened us,” Professor Gridley whispered, his astonishment plain on his face.

  Stella shuddered as George Parley swung up into the saddle and rode off. She looked down at the dagger, clutched tightly again in her fist. She released her grip and switched hands.

  “And look what happened to the last person he did that to,” she said, rubbing the braided wire design of the dagger etched across her palm.

  * * *

  Creeaak.

  Lyndy set down his cup of tea, put his feet up, and snapped the pink newspaper in place. Let’s see who’s running in the Yorkshire Oaks next week.

  Creeaak.

  Lyndy read down the names of the horses: Costly Lady, Queen of the Earth, Lord Derby’s Verdiana, Lord Ellesmere’s Koorhann, and Sotto Voce. All excellent horses. But Lyndy, having seen Cherry Lass win at Epsom, would have to put a hundred down on Colonel Walker’s filly. Now to the Gimcrack Stakes.

  Creeaak.

  Lyndy sighed at the persistent creaking of the floorboards. Now, who could that be?

  Mother, still consoling Philippa, had rung not long ago, asking Alice to join her at Outwick House. They weren’t expected back until after tea. Stella, Papa, and Professor Gridley would be gone until dinner. Lyndy was glad for that. Better to have Stella’s mind occupied by something besides the events of the morning. She would enjoy the barrow and Papa would adore her all the more for it. Her visit also gave Lyndy time to consider how to tell her about Philippa. He had Morrington to himself. Only the servants went about their business. You would think they’d be quieter about it. Lyndy snapped the pink racing sheet again.

  Now, where was I?

  Creeaak. Lyndy tossed the paper down in frustration and rang for Fulton.

  “Fulton, the house is creaking,” Lyndy explained to the butler when he arrived moments later. “Is there yet another new maid, one who feels the need to tiptoe about?”

  “My lord?”

  “How often am I alone in the house? I’ve been trying to enjoy this rare peace. But every time I try to concentrate on my racing paper, someone starts creeping about, causing the floorboards to creak.”

  Fulton, as stoic as a garden statue, tilted his head slightly. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but the staff have all been downstairs taking their morning tea.”

  “But someone has been about the house.”

  “Everyone is accounted for, my lord. Perhaps it’s simply the natural sounds of the house?”

  “I know what I heard, Fulton. I’ve lived my entire life in this drafty old manor, and I can assure you I’ve never heard such incessant creaking before.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord. Would you like me to—”

  “Never mind, Fulton. You may go back to your tea.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” The butler nodded, dismissed as he was, but not before Lyndy caught a slight wrinkle in the butler’s brow.

  He thinks I’m hearing things.

  The moment the butler closed the door, Lyndy swung it open and strode into the grand saloon. He crossed the large hall to the staircase and stomped up the stairs. Not a single floorboard creaked until he deliberately ascended them slowly. Then, on the middle of the sixth step—creeaak.

  Someone had been tiptoeing up the stairs. Lyndy didn’t make the same mistake and dashed up the remaining steps, taking two at a time. From one end of the upstairs corridor to the other, Lyndy flung open doors—Mother’s bedroom, her bathing room, Papa’s bedroom, his dressing room, Lyndy’s room, the east guest bedroom, the west guest bedroom. In this room, Stella’s bedroom, or so he still called it, he hesitated. She’d stayed here when the Americans first arrived. Lyndy took a deep breath. Though faint, it still
smelled like the Forest in the springtime. No manner of airing, dusting, or carpet sweeping could rid the room of Stella’s heady perfume.

  Would she choose this room again after they wed or select another? Or would Lyndy be able to convince her to share his bed? It was rare but not unheard of. Then he could wake to that scent every day. He’d first have to tell her about Philippa. He reluctantly closed the door.

  Creeaak.

  Lyndy whirled around to catch a glimpse of uncovered ginger hair bobbing down the stairs. As far as he knew, Morrington didn’t have any redheaded servants. But would he have noticed, if it did? Perhaps not. Whoever it was, they needed to be taught to step properly on that stair. Lyndy peered over the balustrade to the grand saloon below as the culprit crossed the expansive hall on tiptoe.

  Miss Cosslett? What was she doing here?

  Lyndy had yet to warm to the London journalist. She was like so many women he’d met in London, wanting something, be it platitudes, compliments, gifts, or in her case, information, without any intention of returning the favor. Besides, anyone who voluntarily kept company with the American buffoon, Mr. Kendrick, was questionable. And here she was lurking about Morrington without a “by-your-leave.”

  Lyndy stealthily descended the stairs, avoiding the creaking sixth, and watched as Miss Cosslett tiptoed from door to door, peering inside. His ire rose with every step. Why was she sneaking about his house like a thief? Why was he? When she disappeared out of sight down the hall, Lyndy sprinted lightly across the grand saloon, avoiding the creaking board outside the library, and followed her to Papa’s study. He ducked into an unused sitting room and peered around the doorjamb.

  What was she doing?

  Papa’s study was off-limits to women. Not even the housemaids were allowed in. The maintenance of the fires and any necessary cleaning were done by Papa’s valet or Fulton. Only Stella—he often wondered how she managed it—was allowed in. But even Stella, “the American,” as many still called her, knew to wait to be invited.

  But the journalist wasn’t letting concerns for the rules of common decency stop her. Instead, throwing furtive glances about her, she reached out for the doorknob. She twisted it and pushed. The door didn’t open. She jiggled the knob and pulled. The door still wouldn’t open. She yanked on the knob harder, back and forth, rattling the door, the wall, and the floor around it. The door still wouldn’t give.

  Now, why would that be? Papa restricted who could enter his study, but Lyndy had never heard of Papa locking it before.

  The journalist crouched down and peered through the door. She slapped the door with her palm in frustration. She turned to look about her. An expression of consternation, of determination and anger marred her youthful face. From his hidden vantage point, he saw an ugliness that repelled him, more than her disregard for his father’s privacy. Much like Philippa.

  Damn. Thoughts of Philippa reminded him again of his conversation with Stella. If only he’d been able to explain before the inspector interrupted them. If only Philippa hadn’t kept his handkerchief. If only he hadn’t assumed Stella would never find out.

  But Lyndy knew better. He could’ve told Stella about Philippa long before a square embroidered piece of linen forced the issue. Why hadn’t he? Did he presume Stella wouldn’t care? Did he imagine he didn’t owe her the truth? No, he merely assumed his relationship with Philippa, as with every other woman who had come before Stella, didn’t matter. But would he be able to convince Stella of the truth? He must. Their future together depended on it. First, he had to deal with this.

  “Miss Cosslett?” he said, his voice stern and unyielding. He stepped out into the hall.

  “Oh!” Miss Cosslett declared, jolting upright and putting her hand to her chest. “My, Lord Lyndhurst, you startled me.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to record the wedding gifts. You’d be surprised how moonstruck my readers become over descriptions of other people’s wedding gifts.”

  “I am sure I would have no idea what your readers enjoy. Now, if you please.” Lyndy held out his arm to indicate she head back down the hall.

  “But the door is locked. I thought Lady Atherly would be here to meet me. I feel so embarrassed to admit that I may have come at the wrong time.”

  “Mother isn’t here. She was called away . . . unexpectedly. Besides, the morning room, where Mother keeps the presents, is back that way.”

  “Oh, how silly of me. I must’ve gotten lost. This is such a grand home you have here. What is this room then, the earl’s study?”

  She wasn’t fooling Lyndy. She’d peered through the keyhole. She knew very well it was. Why lie about it?

  “After you,” Lyndy said, still waiting for her to precede him back down the hall.

  “Would you show me the way, my lord?” Miss Cosslett said, her voice syrupy, her eyes batting. “I wouldn’t want to get lost again.”

  “I will do better than that,” Lyndy said. “I’ll escort you to the very door.” Mistaking his intentions, she wrapped her hands around his arm.

  “As I said, I was expecting to find Lady Atherly at home, but I have to admit, I’m quite pleasantly surprised to find you instead.”

  “Lady Atherly knew you were coming?” Lyndy asked, escorting her down the hall, through the grand saloon, and unbeknownst to Miss Cosslett, past the morning room door.

  “Of course. I wouldn’t have presumed to come otherwise,” the journalist said, smiling.

  “Who let you in?”

  The smile never left her face, but her eyes darted for a moment. She was thinking of what next to say. She batted her eyes and shrugged.

  “You will think me presumptuous, my lord, but when I knocked, and no one answered, I let myself in.”

  At least she hadn’t lied about that. Unfortunately, Lyndy wasn’t surprised to hear no one was manning the door. Lyndy knew too well that the family’s financial constraints had left Morrington understaffed for months. With the first footman off with Papa, and Lyndy alone in the house, why wouldn’t Fulton and Harry, Lyndy’s valet currently serving as second footman, take tea at the same time? Lyndy certainly wouldn’t complain. The family’s finances, or lack thereof, had saved him from Philippa and brought him his American heiress. He’d trade a footman at the door for Stella in his arms any day.

  “And here you are, Miss Cosslett,” Lyndy said as they approached the front door. “The door.”

  “But I thought you were going to take me to the morning room.” She flashed him a weak smile. “The wedding gifts, remember?”

  Lyndy reached down and opened the heavy oak door, the ornately carved brass knob cold against his skin. Sunshine streaked across the parquet floor.

  “But, my lord,” Miss Cosslett said, as Lyndy shoved the journalist over the threshold.

  “Good day, Miss Cosslett,” Lyndy said cheerfully, before slamming the door in her face. The crash reverberated through the hall. Lyndy had never opened or closed the front door before. Quite satisfied with the result, he fancied he might do it again.

  CHAPTER 12

  Stella stared down at the dagger in her lap, as James, the footman, cleared away the remnants of their late afternoon picnic. She loved eating outdoors, and this picnic, with its welcomed informality and the extraordinary feast of ham, minced chicken or veal-loaf finger sandwiches, cold miniature pork pies, stewed fruit, cucumber slices, chunks of cheese, fruit turnovers, slices of pound cake, tea, and coffee, had been no exception. She’d enjoyed every moment. But now, with her hunger satisfied and her body relaxed, the events of the morning weighed on her mind.

  “Back to it, I think,” Professor Gridley said, rubbing his hands together. He stood, and the footman picked up his chair, folded it, and packed it back into the dogcart.

  “I think I’ll head home if you don’t mind, Lord Atherly,” Stella said.

  “Of course, Miss Kendrick. The ruminations of two old men must be a bother to you.”

  “I’m surprised yo
u lasted this long,” Professor Gridley added, an approving grin on his face.

  “Oh, it’s just the opposite. You both are so interesting. I’ve learned so much today. And to think you may have found another part of an Equus spelaeus skeleton . . .” Stella had marveled at Professor Gridley dancing a jig when they’d found a tiny toe bone earlier. But then he’d explained the significance, and she’d danced with him. Lord Atherly had smiled indulgently at the two boisterous Americans but kept his feet still. “No, I hate to leave, but I was up early this morning and . . .”

  She didn’t have to say more. The men nodded understandingly.

  “I am most sorry for what you had to endure back there,” Lord Atherly said kindly, waving vaguely in the direction of the Blackwater. “I do hope my son was a comfort to you.”

  “Yes, Lord Atherly, he was.”

  Did it matter what Lyndy had to tell her about Philippa? Would it change the way she felt? When she closed her eyes and concentrated, she could still feel the strength of Lyndy’s arm around her shoulders as they waited for Inspector Brown. They’d sat in silence, but his embrace said more than words ever could. She could’ve stayed in the warmth of his arms forever. Unless it had all been a lie. Stella shuddered.

  “James can take you back in the carriage,” Lord Atherly said. “Miss Kendrick?”

  Stella’s eyes popped open. “I think it best I walk. The brisk exercise will help clear my head.” Stella stood and brushed herself off. She rummaged through the dogcart for a piece of the linen brought to protect the day’s finds and wrapped up the dagger.

  “Good day to you then, Miss Kendrick,” Lord Atherly said. He’d been one of the first to accept Stella’s independent ways. Unlike his wife, who didn’t abide anything about Stella, yet.

  “Here, take this.” Professor Gridley handed her a canvas bag to put the dagger in. She looped it around her wrist. “And this.” He retrieved an unusual walking stick from the carriage. Hand-carved, but highly polished, its handle was the head of a deer. “Made for me by a local tribesman in Oklahoma, it has helped keep me steady on countless treks across the plains.”