Murder at Blackwater Bend

by Clara McKenna

  The housekeeper had established from the onset that she wasn’t above entertaining unusual requests from Stella, but that her rank merited an explanation for it. However, today she didn’t hesitate, didn’t question Stella, not even with her eyes. She sought the key, among the many dangling from her waist, and led them to the large iron safe embedded in the wall of the butler’s pantry. She turned the brass dial back and forth, stopping at each predetermined number, before pulling the heavy iron door open. She unlocked the secondary door inside with the key. She pulled this open as well and then stepped aside.

  The wrapped dagger lay on top of a silver serving tray on the middle shelf, like a napkin forgotten among the gleaming tableware, platter, and candlesticks. Stella reached in and pulled out the bundle. When she unwrapped the dagger, a small gasp escaped Mrs. Robertson behind her.

  “You found this yesterday?” Lyndy said, lifting the dagger from Stella’s palm and carefully inspecting it. He didn’t sound happy. Did he too think there was something sinister about it?

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “Because unless I am greatly mistaken, you never should have found this in the barrow.” He plucked the cloth from Stella’s grip and wrapped the dagger again. He placed the dagger back onto the tray in the safe and shut the inner door. It locked again with a click.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve seen it before at Outwick House. It is, or was, part of Lord Fairbrother’s sword and dagger collection.”

  “But that means it could be the murder weapon.”

  Lyndy nodded. Appalled, Stella grabbed the heavy outer door of the safe and swung it shut.

  CHAPTER 18

  “Didn’t take you for the berry-picking type, Mr. Parley.”

  Inspector Brown stepped under the eaves of the abandoned stable just in time to avoid the first sprinkles of the summer morning shower. Set on the edge of large paddocks, interspersed with post and rail fencing, the dilapidated building, smelling of decaying hay and bird droppings, was nearly hidden by the wild-bramble bushes that had grown up around it. It wasn’t the sort of place you’d expect to find someone unless they had something to hide.

  “What are you doing here?” George Parley, wearing no waistcoat or jacket, slammed closed the lid of a large wooden crate he’d been bent over. There were five of them, as long and as wide as coffins, spread out on the old stable’s dirt floor. As Parley rolled down his shirtsleeves, Brown could see the defined curves of the man’s thick biceps.

  He held up his identification. “I’m Inspector Brown, and this is my constable, DC Waterman.”

  “What do you want?” Parley’s eyes darted from Brown to the crates to the door.

  Brown motioned for Constable Waterman to step behind Parley. The landowner was jumpy, and he’d been too difficult to track down to allow him to scurry off like a rabbit before Brown had all the answers he’d come for. Parley warily watched as Waterman crossed by him and stood, at ready, in front of the stable’s back door.

  “I’ve been looking for you.”

  After getting nowhere at the pub last night, Brown had called on Parley at home. “Dad’s out on the land,” was all the son would tell him. Despite the falling darkness, Brown had peeked through various outbuildings: the stable, a separate tack and feed room, the small carriage house, the pigsty, the chicken coop, and a storage barn. No Parley. When he returned this morning, Brown got the same, “Dad’s out on the land.” Brown and his constable had combed every inch of the farm until they’d come to the forgotten stable. With telltale signs of recent fence work, Brown had a hunch he’d finally found their man. Brown had been right. But they’d found more than just George Parley.

  What were in those crates?

  “Why? Why have you been looking for me?”

  “I assume you have heard the news of Lord Fairbrother’s death,” Brown said.

  Parley glanced furtively back at Waterman again. “Of course I have. But what does that have to do with me?”

  “Would you kindly read Mr. Parley what he was quoted as saying to Lord Fairbrother just hours before the lord’s murder, Constable?”

  Brown and his constable had been busy. Besides interviewing the residents of Outwick House and making inquiries at the Knightwood Oak pub, they’d questioned a dozen witnesses to George Parley threatening Lord Fairbrother at the Cecil Pony Challenge.

  Waterman pulled out his notebook, flipped it open to the right page, and said, “There will be hell to pay.”

  “What did you mean by that, Mr. Parley?” Inspector Brown said. Despite the cool breeze behind the light rain, George Parley pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was sick and tired of Lord Fairbrother always winning the cup when me ponies should beat the lot.”

  “You didn’t mean that you would kill Lord Fairbrother if he won and you didn’t?”

  Parley’s cheeks darkened to a crimson red. “Of course not. Lord, man. It was a pony competition. I wouldn’t kill someone over a pony.”

  “Lord Fairbrother had a great deal of cash on his person when he died. Would you know anything about that, Mr. Parley?”

  The man tightened his lips and glanced back at Waterman. “No, I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “Would you burn someone’s house down?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Was that a hesitation? Parley’s eyes darted about as if looking for a way to flee. The man knew something.

  “Where were you Monday night, Mr. Parley?”

  “Working the land.”

  “Anyone with you?” Parley shook his head. “And Tuesday night?”

  “Working the land. I’m always working the land.”

  “Except when you’re at the Knightwood Oak, isn’t that right, Mr. Parley?”

  Parley grumbled something incoherent. “A man has a right to relax after a hard day’s work.”

  “Yes. Yes, he does. And where were you yesterday morning?”

  “In me bed, alone. Where do you expect?” No alibi for either the arson of the snakecatcher’s hut or Lord Fairbrother’s murder then.

  “What’s in the crates, Mr. Parley?”

  Parley, taken aback by the abrupt change in subject, stammered, “I . . . they . . . these just arrived.”

  “May I see their contents?” The crates probably had nothing to do with Brown’s investigation, and he probably had no reason to ask, but he did anyway. Parley didn’t immediately comply. “Why the hesitation, Mr. Parley? Unless you have something to hide?”

  Parley, glaring first at Brown and then at Waterman standing guard at the far end, reluctantly lifted the lid of the crate he’d been inspecting earlier. Packed in straw were rifles, Winchesters, by the look of them, and brand new, by the gloss of the walnut stocks and glint on the barrels. There must have been a dozen in each crate. If Lord Fairbrother had been shot, Brown would’ve arrested Parley and been done with it. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.

  “Why do you have so many rifles?”

  Farmers always had a weapon on hand to scare off predators. Gentlemen had cabinets filled with shotguns used for sport. But Brown had never seen such a massing of weapons in his life. Not even the police station in Winchester, the central station for all of Hampshire, was this heavily armed.

  “I’m opening a gentlemen’s rifle club, Inspector. These are for that enterprise.”

  “On the Forest?” Parley nodded. Brown was surprised. He remembered the controversy when the Crown tried to set aside New Forest land for a rifle range. It didn’t sit well with many. “And this was approved by the Verderers’ Court?”

  “It will be,” Parley said, less assuredly, glancing back at Waterman again.

  “I’m sure you’ve also heard about Harvey Milkham’s house burning down?”

  “What does that have to do with me rifles?”

  Parley was annoyed. Brown liked him that way. He might say something he would re
gret. Brown turned his back and took a few steps back outside. The rain had left as fast as it had come, though the gray sky had yet to clear. A few drips trickled off the old stable’s steep roof. From his vantage point, Brown had an unobstructed view across the heath to the wood where Harvey Milkham’s house had been, several miles away. Brown turned back to Parley, who was wiping his high forehead again.

  “You probably even saw the flames, smelled the smoke from here,” Brown said.

  “I know about the snakecatcher’s hut,” George Parley snapped. “Had you ever seen the place? It was a mess, a disgrace. Just like the man himself. That hovel was a fire waiting to happen.”

  “You didn’t burn it down, did you?”

  “As I said, it was a timber box. All it needed was a lightning strike, a stray ember from a cigar—”

  “Or cigarette?” Parley frowned. “Or ignited gunpowder?”

  That got him. Parley’s eyes widened in fear. He wet his lips with a few rapid swipes of his tongue. “I didn’t burn down the snakecatcher’s hut, Inspector. Why would I?”

  Brown’s question exactly. “And where are you setting this rifle club?”

  “Just this side of Norleywood.”

  “And isn’t that Harvey Milkham’s land?”

  “No, it isn’t!” Parley declared. “He should never have built his hut around the old cottage.”

  “Whose land does it belong to, Mr. Parley? You? Lord Fairbrother?”

  At the mention of the dead verderer’s name, George Parley crossed his arms against his chest. “If there isn’t anything else, Inspector, I have me work to do.”

  No bother. Brown could easily find out who owned the land; the records were held in Lyndhurst at the King’s House, mere steps from his station.

  “Don’t leave town, Mr. Parley. I may need to speak with you again.”

  Parley grumbled an incoherent affirmative under his breath. It was all the cooperation Brown was going to get out of the man today. Brown waved for his constable to rejoin him before stepping out into a spot of sun breaking through the clouds.

  “Been putting in new posts for your paddock, Mr. Parley?” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll see to it that your local agister, Mr. Gerald, stops by to check they’ve been properly installed.”

  “What? No. There’s no need to . . . Wait, where are you going? You can’t just . . . Maybe we can talk about this? There must be some misunderstanding. But this isn’t . . . after everything. . .”

  Brown, ignoring Parley’s sputtering, strolled purposefully back toward Parley’s cottage and the waiting horse and police wagon.

  “Something’s not right here,” his constable muttered, falling in step beside Brown.

  “I couldn’t agree more, Waterman. And if we’re right, it’s a bit more grievous than a few illegally moved fence posts.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “Are you certain you want to do this?” Lyndy, leaning in toward her, whispered as an eerie hush descended around them.

  She and Lyndy stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing at the black crape tied with a white ribbon fluttering on the door. White clouds, like freshly picked cotton, silently floated by in the reflection of the darkened windows. There was no bird trill, no distant snort of a pony, no rustling treetops, only the flutter of the ribbon and the sound of her own exhaling. This was a house in mourning.

  Stella tried to shallow away the sour taste in her mouth.

  Lady Philippa wouldn’t thank them for the intrusion, and if Stella was honest with herself, after everything Lyndy had told her, she dreaded confronting the widow again. But if the dagger she’d found did belong to Lord Fairbrother, it could be the murder weapon and the police would need to know. Stella needed to know.

  Unwilling to break the silence, Stella nodded. But before Lyndy raised his fist to knock, Aunt Rachel’s hoarse voice jarred the quiet like a silver tray clattering to the floor.

  “Oh, my lands, girlie,” she shouted.

  Lyndy quietly chuckled as Stella cast her eyes back toward the Daimler parked in the shade of the woods encroaching the edge of Outwick House’s circular gravel drive. Bundled up in a tan duster coat, goggles, and yards and yards of white veiling, Aunt Rachel, unrecognizable but for her wizened mouth and chin, rested in the backseat of the car. Stella had dutifully brought the old lady along. The old lady had prudently declined to accompany them inside. But that hadn’t stayed her tongue.

  “Are you fixing to go in or just stand there until you grow roots and crow’s nests on your hat?” The older woman shooed Stella toward the door.

  “We might as well get this over with,” Stella said, and self-consciously tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. She slipped her arm through Lyndy’s (they were in this together, after all, weren’t they?) and faced the imposing ten-foot-tall double-sided oak door again. She nodded for Lyndy to knock. He lifted the brass ring, fitted through the teeth of an ornate lion’s head, and rapped it once.

  Hodgson opened the door. Having spent two months living under the watchful eyes of Fulton and Tims, Stella knew the subtle look of disapproval on the butler’s face. Not to mention the skyward pointing of his nose. Visiting a house in mourning was highly irregular, if not wholly inappropriate, and they all knew it. But there were times when overlooking the rules of propriety was warranted. This was one of those times.

  “We are so sorry to intrude during Lady Philippa’s darkest time,” Stella said. “But we need to talk to her. It has to do with the manner of Lord Fairbrother’s death.”

  Stella took a step forward. The butler didn’t budge. He filled the doorway, with his broad shoulders and stoic stare, but Stella had made up her mind. She took another step forward, pulling Lyndy along with her, and kept moving. Hodgson maintained his grip on the door but, forced to step back or risk having Stella push him aside, stumbled slightly as he pulled the door wider. Stella stepped past him, across the threshold, holding Lyndy’s arm tightly in her grasp.

  “My lady is in the morning room.”

  “Thank you, Hodgson.” At one time she might have placed a hand on the butler’s arm, to ease the tension between them, but she’d learned not everyone appreciated such outward displays of appreciation and affection.

  Stella looked to Lyndy to lead the way. But her acknowledgment of his history with this house and its lady caused him to flinch. Stella gave him an encouraging smile, as much to hide her trepidations as to ease his. His face devoid of expression, he nodded curtly before guiding her across the marble squares of the hall. The sharp click-clack of her heels on the floor echoed through the tomblike hush of the house. Hodgson, who accompanied them in contrasting silence, awkwardly dodged around them, determined to reach the closed morning room door first.

  “Lord Lyndhurst and Miss Kendrick to see you, my lady,” Hodgson announced as Lyndy and Stella strode into a room, furnished in varying shades of gold and overpowered by the scent of gardenias.

  Like a blot of ink on a blank piece of yellowed parchment, Lady Philippa sat at her secretary desk, dressed from neck to heel in black. She looked up from slitting open an envelope in her hand. A striking ruby adorned the letter opener while black bordered the stationery. Even with surprise, annoyance, and disdain warring on her face, Lady Philippa was striking. No wonder Lyndy had been dazzled by her. Lady Philippa puckered her red lips in a pout. Lyndy dropped his arm away from Stella and tugged at his collar. Stella, dismayed by his response, felt a grimace on her lips and willed all the muscles in her face to relax. She wouldn’t give Lady Philippa the satisfaction of a reaction. But Lady Philippa had noticed, and her pout spread into a smug smile.

  Unexpectedly, Cecil Barlow popped his head up from his reclining position on the couch. He combed back his tousled hair with his fingers. By his expression, he was as surprised to see them as they were to see him.

  “I say, this is unusual,” he said. “Philippa is in mourning. What are you two doing here?”

  “We could ask the same of you,” Lyndy retorted.


  What was the plant hunter still doing here, an unattached gentleman in a young widow’s home, especially when that widow should be in social seclusion? Even Stella knew how improper it appeared. Shouldn’t Mr. Barlow have moved to the inn in Rosehurst or returned to London altogether?

  Lady Philippa set down her letter opener and her mail and rose from her desk, deliberately smoothing the sides of her black skirt with her hand.

  “You obviously haven’t learned all you need to know about our English ways, Miss Kendrick. This is most improper,” she said, approaching Stella and picking something from Stella’s sleeve. A small, shriveled rose petal had clung to the intricate webbing of the inlaid lace. Scornfully rubbing her fingers free of the offending petal, Lady Philippa turned to Lyndy. She cupped his cheek with her palm. “But, Lyndy, I’m surprised at you. You know I am not receiving visitors yet.”

  “We are not visiting,” Lyndy said, gently but firmly removing her hand from his face. “We’ve come to tell you something relating to Fairbrother’s death.”

  “Very well,” she sighed. She sashayed back across the room past several available armchairs, settling herself next to Cecil Barlow on the couch. She didn’t ask them to sit. “If you insist, I will make an exception for you, Lyndy. And for your mother’s sake, I will overlook Miss Kendrick’s lack of decorum.” Stella felt the tips of her earlobes burn.

  If this wasn’t so important . . . Stella pulled the dagger from its bag and unwrapped it.

  “Where did you get that?” Philippa shot to her feet, all pretense of patient forbearance abandoned. She crossed the room in a few hurried steps and snatched the dagger from Stella’s palm. “This is my lord’s.” Lyndy had been right. It had belonged to Fairbrother. “I demand to know where you got this.”

  “At Furzy Barrow, the one Lord Atherly is excavating.”

  “But how . . . ?” Lady Philippa stared at the dagger, her dark eyebrows furrowed in anger.

  “Isn’t that near that snakecatcher’s hut?” Cecil Barlow offered.

  “Yes, but . . .” Stella stammered.