“I knew it. I knew it,” Lady Philippa said, carelessly brandishing the dagger. Lyndy put his arm in front of Stella and forced her back. “And that dirty peasant was here, not two days before my poor, dear husband was brutally murdered. He did this. He stole this dagger, and he killed my husband.” With each accusation, she violently stabbed the air.
“No. I know Harvey,” Stella said. “He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“Are you defending my husband’s killer?”
“No, of course not,” Stella said. “I’m saying it wasn’t Harvey.”
“Out! I want you out!” Lady Philippa slammed the dagger down next to a bouquet of gardenias on the side table, creating waves of water in the vase.
Stella, startled by Philippa’s violent reaction, took a step back, as Lady Philippa slumped onto the couch, her hands hiding her face.
“We’ll let ourselves out,” Lyndy said, his frosty tone contrasting with Cecil Barlow’s soothing reassurances as the plant hunter hovered over the distraught widow.
Lyndy turned on his heel and left. Stella hesitated, took a step forward, but thought better of saying anything more. She turned to follow Lyndy but, unable to resist, glanced once over her shoulder. Lady Philippa was staring at her as if she’d been waiting, willing Stella to look back. Without taking her eyes off Stella, Lady Philippa lifted a handkerchief to her cheek, though no tears marred her face. It had a royal blue L embroidered on it. As Lady Philippa dabbed her steely eyes, a sly smile slowly spread across her face. Stella’s mouth dropped open, as if she was flabbergasted. Lyndy was right; Lady Philippa was wicked.
* * *
Raindrops splattered against the windshield as a light shower sprinkled down on the car. Stella, careening down a straightaway, closed her eyes briefly as she lifted her face to the rain. She was so glad she’d given Aunt Rachel her driving bonnet and veil. The cold droplets seemed to sizzle as they met her burning cheeks. But that look. The raindrops did nothing to erase the lasting impression of Lady Philippa’s sly, triumphant smile.
Let her smile. Stella had the truth, and Lyndy, on her side. And a little something extra, besides. Stella giggled softly to herself.
“Eyes on the road, please.” Stella’s eyes popped open at Lyndy’s gentle reprimand. “I do think it’s time I learned to drive this contraption, don’t you?”
“And why would that be?” she said, teasingly, steering straight for a deep rut in the road.
The car bounced and jerked as she swerved back and forth, zigzagging across the rut. A flock of black jackdaws, roosting among the high branches of the nearby wood, launched into the sky, cawing and crowing, in protest as the car roared past.
“I wouldn’t scare every living creature within a five-mile radius, for one.” Stella laughed until a gloved hand clenched her shoulder in a feeble squeeze.
“I’m eighty-years-old, girlie, and I want to die in my bed, not staring down the devil in the back of this thingamajig.”
“Sorry, Aunt Rachel,” Stella called sheepishly. Loving it so herself, Stella had forgotten how much the old lady abhorred motoring.
“You should listen to your young fella, by the way. He’s talking sense. I still don’t know what your daddy was thinking, teaching you to drive.”
“You agree with Lady Atherly, then, Aunt Rachel?” Aunt Rachel nodded.
If Lady Atherly had her way, Stella would never sit behind the wheel of the car again. Or ride the heath alone or ask another question that didn’t pertain to the weather. But like Lady Philippa, the countess was bound for disappointment. Stella wasn’t giving up Lyndy, and she wasn’t about to relinquish one of the few freedoms left to her.
“Because she’s right. For even a busted granddaddy clock is bound to tell the proper time twice a day.” Aunt Rachel cackled at her comparison of Lady Atherly to a broken clock and sat back.
“By the way,” Stella said to Lyndy, “will you hold something for me?” She slipped something from its hiding spot among the folds of her skirt.
“But?” Lyndy sputtered as he grasped the handle of Lord Fairbrother’s dagger. “Philippa took this from you.”
“And then left it on the side table.”
“You stole this from her table?”
“I did, when she was preoccupied with Cecil Barlow’s attentions. It’s better for Inspector Brown to see the dagger for himself, don’t you think?”
After leaving Outwick House, they had agreed to drive into Lyndhurst and talk with the police. Inspector Brown had requested a second interview with Stella anyway, and he needed to know about the theft of the dagger.
“Besides, I don’t trust Lady Philippa,” Stella added.
Any woman who would scheme with Lady Atherly to steal Lyndy away, days after being widowed, was capable of anything. Whether she was a woman scorned getting revenge, half crazed by grief, or as manipulative as Lyndy portrayed her, Stella couldn’t say, though she had her suspicions. But for whatever reason, Stella wasn’t taking any chances that Lady Philippa might lose, hide, or destroy what could be the weapon that killed Lord Fairbrother.
“You could make an exemplary pickpocket,” Lyndy said, his expression unreadable.
Was he joking? Or was that a hint of admiration in his tone?
“Don’t let your mother hear you say that,” Stella said, pressing gently down on the brakes. Nearing the village, they quickly approached more carriage traffic, and Stella didn’t want to frighten the horses. “That’s all I’d need.” Lyndy chuckled.
Stella drove through the streets of Lyndhurst. The town was a mixture of squat merchants’ shops with divided windowpanes and red tile roofs, three-story white, plastered buildings with decorative half-timbering and large bay windows, narrow, redbrick Victorian homes with steep, highly embellished gables, and an imposing, redbrick, Gothic church looming from the top of the hill, its steeple jutting well over a hundred feet into the sky. She shared the curving, narrow lanes with a profusion of horses, carriages, buggies, and wagons of all shapes and sizes. At their current speed, a maid walking to market would overtake them.
When her family had first arrived in England, Daddy’s Daimler had elicited raised fists or angry shouts as villagers displayed their displeasure at the car. One man, so enraged, banged his fist against the hood as she drove past, risking having his foot run over. But as the weeks passed, more and more residents were drawn to the sparkling, colorful horseless carriage, and more than not, waved as they recognized Stella as she drove past. Today was no different.
Mrs. Bottomley, a portly widow who owned Stella’s favorite millinery shop, waved as she placed her newest creation in her shop window. Stella waved back. Mr. Macken, the newsagent sweeping his doorstep, stopped to greet her as well.
“Why are they waving at you?” Lyndy asked as Stella returned Mr. Macken’s wave.
“They’re just friendly. Not everyone dislikes Americans.”
Being in England two months now, Stella felt more at ease. She’d dined or danced with most of New Forest’s high society. She’d met almost everyone in Rosehurst from the butcher’s daughter to the men who owned the bank and was expanding her patronage to the merchants of Lyndhurst, and on occasion, Lymington as well. Most villagers had ceased staring at her as if she’d grown a horse’s mane. Whether she’d won them over with her smile or with her American dollars, she might never know. But being “the American” was no longer the burden it once was.
After parking on the hill near the church, Lyndy and Stella left Aunt Rachel with the car and sought out Inspector Brown. Stella knew right where to go. One night, hoping to free an innocent footman, she had dragged Ethel, her lady’s maid, to the police station, with its sweet, musky smell of old paper and burnt coffee and plain, drab, unadorned walls. Would this trip be as successful and prove Harvey innocent of murder? Stella hoped so.
Constable Waterman ushered them into an office off a nondescript hall. The single window, covered with iron bars, looked out across a narrow alley to the crumbling pl
aster wall of the building next door. Not an inspiring view. But the tiny, tidy office, with its highly polished maple desk, dotted with neat piles of typewritten papers, matching maple shelf, lined with books—Kelly’s Directory of Hampshire 1905, A General View of the Criminal Law of England, and New Forest Atlas—attached to clean yellow walls, reflected the orderly mind of the man who occupied it. The scent of fresh paint still lingered in the air. Lyndy wrinkled his nose in distaste.
“New case, new paint, my lord,” the constable explained. “The inspector always likes to get off to a fresh start.”
“Right! Out with you, then,” Inspector Brown said, shooing the constable out the door.
As there was only the desk chair, Inspector Brown wheeled it around, offering it to Stella. Lyndy stood with his hands resting on the back of the chair while Brown perched on the edge of the desk.
“I’m surprised to see you here. I’d left word that I would call at Pilley Manor.”
“This couldn’t wait.” Stella immediately produced the dagger. “I found this yesterday afternoon, at Furzy Barrow, on George Parley’s land.”
“George Parley?” Inspector Brown said. “His name keeps popping up.”
“Is he a suspect?” Stella asked. She remembered how he’d threatened Lord Fairbrother at the Cecil Pony Challenge, how he’d demanded she give him the dagger. When the inspector didn’t answer, Stella added, “Mr. Parley arrived after I found it, and insisted I give it to him, since I’d found it on his land, he’d said. But I wonder since, according to Lady Philippa, the dagger belonged to her husband.”
“I have seen it at Outwick House as well,” Lyndy said as if Lady Philippa’s word wasn’t enough. “Someone stole it from Lord Fairbrother’s collection.”
“Or Lord Fairbrother himself removed it and used it for some reason,” Inspector Brown added.
“From my understanding, everything in Fairbrother’s collection is expensive, rare, and strictly ornamental,” Lyndy said. “I don’t see him doing anything but gloating over it.”
Inspector Brown nodded. “You would know more than I, my lord,” he said.
“Could this have been used to kill Lord Fairbrother?” Stella asked.
“Thank you for bringing this to me,” the policeman said. As usual, he didn’t answer her question. “I will give this to Dr. Lipscombe, the medical examiner, as soon as he returns from London tomorrow. May I?” Stella placed it in his outstretched hand.
“Be careful. It is still quite sharp. My father cut himself on it when I showed it to him.” Stella handed him the bag and linen the dagger came wrapped in. “What was it you wanted to speak to me about, Inspector?”
“I need to know when you last saw Harvey Milkham.”
Stella didn’t like the tone of the policeman’s voice. “Why?”
Inspector Brown held the dagger under the lamp on his desk for a closer inspection. If he was looking for traces of blood, he was wasting his time. She’d already looked. “How many people do you think have handled this since you found it?” He hadn’t answered her question.
Stella counted them off in her head. “At least seven.”
“I won’t bother with that new fingerprinting technique then,” he mumbled as he locked the dagger in his desk drawer.
“Why do you want to find Harvey?” she asked again.
“I need to ask him a few questions about the murder if only to eliminate him from our inquiries.” Or accuse him of a crime he didn’t commit.
“He didn’t kill Lord Fairbrother, Inspector.”
“How can you be so sure, Miss Kendrick?”
Stella opened her mouth to answer, but the words died in her throat. How could she articulate what was only a hunch? “Call it American optimism or female intuition, whatever you like. I just know.”
Inspector Brown pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where and when did you see him last?”
“On the way back from the barrow, yesterday, late in the afternoon. He was picking up the pieces of what was left of his home.” She didn’t tell him how Harvey wouldn’t tell her where he was living, or that he’d snuck away when she wasn’t looking. Or that he was drunk.
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“No.”
“Harvey’s hut wasn’t too far from Furzy Barrow, now, was it?”
Stella’s stomach clenched. That’s what Cecil Barlow had said. “Yes, but—”
Had she made a mistake giving him the dagger? No, the policeman had a right to know. But he wasn’t getting anything more from her, and that went for Harvey’s snake-catching sack. She’d burn it if she had to.
“Thank you, Miss Kendrick, my lord, for bringing this to my attention. I’ll let you know when I have news.” As they turned to leave, he added, “And if you see Harvey, you let me know.”
“Of course,” Lyndy said, but Stella held her tongue. If she saw Harvey Milkham, Inspector Brown would be the last person she told.
CHAPTER 20
The servants were taking a break for tea when Stella returned from Lyndhurst. Crumbs, of what must’ve been fruit scones, littered the plain, white china plates in front of them. Stella’s mouth watered at the lingering scent of Mrs. Downie’s baking, anticipating the scone they’d saved for her. Unless Daddy ate them all.
Everyone rose when she entered the kitchen, but she shooed them back into their seats. Although the women sat, Tims, who had left the table to open the door, remained standing. She was heartened to see the steam rising from his cup. At least he wouldn’t have to drink his tea cold on her account.
“I am so sorry to interrupt, but we did say we’d meet again to make the final arrangements for the engagement dinner.”
“Aye, that we did, dearie,” the housekeeper said.
“Would this be a good time? After you’ve finished, of course.”
“We were just finishing up, Miss Stella,” Ethel said, reaching over to collect Mrs. Robertson’s empty cup. With no kitchen maid and only a day maid who took her meals at home, it fell to Ethel to pick up some of the duties. But she’d told Stella she didn’t mind. After all, she had been a housemaid before becoming Stella’s lady’s maid. Tims frowned as Ethel gathered up the cook, Mrs. Downie’s, teacup but said nothing.
“Would you like us to come to the drawing room, then?” Mrs. Robertson asked.
“We can do it right here if it’s okay with you.” The housekeeper and the cook stole a glance at each other. Stella was all too familiar with that silent conferring between those whom she’d shocked with her “American” ways. Luckily it didn’t happen as often as it once had.
“If the miss wouldn’t be more comfortable elsewhere, perhaps the library?” Mrs. Robertson offered.
If only they’d judge her less if she told them why she preferred the warmth and comfort of the kitchen to the drawing room where her father sat dictating and criticizing and where Miss Cosslett, who hadn’t been this long from Daddy’s side in days, could return and ambush her at any moment. But she’d learned speaking so familiarly with servants, even ones willing to make allowances, was by far a bigger faux pas than selecting menus at the kitchen table.
“No, this is fine.”
“If you’ll excuse me then, miss, I have duties elsewhere,” Tims said.
“Of course,” Stella said, as Ethel snatched up his partially full cup. The butler’s tea had grown cold after all. “And thank you for letting me barge in on your break.” The butler nodded stiffly and left.
“He hasn’t quite gotten used to me yet, has he?” Stella said, sitting down at the table as Mrs. Robertson went to fetch the ledger containing the dinner party details.
Ethel and Mrs. Downie looked at one another, as the cook placed a cup of tea and a scone in front of Stella, neither wanting to be the one to confirm what Stella already knew. Not everyone was pleased to be serving the Americans. Stella broke off a piece of scone and popped it into her mouth. Slathered with clotted cream and lemon curd, it was as delicious as she’d hoped.
Stella was glad to hear it. She’d been worried the other servants wouldn’t accept Ethel as a lady’s maid, having been made so at Stella’s request and not because she’d trained for it. But Mrs. Robertson had taken the girl under her wing, and Stella saw the confidence and competence blossom in Ethel since they’d moved into Pilley Manor. Hopefully, it would be enough to sustain her when she and Stella returned to Morrington Hall after the wedding.
“Now, shall we begin with the menus?” Mrs. Robertson said while Cook nodded.
The three women discussed every detail of the upcoming event: which fish to serve; whether to serve sweet jellied aspic or fruit ices; which flowers to place in the centerpieces, being careful not to choose any that might clash with the place settings or dining room decor; whether to borrow china from Morrington Hall or make do with the inferior set of dishes found in the cabinets here. The list went on and on. And if Stella thought the two more experienced women would be forgiving to a newcomer, she was wrong. Mrs. Robertson and Mrs. Downie were no less forgiving in their demands on Stella than Lady Atherly and Lady Philippa would’ve been. Nor were they any less opinionated being servants, often disagreeing with Stella at every turn. When they came to the seating arrangements, Stella held up her hand in defeat; she had to take a break. She was exhausted.
“I know I’m imposing, Mrs. Downie, but would it be too much to ask for a cup of coffee?”
“Not at all, miss.”
When Cook set the cup of steaming, dark liquid in front of her, Stella wrapped her hands around the cup and breathed in the rich scent. Then she pulled the seating chart closer. Lord Fairbrother and Lady Philippa’s names had been crossed off, and the names of Miss Cosslett and Professor Gridley had been written in their place.
“Mr. Kendrick requested the modification . . . considering,” Mrs. Robertson said, pointing to the recent change. “If you approve, that finishes it.”
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