Stella nodded, knowing her father would have his way regardless and took a sip of her coffee, savoring its sweet heat as it slid down her throat. Mrs. Downie remembered she liked sugar in her coffee. The thoughtfulness soothed her as much as the coffee.
“Do you think it’s right to host this party with Lord Fairbrother’s death so recent?” she said.
Cook, stirring something on the stove that smelled of potatoes and cream, and the housekeeper, putting the seating chart in her ledger, stole worried glances at each other again.
“Please,” Stella added. “I want your honest opinion.”
Stella knew it wasn’t the English way, but she had to talk to someone about it, and she didn’t care what Lady Atherly might say.
“Well . . .” Mrs. Downie began, tasting the soup she was cooking, “if you want an honest opinion . . .” Mrs. Robertson raised a warning eyebrow, but the cook shrugged and continued stirring. “I wouldn’t trouble yourself about it, miss. I doubt anyone is mourning the death of Lord Fairbrother.” That wasn’t what Stella expected to hear.
“But what about Lady Philippa? Don’t you think she grieves for her husband?”
Mrs. Robertson bit her lower lip as she tapped the edge of the ledger on the table, straightening the papers tucked inside. The housekeeper didn’t need to say she disagreed. But why? Did she know Lady Philippa had set her sights on Lyndy? No. Stella couldn’t imagine Lady Atherly’s plans being that widely known. At least not yet. Stella looked at the cook as Mrs. Downie brushed invisible crumbles from her spotless apron. Neither woman would meet Stella’s gaze.
“Was Lord Fairbrother as awful as that?”
Stella had only known the lord a couple of months. He’d seemed cocky and egotistic, not unlike Lyndy when she’d first met him. But Lord Fairbrother had always been civil, even appearing to value her opinion on his horse and pony stock. He seemed a demanding husband but not cruel. At least not in Stella’s presence.
“You have no idea, miss,” the cook said.
“Now, now, Mrs. Downie,” the housekeeper said. “Miss Kendrick doesn’t need to be privy to a dead man’s faults.”
“Yes, yes, I do.” If there was something about Lord Fairbrother, something likely to bear on his murder, she wanted to know.
Mrs. Downie shrugged at the housekeeper and gestured toward Stella as if to say, “She’s asking, what can I do?” Mrs. Robertson shook her head, raising her eyes entreatingly toward heaven. The cook, taking Mrs. Robertson’s silence as permission to speak, turned off the burner, pulled herself out a seat. After settling her expansive backside into the chair and wiping her hands on her apron, she leaned forward across the bare, well-worn oak table.
“What I’ve heard told,” she said, covering the side of her mouth as if to shield what she said from lip-readers, “is that Lord Fairbrother took bribes, as official verderer, I mean.” She sat back, crossed her thick arms across her ample bosom, and nodded with satisfaction.
“And where did you hear that, Mrs. Downie?” Mrs. Robertson asked skeptically.
“George Parley’s head groom is brother to the greengrocer’s delivery boy, Willie. He’s a talker, that one, always giving me the gossip when he brings in the produce.” She lowered her voice slightly and leaned forward again. “From what Willie’s been telling me, George Parley’s been moving fences for years, and no one has been the wiser.”
“But that doesn’t mean George Parley paid Lord Fairbrother to look the other way, does it?” Stella said, despite having heard similar accusations.
“Doesn’t it?” The cook stood up, brushed down a fold in her apron, and reached up to fetch a copper pot hanging with others along the wall. “According to Willie’s brother, no one’s been out to check those fences since you-know-who became official verderer.”
“I would have to agree with Miss Downie,” Mrs. Robertson said. “I too have heard such things—about landowners paying Lord Fairbrother for wee favors: extra stallions put out to pasture, harvesting of more wood than they’re legally allowed, and the like—and from more respectable sources than the greengrocer’s boy.” Mrs. Downie, cutting a pad of butter into the pot, snorted at the rebuke.
“Then, you wouldn’t be interested to know what Willie told me just yesterday, would you?”
“And that being?” Mrs. Robertson sighed.
“That his brother, the groom, spied an envelope bursting with pounds in George Parley’s waistcoat pocket when he handed off his horse. The envelope was gone when his master came back.”
“Do the police know?” Stella said.
“Who’d tell them?” Mrs. Downie said, dicing up some onions and adding them to the pot. It smelled heavenly. “And would they listen if we did?”
“But if George Parley and the other landowners benefitted from Lord Fairbrother’s intervention on their behalf, even if they had to pay him to do it, wouldn’t they mourn his death?” Stella said.
“No.”
“But why not? Without him, they no longer have someone to beg favors from.”
“Because he blackmailed them, he did.”
“Why, Mrs. Downie,” Mrs. Robertson exclaimed, “whoever dared say such a thing?”
“Mrs. Tooker, the cook at Outwick House.”
Mrs. Robertson scoffed. “I say, that is most extraordinary. In all my days, I’ve never heard of such disloyalty.” Cook shrugged.
Stella, though not as outraged as the housekeeper, was stunned. Servants inevitably chatted with one another, but to share the secrets of the employers was unnerving, especially with her presumably being the subject of such gossip. Stella wondered if Lyndy, or even Lady Atherly, suspected.
“Whom was he blackmailing?” Stella asked.
Cook continued to stir. “That Mrs. Tooker wouldn’t say, but it’s true to character, what with his jealousy toward Lady Philippa and their open, heated arguments. I’d be daft not to believe it.”
Jealousy? Heated arguments? Because Lady Philippa preferred other men’s attention? She certainly enjoyed Cecil Barlow’s adoration. She certainly expected Lyndy’s.
“What did they argue about?”
“What didn’t they?” Cook said, without turning around. “He was known to lash out in anger at any time.” She simulated a slap across her cheek, leaving behind a trail of flour she’d just added to the pot.
“What? No!” Stella wouldn’t believe it. She had lived her whole life dodging her father’s wrath. Lord Fairbrother didn’t seem capable of such violence. Could the servants be wrong? Stella doubted it.
“Yes, that is something I heard about as well,” Mrs. Robertson admitted. “But one doesn’t like to gossip about such things.”
How awful. Stella now understood Lady Philippa’s desire for Lyndy. Lyndy was as gentle as Lord Fairbrother was cruel. But that didn’t mean she forgave Lady Atherly or planned to let Lady Philippa get her way. Stella was going to marry Lyndy. Lady Philippa would have to find herself another husband.
The sudden thought disturbed her, but before she could puzzle out why, Cook banged her spoon on the lip of the pot and said, “No wonder she took a lover.”
Stella didn’t think Mrs. Downie could’ve said another thing that shocked her, but there it was. How did Cook know all of this?
“Did Mrs. Tooker tell you that too, Mrs. Downie?” Mrs. Robertson said, sounding as skeptical as Stella felt.
“No, but Nelly did. Did I mention Nelly is me niece?”
“Who?” was all Stella could say.
“Nelly is a chambermaid at Outwick House,” Mrs. Robertson explained to Stella before asking of the cook, “and what pray tell did wee Nelly say?”
“She wouldn’t say for certain, but when you clean someone’s room and make someone’s bed every day, you learn things. And she swears Lord Fairbrother wasn’t always at home when the linens needed changing, if you get my meaning.”
Stella felt the familiar burn at the tips of her ears, but covered her cheeks as they too burned with embarrassment. She und
erstood all too well what Mrs. Downie was implying. Stella’s heart pounded at the thought of Lady Philippa welcoming a man to her bed, of Lyndy’s denied desire of being that man, of her upcoming wedding night. Anger, fear, passion, and doubt warred within her as she fought to loosen the stifling lace collar around her neck. When had it gotten so warm in here? The stern composure on Mrs. Robertson’s face brought Stella instant relief.
“I don’t want to hear any more such talk as long as I am in charge of this house,” Mrs. Robertson said.
Cook shrugged and added a bit of salt and pepper to her dish. “I’m just repeating what I’ve been told.”
“Is there any other gossip I should know about?” Stella couldn’t imagine anything, after that unsettling bit of news, but this was the time to ask.
“I think that’s quite enough,” the housekeeper said, rising from the table. “Mrs. Downie needs to finish preparing lunch.”
But Stella didn’t agree. Who would’ve guessed Mrs. Downie would be such a fount of knowledge? Stella had imagined Cook stuck in the kitchen day and night, isolated from the world, only breathing fresh air on her way to church. How wrong she was. Cook probably knew more about life and the lives of those around her than any reporter from London ever could. If Mrs. Downie knew this much about Lady Philippa, maybe she knew about Harvey.
“One more question, if you’ll indulge me,” she said. Mrs. Robertson pinched her lips but couldn’t object. With eager anticipation, Mrs. Downie looked over the spoonful of potato soup she was sampling. “Is there anything I should know about Harvey Milkham?”
“The snakecatcher?” Mrs. Robertson said, taken aback by the question. She pulled up the chain dangling from her waist and fumbled through the keys. “Well now, once I would’ve said he kept himself to himself unless someone needed ridding of snakes. But now . . .”
“I heard told he likes to toss potato sacks full of snakes into the pub if it’s a busy night.” Mrs. Downie chuckled, wiping the corner of her mouth with the edge of her apron.
“Yes, well,” Mrs. Robertson continued. “I’m sorry to say, as you are his friend, but whenever there’s talk of Lord Fairbrother’s murder, Harvey Milkham’s name is the first on everyone’s lips.”
Stella frowned. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. More burdened now than she’d been when she stepped into the kitchen, she thanked the women and rose.
“Don’t you worry, dearie.” Mistaking the reason for Stella’s somber mood, the housekeeper tapped the ledger she held tightly against her chest. “The dinner will be just grand.”
“Well, if it is, it’s all thanks to you, ladies.”
The two servants beamed, pleased by the compliment. Stella forced herself to return the smile but dropped all pretense of gaiety the moment she was away from the kitchen. Who cares about a silly dinner when everyone’s branded Harvey the killer?
CHAPTER 21
Tom Heppenstall had a dilemma. He prided himself on living simply and keeping himself to himself. He knew right from wrong; he knew when someone was cheating him, and when a loyal customer deserved a pint on the house. But this?
Tom paced the length of the bar, rubbing out a smudge with his towel here, wiping up a spill there. Tom limped back down the bar again. His ankle, though better today, still smarted.
But this he wasn’t used to.
That day the American lady appeared on his doorstep had put Tom in a similar predicament. What if she’d insisted on entering his pub? Would he have allowed it or denied her? Would he have lost trade by angering his customers? Would he have lost business for angering Lord Atherly? Luckily the lady knew a boundary she shouldn’t cross when she saw it, saving Tom from having to make the decision. But here he was again. And Tom couldn’t make his mind up.
At the other end of the bar, Old Joe smacked his lips as he set an empty glass next to the broadsheet he was reading. Tom limped down the bar to fetch it.
“What seems to be the problem, Tom?” Old Joe said, without looking up. “Never knew you to pace before.”
“No problem,” Tom mumbled. Old Joe raised his wispy brows. Tom wasn’t a good liar.
Inspector Brown had made himself quite clear. If Tom saw Harvey Milkham or George Parley, he was to contact the policeman immediately. Straightforward enough, especially when it came to the snakecatcher; Harvey hadn’t shown a hair of his dirty, gray head since Lord Fairbrother’s body was found floating in the river.
But with George, it was different. George and Tom went way back. The two men had gone to primary school together. Tom even stepped out with George’s sister before she married that other fellow and moved to Winchester. (Rightfully so. She was too good for Tom or Rosehurst.) And George was as loyal as they came, changing from the Queen’s Head in Burley to the Knightwood Oak when Tom took over. But worst of all, Tom knew George would be strolling in any minute. The fellow had grievances, the fellow had dreams, and sometimes a few pints too many were the only remedy when the two coincided.
So, what should he do?
Tom halted halfway down the bar when the door opened and, as Tom feared, George Parley was on the other side of it. Tom flipped the towel onto his shoulder and drew the usual even before George ambled up to the bar.
“We weren’t sure whether we’d see you tonight, George,” Old Joe said, laying his newly read broadsheet on the stack of newspapers beside him. No one had occupied the seat beside Old Joe in years.
“And why would that be?” George asked, after taking a swig from his beer and licking the foam from his upper lip.
“Because the police have been around looking for you.”
“Have they now? Why would that be?”
“Because you were heard threatening Lord Fairbrother not long before somebody killed him. That’s why.” Old Joe stared at George, expectantly. Tom knew Joe to be a bit of a busybody, but this was more than his usual. George finished his drink and set the glass on the bar. Tom had already put a fresh pint down before him.
“Well, if you must know, Joe, I’ve already spoken to the police and they—”
“Need to speak with you again,” a gruff voice called from across the room.
Tom, George, Old Joe, and every other head in the place shot up to see who had spoken. It was Inspector Brown. A younger, burlier policeman stood beside him. Tom cursed. How could he not have seen the policemen come in? But then again, dilemma resolved.
“Shall we step outside, Mr. Parley? It’ll be more private,” the inspector said.
George reached for his second pint and gulped half of it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before answering, “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Very well.”
The policemen approached the bar, the younger one flipping open a notebook. The inspector produced something wrapped in a clean, thick cut of linen and set it down before them. George recoiled back as when Harvey had dropped an adder on the bar. Old Joe clambered up, and with his knees on the stool, stretched as close across the bar as he could get. Tom, his hand still holding the towel inside a wet glass, scrutinized the bundle from where he stood. The boy, arriving up from the cellar carrying an empty keg, dropped his burden with a thud and gaped over George’s shoulder. The inspector flipped off the cloth.
An ornamental dagger? Tom blew out his pent-up breath.
But why the sudden apprehension? What was Tom expecting: a severed finger, a blood-encrusted bullet, or like George, a snake ready to leap out at them? Tom slapped the towel across his shoulder, silently chiding himself on such a flight of fancy. The object was nothing but one of those daggers that you’d see on the king’s guards. Tom, in his foolish youth, had once joined a throng lining the streets of Lymington as Her Majesty Queen Victoria passed by on her way to the Isle of Wight. He’d failed to catch a glimpse of Her Majesty in the shadowy recesses of her carriage. But the guards, the coachmen, the horses, all in their rich, colorful ceremonial dress, were enough to humble a simple bloke such as he.
“Where did you
get that?” The boy, standing on his tiptoes and craning his neck around George to see better, reached his gangly arm out to touch the thing.
The policeman slid the dagger away, out of the boy’s grasping hands. “Have you ever seen this dagger, Mr. Parley?”
George slipped a plain cotton handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow before wrapping his fingers around his half-empty beer glass. “Yes, I’ve seen it.”
Old Joe whistled in surprise.
Whoosh! As if mimicking Old Joe, a high-pitched rushing sound of wind echoed through the floorboards. The boy dropped, ear to the ground, to listen.
“It’s the ghost again,” the boy wailed. Everyone but Tom ignored him. George’s honest admission trumped any spectral moaning.
“Get off your knees, lad, and put away that keg.” Relation or no, that silly boy had to go.
“Where?” the inspector asked. “Where have you seen it before?” George guzzled down the rest of his beer. The policemen waited.
“I was passing when the American lady found it at Furzy Barrow. Why?”
“It was stolen from Outwick House. You visited Lord Fairbrother there, I believe?”
“On business, mind.” George signaled he wanted two more pints, his fingers shaped in a V. Tom obliged. He didn’t wonder George needed it, with the accusation like that left hanging, like a noose from the rafters. When George had taken another long drink from his third pint, he said, “What are you accusing me of? Stealing the man’s posh dagger?”
“We believe it may be the weapon used to kill Lord Fairbrother.” George slammed the glass on the bar, beer sloshing about. Tom was surprised it didn’t break.
“I didn’t steal anything, and I didn’t kill anybody. And good, bloody luck trying to prove I did.”
“Right!” Inspector Brown said. “As I said before, don’t leave the area, Mr. Parley. We may need to speak to you again. Gentlemen.” The inspector tipped his hat, motioned to his constable, who flipped his notebook closed, and the two men left. The place was so quiet Tom could hear the mice scurrying up the walls. George snatched his glass up, tipped his head, and finished what was left in one long gulp.
Murder at Blackwater Bend Page 17
