Murder at Blackwater Bend

by Clara McKenna

  “Why are you all looking at me like that?” he demanded, again slamming the empty glass on the counter. This time they weren’t so lucky. The glass broke, large shards fracturing in George’s grip.

  “It isn’t fair. I’m the one that should’ve won the Cecil Cup. You saw me mare. A blind codger could see she bested Fairbrother’s. And I’m the one whose plans have all been for naught. Do you know how much money I’ve spent?” He pointed at Tom, and then at Old Joe. “Do you?” Tom had no idea what George was on about.

  “Well, I didn’t kill the bastard, but after how he’s cheated me”—he shoved a finger hard against his chest—“I had every reason to. Give me another round, Tom.”

  “I think you’ve had enough.” It pained Tom to say it, but George was swaying and could barely keep his seat.

  “You’ve got that right!” George shouted, slipping off his chair and staggering to the door. “I have had enough. More than enough!” He yanked open the door, allowing it to slam against the wall. “And I think it’s about time I did something about it.” With that, he stumbled into the night.

  CHAPTER 22

  Stella, a glass of champagne in hand, absentmindedly nodded at the expected pauses as Baron Branson-Hill cataloged his latest equine acquisitions. Typically, Stella would be happy to talk about horses, but the lanky noble collected horses like Stella collected souvenir spoons; he didn’t know the first thing about the animals he bought and sold. But Stella knew better than to say so. As the baron rambled on about purchasing a pair of quarter horses, a couple of Hanoverian horses, and four foals from the Arabian Peninsula, she nodded politely, took a sip of the too dry champagne, and sought out Lyndy. He was speaking with the baroness on the other side of the drawing room. He, too, looked bored.

  Why was she even here?

  In her letter, Lady Atherly had made it quite clear that she no longer supported the engagement between Stella and Lyndy, but because Lady Atherly had planned the dinner weeks ago, she couldn’t uninvite the Kendricks. Stella had wanted to decline, as her father did when Lady Atherly made it clear Jane Cosslett was not welcome, but Lyndy insisted they show a united front. Someone to share in his misery, more likely. Stella took another tepid sip.

  “I’m quite looking forward to it,” the baron said. Stella nodded distractedly when he paused. “I think your father and I will have a great deal to discuss.” Her father? Stella, having let her thoughts wander, had no idea what the baron was talking about.

  “When are you seeing my father?”

  The baron laughed. “At your engagement dinner party, of course. Isn’t that what we’ve been talking about?” Silently Stella groaned. If this dinner was trying, she couldn’t imagine what new torment that evening was going to bring.

  “Good evening, Miss Kendrick, Baron.” With Lady Alice in tow, Cecil Barlow sidled up next to Stella.

  Stella had never seen Mr. Barlow without Lady Philippa. When Lady Atherly revealed earlier this evening that she’d invited him, Stella wondered if he’d show up. But he had, and with bells on. After handing Fulton, Morrington’s butler, his Stetson, Mr. Barlow had heartily shaken hands with Professor Gridley and Lord Atherly, insisting they tell him everything about the expedition to Wyoming. The moment Professor Gridley began his account, though, the plant hunter moved on to the ladies, kissing every hand he could clasp. Lady Alice had blushed crimson from the moment she saw him and giggled, almost uncontrollably, when he’d kissed her hand. She’d followed him around like a puppy ever since.

  “Have I told you what happened to me on the drive over?” Mr. Barlow leaned forward heavily on his cane with both hands, the citrusy scent of his fresh orchid wafting around him. Lady Alice, her eyes wide and unblinking, shook her head slowly. “I haven’t? Well, you will never believe who Lady Philippa and I—”

  “But Lady Philippa is in mourning,” the baron admonished. “She shouldn’t be ‘seeing’ anyone.”

  Despite her feelings for Lady Philippa, being cooped up in her house for months on end was a fate Stella wouldn’t wish on anyone. “She confined herself to her carriage, didn’t she?” Stella asked. Mr. Barlow nodded. “Then I’m sure Lady Philippa just craved some fresh air. No harm done.”

  “Well, when you put it that way, Miss Kendrick,” the baron capitulated.

  “As I was saying,” the plant hunter said, annoyed to have been interrupted, “you’ll never guess who we saw.”

  “We are all a twitter, Mr. Barlow, and could hardly guess,” Lady Alice said, batting her eyes as Stella had seen Jane Cosslett do. Why would any woman do that? Did men find it alluring or were they left wondering if the lady had grit in her eyes?

  “That snake-catching fellow,” Mr. Barlow said, leaning back and taking a glass of champagne from the silver tray held out to him by James, the footman. “The one who killed Lady Philippa’s husband.”

  “Harvey Milkham?” Baron Branson-Hill said.

  “That’s the one.” Mr. Barlow grinned as if the baron caught the meaning of a joke. Stella saw nothing amusing about it.

  “I say, Harvey Milkham rid a paddock I had of snakes a few months back. I had no idea the police arrested him for the killing of Lord Fairbrother.”

  “They haven’t,” Stella said, seething through her teeth. Her patience and ability to maintain this polite veneer were wearing thin. “And Harvey didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Lady Philippa insists he did,” Cecil Barlow said, as if explaining something to a child. He tipped his champagne, so that the long, thin stem of the glass rose above his eyes, and then drained it. “Besides,” he said, snatching another as James moved away with the tray, “it’s not just Lady Philippa. We all heard him threaten Lord Fairbrother at the Cecil Pony Challenge.”

  “That’s true, he did,” the baron said. “I heard him.”

  Lady Alice nodded. “Where did you see him, Mr. Barlow?” she asked, touching him lightly on the arm.

  “Can you believe the chap had the audacity to be along the River Blackwater? It may have even been at the same bend where you discovered Lord Fairbrother, Miss Kendrick.”

  Stella set her barely touched champagne glass on the nearby side table. She’d heard enough.

  “Why would he go there?” Lady Alice asked, hanging on the plant hunter’s every word.

  “That is an excellent question, my lady.” Cecil Barlow beamed at Lady Alice, causing her to drop her gaze and press her fingers to her cheeks. Her face was flush again. “I don’t know,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Perhaps he plans to kill again.”

  Lady Alice gasped as Cecil Barlow flourished his cane above his head as if to strike someone. He lowered it and laughed as Lady Alice sheepishly smiled back. Baron Branson-Hill scowled. It made Stella warm a bit to the horse collector.

  “I don’t think murder is an appropriate topic for conversation,” the baron said.

  Let alone as a means for flirting, Stella silently added.

  “Dinner is served, my lady,” Fulton announced.

  “Baron, if you’d be so kind as to escort me into dinner?” Lady Atherly said. As she took the baron’s arm, her voice grew sterner. “Alice, Professor Gridley is waiting.”

  She indicated the professor chatting with Lord Atherly by the fireplace. To Stella’s regret, the grate was bare. What wonders a small fire would do for the chill in the air. Lady Alice pouted, but a glare from her mother sent her scurrying, the stiff taffeta of her skirt rustling as she went.

  “And, Mr. Barlow, if you’d be so kind as to take Miss Kendrick?”

  “Of course, Lady Atherly. I’d be delighted.” Cecil Barlow offered his arm as requested, and Stella complied. But as Stella advanced toward the door, hoping to catch up with Lyndy, the plant hunter held her back.

  “Mr. Barlow?” Stella said, balking at his restraining hold. Despite his thin build, his forearm was taut and bulky beneath his dinner jacket. Despite his infirmity, he held her firm.

  “I wanted to let the others go ahead a bit.” He poin
ted his cane at the door just as the last of the guests disappeared around it. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to speak to you alone.” He hesitated, his eyes roaming down the length of her body. “That dress, by the way, is most becoming.” Ethel had chosen a dark purple silk gown with black beadwork around the collar and sleeves. It wasn’t one of Stella’s favorites.

  “You’ll crease the silk.” Her subtle hint didn’t work. He wouldn’t loosen his grip. “Let go of me.”

  He leaned into her close, too close. His breath, with its lingering scent of champagne and something stronger, felt warm against her cheek. She cringed, drawing her face as far away as his grip allowed.

  “I didn’t want to say this in front of Lady Philippa, or anyone else here. It would be far too upsetting, but . . .”

  “Then perhaps I don’t want to hear it either, Mr. Barlow,” Stella said, tugging her arm again. But he wasn’t listening.

  “But that snake-catching fellow you’re so ready to defend? I saw a knife on him.”

  Stella eyed him warily. Why was he telling her this? Why not inform the police? “When?”

  “At that quaint little competition named after me.” Stella didn’t remind him that the competition had been called the Cecil New Forest Pony Challenge for several years, long before he’d emerged unscathed from the jungle.

  “Where?”

  “When he tried to accost Lord Fairbrother in the tea tent. When I was holding the chap back, I saw the glint of it at the bottom of his open pocket. It could’ve been the one stolen from Lord Fairbrother.”

  “Or it could’ve been an open pocketknife.”

  “I didn’t think about it at the time, a funny old chap like that having a knife in his pocket at a pony competition. But obviously, I was too preoccupied to think more about it. But now I see I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve taken it from him.”

  Mr. Barlow drew her even closer, despite her resistance and the blatant repulsion on her face. She tilted her face away, but he was so close the petals of the orchid on his lapel almost brushed her chin. Should she call out for help? What would Mr. Barlow do if she did? She eyed his cane and recalled him feigning to hit Lady Alice with it. Would he dare hit Stella?

  “I think the police ought to know what I saw,” he said. “What do you think?”

  Harvey didn’t harm the snakes he gathered; why would he stab a man? But the moment Cecil Barlow repeated his accusations, the police were bound to arrest Harvey. Stella wished she’d never found that terrible weapon. She wished she’d never met this beastly man.

  “I think you should let go of me.” Stella tested his grip again and tried to pull away. He tightened his hold, his fingers digging through the silk of her sleeve.

  “I will go to the station tomorrow.” Mr. Barlow indicated toward the dining room with his cane, a broad smile across his face. Unburdening his confession, he seemed quite prepared to enjoy his evening. “Shall we?”

  Stella was outraged. She seized the orchid, the petals of the exotic flower like thick satin against her palm, and ripped it from his jacket. With some regret, she dropped it to the floor and crushed it beneath her heel. Having red streaks through its veins, the orchid looked like it was bleeding into the carpet.

  “Good Lord! Who does such a thing?” Mr. Barlow gaped at Stella as if her hair had turned blue before bending to retrieve his ruined boutonniere. With his hold loosened, Stella yanked free. She whirled out of his reach, scooped up the train of her dress, and dashed from the room. “Miss Kendrick,” Mr. Barlow called, “where are you going?”

  Startling a footman carrying a tureen of aromatic beef con-sommé down the hall, Stella bolted past and threw open the front door. Stella raced across the gravel drive, slipping slightly on the dew-glistened pebbles, but didn’t stop running until she felt the burn in her lungs and the cushion of grass beneath her feet.

  * * *

  Holding the chair for Baroness Branson-Hill, a tedious woman who was rambling on about the effects of rain on her silk gown, Lyndy wistfully glanced out the window through the gap where the drapes hadn’t been fully drawn. Swaths of pink and orange lit up the horizon. It was a glorious evening. At least the baroness and he could agree on something. Not a raindrop in sight. Mother, noticing his distraction as he seated himself, motioned to Fulton to correct the mistake in the drapery. Lyndy craned his neck, stealing one last glimpse of the sunset, and sighted Stella crossing the lawn. She wasn’t wearing her hat. A sure sign she’d left on an impulse. When Mr. Barlow entered the dining room alone, Lyndy threw down his napkin. Without wasting time asking the plant-collecting fellow where’d she gone, Lyndy made a hurried excuse and followed after her, all to the satisfying sound of Mother nearly choking on her first sip of wine.

  The fresh, cool breeze, carrying the scent of the sea, hit him the moment he stepped out the door. Once again, his darling American had spurred him to do something uncharacteristic and wonderful. But where was she going? Tugging up her skirt and train in her fist, she stomped across the garden, as if trying to put as much distance between her and the house as possible. Not the stables, surely? Not in that dress. She didn’t slow when he jogged out to meet her.

  “I say, hold on there,” Lyndy teased, when he’d almost caught up. He reached out and grabbed hold of her arm. She jerked away from his touch like a skittish horse. A surge of hot anger radiated through his chest. When had she started shying away from him again? Hadn’t they overcome this? Was this because of what he’d told her about Philippa? She’d said she’d believed him, trusted him. So why—?

  She whirled about to face him. She was panting. Her porcelain features were flush, and not just the tips of her ears. Shame, frustration, fury flashed in her eyes. Whatever was wrong had nothing to do with him.

  “What happened?” he demanded, more harshly than he intended.

  Lyndy’s first thought was of Kendrick, Stella’s father. He was often the source of her distress. But Kendrick hadn’t attended dinner—something about dining with that London reporter instead. Had Mother done something?

  “Nothing. It’s nothing,” Stella said with a strained voice as she tucked a strand of hair self-consciously behind her ear. When Lyndy took a step toward her, she backed away. “I thought I’d check on Tully.”

  “During dinner?” Her rash behavior wasn’t unprecedented. She’d once left in the middle of a party, held in her honor, to take a maid to the police station. But this wasn’t about freeing an innocent man from jail. “Did Mother say something? If this is about Philippa—”

  “Oh, Lyndy,” she said, clenching her fists in frustration. “Why did Lady Philippa have to suggest such awful things?” Lyndy tried to ask what Philippa said this time, but Stella spoke over him, her words tumbling out in a rush. “Harvey couldn’t have done this, could he?”

  Could all this frustration and anger be about the snakecatcher? For the first time, Lyndy detected a hint of doubt in her declaration. He didn’t know what to say. He’d never been certain the snakecatcher wasn’t guilty, particularly since he blamed Fairbrother for the destruction of his house. Lyndy could imagine wanting to punish anyone who dared harm Morrington Hall. But Stella didn’t wait for his response.

  “And to think I just gave it to them.” Lyndy approached her cautiously, step by step. She stood her ground, eyeing him warily. But when he lifted his hands and rested them lightly on her tense arms, she softened at his touch. She pointed back toward Morrington Hall. “But that man . . . in there . . . your sister . . .” She wasn’t making any sense.

  “What are you talking about?” he said, trying to hold her gaze. It was unnerving to hear Stella babble. She was nothing if not straightforward and frank about everything and anything. If she had an opinion or a concern, she expressed it. She didn’t babble. “Look at me, Stella.” When she complied, he said, “Now tell me what’s going on. First things first.”

  “First, I left my hat in the hall, again.” Lyndy laughed. To his delight, she aimed a focused look of con
sternation at him. There was the woman he adored.

  “It’s not funny, Lyndy. Your mother—”

  “After everything she’s done? I don’t care one bit about what my mother thinks.” He kissed Stella’s hair. It smelled of castile soap and rosemary. “Now, what else is bothering you.” She attempted a smile, but it faded as quickly as it had come.

  “I’m worried about Harvey. I’m worried that there might be something to what Lady Philippa said, after all.”

  “You’ve always been so certain of his innocence. What’s changed your mind? And how does this concern my sister?”

  “I don’t like Cecil Barlow.”

  She startled him, nearly growling the man’s name. Lyndy didn’t care for the plant-collecting fellow either, but what had he done to deserve such loathing? It must have something to do with the snakecatcher. But what did Alice have to do with any of this? Lyndy insisted she tell him. So she did. She repeated Mr. Barlow’s insinuations, about Harvey’s proximity to the river, Harvey’s possession of a knife.

  “If Barlow even did see a knife,” he reassured her, “it could’ve been what Harvey uses to fillet his trout or cut twine or pare apples. Doesn’t mean he stabbed anyone with it.”

  Stella puffed out her cheeks and released a big sigh. “That’s what I thought, but . . .”

  “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  Stella nodded. “I don’t trust that man, especially not with Lady Alice.”

  Lyndy could feel his jaw tighten. Recalling the look in Stella’s eye when he first approached her, his mind swirled with the possibilities. “What did Barlow do?”

  She told Lyndy everything. How dare he!

  “He shan’t get away with this.” Lyndy turned on his heel, intent on storming back to the dining room and ferociously pummeling the brute until he’d need two canes to walk. But Stella’s hand on his arm restrained him.

  “Whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t. Lady Alice will hate you for it, and it won’t help Harvey or me.”