“Stella? What is it?” Resting a hand on her shoulder, he cast a glance toward the edge but quickly turned his focus back to her. From the sound of things, Parley was stirring about below.
“Are you all right, or did that fool hurt himself?” Stella shook her head. For the first time, Lyndy noticed the intricate twists and knots tightly woven on the top of her head. She must’ve sat for hours getting that done. He stepped on the train of her skirt, pressing it into the upturned soil, but as he made to move, she pressed her face into his shoulder. “What’s upset you so?”
“Bloody hell!” George Parley’s head jutted up over the barrow’s edge. Crumbs of soil stuck to the perspiration on his bare scalp.
“I say, Mr. Parley, are you in need of assistance?” Lyndy said.
“You can get me the bloody hell out of here!” Parley dropped from sight again.
“Parley?” Lyndy started to lean over to see what could’ve happened to the landowner only to see Parley reemerge, on the far side, stumbling and tripping on his feet, and catching himself from slipping more than once with an outstretched hand. Parley furtively glanced back at the barrow, his eyes so wide the whites were visible in the dim light. Clear of the barrow, Parley bolted, like a horse out of the gate.
What the hell just happened?
Lyndy, gently easing Stella back, stepped around her, and peered down into the barrow. He’d seen the inside of it many times before, a well-swept dirt floor with precisely dug shallow holes cordoned off with string, occasionally with trowels and brushes strewn about, maybe bits of broken pottery even. But never had he seen a body in the burial mound, the dark shape lying prone beneath the ledge Lyndy stood on, its limbs splayed out like a flattened spider among the broken strands of twine, its face, chest, and unkempt hair matted with loosened dirt, its glassy, unblinking eyes staring up at him.
Stella joined him as he stood staring down into the pit. Lyndy reached for her hand, and she readily clasped his, her grip firm but her skin cold and soft. “Poor Harvey,” she sighed.
“Yes,” Lyndy muttered. “What a waste.”
CHAPTER 24
“Did he break his neck in the fall?”
Miss Kendrick, a drab, brown, woolen blanket from his police wagon wrapped around her shoulders, waited for Brown to answer. Light from the ring of lanterns Brown had had his constable set out around the barrow cast a shadow across her young, sweet face. To find two bodies in less than a week. Brown felt nothing but pity for her. But he wasn’t going to answer her question.
When the groom from Morrington Hall had pounded on the door of the police station, breathless and rambling on about burial mounds and the snakecatcher, Brown had been at his desk, another late night, pouring over statements in the Fairbrother murder. With Parley’s spurious denial of the dagger, his hoard of rifles, his blatant threats, Brown suspected Parley had something to do with it. But Lady Philippa insisted Harvey Milkham was the culprit. Brown had known the old hermit for years—everyone knew the snakecatcher—but without the ability to question Harvey, Brown hadn’t been able to rule him out. Now he might never know. Brown kicked the wheel of the police wagon in frustration but couldn’t help but admire the smooth brown leather of his new shoes. Matilda lifted her head from grazing and snorted in disapproval.
“Inspector?” Miss Kendrick said, not accepting his silence as an answer.
Brown could’ve insisted the viscount take the American lady away but knew from experience that she had a will of her own. If Miss Kendrick wanted to be here while Dr. Lipscombe examined the body, there was no telling her otherwise. At least he convinced her and Lord Lyndhurst to wait by the wagon.
“We’re ready to bring him out,” Dr. Lipscombe called, saving Brown from Miss Kendrick’s questions. For now.
A police helmet appeared first as Constable Waterman, holding one end of the stretcher, clambered out of the barrow. Harvey Milkham, covered up to his chin with a white sheet, followed. His body jolted up and down on the canvas as Lord Atherly’s groom, holding the other end of the stretcher, shuffled unsteadily across the wooden plank. Brown had recruited the lad to help.
“Oi!” Brown called. “Mind yourself, lad.” If the body had been Bronze Age cinerary urns, they’d have broken to pieces.
“Oh, Harvey.” Miss Kendrick advanced toward the approaching men, managing to brush a strand of hair from the dead hermit’s pale, wrinkled brow before Waterman slid the stretcher onto the wagon and beyond her reach. “Can’t we close his eyes?”
“She shouldn’t be here,” Dr. Lipscombe whispered to Brown. The medical examiner, serendipitously, had been out taking his nightly constitutional when Brown and Waterman drove by and had willingly agreed to accompany them. The doctor had never met the headstrong American before.
“Are you going to be the one to tell her to leave?” Brown whispered back. Dr. Lipscombe creased his brows in disapproval but never mentioned sending Miss Kendrick away again.
“What can you tell us, Doctor?” Lord Lyndhurst said, standing protectively close to his American fiancée without actually touching her.
Brown pinched the bridge of his nose. He admired the two young people and indulged them when he could, but he preferred to be the one asking the questions. Couldn’t they respect that, just once?
“I’m sorry, my lord, but . . .” Dr. Lipscombe began. Lord Lyndhurst scowled and crossed his arms against his chest. The doctor hesitated midsentence, startled by the challenge on Lord Lyndhurst’s face. “But I don’t think . . .” The poor doctor had never encountered the entitled viscount before either.
“Just tell us what you found, Dr. Lipscombe,” Brown suggested.
“But . . . but that would be highly irregular, Inspector.” Brown waved off the medical examiner’s objections. “Very well.” Dr. Lipscombe shook his head as he spoke, disagreeing with the decision even as he complied with it. “The victim did not die from a contusion or rupture from blunt force.”
“Meaning?” Lord Lyndhurst demanded.
“Meaning he didn’t die from a fall. Instead, he bled to death.”
“But we didn’t see any blood,” Lord Lyndhurst insisted.
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but it was dark, and the body and area around it were partially covered in soil from Mr. Parley’s endeavors. It would have been difficult for you to tell. Rest assured, we found ample blood to determine that is how the victim died.” As if massive blood loss could assure anyone.
“But if he hurt himself so badly, why was he still in the barrow? Did he knock himself out? Otherwise, he would’ve tried to get up and get help.” Dr. Lipscombe glowered at Brown, his eyebrows furrowed as if to say, “This is your fault. I shouldn’t be talking to her about this.” Brown held up his hands in resignation.
“I apologize, Miss Kendrick,” the doctor said. “I didn’t explain myself. The victim didn’t do this to himself in a fall. He was murdered.”
Miss Kendrick stared at the back of the wagon where the body lay, hugged the blanket tighter, and then calmly asked, “Do you think George Parley killed him and was trying to cover him up?”
Excellent question. Brown would have to ask George Parley about that. But first things first.
“How was he killed? Was he shot by a rifle, perchance?” Brown’s questions earned him questioning stares from the young couple. They hadn’t heard about George Parley’s rifles yet.
“No, the victim was stabbed.”
“Like Lord Fairbrother,” Miss Kendrick said before mumbling, faintly talking something over with herself. Brown caught snippets. “What was he even doing here?” and “I suppose it’s possible,” and “But why Harvey?”
Did Miss Kendrick know something he didn’t? Brown had found the American heiress uncommonly observant and useful in his last murder investigation. He ignored her now at his peril.
“What was that, Miss Kendrick?” Brown asked, as encouragingly as he could.
Lord Lyndhurst, too, was regarding her with anticipation. Miss Kendric
k rubbed her hands up and down her arms as if cold but said nothing more. Lord Lyndhurst, throwing convention to the wind, wrapped his arm around her shoulder. Yes, Miss Kendrick knew something. But bullying her now wasn’t the way to maintain her trust. Brown would let her recover from the shock of finding her friend first. He turned back to Dr. Lipscombe.
“Can you tell anything about the stab wound? Is there a particular weapon we should be looking for?”
Dr. Lipscombe set his well-worn leather bag into the wagon. Dark shadows surrounded his eyes. He looked exhausted. “It is preliminary, and of course I only had the light of the lanterns to guide me . . .”
“But?”
“But it appears Miss Kendrick is correct in one sense,” Dr. Lipscombe said. “I believe this man was stabbed with the same weapon as your other victim. Though the second attack was more sustained than the first.”
“Meaning?” Lord Lyndhurst asked.
“Meaning Lord Fairbrother suffered but one stab wound, which punctured his hepatic vein and lung, whereas the killer stabbed this gentleman multiple times to achieve the same effect.”
“Would you need skill to do this, Doctor?” Miss Kendrick asked. Another insightful question. What was Miss Kendrick thinking? Whom did she suspect?
Dr. Lipscombe shook his head. “Not necessarily. In fact, from the pattern of the wounds, I would propose the deaths resulted more from luck than skill. Why else would the same person resort to multiple wounds on this victim when only one sufficed on the first?”
Or there were two killers. Brown kept his conjecture to himself.
“Was there a knife in Harvey’s pocket?” Miss Kendrick asked. Brown blinked hard. Now, how could she know that? Brown asked her. “Because tonight Mr. Barlow recalled seeing Harvey with a knife the day he threatened Lord Fairbrother.”
“Did he now?” What else had the plant hunter recalled and wasn’t telling Brown? Another visit to Outwick House was in order. “Yes. We found a small utility pocketknife in Mr. Milkham’s jacket.”
Miss Kendrick and Lord Lyndhurst shared a glance. Lord Lyndhurst had known of this too, then. First the plant hunter, now these two. Who knew what else people weren’t telling him?
“And before you ask, yes, it did have blood on it,” Dr. Lipscombe chimed in.
Brown wanted to throttle the doctor as Miss Kendrick’s eyes widened in horror. She shrugged off Lord Lyndhurst’s arm and tossed the blanket from her shoulders, which landed on the ground with a soft thud. She shook her head violently as she hugged her arms around herself. Lord Lyndhurst, not to be put off, rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“No, I don’t believe it. Harvey couldn’t have . . .”
Startled by Miss Kendrick’s reaction—she’d been so composed up until now—the poor doctor held out his clasped hands, imploring her to calm herself. “If you will only let me finish.”
“What Dr. Lipscombe is trying to say, Miss Kendrick,” Brown interjected, hoping to assuage the young lady’s fears, at least as much as he was able, “was that although we found blood on it, the knife was too short, and the blade was single-edged. It couldn’t have been the murder weapon. For either death.”
Lord Lyndhurst sniffed in disgust.
“But that means . . .” Miss Kendrick began, relief and disbelief in her voice, “with the dagger securely locked up at the police station . . . that we can prove that Harvey is innocent.”
“No, Miss Kendrick,” Brown insisted, a slow sense of dread creeping up through his chest. “Harvey isn’t out of the frame yet. Just because he was killed with the same weapon doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved.”
“But then what does it mean?” Lord Lyndhurst demanded.
Brown pushed out a long exhale. It meant Brown was back where he started.
CHAPTER 25
“Heavens to Betsy, girlie,” her great-aunt exclaimed as Stella slammed on her brakes. A trap with two high-stepping horses had turned a corner and crossed right in front of the car. “Why come back to Lyndhurst? This makes two days running.”
It was a reasonable question. But Stella was tired of questions.
After returning from the barrow, Stella had lain in bed consumed by questions surrounding Harvey’s death, the rhythmic tick, tick, tick of the clock on her mantel marking the passing hours. Why would anyone kill him? The only quarrel Harvey had was with Lord Fairbrother. Or at least the only one Stella knew about. Either way, the two men were killed by the same weapon and were undeniably linked. Stella had to learn how. Was the connection through the destruction of Harvey’s hut? Had Harvey worked for Lord Fairbrother in the past? Was there a conflict with a third person they both knew? And why at the barrow? Did it have some significance? Did it have something to do with the dagger she found? Or was Harvey just there when the killer happened upon him? Stella speculated and obsessed until raindrops, with growing intensity, splattered against her windowpanes. She climbed out of bed and managed to push one snuggly fitting window up. Fresh, moist air drifted into the room. She’d stuck her face out into the rain allowing the droplets to cool her skin, to dampen her braided hair, to soothe her racing mind. She’d stepped away from the window, climbed back into bed, and fell soundly to sleep with the scent of the rain on her pillow. When Lyndy arrived, as usual, to go riding after breakfast, she convinced him they had to find answers, and that meant going to Lyndhurst again.
“I explained it to you before, Aunt Rachel,” Stella said, halting the Daimler next to the King’s House, an imposing, rectangular red brick manor with four steeply pointed dormer windows dominating the far end of the high street. “Lyndy and I think there must be a connection between the destruction of Harvey’s house and his murder.”
The King’s House contained both the Verderers’ Court, the governing body charged as guardian of the New Forest, its landscape, and its inhabitants, as well as the New Forest Deputy Surveyor Office, which maintained the New Forest land records. It was as good a place to start as any.
“But shouldn’t the police be doing this?” Aunt Rachel said as Lyndy offered her a hand to help her out of the car.
“The police still think Harvey might have been involved,” Stella said, unwinding the veil from her hat. She slipped out of the duster coat and tossed it into her seat. Several men, one sporting a polka-dotted waistcoat and a wide-brimmed straw boater hat with a dark green ribbon, eyed her and the automobile as they strolled toward the King’s House entrance, disapproval and envy awash on their faces. Stella, used to their reaction by now, ignored them.
“So, you thought you’d look into things on your own?”
Why shouldn’t she? Hadn’t Inspector Brown said she had a knack for this kind of thing? And didn’t she owe Harvey? Hadn’t he saved Tully’s life? Stella bitterly wished she could’ve saved Harvey’s. Wasn’t helping to find his killer the next best thing?
“It’s the least I can do.”
“And what about you, young fella?” Aunt Rachel said, poking at Lyndy with her cane. “Haven’t you figured out how to talk sense into this filly yet?”
Lyndy veered out of the way of the cane before offering Stella his arm and escorting them all toward the massive front doors. “I think your niece is quite sensible.”
“What would your mother say if she knew you were encouraging this?”
“If you only knew what Lady Atherly was encouraging him to do,” Stella muttered so that only Lyndy could hear.
Lyndy frowned as he pulled on the heavy front door. “Shall we?”
Stella preceded Lyndy in and faced a hallway teeming with men: some rotund, some lean, some finely dressed in tailored suits and shined shoes, others modestly dressed in wool trousers, fraying suspenders, and mud-splayed boots, some sporting high-peaked derby hats, some tugging on broadcloth caps. Whether tapping toes or pacing, all appeared impatient and grumbling.
“Seems court is in session today,” Lyndy said, as three more men in sack suits and fedoras entered the building directly behind them. Aunt Rachel
had barely room to step out of the way. The ding of a bell reverberated through the hall, prompting the men to converge on a door labeled “Court of Verderers” at the far end.
“There’s George Parley.”
Stella pointed to the stocky, bald landowner stomping his way through the crowd, hat in hand. Stella stepped forward, ready to join the stream of flowing men, but Lyndy shook his head and pointed to the directory near the stairwell. At the top, printed in capital letters, it read “DEPUTY SURVEYOR.”
“You go see about the land records. I’ll sit in on the court session.” Without waiting for her reply, Lyndy strolled into the assemblage of men heading down the hall. He shadowed Mr. Parley at a slight distance and entered the courtroom not far behind him.
Stella turned against the tide and headed for the Deputy Surveyor’s Office. “I think I’ll wait for you here,” Aunt Rachel said, settling into a bench along the wall.
Stella didn’t hesitate. She bounded up the stairs and, finding the well-marked door, pushed it open. Several large desks occupied the bright, whitewashed office, lined with metal filing cabinets and bookshelves of leather-bound ledgers. The clickety-clack of typewriters echoed through the room. The clerk at the closest desk, a man in his late twenties with dark, oiled hair, looked up from his work. He twitched his mustache and crinkled his face, trying to prevent his spectacles from sliding down the bridge of his nose.
Bing. The clerk slid back the return.
“Hello,” Stella said, approaching his desk, smiling. “I’m looking for some information about a piece of property. Would you be able to help me?”
“Well, I . . . I . . .” His cheeks flushed. “I will certainly try.”
“Oh, good,” Stella said. “The site in question is that of the old Norley Cottage. The building on the property recently burned down and I—”
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