Murder at Blackwater Bend

by Clara McKenna

  The clerk, pressing his index finger into the dimple on his chin, nodded his head vigorously. “You’re talking about the old coal-burner’s hut, aren’t you? Where the snakecatcher used to live.”

  “Yes, the very same.” Stella had wondered if news of the destruction of Harvey’s house had reached Lyndhurst. But did they also know about his death?

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I was wondering if there was any legal reason for someone to want to destroy it.”

  “Well, it rarely happens, but yes, Miss . . . uh?”

  “It’s Miss Kendrick.” Still peering at her over the rim of his spectacles, the clerk’s eyes widened at her name.

  “You’re the American heiress, aren’t you?” Stella nodded. Would she ever be anything but? “May I offer my congratulations on your engagement to Lord Lyndhurst.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I hear the wedding is to be later this year.”

  “Yes.” If Lady Atherly and Lady Philippa don’t make a mess of everything, that is. “You were saying?”

  “Of course. Do you know anything about the rights of common, Miss Kendrick?”

  “Yes, but only the basics, that commoners have certain rights to use the land of the New Forest, such as let their livestock graze freely, or gather firewood, or let their pigs eat acorns in autumn, or harvest peat for fuel or fodder.”

  He took off his spectacles and wiped them with a white cotton cloth. “I’m quite impressed, Miss Kendrick, that you know anything at all.”

  “Thank you?” Stella said, uncertain if he was complimenting her or insulting her intelligence. The clerk blushed again. “But how do rights of common apply in Harvey’s case?”

  “Well,” the clerk said slowly, as if about to explain something to a child, “what you may not know is that rights of common usually belong to the land, not the person. If someone doesn’t own the land, he doesn’t inherently have any rights. And in the snakecatcher’s case, he doesn’t own the land. He’s merely been squatting on it for some thirty years.”

  “But Harvey said he’d lost his rights when his hut burned down.”

  “Yes, he has been allowed the rights of estovers and turbary, or the right to collect firewood and harvest turf, because his hut incorporated the old hearth of the Norley Cottage, to which the rights were attached.”

  “But that’s all forfeit now that the fireplace chimney is destroyed.”

  “Exactly.” He smiled as if pleased with a promising pupil. Stella restrained herself from rolling her eyes.

  “If Harvey didn’t own the land, then who does?”

  “If you’ll wait just one minute, I can check.” The clerk slid back from behind his desk and ambled over to a row of shelves. After skimming several shelves, he glanced over his shoulder and frowned. He held up a finger. “Just another moment longer, Miss Kendrick.”

  He approached the desk of another clerk, a similar young man in sleeve garters. The two conferred together in whispers, each sneaking a glance at Stella, as she pretended to admire the paperweight holding down a stack of typewritten forms on the clerk’s desk. A scene of summertime at a seaside pier showed through the thick glass dome. The second clerk slipped a thick, brown ledger from a stack of like ledgers on his desk and handed it to the first. As the second clerk blatantly gawked at Stella, ink dripping carelessly from his pen, the first returned, the prize in hand.

  “I couldn’t find it at first because it has become an active file.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means the land was recently sold.”

  “To whom? By whom?”

  The clerk flipped open the ledger and skimmed down page after page with his index finger. “Ah, here it is.” He stabbed his finger down. “Oh, dear.”

  “What is it?”

  “Lord Fairbrother owned the parcel and paddock surrounding the old Norley Cottage site.”

  Lord Fairbrother owned the land Harvey had been illegally occupying for decades? Why would Lord Fairbrother have a sudden change of heart and want Harvey gone? Or perhaps Harvey was wrong. Maybe Fairbrother had nothing to do with the arson. “Poor chap sold it just the day before he died.”

  “That’s the day Harvey’s hut burned down,” Stella said, under her breath. This was no coincidence.

  “I’m so sorry,” the clerk stammered, pulling a handkerchief from his vest pocket and handing it out to her. What did she need that for? If she could avoid it, she’d never use another one.

  “I didn’t mean to mention . . . seeing as you . . .” He fluttered the handkerchief at her.

  He thinks that I’ll break down in front of him. Harvey’s death may not have reached this man’s ears yet, but whoever had discovered Lord Fairbrother’s dead body certainly had.

  “It’s all right,” she said, waving off the offered handkerchief. The clerk, pouting, stuffed it back into his pocket. “Just tell me who bought the land.” With Dr. Lipscombe speculating the two men were murdered with the same weapon, the land’s new owner may very well be the killer.

  The clerk ran his finger along the length of the page. “It says here, that one Mr. George R. Parley purchased it.”

  “Oh, no.” Lyndy has just gone into the court with him.

  Stella barely registered the clerk’s bewilderment when she thanked him, flung open the door, and hurried away.

  * * *

  Lyndy settled into one of the wooden, spindle-backed armchairs toward the rear of the gallery facing the long, two-tiered, wooden judicial bench, well behind George Parley. Lyndy didn’t want the landowner to see him and bolt, as he had last night, before Lyndy found out what Parley was up to. But Lyndy went far from unnoticed. Many men stole a quick glimpse of him over their shoulders, curious as to what brought the son of the Earl of Atherly to the Verderers’ Court. Lyndy left others to attend to estate business, so he had no occasion to set foot in the courtroom before.

  A clerk stepped in front of the bench, waited for the chatter of those in attendance to fade, and sniffed.

  “Please rise,” he said, his monotone voice echoing into the centuries-old rafters above.

  Chairs scraped, feet shuffled, the floorboards creaked as every man rose to his feet. Someone stifled a cough as the verderers entered the wood-paneled hall. With the heads of deer flanking the royal coat of arms on the wall above them, five men, black crape around their arms, filed into their places along the bench, leaving the middle-most space, the official verderer’s seat, vacant.

  “This court is hereby called to session,” the clerk announced. As the verderers sat, so too did everyone else. The clerk proceeded to read minutes from the last meeting of the court. Lyndy stretched out his feet, crossed his arms against his chest, and yawned. He’d followed George Parley in, to see what the fellow was about, but he wasn’t much for these formal proceedings.

  “We called this unscheduled session of open court to formally announce the tragic death of our official verderer, the Right Honorable Viscount Fairbrother,” said one of the verderers, a man in his late sixties with a long Roman nose and a ring of white hair about his head. “We will dispense with further announcements and suspend presentments until that time His Majesty appoints a new official verderer.” A deep mumbling of disgruntlement rumbled through the crowd. George Parley rocketed up from his chair.

  “What about me petition? Will I be allowed to open a gentlemen’s rifle club besides Norleywood or not?”

  How could Parley have petitioned the court to open a rifle club where the snakecatcher’s hut was? Unless he knew in advance that the shack wouldn’t be there.

  “You have no idea how much I’ve invested in this—”

  “Mr. Parley, please be seated,” the verderer demanded.

  Lyndy glared at the back of George Parley’s shiny bald head. The landowner had bathed the dirt of the barrow from his head but traces still stained the thick creases on the back of his neck.

  “Not until you tell me the status of me petition,
” Parley bellowed. “I have me family’s future to consider.” The long-nosed verderer sighed, seeking the approval of his fellow members. The other four men shrugged.

  “Very well. As the court is in the process of drafting its own version of the Crown Lands Bill of 1904—”

  “One rifle club does not pose a menace of debris,” George Parley countered, obviously familiar with the bill in question. Lyndy had no idea, and couldn’t care less, about the specifics in these laws. Give him the rules of horse-racing any day. The verderer continued as if the landowner hadn’t spoken.

  “As well as considering the controversy that arose over the Ranges Act of 1891, and the case brought against it, the court motions to table public comment until the matter can be raised in committee.”

  “But the Ranges Act involved the preemptive use of the Forest by His Majesty’s military,” Parley argued. “This is a private enterprise and not without precedent.”

  “But similar concerns over the threat to the New Forest and the rights of inhabitants apply,” the verderer replied. “Do I hear a second?” A second was offered before Parley could object.

  “Gah!” Parley threw his arms up in disgust and began shoving his way down the aisle without a by-your-leave, unceremoniously knocking knees, kicking shins, and stepping on toes as he went. Seemingly oblivious to the discontent left in his wake, Parley, his head bent, pounded a fist against his open palm, the smack of each punch reverberating above the din of complaints. A call to order went unnoticed.

  “I say.”

  “Well, I never!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  When Parley reached the aisle, his cheeks burned a crimson red and beads of perspiration glistened on his high forehead. When he passed within earshot of Lyndy, Parley was grumbling to himself. Lyndy, though not one to shy from confrontation, was grateful for the barrier of several empty chairs along the row between them. He had no quarrel with the man.

  “Damn that Fairbrother,” the landowner muttered with each punch of his fist as he headed toward the door. “Damn that rotter to hell.”

  But Fairbrother was dead. What on earth could Parley mean?

  CHAPTER 26

  Philippa’s hand slipped on the ornately engraved brass knob. Why was she so nervous? Raymond was dead. What was done was done. She had her future to think of now. She smoothed her hair at her temples, let out her pent-up breath, and flung open the door. The stench of cigarettes and scotch assailed her, the lingering scent of the late lord. She left the door slightly ajar and crossed over to the window. Philippa didn’t waste her precious time admiring, or rather disparaging, the view of the long gravel drive in all its dismal glory, but quickly lifted the sill. The breeze, heavy with the scent of crushed gravel and newly mowed grass, didn’t help improve the foul odor of the room much, but it would have to do.

  Squawk! “I said no interruptions.” Squawk! “Hodgson.”

  Philippa started. She’d forgotten about the bird. She’d rarely seen it, but often heard its high-pitched mutterings behind the closed door. Had anyone thought to feed the thing? No matter. She yanked the cover off the gilded wire cage. The small, gray parrot’s beady little eyes stared up at her as it cocked its head. It began bobbing and swaying about, mimicking her dead husband’s frustrated call of “I said no interruptions.” The parrot hopped to its perch and fluttered its dull gray feathers. The bottom of the cage was littered with them. Philippa unlatched the cage door and gloated as the bird leaped from the cage and soared straight out the open window. She slammed the window closed behind it.

  Better to forbear the cigarette odor than to allow the bird back in.

  She turned and examined the exotic room for the first time, like a child at a zoo. She’d rarely been allowed in here. This was his domain. Her eyes slid across the glass-fronted bookcases to the varying-sized antlers over the fireplace, to the bric-a-brac on the mantel, to the row of silver Cecil Pony Challenge Cups on a shelf, to the unfinished chess game on the mother-of-pearl inlay table, to the birdcage, to the fanned arrangements of daggers, knives, and swords mounted along the opposite wall. Too much of the dark green wallpaper showed through where the dagger was missing from one of the displays. And it was still missing. Philippa suspected Miss Kendrick of stealing it again, but what did Philippa care? Her husband had so many, and she had no use for them.

  Pray, what was she to do with all these things? Philippa mentally shook her head, banishing the thought away, delaying any decisions for another day. Finding the will was task enough for now.

  She approached the mahogany desk, cleared of everything but the black and white lacquered writing set, both crystal inkwells adequately filled. Raymond was a great many things, but untidy was not one of them. The desktop was polished to such a sheen she could see her reflection. She brushed the hair at her temple again. So young, so beautiful, and yet already a widow? But that might change very soon. A smile slowly spread across her lips. Lyndy could soon be hers. What a delicious thought.

  But only if the will said what she wanted it to. Had Raymond had time to change it? She had to find out.

  She chose the top drawer of the desk to start. Tidy piles of blank stationery and envelopes embellished only with the Fairbrother family crest—a cockatrice, the mystical two-legged serpent with a rooster’s head—filled the drawer. A sculpted bronze paperweight of a nude woman lying in a vulgar pose held down the paper. Disgusted, Philippa slammed the drawer shut and yanked the next one open.

  What on earth?

  The chaos that met her was more of a shock than the nude statue in the previous drawer. Letters with bent edges, crumpled envelopes, and paper tablets lying on their spines had all been shoved into the drawer, seemingly at random. Could the will possibly be in among all this? Loath to rifle through the mess, she pulled open the next drawer. It was in the same sorry state. She yanked on the bottom two drawers at the same time. Oddly, the drawer on the left was perfectly tidy, a supply of ink and mucilage lined perfectly alongside tins of paper clips, pencils, erasers, and penholders. The one on the right was like the others, its contents upturned and disheveled as if someone had been searching for something in a hurry. Had Raymond done this before he died? No, he’d never have left his affairs in such a state. Someone else then. But why? Could it have to do with his work as official verderer? Were they looking for the money he’d hidden in his waistcoat? Or was it something else entirely? Unfortunately, she had no idea what her husband had been up to.

  Could it have been the will they were after? No, who else would care but her? Even so, it was an affront to have someone in her home, rifling through what were now her things.

  “Hodgson,” she yelled, not bothering to push the ringer. She knew someone was always within earshot. The butler would be found. And she was right. In a manner of moments, Hodgson stood before her.

  “You called, my lady?”

  “You’re familiar with Lord Fairbrother’s habits. Does this look proper to you?” She indicated the desk. As the butler approached, Philippa stepped slightly aside. Hodgson hesitantly rounded the desk, his eyes widening at the sight of the disheveled opened drawers.

  “No, my lady. Lord Fairbrother was most particular about his affairs. Quite meticulous, I’d say. I’m astonished to see his desk in such disarray.”

  “That was my thinking.”

  She was right. Someone else had been in here. But who? She couldn’t fathom anyone she knew doing such a thing. Surely not her friends, her family, or her loyal staff. Not even that meddlesome Miss Kendrick would be so bold. One of Raymond’s business associates or a stranger then? That obnoxious reporter, perhaps? Philippa shuddered to think someone like Miss Cosslett had infiltrated the sanctity of Outwick House, and what they might’ve learned.

  “Hodgson, call the police.”

  * * *

  Stella fiddled with the flouncy Chantilly lace on her embroidered blouse as Aunt Rachel, her drowsy head nodding on her chest, sat beside her on the bench. The hall, once a h
ubbub of men, stood vacant and echoing with nothing but the gentle snores of the older woman. Stella didn’t know how much longer she could wait. Abruptly the doors to the verderers’ courtroom banged open, and George Parley stormed out. Muttering and lost in his thoughts, Mr. Parley stomped down the hall, launched himself against the entrance door, and disappeared. A surge of men soon emerged from the courtroom. Stella leaped to her feet and waved the moment she saw Lyndy among the crowd. He nodded in acknowledgment and weaved his way to her. Stella grabbed his arm and, abandoning Aunt Rachel, pulled him after her into the relatively private space beneath the stairs.

  “Why, Miss Kendrick,” Lyndy said, smirking. “I wouldn’t have thought this the time nor the place, but if you insist.” He lifted the brim of her hat, bent down toward her, his handsome face filling her entire view, and placed a quick kiss on her lips. His unexpected touch raised goose bumps on her arms, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.

  “Lyndy,” Stella admonished, swatting his arm playfully. “This is serious.”

  He leaned back, but she could still feel the heat of his breath on her cheek. “I can’t think of anything more serious than kissing the woman who is to be my wife.”

  He was teasing her; she could hear it in his voice. But there was a sincerity in his gaze that made her pause. If only she could clear the hall of onlookers, many of whom were scowling at her in disapproval. If only she could stop wondering if Lady Atherly was going to ruin everything. If only she could forget what had brought them to the King’s House in the first place. She would gladly kiss Lyndy with abandon. But she couldn’t, not here, not now. But nothing said she couldn’t return his affection in some way. She gave his cheek a peck. He pulled her to him. She whispered in his ear.

  “More serious than George Parley having something to do with Harvey’s death?” Lyndy frowned, releasing his embrace. She stepped back a bit, self-consciously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she glanced around. She caught the eye of a gentleman with a pointed white beard, his face startled at witnessing their public display. She sheepishly smiled. He shook his head in disgust.