Murder at Blackwater Bend

by Clara McKenna

  Brown swallowed hard to hide displeasure. Why hadn’t the butler told him this before?

  “Was Lord Fairbrother aware of the theft?”

  The butler nodded. “Most certainly.”

  “But the photograph was taken since?” The butler nodded again. So again, Brown had to ask, why the photograph? He voiced his question out loud.

  “Perhaps one of the servants wanted a souvenir of their late lord?” Constable Waterman offered. Brown thought that an excellent reason and said so, but the butler was shaking his head.

  “None of the staff would do such a thing.” And why would that be? Because they were too loyal, like Mr. Hodgson, or because they didn’t like their lord enough, like the scullery maid? Before Brown could ask, the butler added, “The night Lord Fairbrother was killed, I noticed the conservatory door was open. I believed it was one of the maids feeding a stray cat. She has been reprimanded before for doing so. But when I asked Mrs. White, she insisted Nelly was innocent. Perhaps the intruder could’ve gotten in that way?”

  “Was the door jammed or the window broken?” Brown said, tightening the grip on his hat. Why was this the first time he was hearing of this?

  “No, it was unlocked and slightly askew. The door requires a firm push for the latch to catch. But for the new footman, who was attending a funeral in Burley and was off the estate all night, members of staff know of its peculiarity. An outsider would not.”

  But an outsider wouldn’t have been able to unlock it in the first place.

  “What time was this?”

  “About half past eleven.” If his broken watch was any indication, Lord Fairbrother would’ve been dead by then.

  “Right! I’ll need to look at the conservatory door, and then I want to talk to this kitchen maid who’s been feeding the cat. Waterman, you can go to Burley and confirm the footman’s story,” Brown said, opening the first of the letters from Sir George Lewis.

  He scanned its contents and allowed himself a slight, satisfied grin. Now they were getting somewhere. He folded the letter and tucked it, and the others, into his jacket pocket. The butler opened his mouth to protest, but Brown cut him off.

  “But first, let’s see what Lady Philippa has to say.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “What took you so long?” Stella’s father yelled from somewhere down the hall.

  After they left the King’s House, Stella and Lyndy had walked down the high street to the police station only to learn that Inspector Brown had been called out to Outwick House. With neither of them having any desire to see Lady Philippa again so soon, they opted to track the policeman down later. Facing the need to finalize the engagement party plans, Stella had driven Lyndy back to Morrington Hall, declining his invitation to luncheon. Daddy must’ve been listening for her and Aunt Rachel’s return.

  “Jane never got her invitation,” he added, his shout like a trumpet in a tearoom. He was going to give everyone in the house a headache.

  Because I never sent her one, Stella silently replied as she handed Tims her duster coat. Stella dreaded the evening enough. She certainly didn’t want a reporter watching and recording her every move.

  “I’m as tired as wings on a hummingbird,” Aunt Rachel said, handing off her hat and coat. She wagged a finger at Stella. “Don’t even think about going out this afternoon, girlie.” Then, with Tims’s back to them as he hung up the coats, Aunt Rachel winked. Stella could’ve hugged the old woman.

  Stella was supposed to spend the afternoon preparing and dressing for tonight’s engagement dinner. What if she snuck out for a short ride first?

  The rush of excitement at the prospect evaporated the instant Stella envisioned where her rides usually took her—to visit Harvey. Stella swallowed hard, warding off tears bubbling up as Aunt Rachel, unaware of the war of emotions her generosity had created, hobbled up the stairs. But Tims’s patient posture, maintaining a stoic stare slightly over her shoulder, as he waited for her to unpin her hat, helped her settle herself again. She rewarded him with a smile, but unlike the female servants of Pilley Manor, Tims refused to bend protocol and engage Stella in a friendly manner. He accepted the wide-brimmed straw from her without expression and attempted to corral the long, pink motoring veil. Stella never realized how much the veil looked like the fairy floss she’d seen at the World’s Fair last year. And here Tims was suddenly battling with it and losing. The ridiculousness of it lightened her heart. Stella, stifling a giggle with the back of her hand, offered to help, but the butler scowled, insisting that she leave him to it. Stella shrugged and headed down the hall toward the kitchen. She’d check in on the preparations one more time.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Stella paused when she reached the open doorway of the drawing room. Daddy, alone for once, was sitting on the end of the plush red couch, his feet up on the seat of an armchair. A silver tray with coffeepot and teacup lay beside him. He had the latest edition of The American Stud Book propped up on his bulging belly.

  “I heard you,” she said, as Tims, having wrangled the hat and veil, slipped by her and disappeared behind the servants’ door. Daddy had hired a village lad to help with the additional preparations, but Stella could imagine how much Mrs. Robertson and Mrs. Downie were relying on Tims to help.

  “I sent Jane another one,” Daddy said. “Imagine the woman reporting on the wedding not attending the engagement party?” Stella could easily envision such a thing. “No need to thank me.”

  Wonderful. That’s all she needed.

  “Jane says you still owe her an exclusive interview,” he added. “Says she’s been trying to track you down, been to Morrington Hall and everything, yet you refuse to talk to her about the flowers, the church, the dress. She needs to know this stuff. For the society pages.”

  Stella couldn’t care less about the society pages, but she didn’t bother to tell him that. He couldn’t care less what Stella thought.

  “I’ve been preoccupied.” Stella studied the wallpaper border lining the wainscoting, large cream-colored oak leaves tumbling and twisting among a background of green branches and rose-colored petals, like a wavy garden beckoning her to move along with it.

  “What’s more important than doing what your father tells you to?”

  Helping keep a promise to a murdered friend, perhaps? Trying to protect my future against Lady Atherly’s plans, maybe? Ensuring I’m free of you.

  “Where are you going?” he shouted after her as Stella, more propelled by her exasperation toward her father than an eagerness to prepare for the engagement dinner, obeyed the siren call of the wallpaper garden and scooted down the hall toward the stairs.

  “To get ready for the party, Daddy,” she called. “Where else?” For once, she was glad for the excuse.

  * * *

  Brown followed Mr. Hodgson up the steep, dimly lit servant stairs, his breath growing shorter with every step. Brown was getting too old for this.

  He’d inspected the conservatory door. It’d showed no sign of being tampered with. If what the butler said was true, it must’ve been left unlocked. Whether inadvertently or on purpose, Brown had no way of knowing. He’d questioned the maid, who insisted she hadn’t stepped foot in the conservatory for weeks. After a reprimand, she’d resorted to feeding the cat outside the scullery. She’d showed him the empty dish in the gravel just beyond the door. Brown tended to believe her. Now it was time to ask Lady Philippa a few questions.

  Brown was relieved when the butler pushed open the green baize door. A deep-throated laugh rang out as they reached the drawing room. The two exchanged glances. Grieving widow, indeed. Mr. Hodgson’s face betrayed none of the revulsion Brown felt as he opened the door before them. Brown strode in, hat in hand, and stopped midstep.

  Lady Philippa and Mr. Barlow, seated shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, heads bent together, were whispering and giggling, oblivious to his presence.

  “Inspector Brown to see you again, my lady,” the butler announced.

  Th
e two looked up. The smile on Lady Philippa’s face twisted into a scowl as Mr. Barlow, having some sense of decorum, leaped to his feet. The man wasn’t wearing a tie.

  “Have you discovered something already, Inspector?” the lady demanded, smoothing her skirt over her lap. She had dressed from head to toe in black, making her flushed cheeks all the more apparent.

  “Someone has stolen a photograph of Lord Fairbrother’s army regiment,” Brown said, watching her reaction. She puckered her lips and wrinkled her nose as if she’d just bitten into a lemon. She was as surprised as he was.

  “Photograph?” she sneered. “Who would take such a trifle?”

  “We would like permission to ask the servants if they might’ve taken it, as a remembrance of His Lordship.”

  “I’ve already told the inspector, milady, that no member of staff would have done such a thing.”

  “Just so, Hodgson,” Lady Philippa said, nodding her approval. “Permission is denied. You’ve already badgered the loyal servants of this household enough, Inspector. You may leave us, Hodgson.”

  Brown sighed. He was beginning to wonder if she wanted him to find her husband’s killer. At least his breathing had returned to normal after the arduous climb.

  “Very good, my lady.” The butler nodded and backed out of the room. From the expression on her face, Lady Philippa had already dismissed him from her mind.

  “My husband was a very prominent man, Inspector. He had visitors all of the time. It must’ve been one of them.”

  Brown had already asked the butler for the names of those meeting with Lord Fairbrother in the days leading up to his death. Brown hadn’t been surprised to hear George Parley’s name mentioned. He wasn’t surprised not to hear Harvey Milkham’s.

  “Yes, I’ve considered that.”

  “Then consider arresting that old snakecatcher as I’ve insisted you do all along.” Her self-righteous tone was grating, but Brown endured. He still had a great deal more to ask.

  All along Brown had had difficulty imagining Harvey Milkham getting past the front hall, let alone Lord Fairbrother’s private study, to steal the dagger, and now the photograph. He conceded that someone had. But Harvey Milkham? It seemed highly unlikely. But he didn’t need to tell Lady Philippa that. Miss Kendrick, who was known to entertain the old hermit at Pilley Manor, aside, everyone knew the chances of Harvey Milkham ever stepping foot in Outwick House.

  “Are you not aware that Harvey Milkham is dead, Lady Philippa?”

  “Really? How?”

  Mr. Barlow put a reassuring hand on Lady Philippa’s shoulder. “I hope the snake-catching fellow’s death isn’t distracting you from finding Lord Fairbrother’s killer, Inspector.”

  “You can be assured we are doing everything in our power to find the culprit.”

  As they were still in the early days of Harvey’s death, Brown had no intention of revealing the possible connection between the two men’s murders. Lady Philippa half snorted, half sniffed, as if she hadn’t expected anything less.

  “Do you know why your husband kept envelopes full of ten-pound notes?” Brown asked, hoping the shift in topic might unsettle her.

  Lady Philippa was unfazed. “Why would I? I’ve never concerned myself with my husband’s business affairs.”

  “Then, I assume you don’t know the contents of his will?” She blanched but recovered so quickly Brown wondered if he imagined it.

  “I most certainly do. He was my husband, after all.” But her indignation was a bit overmuch. Brown suspected she wasn’t privy to its contents and was quite put out by it.

  “I say, Inspector,” Mr. Barlow said. “Why are you questioning Philippa when there’s a killer on the loose?”

  If only Brown could ask the meddling plant hunter to leave. But doing so would end the interview, and he couldn’t have that. Not yet. Brown ignored the question instead.

  “Am I right in assuming the jewelry found in the safe belongs to you?”

  The lady sighed loudly, showing her displeasure and growing impatience, and smoothed her skirt again. “Yes, every piece belongs to me. They were gifts from my most generous husband.”

  But then why were they in a safe that she supposedly had no access to? Why would Lord Fairbrother have them? Was he as controlling as he was generous, perhaps? Brown asked, but the lady rolled her eyes in annoyance.

  “And these? Have you ever seen these before?” Brown produced the letters from Sir George Lewis, maintaining a tight pinch on the envelopes. He wasn’t taking any chances.

  Lady Philippa granted them a glance, and the color drained from her face. This time Brown didn’t question her reaction. She was visibly stunned. She opened her mouth, as if to speak, but appeared incapable of uttering even the slightest sound.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

  “What are they?” Mr. Barlow asked, seemingly unaware of Lady Philippa’s sudden distress.

  As if any of this was the plant hunter’s concern. Brown considered the man’s continued presence at Outwick House not only a nuisance but unseemly, what with Lady Philippa in mourning. But then again, after reading the contents of Sir George Lewis’s letters, Brown knew Lady Philippa to be less upright than he’d assumed. The lady had her secret. And Brown had another suspect.

  “They’re nothing to concern yourself with, Mr. Barlow,” Lady Philippa said curtly, shrugging off the comfort of his hand. She rose from her seat and strode toward the window, the black crape of her skirt swishing as she walked. Mr. Barlow pouted, like a scolded child, watching her.

  “Can you tell me again where you were the evening of the murder, Mr. Barlow?”

  The plant hunter, recovering from his rebuke, shook his head as if to clear away his confusion. “What? Why, I was here, in the smoking room, and then I retired to bed. But what does any of this have to do with an intruder?”

  “And you, Lady Philippa?”

  “What are you insinuating, Inspector?”

  “I’m not insinuating anything, Mr. Barlow. I’m simply asking a question.”

  “Are you accusing Lady Philippa of murdering her husband?” Mr. Barlow said. His resentment appeared genuine enough, but Brown cleared his throat and ignored him.

  “Lady Philippa?”

  “I retired to bed early,” she said, as if her attention was on other things. She began stroking the smooth pale green damask drapes that framed the window. Which of her mistakes was she pondering? The impetus behind Lord Fairbrother’s desire to engage Sir George Lewis’s legal services, or had she more profound regrets? Or was she unrepentant and devising a way out of her predicament?

  “According to the servants’ accounts, you insisted on not being disturbed.”

  “I may do what I like in my own home, Inspector.” That same wistful tone.

  “You didn’t go out again, by way of the conservatory, perhaps?”

  “Why would she do that?” Mr. Barlow said with a hint of mocking laughter, retrieving his cane leaning against the end of the sofa and sidling up to Lady Philippa. “She just told you she retired early.” He laid his hand on the small of her back. She flinched and drew away. He held up his hand in defeat and slumped down into the nearest chair.

  “Is that all, Inspector?’ Lady Philippa said, her voice cold and tight. The uncharacteristic wistfulness was gone. She’d either determined on a plan or needed rid of him to do so. If he was going to catch this killer, it was time to play his trump card.

  “Were you involved in any way with your husband’s death, Lady Philippa?”

  “I say, why would she—?”

  “Get out,” Lady Philippa snarled quietly, cutting off Mr. Barlow’s protest. She clutched the drape in her fist as if preparing to tear it down. But Brown waited for an answer.

  “Did you need Lord Fairbrother dead to prevent him from disinheriting you, from divorcing you?”

  Without warning, Lady Philippa whirled about, snatched up the crystal vase filled with gardenias on the sill, and flung it across
the room. Mr. Barlow, seated nearby, threw his arms over his head and cowered into the thick padding of the chair as water, flowers, and vase swept over him. Brown darted backward and ducked, barely managing to avoid the missile before it smashed against the back of the sofa.

  Damn. Splotches of dark and light marred his new shoes where water had splashed on them. Brown brushed himself off with a sweep of his hat before surveying the rest of the damage.

  For several feet in front of him, embedded shards of glittering glass carpeted the floor, flower stems strewn out among them. A few of the silky, white petals still fluttered slowly to the floor as the scent of gardenia blanketed the room. Brown snatched one from the air. He’d always liked the smell of gardenia. It was one of Mrs. Brown’s favorites.

  Not anymore, it isn’t. He tossed the petal to the floor with the rest.

  “I say, Philippa. Was that called for?” Mr. Barlow said, using his handkerchief to dab drops of water that had rained down him as the vase had passed overhead.

  Lady Philippa pushed the ringer to summon the butler. Mr. Hodgson arrived almost instantly, making Brown wonder if the butler hadn’t gone far. Perhaps Brown was right to suspect the butler of spying. Mr. Hodgson’s only response to the broken vase was a raised eyebrow.

  “You rang, my lady?” How much did the butler hear and see? If Brown was right, probably everything.

  “Please see the inspector out,” Lady Philippa said, smoothing the hair at her temples. “And get someone up here to clean up this mess.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Brown said, carefully tiptoeing across the field of glass toward the butler, patiently waiting at the door.

  “Not another word, Inspector,” she said, turning her back on the room once more. She clutched the drapes again in her fist. “The next time, I won’t miss.”

  Was she demanding his silence or declaring her own? Brown couldn’t tell. Either way, he didn’t care for the threat. If Lady Philippa were involved in her husband’s death, he’d find out, flying vases or no.