“Oh, dearie!” someone cried as the red door gaped open, and the household staff poured out, clustering together on the front steps for safety. Only Daddy was missing. Stella, rattled by the attack, relieved it was over, slid from her heels to her hip, grateful to slump onto the path’s soft, grassy edge.
“My God! What’s happened?” Tims called. “Shall I telephone the doctor or the police?”
Lyndy rose to his feet, his chest heaving from the exertion, and nodded. “Both.”
Tims disappeared back inside. Lyndy’s riding trousers were cut and dusty; his knees were scraped and covered in stones. A small scratch zigzagged across his cheek. Catching his breath, hand on his hip, Lyndy stared down at Cecil Barlow lying sprawled out in the gravel unconscious and bleeding from his nose, cheeks, lips, and forehead. Lyndy turned away and dropped to Stella’s side. He cradled her back against his chest. Tully, who had whinnied from the gate, slowly approached, but daunted by the smell of blood, kept her distance.
“How badly are you hurt?” Stella asked. Lyndy shook his head dismissively. He swiveled her around in his arms to face him and brushed a hair from her forehead. His knuckles were bloody, and his hair hung in a disheveled mess. The intensity in his eyes was almost frightening.
Lyndy raked his fingers through his hair, then suddenly threw back his head, the force of his slightly unhinged laughter shaking them both. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
“I suppose so.” The violent emotions, so unlike him, had taken her aback. But only for a moment. She’d seen a side of him he’d never revealed before. How could she ever have doubted him? The fear, the rage, the panic, the vulnerability, the, dare she say it, love, she saw in his eyes made her ache to see more, know him more. “Lyndy, I . . .” Then he ran a loose strand of Stella’s hair through his thumb and forefinger, his face composed and unreadable again.
“Did he hurt you?” he said gently, but the moment was lost.
Stella shook her head. “I’m sore, but I’ll heal.” Stella shot a glimpse at the sprawling figure on the ground. Lyndy followed her gaze. Stella shivered when a cloud floated in front of the sun and cast everyone in shadow. The man moaned but wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’d come, hoping to go for an early ride,” Lyndy said, “and then I heard you scream.” Someone had heard her after all. She should’ve known it would be Lyndy. “What happened?”
Stella held out her hands, allowing Lyndy to help her up. “I don’t know who that person is, but he’s not Cecil Barlow.”
Ethel gasped, drawing Stella’s attention back toward the house. Daddy stood staring out through the dining room window, his napkin still tucked into his collar. When he caught her watching him, he stepped out of view. He’d soon learn he wasn’t the only one to be taken in by an imposter.
Stella faced Lyndy as the cloud rolled past and the sun beamed down on them again. “And I think whoever he is, he killed Lord Fairbrother and Harvey.”
CHAPTER 33
If Stella ever saw the inside of Outwick House again, it would be too soon. If she never saw Lady Philippa or heard her name mentioned again, she’d consider herself lucky. Yet, here she stood waiting for Inspector Brown to knock.
Inspector Brown had arrived at Pilley Manor by the time Cecil Barlow, whose real name turned out to be Reggie Baker, had revived from his stupor. As the inspector had handcuffed and arrested him, Reggie Baker scrambled to explain that yes, he’d impersonated the real Cecil Barlow, and yes, he’d stolen the photograph and rifled through Lord Fairbrother’s study, and yes, he’d had a dalliance with Lady Philippa, but those were his most heinous crimes; he denied murdering anyone. Through Stella and the inspector’s probing questions, Reggie Baker had described how it all happened, how at the Duke of York’s Theatre, at the premiere of Barrie’s Peter Pan, he’d been mistaken for the real Cecil Barlow by none other than the Duchess of Charford. Who was he to contradict His Majesty’s cousin, he argued? And with that first lie, his life had instantly changed. For almost a year, he drank the best wine, ate the finest food, was hailed as a hero by the best families in the country. He hadn’t wanted for anything. And all he had to do was spout the few facts anyone could read in the newspapers and fill in the gaps with such outlandish tales that no one would question him. And they hadn’t, and with neither he nor the real Cecil Barlow having family or close friends, no one gave him away. He’d been immersed in the charade for so long, or so he said, that he’d stopped worrying that the real plant hunter might return—the poor man had probably died in the jungle, after all—or that someone from his past might recognize him. Until, one night at a party in London, he came face to face with Lord Fairbrother, whom he’d fought under in the Boer War.
Lord Fairbrother had threatened to end it all. Reggie Baker couldn’t let that happen. So they’d come to an arrangement. In exchange for keeping his secret, Lord Fairbrother supposedly demanded Reggie Baker woo Lady Philippa and get evidence, a letter being best, which the lord could use to divorce his wife. He was supposed to deliver on his promise that night. That’s why, Reggie Baker insisted, he snuck in and out of the conservatory, why he met Lord Fairbrother by the river—so Lady Philippa would never know. But when Inspector Brown insisted that he hadn’t found any such letter on Lord Fairbrother’s body, Reggie Baker admitted that he’d never given the lord one, that he couldn’t go through with the arrangement. Reggie Baker had fallen in love with Lady Philippa. He offered Lord Fairbrother all the money he had in the world instead. And when the man died, he’d gone into the study looking for anything that would reveal his secret and found the photograph.
He wasn’t a violent man, he’d maintained, blaming his brutality toward Stella on the shock of his discovery. Even as Constable Waterman dragged him toward the police wagon, his heels drawing lines in the gravel, Reggie Baker shouted over and over that he didn’t kill anyone. No one had believed the imposter. Why would they? But someone had to inform Lady Philippa of her lover’s ultimate betrayal. To no one’s surprise but her own, Stella had elected to accompany the inspector and Lyndy wouldn’t let her go alone.
“We’ll do this and be done with it, and her,” Lyndy said, squeezing her hand as she stared at the brass lion’s head knocker on the imposing wooden door.
Lyndy was right; it would be a relief to resolve the lingering effect of the murders and Lady Atherly’s interference and put it all behind them. But he was wrong too; she hadn’t come there for herself, or him, or for the police. Stella was there for Harvey. She had made him a promise. He’d saved Tully, and Stella was going to save him, in the only way she could, from Lady Philippa’s false accusations, from anyone disparaging his name again.
She squeezed Lyndy’s hand back and nodded. Inspector Brown, scorning the knocker, pounded on the door with his fist. Hodgson showed them in without a word and led them to Lady Philippa’s morning room.
“Lord Lyndhurst to see you, my lady,” the butler said. “As well as Miss Kendrick and Inspector Brown.”
“Lyndy,” Lady Philippa said as if he was the only one to enter the room. She held out her hand as if she expected him to kiss it. When he didn’t, she pouted, pulling a gardenia from its vase. She lingered over the flower, inhaling its scent, her eyes closed. A smile spread slowly across her face when Lyndy began tapping his toe. She was enjoying his growing impatience.
“This isn’t a social call,” Lyndy said.
Lady Philippa lifted her eyelids slowly and began plucking the petals from the flower, letting them flutter freely to the carpet. “Pity, though with such riffraff for company, I should think not.”
Stella glanced sideways at the inspector, holding his hat in his hand but standing tall and patient. Lady Philippa’s derision meant nothing to him.
“This riffraff are better people than you will ever be, Philippa,” Lyndy retorted. Stella allowed herself a brief, smug smile.
Inspector Brown cleared his throat. “I’m afraid we have some disturbing news.”
“
What is it now?”
“We’ve arrested Mr. Barlow,” Inspector Brown said.
Lady Philippa snapped the flower stem in two. “Why?”
“For starters, he attacked Miss Kendrick this morning,” Inspector Brown said.
Lady Philippa’s head barely moved, but Stella caught her gaze, if only for a moment. Lady Philippa tossed the stems down and crossed over to the partly open southern window, pulling back the drapes. A team of gardeners, weeding, deadheading, pushing wheelbarrows, buzzed around the rose garden like bees. Lady Atherly would be jealous of such industry, such an abundance of staff. Since their financial woes, she’d taken on much of the gardening at Morrington Hall herself.
“What did she do to provoke him?” Lady Philippa taunted. Lyndy took steps toward Lady Philippa’s turned back. Stella snagged his sleeve, holding him from getting any farther. Lady Philippa, unaware of Lyndy’s anger, released the drape and faced them. “You said for starters, Inspector. What else is Mr. Barlow accused of?”
“Impersonation and entrapment. I’m afraid—”
“You’ve been made a fool of, Philippa,” Lyndy said, finishing the inspector’s sentence, though Stella doubted that was what the policeman was going to say. From the glint in his eye, Lyndy was relishing every devastating word. “Your Mr. Barlow was actually a chap called Reggie Baker, who used to serve under Fairbrother in the war. It seems Fairbrother wanted rid of you, so he blackmailed Barker to—”
Lady Philippa paled. But why, Stella wondered? Because she’d never suspected Cecil Barlow or her husband’s duplicity, or because she’d never imagined Lyndy capable of such blunt cruelty? Perhaps both.
“I think she understands your meaning, Lyndy,” Stella said. But if Stella expected gratitude for saving Lady Philippa further embarrassment, she should’ve known better. Lady Philippa’s color returned, and she gave an impervious sniff.
“All I understand is that Lyndy is only marrying you for your money. And that now that I’m to inherit, he’ll be free to marry me.” Lyndy’s jaw tightened, and Stella expected him to pace or tug his collar, but instead, he stood as still as she’d ever seen him. Not a finger twitched, not a toe tapped.
“I’ll sell Morrington Hall before I ever marry you.”
Lady Philippa let out a short, derisive laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d do anything to save Morrington.” She pointed at Stella. “Even consider wedding her.”
“I’ll have you know—” Lyndy began.
“That Mr. Reggie Baker was also arrested for killing your husband, Lady Philippa,” Stella said. Stella never thought she’d ever change the subject to murder but couldn’t take any more of Lyndy and Lady Philippa’s sparring. It wasn’t flattering, to either one of them.
“Really?” The news immediately transformed Lady Philippa. Her face softened; her voice relaxed. If Stella didn’t know of her manipulations, she’d almost think her capable of kindness. “Now, that I can believe.”
“And why is that?” Inspector Brown asked. “You’d always suspected Harvey Milkham of killing your husband.”
“Yes, but Cecil had fallen in love with me and understandably resented Raymond’s demands. Cecil was trying to protect me; I’m sure.”
“And what were those demands?” Inspector Brown asked. “That you give him a divorce?”
“You know about that?” Lady Philippa asked the policeman, but kept her hooded eyes pinned on Lyndy. Lyndy’s expression, as unreadable as ever, never changed. She dropped her gaze and began rearranging the gardenias in the vase.
“Mr. Barlow, or Reggie Baker, or whatever he’s called, mentioned it. We also found the letters exchanged with Sir George Lewis,” the inspector continued. “We’ve since contacted the solicitor. He confirmed that Lord Fairbrother was going to change his will and sue for a divorce in a matter of days, citing neglect, cruelty, and adultery. Quite the motive for murder.”
“Yes,” Lady Philippa said slowly. “It would’ve ruined me, all on account of my husband’s fits of jealousy. I’m a beautiful woman, Inspector. Is it my fault I attract admirers?” Lyndy snickered in scorn. Lady Philippa frowned. “Cecil couldn’t allow Raymond to do that.”
“What about Harvey?” Stella said.
“What about him?” Lady Philippa said, plucking another wilting flower from the vase.
“Why would Cecil Barlow kill Harvey?” Stella never understood how anyone could murder such a harmless old man.
“Because the old fool was at the river when Cecil killed my husband, why else?” Lady Philippa dismissed Harvey’s death with a wave of her hand.
“How would you know?” Stella snapped angrily.
“He left that disgusting snake bag behind, didn’t he? Of course, he was lurking in the nearby woods somewhere.”
A rush of light-headedness hit her, and Stella felt the room spin. She steadied herself by focusing her gaze on the long blade of an elaborately etched brass letter opener. The sizable single ruby on its handle gleamed in the ray of sun striking Lady Philippa’s secretarial desk. When her head cleared, Stella caught Lady Philippa’s eye and stared openly at her. The lady stared back. A crooked smirk, like a scar, marred the lady’s beautiful face.
Stella reached down and picked up the letter opener. It looked like the dagger she’d found at the barrow, but for the dark stains in the etched crevices.
“A gift from Lord Fairbrother?” Stella asked as her reflection peered back at her from the blade.
“No, my dear father gave it to me. Raymond prized it, but I refused to give it to him.” Lady Philippa held out her hand, wanting it back. “Like Outwick House, it’s mine.”
“What snake bag?” Inspector Brown said, and probably not for the first time. Stella hadn’t been listening. The inspector was glaring from Lady Philippa to Stella and back. He wasn’t happy. “I’ll not ask again, Miss Kendrick.”
“The one Harvey left behind at Blackwater Bend. The one Lady Philippa saw when she killed her husband”—Stella presented the letter opener to Inspector Brown—“with this.”
“Oh, God,” Lyndy said, in disbelief. “Philippa.” He squeezed his eyes shut and slowly shook his head. Stella could only imagine what he was thinking.
“I have no idea what she’s talking about, Lyndy,” Lady Philippa said, sidling up to him and running her fingers down the length of his jacket lapel. “The girl’s mad.” Lyndy took a purposefully long step back, far enough to be out of Lady Philippa’s reach.
“Right!” Inspector Brown said, taking the letter opener and inspecting it. “Lady Philippa, I’m arresting you for the murder of your husband, Lord Fairbrother.”
“Don’t be absurd,” she scoffed, smoothing her perfectly coiffed, inky black hair. “I just said I didn’t kill him, didn’t I?”
“Then can you explain the bloodstains on this letter opener?” Inspector Brown said.
What happened next was a blur. Inspector Brown shouted orders to his constable waiting outside the door as Lady Philippa launched herself toward the open French window. The gardeners outside, halting their work, stood gaping as the Marquess of Outershaw’s daughter ducked under the raised sash, flung up her skirts, exposing the French silk stockings hugging her bare calves, and threw her leg over the sill. Lyndy, like a released rubber band, sprang after her. He snatched at anything: the delicately weaved lace around her wrist that ripped in his hand, the crook of her jutting elbow, the hard edge of her corset stretched taut beneath the fabric across her back, a fist full of black crape clumped around her hips, the pearl buttons lining her sleeve that popped off or flopped from loosened threads. All the while she squirmed and fought to be free of his grip. Landing a firm hold on her ankle, Lyndy yanked back. Lady Philippa’s body, half in and half out, banged against the side of the house, her temple connecting with the open sash. A thin line of blood trickled down the side of her cheek. Stella joined Lyndy, clutching and twisting the hem of the widow’s skirt in and around her fists. Lady Philippa wasn’t getting out that window.
“Get your hands off me!” The lady kicked and slapped and scratched at them as she fought to gain purchase on the ground beneath the window.
“Ah, Philippa,” Lyndy said, irony and sadness mingling in his voice as Constable Waterman appeared, adding his considerable strength to the task. “At first you wanted to marry me, and now you can’t stand my touch. History repeats itself, eh, my dear.” With Stella as an anchor, the two men hauled Lady Philippa back into the room like a half-empty sack of potatoes and secured her wrists with handcuffs.
“Can you blame me, poor boy?” Lady Philippa said, her chin high, defiance flaring in her eyes once her feet were again flat on the carpeted floor. “You and your feeble attempts at lovemaking.”
“Take her away, Constable,” Inspector Brown said.
“You were the clumsiest lover I’d ever had,” Lady Philippa sneered, as Constable Waterman shoved her roughly past them. Lyndy, his fists clenched at his sides, sputtered curses. “Raymond and I used to laugh at you.”
“Neither one of you are laughing now,” Inspector Brown said somberly, shaking his head.
Stella touched Lyndy’s arm, needing to reaffirm their bond, as the policemen escorted the despicable woman out the door. He patted her hand reassuringly. They were finally free of her. Thank goodness. But at what a terrible price.
CHAPTER 34
Lyndy leaned back in his folding chair, closed his eyes, and relished the warmth of the afternoon sun on his face. Why hadn’t he ever done this before? At the high-pitched whistle of the kettle boiling, he opened his eyes again. Stella had been watching him and smiled. He smiled back.
Murder at Blackwater Bend Page 28
