Murder at Morrington Hall

by Clara McKenna

  And thanks be to Lord Atherly for allowing him to officiate at his son’s approaching nuptials. Reverend Bullmore eagerly anticipated the invitations to many more sumptuous meals. He’d been unpacking down at the vicarage when he received his first summons here. Was he worthy of such a sacred task? Lady Atherly had asked as he bit into an exquisite slice of Victoria sponge. He’d faltered a moment. Did she know about the trouble? No, if she did, the bishop would’ve been sipping Lord Atherly’s port last night, and not he. Yes, Lord and Lady Atherly would be remembered in his prayers this night.

  Sufficiently warmed by the fire, he settled into a well-worn leather club chair to wait. Shunning the thousands of books surrounding him, he picked up the crumpled copy of the Sporting Life, left behind on the table. The Derby was two days away, and he was woefully uninformed. He flipped through the pages but saw nothing. Had he made the right decision? He still had time to change his mind.

  Reverend Bullmore raised his head when the door creaked open. Who could that be? Surely, it wasn’t time to meet with the marrying couple. The Americans hadn’t even arrived yet. Sucking the last of his lunch from his thumb, he set down his racing paper to greet the new arrival. With a smile and butter on his lips, he never saw the blow coming.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Is that a woman driving?” Lyndy said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

  His Majesty the King rode in a Daimler like that at the Newmarket races a few weeks ago. Lyndy was envious. Several of his friends were driving about London in the new conveyances. Due to the financial straits his family found themselves in, he hadn’t been allowed to get a motorcar, yet.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Lyndy,” Mother said. Without looking at him, she added, “Calm yourself and stand still. Don’t act so nervous.”

  Lyndy stopped shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His mother was wrong, though. He wasn’t nervous. He was thrilled, the wedding notwithstanding. The champion thoroughbreds in those wagons were soon to be his, all his. A childhood dream come true.

  Mother expected him to act like a gentleman. Now he could ride like one. He was already composing his excuse for missing afternoon tea. Better still, he’d no longer be just a punter, wagering on other people’s horses; he’d have a chance at the winner’s circle himself. Grandfather would be proud.

  Was he going to get to keep the Daimler as well?

  “Look again, Mother.”

  She squinted at the procession slowly making its way up the drive, strange ambulance wagons led by the blue Daimler motorcar. The driver sported a wide-brimmed motoring hat and veil.

  “It is a woman,” Mother said in disbelief. “William, you don’t think . . .”

  “That it is Miss Kendrick?” Papa said, finishing her sentence. He pulled out the lorgnette he used at the opera from his breast pocket, held the eyepieces up to his face, and peered through. “I’m afraid I do, my dear.”

  “No, it cannot be. That woman is driving. Americans are strange beasts. They must have hired a woman chauffeur.”

  Mother abhorred any deviation from her rigid expectations. Hence, her displeasure at retreating down to the country with the Season in full swing. Quite the boon in Lyndy’s opinion, who preferred riding or fishing to listening to prattle in a ballroom. Hence, his mother’s perpetual disappointment in Lyndy.

  “There are no women chauffeurs, Frances,” Papa said, folding his lorgnette and slipping it back into his pocket. Papa didn’t like strangers to know he had a weakness; he couldn’t see beyond a few yards.

  “What about the other woman, the one in the backseat? That must be Miss Kendrick.”

  “Now who’s ridiculous, Mother?” Lyndy said, tugging on his lapels to keep his feet from moving. Despite the distance, even Papa should be able to tell the woman in the back was not in the bloom of youth.

  “But . . . ?” Mother was stunned into silence.

  Lyndy took a step forward in anticipation. This might be more fun than I thought.

  As the car pulled up and stopped, he couldn’t decide which was more compelling—the Daimler or its driver.

  “I suppose we must do this, mustn’t we?” Mother sighed, smoothing the lace-embellished brown silk of her tea gown. She always wore such dreary colors. Must his mother always dress to match her mood?

  “Yes, dear,” Papa said. “It was inevitable.”

  “No, William. If you’d—”

  “Mother, they’re here,” Lyndy whispered, cutting off any further bickering.

  Mother pinched her lips as the young woman alighted from the car. Her figure obscured by the tan duster coat, the American swept the veil away from her face.

  “She’s lovely,” Lyndy’s sister, standing transfixed beside him, whispered. “Like a Gibson girl.”

  “A gibbon?” Mother said. “How ungenerous of you, Alice. The young woman looks nothing like a monkey.”

  “No, a Gibson girl, Mummy, not a gibbon. You know, like in the American magazines?”

  With a long neck, flawless alabaster skin, red bow-shaped lips, and a flash of mischief in her blue eyes, the young woman was indeed striking. But was she the American heiress? His mother’s scowl confirmed it.

  Miss Kendrick’s eyes sought out Lyndy and she smiled. For a moment Lyndy forgot who and where he was. He forgot his manners; he forgot to breathe.

  “Someone get the door!” barked the rotund man in the Daimler.

  The young woman, not waiting for the footman, stepped around the front of the motorcar, her large coat swishing about her slender figure, and opened the door for the grumbling graying man in the passenger’s seat. He waved away her offer to help him and, clutching a dark leather bag with both arms, clambered awkwardly out of the car. With a considerable paunch and bowed legs, he stood a few inches shorter than the young woman. He stomped toward Lyndy and his waiting family.

  “Welcome, Mr. Kendrick. It is good of you to come all this way,” Papa said.

  “Good to be here, Atherly. Quite the journey over, but you know, I had to make sure everything was in proper order.” Mr. Kendrick tapped the leather bag. “By the way, Professor Gridley sends his regards.”

  Mother scowled at the name.

  “Yes, jolly good,” Papa said. “I received word from him yesterday. Everything is going according to plan.”

  “Speaking of plans . . .” Mr. Kendrick glanced at the greeting party. “Where’s the vicar?”

  “Yes, ummm . . . well,” Papa said, “I don’t believe you met my wife, Lady Atherly. My dear, this is . . .”

  “Elijah Kendrick. At your service, ma’am.” He shoved out his hand.

  Mother grimaced but offered up her fingers. Mr. Kendrick grabbed Mother’s hand and pumped it heartily. Mother wrenched it back, as if she’d been bitten by a viper. Mr. Kendrick then approached Lyndy, stopping within inches of his face. The man smelled of peppermint and tobacco. It was not a pleasant combination. Lyndy would’ve shoved the American away, but for what was at stake. Tugging harder on his lapels, Lyndy held his ground.

  “So, this must be the viscount.” Mr. Kendrick examined him with such scrutiny, Lyndy half expected the man to pull back his lips and examine his teeth.

  “I am not one of your horses, sir,” Lyndy said, brushing his hand through his hair.

  Mr. Kendrick laughed. “No, you aren’t. But you’ll do just the same.”

  “Well, I never . . . ,” Mother muttered.

  Miss Kendrick thrust herself in front of her father. Her scent, a heady mix of floral and woody tones, like a walk in the forest in spring, wafted in the air. With a flourish, she curtsied, as if being presented at court.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” the young woman said to Papa, not waiting to be introduced. “I’m Stella Kendrick, the daughter.”

  Papa smiled at Miss Kendrick’s attempt and utter failure at acceptable manners. Mother rolled her eyes and sighed. Lyndy chuckled. To think he’d worried about Mother making a fuss when he chose to go riding instead of taking tea.


  The second man in the motorcar, a servant, judging by his dress and demeanor, clambered out and joined Gates, the head coachman, who had arrived to take charge of the horse wagons. Lyndy could barely contain his excitement. The sun, like a lantern in the dark, highlighted a horse inside the lead wagon as it turned toward the stables. The horse’s silky coat was the color of night, and its intelligent eyes stared back at him.

  Just you wait, you beauty. Then we’ll see what you can do.

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Kendrick,” Papa said. “May I introduce my wife, Lady Atherly?”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Miss Kendrick said. She curtsied deeply again.

  Alice stifled a giggle.

  Lyndy didn’t mind the American’s awkwardness. There’s nothing wrong with a woman who is eager to please.

  “My husband is not sir, but Lord Atherly. You shall address me as Lady Atherly or my lady,” Mother said. “And you will not curtsy to me like that again.”

  “No, ma’am. I mean, of course not, Lady Atherly.” Instead of the expected flush on the cheeks, the tips of Miss Kendrick’s ears blossomed bright red.

  “You can curtsy like that to me,” Lyndy said, smirking. Miss Kendrick feigned a partial smile and decided, correctly, to ignore his jest.

  “As your father so astutely assumed, I am Edwin Searlwyn, Viscount Lyndhurst, but everyone calls me Lyndy.”

  “Yes, well . . . pleased to meet you, Lord Lyndhurst, sir.” Mother flashed another scowl in Miss Kendrick’s direction. The look of dismay on the young woman’s face was disarming. She genuinely seemed to be trying her best.

  “Ignore Mother. I think you’re charming.”

  Miss Kendrick frowned, not the reaction Lyndy was expecting. Didn’t all women love flattery? He flashed her his smile. Though he was never one to overuse this gesture, women, be they ladies or maids, adored it when he bestowed it on them. Only Mother seemed immune, and Miss Stella Kendrick. Her frown deepened.

  “Should you be . . . ? Isn’t this your . . . ?” She stole a glance at his sister, and he realized his omission at once.

  “May I introduce my sister, Lady Alice Searlwyn?” Lyndy said, hoping to see Miss Kendrick’s smile again, big, unabashed, and sincere. He didn’t know women ever smiled like that.

  Miss Kendrick tilted her head. “But I thought . . . ? Please excuse me. I’m sorry,” Miss Kendrick stammered. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Searlwyn.”

  What had Miss Kendrick thought? Something had surprised her about Alice. But what? Lyndy looked at Alice, who shrugged her shoulders, naturally wondering the same thing.

  “And I you, Miss Kendrick. You can call me Lady Alice,” his sister said, without the displeasure in Mother’s tone.

  “Shall we go in?” Mother said.

  Mother didn’t wait for an answer. With Mr. Kendrick on her heels, Mother turned her back on everyone and started for the house. Papa and Alice followed. Lyndy hung back, hoping to slip off to the stables.

  “Wait,” Miss Kendrick called, drawing everyone’s attention back to her. “Daddy forgot to introduce Great-Aunt Rachel.” Miss Kendrick held the hand of the old crone who Mother had impossibly hoped was Miss Kendrick. The lady had yet to utter a word.

  “Welcome to Morrington Hall, Mrs. . . . ?” Papa said with his utmost sincerity.

  “It’s just miss, Your Lordship, sir. Miss Rachel Luckett,” the woman said as she hobbled up toward the front steps. “Pleased to meet y’all.”

  “My mother’s sister,” Mr. Kendrick said. “I don’t understand why you insisted I bring a chaperone.”

  “Pity I did not also insist you bring manners,” Mother muttered.

  “Where did you say the vicar was?” Kendrick said, ignoring Mother’s retort.

  “He’ll join us for tea at half past four,” Papa said.

  Kendrick grunted his acknowledgment.

  “We have already had our luncheon, but Mrs. Cole can arrange to have something brought up if you haven’t eaten and can’t wait for tea,” Mother said.

  “Good,” Mr. Kendrick said. “We missed our lunch.”

  By the look of him, the vulgar American could miss a month of meals and not be worse for wear. By her grimace, Mother believed so too.

  “Yes, sir, I could definitely put a nose bag on,” Miss Rachel Luckett, the chaperone, said.

  “Yes, well . . . ,” Papa said. How did one respond to that?

  “We’ve arranged for you all to stay at Pilley Manor, the dower house on the other side of the estate. Fulton will send your servants on ahead, and you and the ladies can settle in there after tea.”

  “There’s no need for that, Atherly. We’ll stay here,” Kendrick said. “Unless, of course, you don’t have the room?” He laughed at his joke.

  “But it would be highly . . . irregular for Miss Kendrick to stay here,” Mother said.

  “But there’s nothing regular about our visit, now is there?” Kendrick said, winking. Mother couldn’t contradict him. He was right about that. “Don’t worry. Aunt Rachel knows her job. Besides, we didn’t bring any servants.”

  “But we don’t . . . ,” Mother began. “We couldn’t possibly . . .”

  How could Mother tell Mr. Kendrick we didn’t have enough staff to care for us, let alone them? She couldn’t.

  “You are most welcome to stay with us, Mr. Kendrick,” Papa said.

  Mother jutted her nose in the air, turned on her heel, and led the way into the house.

  * * *

  Before Lyndy crossed the threshold, he had planned his escape. Orson, was it? Sounded like a horse to be reckoned with.

  Lyndy had taken the new thoroughbred stallion across Beaulieu Heath in his mind before he realized Miss Kendrick wasn’t behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and stood transfixed at the scene beyond. Miss Kendrick chatted with the servants in the driveway, introducing herself to them one by one. Lyndy could see Fulton’s jowls droop as the butler hid his disapproval. The maids giggled and shifted their feet nervously at Miss Kendrick’s ignorance of protocol. Millie, one of the housemaids, unsure how to respond, bowed her head. Her cap, which was not fastened securely enough, slipped to the ground. It landed upside down in the gravel. With a flick of her hand, Mrs. Nelson, Morrington’s housekeeper, motioned for Millie to retrieve it. But Millie, the housekeeper, and the entire line of servants froze as Miss Kendrick bent over and picked it up. She brushed the white cap against her hip and handed it back to Millie.

  Good thing Mother didn’t see that. She would not have approved.

  Oh, but this American is a pretty thing to look at, especially bent over. Miss Kendrick had shed the duster coat, revealing a slender frame with a small waist but a less ample bust and narrower hips than he’d hoped for. Lyndy shrugged. One can’t have everything.

  As Fulton dismissed the servants, and Mrs. Nelson scolded the housemaids for their tittering, Lyndy stepped into the shadow of the deep doorway. Miss Kendrick, unaware of his prying eyes, unpinned her hat and tossed it into the backseat of the Daimler. Windblown and crushed by her hat for hours, tendrils fell from the silky light brown hair piled on top of her head. Tucking them behind her ear, Miss Kendrick strode away from the house.

  “The Sporting Times arrived for you, my lord,” a footman said, standing respectfully several feet behind Lyndy in the entrance hall. Lyndy took the pink-papered racing newspaper, still warm from the iron, and absentmindedly tucked it under his arm.

  Now where is she off to?

  CHAPTER 3

  Stella strolled to the stables, struck again by the landscape. Rolling green pastures dotted with towering, stately trees were not unlike those at home, yet at the same time, it was the wildest place she’d ever been. Not a single fence—barbed, picket, or stone—anywhere to be seen. A trio of New Forest ponies grazed on the next hill. Familiarity and freedom tied up in one landscape. What a novel place this is.

  Stella reached the gardens. From a distance, they had looked like picture
s of impeccable tidiness and tranquility. But as Stella passed through them, she noticed dandelion weeds sprouting between stones in the path; clusters of last years’ roses, which needed to be deadheaded or pulled out altogether; and branches of yew that jutted haphazardly from the hedge, which needed to be clipped. The fountain, an algae-covered marble statue of a cherub holding a basket of round fruit, spurted out a peaceful trickle of water, but brown leaves clung to the bottom of the pool. A bit of disorderliness she hadn’t expected. She didn’t like it.

  When she arrived at the stables, Stella caught Tully’s eye as a stableboy led the horse off the wagon. The horse’s ears flicked back and forth. Orson and Tupper were already in their box stalls, munching hay. The stables were as impressive up close as they had been from the lane. Nothing slipshod here. A formidable, sprawling two-story stone building with well-swept cobblestone floors, she would soon learn that the stables contained spacious mahogany box stalls for more than two dozen horses, a hayloft, an ample coach house, a washing yard, and rooms for the stable hands to live in. The scent of fresh hay filled the air. It smelled like home.

  She approached Tully and patted her horse on the shoulder. “You’re going to enjoy your stay here, Tully, girl,” Stella cooed. The luxurious stables were all the testimony she needed that the otherwise disapproving Searlwyns would take good care of her beloved horse. “I wish I could say the same.”

  Tully’s muscles rippled beneath her hand. Stella rested her forehead against the dapple gray’s sleek shoulder. Daddy had said they’d be welcomed guests. He’d insisted that the Searlwyns didn’t care how he’d made his money, that this time it was going to be different. She’d been excited to come. She should’ve known better.

  The disdain showed her by the Searlwyn family was nothing new. English nobles had nothing on the American elite, though here the servants snickered at her too. Thank goodness, she wasn’t staying long. In a few days’ time, when the wedding was over, she and Tully would go home to Kentucky. In the meantime, Stella would do as she’d always done when Daddy attempted to force his way into society: spend as much time in the stables and on horseback as possible. But she had dared to hope for more. Maybe next time.