“I can assure you, Miss Kendrick, I am not so delicate.”
“Very well. You want me to be frank? I’ll be frank. Our engagement. I’m talking about our engagement. I’m talking about the fact that I have not agreed to it. I’m talking about how everyone expects me to marry you, and I don’t even know you. I’m not sure I even like you. I’m talking about how I don’t want to marry you, and given a choice, I won’t marry you. Is that straightforward enough for you?” Stella, her hands on her hips, glared at him, daring him to respond.
“I don’t suppose you shall be wanting this, then?”
He pulled something from his waistcoat pocket. A flash of a sparkle glistened above his fingers as he held it out toward her. It was a ring, an engagement ring. The delicate filigree platinum setting held a large round-cut diamond encircled by smaller diamonds. It was stunning. She didn’t know what to say. The viscount laughed.
“You find this funny?”
He shook his head. “Funny, no. Amusing, yes.”
“Aren’t they the same thing?”
“No, indeed. This marriage arrangement is not ‘funny’ at all. I, too, had no choice in the matter. It was marry an heiress or give up everything. I, for one, have no intention of forfeiting my ancestral home, my title, or those lovely horses your father brought. So, unless you know a better way, we must abide by our families’ wishes.”
Stella didn’t know a better way. What would Daddy do if she disobeyed him? Would he disown her, deny her an inheritance? But there had to be a way out of this, didn’t there?
“As to your frankness, as you call it, it is most refreshing and, dare I say, amusing,” Lord Lyndhurst said. “I’ve been bored to distraction by English heiresses. Do you have anything else you wish to say?”
“No. I think I’ve said quite enough already.”
“Then follow me.”
After leaving the music room, he led her through the grand central hall, or grand saloon, as he called it, an expansive room with carpeted parquet floors, marble pillars, and a forty-foot-high fresco-painted vaulted ceiling that was more reminiscent of one in a cathedral than in a home. Stella resisted the urge to look up. The viscount stopped in front of one of several closed doors leading off the main hall.
“This is the library.” He opened the door.
Stella, drawn in by the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, entered the room first. Her home in Kentucky had a library. The room had once been the log cabin Grandpa Kendrick built before Daddy had it incorporated into the bigger house. But as Daddy collected books, as he collected everything, exclusively buying the rare and most expensive ones, Stella hadn’t been encouraged as a child to peruse them. But she’d persisted in getting her hands on less expensive volumes, nagging first her mother, then her governesses, and then Aunt Rachel to satisfy her insatiable appetite, especially for adventure stories and romance novels. Daddy would respect the cost of such an extensive, and presumably priceless collection. Stella couldn’t wait to see what treasures it held.
“He’s not here,” Stella said, glancing around.
She could see why the vicar had asked to wait in this room. It was a masculine room, decorated with leather chesterfield chairs and couch, dark red walls, and a dark red and gold carpet, and was by far the warmest in the house. The glowing embers in the fireplace glinted off the gilded frame of a bird painting above the mantel.
“That’s probably his,” she said, noticing the empty cup and saucer on the square side table. “He must’ve already left.”
A few steps farther in, she caught a glimpse of a glass-paneled mahogany display case, against the side wall, filled with dozens of exotic birds of all shapes and sizes, many mounted on perching limbs. She eagerly strolled toward it. A glass dome filled with colorful butterflies sat in the front parlor at home. Each specimen had been collected and mounted by her mother before she died. Stella had peered into it every day when she was little, more often than not leaving behind fingerprint smudges, much to the maids’ chagrin. Yet no one had ever scolded her. The collection was one of the few reminders of Katherine Kendrick left in the house.
Stella stopped short. A wave of regret threatened to overwhelm her. She’d left so much behind. Tully and the trunks Daddy had allowed her, packed with the usual clothes, hats, shoes, jewelry, gloves, books, and the souvenir spoons she’d bought in Southampton and Hythe for a collection she no longer owned, were all that was left of her belongings, of her life back home.
I have to figure a way out of this.
“Where do you think the vicar is?” she asked, with a glimmer of hope. Perhaps the vicar could help her. Maybe he could dissuade Daddy and Lord Atherly from insisting on this ill-conceived marriage. If only she could talk to the vicar before Daddy did.
“Perhaps he’s fallen asleep on the sofa. I do hope he thought to remove his shoes.” Lord Lyndhurst frowned. “Reverend Bullmore,” he called, “you are late for tea, dear fellow.”
Stella and the viscount approached the high-backed couch from opposite sides. It was empty. But there on the carpet, a dark blotch seeping into the fibers that cushioned his graying head, was a gaunt man lying on his side. His unblinking eyes were open, and cookie crumbs clung to one corner of his upturned mouth.
“Oh!” Stella gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “Oh my God. Is that . . . ?”
“The vicar?” Lord Lyndhurst said. “Yes, I’m afraid it is.”
CHAPTER 5
“At what time did you discover the body, Lord Lyndhurst?”
Stella stared at the worn bottom of Inspector Brown’s left shoe as the kneeling policeman examined the body of Reverend Bullmore, crumpled on the library carpet. From where she sat, leaning against the bird display case, the couch hid the unfortunate vicar from view. But close her eyes and Stella could see every minute detail of the scene: the cookie crumbs on the vicar’s lips, the strands of gray hair sticking to the damp blood on his forehead, his left pant leg pushed up enough to expose his sock garter, his right eye partially open and staring at her, the starkness of the white collar around his neck. When had she first noticed the smear of blood on the side table? When had she moved from the couch to this distant chair? While Lord Atherly had been there, she’d stayed with the vicar, planting herself on the couch and nearly sitting on an open copy of the Sporting Life. She prided herself on having a strong constitution. She wasn’t one to faint at the slightest sight of blood or injury. Hadn’t she been the one who assisted when Tully was born? Hadn’t she nursed Daddy when he was thrown from Onondaga the day the stallion lost its shoe? How was this any different?
“Bloody hell. I don’t know,” Lord Lyndhurst said, combing his fingers through his hair. The other policeman, Constable Waterman, stood off to the side, near the fireplace, pad and pencil in hand, scribbling down whatever was said. He looked at the viscount expectantly. “I don’t remember.”
“Fulton had called us to tea,” Stella said. “It must’ve been around four o’clock.”
Lord Lyndhurst walked away from his position near the vicar’s body to stand next to Stella.
The inspector sat back on his heels and looked over the couch at them. He had a round, weathered face with a high forehead. Gray peppered his tidy mustache. He regarded Stella for a moment, a flash of anger in his wary eyes. Yet his tone was respectful and restrained when he spoke.
“Why is this young lady here? Shouldn’t she be with the others, my lord?”
“Yes,” Lord Lyndhurst said. “But she insisted, and she can be quite persuasive. Even Papa couldn’t get her to leave.”
When Lord Atherly had insisted she leave when he did, Stella had refused. Now she looked up at the viscount, standing with his hand resting on the back of her chair, almost protectively. He’d supported her decision to stay. Why?
“Miss Kendrick is my fiancée. We discovered the body together,” he said, as if answering her unspoken question.
“I wanted to . . . I needed to . . .” She stumbled over the words. “I thought
. . .” She didn’t know what to think. A dead man lay on the other side of the chesterfield couch. “I couldn’t leave him alone. Not until you arrived. Not until someone could stay with him.”
“Right! Well, we’re here now. We’ll see to the vicar,” Inspector Brown said, not unkindly. “Any questions I have for you can keep. Thank you and if you would please, my lord . . .” He indicated Stella with a nod. “She’s had quite a shock.”
Lord Lyndhurst held out his hand. Stella took it without thinking and allowed him to help her rise from the chair. As he led her toward the door, she questioned her passive acquiescence. She had the use of her own two feet, as Daddy liked to say, didn’t she? She had a mind of her own and had been determined to use it, hadn’t she? She remembered how it had been between them when they entered the library. Why did it feel like something had changed?
Stella had a sudden urge to see the vicar again. She took a step toward the couch that hid the body from her. Lord Lyndhurst wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her back.
“Let’s remove ourselves from the ugliness, shall we?”
Wretched tears, which she’d fought off since she’d learned of her father’s betrayal, welled in her eyes as Stella let Lord Lyndhurst guide her from the room. His hold was firm but warm. When was the last time someone had touched her without mal-intent? Her hand still ached from her father’s cruel squeeze.
As she crossed the threshold, Inspector Brown said, “What do you think, Waterman? Did he crack his skull open on the side table?”
* * *
“Fulton said the vicar had an accident,” Mother said. “Has someone called the doctor?” Lyndy nodded.
How extraordinary. Everything was as it had been when he and Miss Kendrick left the drawing room, except now Mother and the other ladies held cups of partially sipped tea in their hands. As if nothing had happened. Lyndy led Miss Kendrick toward the needlepoint chair next to his sister.
“The vicar is dead,” Lyndy said, rubbing his hands together.
Someone gasped.
“Why is it so bloody cold in here?” he asked. Miss Kendrick was shaking. “Shall we have a fire lit?”
Mother nodded to the footman, who disappeared to inform Fulton.
“Oh dear! What happened?” Mrs. Westwoode asked.
“The vicar was in the library. He’d hit his head. Dr. Johnstone has already left for Epsom, so Papa called in the police.”
Another gasp.
“Where is your father?” Mother asked. “He rushed off and hasn’t come back.”
“How should I know?”
The moment he’d noticed the blood—on the carpet, on the vicar’s head and clothes, next to the teacup on the side table—Lyndy had rung for Fulton. He and Miss Kendrick had waited in silent vigil over the vicar, Miss Kendrick seated on the sofa next to the body, Lyndy pacing the room. Minutes, which had seemed like hours, had elapsed before Papa finally arrived. When Fulton announced the doctor was unavailable, Papa had insisted Fulton contact the police. But unable to persuade Miss Kendrick to withdraw, Papa had remained in the libary only long enough to speak with the detective in charge. Lyndy had assumed Papa had returned to the drawing room.
“Are you all right, Miss Kendrick?” Alice asked, offering her a cup of tea.
Miss Kendrick declined the tea with a slight shake of her head and rubbed her sore hand as she stared at a point on the wall. Alice put the teacup on the table in front of Miss Kendrick, just in case. Mother offered Lyndy a cup. He took it, noticing his hands were shaking, and gulped the tea down. It was sweet. He held out his cup for more.
“I say Miss Kendrick should be commended for her composure,” Lyndy said.
“She’s a Kendrick,” her father said. “We’re all tough when we need to be.”
Miss Kendrick’s eyes remained focused on the wall. She didn’t look so tough right now. Could Lyndy draw her out? Could he rally her? Her silence was unnerving.
“You should’ve seen her. She insisted on staying until the police arrived. And through it all, not one tear or shriek of despair.”
He didn’t mention the tears that had streaked down her cheeks as they’d left the library. Were they for the vicar or herself? Lyndy didn’t care; the tears had been his excuse to caress her fine features with his handkerchief. Lyndy studied her expressionless countenance now. Did she even remember him doing it?
“You must drink your tea, Miss Kendrick,” Mother said, not unkindly, “and eat something, if you can manage it.” Mother indicated a plate laden with smoked salmon sandwiches, scones, and an iced Dundee fruitcake.
“I dare say she was more composed with a dead body than with a group of women talking about weddings,” Mrs. Westwoode whispered behind her hand to her daughter but loud enough for all to hear.
Splotches of red bloomed on the tips of Miss Kendrick’s ears. She stirred and focused her gaze on her disparager. Then, without a word, she bolted from her seat, dashing past Papa as he returned to the drawing room.
“What did I say?” Mrs. Westwoode asked, looking around the room.
“Wedding,” Lyndy said, masking the relief that washed over him. He much preferred Miss Kendrick angry than sullen or in shock.
“Speaking of weddings,” Kendrick said, “who do we get to do it now that your vicar’s dead? The bishop?”
Another gasp. Had that one come from Mother?
“I’ve seen to it that the bishop knows of Reverend Bullmore’s passing,” Papa said. “It will be up to him who will officiate the wedding.” Mother, her lips white from holding her tongue, handed Papa a cup of tea.
“What about the police? Are they still here?” Mr. Kendrick asked, lacking the tact to stay silent.
“Police? What’s this about the police?” A man had appeared in the doorway.
“Lord Hugh!” Mrs. Westwoode and Miss Westwoode chorused. Several other voices rose in delight and relief.
Lyndy strode over to greet the newcomer. Dimples on the rascal’s cheeks deepened as Hugh smoothed his thick blond mustache and grinned.
“Mr. Kendrick,” Papa said, “may I introduce Lord Hugh Drakeford, who is engaged to be married to Miss Westwoode? Lord Hugh, Mr. Kendrick is our American guest.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lord Hugh,” Mr. Kendrick said.
“And I you,” Hugh said, raking his fingers through his windswept hair. “I hear you come bearing gifts, Mr. Kendrick. Some of the finest thoroughbreds ever to cross the pond, if the rumors are true.”
Mr. Kendrick laughed. “If I do say so myself.”
“Where have you been, old chap?” Lyndy slapped his best friend on the shoulder. He was relieved that his hands had stopped shaking.
“Didn’t Elizabeth tell you? I went into Rosehurst this morning. Why?”
“Brace yourself, Lord Hugh,” Mrs. Westwoode said, fluttering across the room and taking Hugh’s arm. “The local vicar is dead. Died right in Lord Atherly’s library.”
“The reverend from this morning? He seemed fit enough when I met him.”
“Lord Hugh, dear,” Mrs. Westwoode said, pouting, “he met with a terrible accident, and Lord Lyndhurst and Miss Kendrick found him.”
Mrs. Westwoode stared at Lyndy, as if a glare could command him to explain. But Lyndy had never liked Mrs. Westwoode. She fussed and fluttered and spoke to her husband like he was a child. For Hugh’s sake, he hoped her daughter was made of more sympathetic stuff.
“Bloody hell. Pardon me, ladies. But that’s ghastly. Where is Miss Kendrick? I haven’t even met her yet.”
“She is in her room, recovering from the ordeal,” Mother said, offering Hugh a cup of tea.
Ordeal? Which one? Finding the vicar who was to officiate over her wedding dead or being forced to wed in the first place?
“What happened?” Hugh asked.
“He hit his head,” Lyndy said.
“As I said, a senseless accident,” Mrs. Westwoode said.
“I’m afraid it’s more nefarious than that,” Inspe
ctor Brown said, strolling into the room, hat in hand, as if he’d been invited. “The good vicar was murdered.”
Mrs. Westwoode swooned, lost her grip on Hugh’s arm, and fell back onto a chair.
CHAPTER 6
Papa’s study was a small, dark room at the back of the house. The inspector had requested that the men gather somewhere private, and this was the perfect place. From the half-empty teacups and the full waste bin, it was evident Papa hadn’t allowed a maid entry in weeks. The engraved oak partners desk was covered with a small microscope and an array of fossilized horse teeth and was bestrewn with papers pertaining to his expensive “hobby,” paleontological expeditions in search of extinct horse fossils. A leather cylinder containing the map of Wyoming sat propped up in the spindle-backed desk chair. The desk dominated one half of the room, forcing the men to cluster near the mantel. With only a single north-facing window to allow the sun in, a chill permeated the room, and not only because the fire grate stood empty. Papa preferred the cluttered, closed-in space to anywhere else in the house. To Lyndy, it was as cozy as a cave.
“Reverend Bullmore was murdered, then?” Papa said.
“There will have to be an official inquest, of course, but yes,” Inspector Brown said. “He was hit on the head with a hard, sharp object.”
“That wouldn’t be enough to kill him,” Mr. Kendrick said. “I smacked a hapless gamekeeper in the head with the butt of my shotgun once. All it gave him was a lump as a reminder to be more diligent.”
The inspector stared at Mr. Kendrick, his expression unreadable.
“I assumed he hit his head on the corner of the table,” Lyndy said, trying to ignore the American. He picked up a fossilized horse leg bone from the mantel. A shape in the dust marked its place. Papa snatched it from Lyndy’s hand and gently put it back in its place.
“We did, too, at first,” Inspector Brown said. “But no, the wound is far too deep for that. I’m sure the coroner will confirm it. We believe someone hit him with the fire iron. It’s heavy enough, hard enough, and has gone missing. We’re assuming the killer took it with him.”
Murder at Morrington Hall Page 5
