Murder at Morrington Hall

by Clara McKenna

  “Not quite yet,” Daddy said, pulling back his hand and tucking his fingers into his waistcoat pocket.

  “Sir, you have me at a disadvantage,” Lord Lyndhurst said. “Have we met?”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord. I am Sir Devlin, an emissary of His Royal Majesty King Edward.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Daddy said, glancing up at the Royal Box. As he raised his spyglass to look, Lord Lyndhurst pushed it down. “What the devil—?”

  The viscount, ignoring Daddy’s bluster, faced Stella. “Sir Devlin, may I introduce my fiancée, Miss Stella Kendrick?”

  That was twice now in less than half an hour. Would she ever get used to hearing it?

  “Cicero’s sire is to be a wedding gift from her father.”

  Sir Devlin lifted his hat and tipped his head forward. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Kendrick.”

  “And I, you, Sir Devlin.”

  Sir Devlin smiled.

  Daddy, his arms crossed over his chest, glared at Stella and then at Lord Lyndhurst before turning his disapproving gaze to Sir Devlin. Did he expect a proper introduction?

  “This is my father, Mr. Elijah Kendrick,” Stella said, obliging him.

  “I already said that,” Daddy grumbled. “I don’t need you to introduce me, girl.”

  Sir Devlin’s eyes widened at Daddy’s sharp words.

  “What can we do for you, Sir Devlin?” Lord Lyndhurst said. Stella wished she could so easily ignore her father.

  “His Majesty would like a word with Orson’s owner.”

  “Then lead the way,” Daddy said, pushing his way in front.

  Sir Devlin, his wide eyes appealing to Lord Lyndhurst, had no choice but to scuttle after Daddy as he stomped his way toward the Royal Box. Lord Lyndhurst deftly looped his arm around Stella’s, much to her surprise, and, guiding her, followed.

  “Her father will be her chaperone this time, Miss Luckett,” Lord Lyndhurst said when Aunt Rachel stood, clearly intending to follow.

  Aunt Rachel winked.

  “What are we doing?” Stella whispered.

  “Where are you going?” Daddy asked over his shoulder when he realized they were behind him.

  “We’re going to be presented to His Majesty,” Lord Lyndhurst said.

  Nervous fluttering filled Stella’s stomach. She tightened her grip on the viscount’s arm. She’d never met a king before. He patted her hand.

  “No, that’s kind of you, Lord Lyndhurst, but it will make the girl cocky,” Daddy said. “Go back to the other women.”

  Stella looked at the viscount. What would he do? Would he send her back, as Daddy demanded? Or would he escort her back, giving up his chance to greet his king?

  “Miss Kendrick may and will accompany me to the Royal Box,” he said. Stella smiled at him. He’d defied Daddy with such ease, and on her behalf. She wouldn’t soon forget it. “Isn’t that right, Sir Devlin?”

  “Yes, my lord, you and Miss Kendrick are most welcome.” He pushed his spectacles up with his finger as he cast an appreciative glance at Stella, making her blush. “His Majesty will be charmed, I’m sure.”

  Lord Lyndhurst frowned. He understood the courtier’s meaning, maybe more than Stella did. If King Edward’s reputation with the ladies was notorious back home in Kentucky, it must be scandalous here.

  The balcony of the Royal Box, draped in garlands of pink, red, and white blossoms, had a spectacular view of the finish line. At the balcony railing, surrounded by several gentlemen holding glasses of champagne, was a heavyset man in his sixties, his back ramrod straight. He was impeccably dressed in a black frock coat and matching top hat and wore a tidy pointed white beard. In his fingers, he held a cigar. From the aroma that wafted toward them, it was a good Havana cigar, like the ones Daddy enjoyed. It was Edward VII, the King of England.

  “Your Majesty,” Sir Devlin said when the King nodded, allowing them to approach. “May I present Lord Lyndhurst, his fiancée, Miss Stella Kendrick, and her father, Mr. Elijah Kendrick? The owners of the sire of Cicero.”

  Lord Lyndhurst gave His Majesty the proper nod of his head. Daddy bobbed his head as if he had a twitch in his neck, but Stella, having mistakenly curtsied to Lord and Lady Atherly, didn’t waste the opportunity to use what she’d practiced so hard to perfect before they left Kentucky. She dipped gracefully and low. To Stella’s surprise, the King leaned down and took her hand. He smelled of expensive eau de cologne.

  “My dear.” His voice was unusually accented.

  “Your Majesty,” Stella said as she allowed the King to raise her up with his hand.

  “I’ve heard about your American betrothed, Lord Lyndhurst,” the King said. Although he addressed Lord Lyndhurst, the King’s eyes never left Stella. Under his inquisitive gaze, she kept her eyes lowered, or else he’d see how the blood had rushed to her cheeks.

  Why had they been summoned? To satisfy the royal’s curiosity about her? What was he thinking? Did he appreciate her feminine beauty? Was he wondering how the Earl of Atherly could align his family’s fate with these upstart Americans? Was he pondering the gossip that had preceded her? Did he know about Reverend Bullmore’s murder?

  “How delightful she is. I’d wed her soon, Lord Lyndhurst, or you might find she’s found a more attentive suitor.”

  The King laughed as he released Stella’s hand, and turned to the gentleman beside him. The audience was over.

  * * *

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Burton, pale,” Inspector Brown said, leaning against the wooden bar, taking in the taproom of the Knightwood Oak pub.

  It wasn’t as old as his own local in Lyndhurst but was cozy enough: thatched roof outside and low ceilings, hand-hewn wooden beams, and sturdy wooden tables within. None of those pretentious paintings of French landscapes or New Forest ponies grazing the heathland he’d seen in pubs of late. A few posters advertising Guinness stouts, Bass Ales, and Wrexham Lagers hung behind the bar, and over the mantel was a recent portrait of the pub’s famous namesake, the Knightsbridge Oak, an English oak said to be over five hundred years old and more than twenty-four feet around. The pub was quiet before the local lads rewarded themselves after a hard day’s work. Just the way Brown wanted it. The publican put the Burton ale on the bar and went back to cleaning pint glasses with a cloth.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “Tuppence.”

  Cheaper than my local too. Brown fished out his coin. He took a sip of the brown ale, a bit of froth clinging to his mustache. It was good but a bit too hoppy for his tastes. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Any news on the Derby?” he asked.

  He already knew the answer. Constable Waterman had a cousin who worked at Epsom Downs and who’d telephoned the police station right after the race. Apparently, the constable had bet against Lord Rosebery’s horse and now owed his cousin more than a few shillings.

  “I sent one of my lads to find out.”

  Brown took another sip of his ale. He’d hoped the question would loosen the publican’s tongue; the fellow had hardly uttered a word. The subtle approach having failed, Brown tried being more direct.

  “Have you heard the news about the vicar?”

  Brown had come not only to drink a pint but also to glean from the locals anything that might help his case. After interviewing everyone at Morrington Hall he’d been allowed to, the housekeeper at the vicarage, and the occupants of its neighboring houses, he’d learned two important facts: two members of Lord Atherly’s staff were lying (about what he hadn’t figured out yet) and Reverend Bullmore had worn a money belt, supposedly containing thousands of pounds, which was still missing. Brown assumed the vicar’s money was the motive. But so far, besides the housekeeper, no one had admitted knowing about it.

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “What have you heard?”

  The publican looked Brown in the eye for the first since he’d sat down. “Who wants to know?”

  Brown frowned. He’d hop
ed to avoid identifying himself. Men like the publican talked more if the conversation was friendly and unofficial. But there was no avoiding it now. He pulled out his warrant card.

  “Inspector Archibald Brown, Hampshire Constabulary. I’m investigating Reverend Bullmore’s death.”

  The publican put up the glass he was drying and started wiping down the bar. “Should’ve known.”

  “Why is that?” Brown had specifically changed from his uniform into his brown suit.

  “I know all the regulars that come at this time of day.” They both glanced over at a shaggy, white-haired man wearing spectacles and a wool sack coat, with three empty glasses and one three-quarters full by his elbow on the bar. His attention was focused on the broadsheet he’d spread open in front of him. “Like Old Joe.”

  “What have you heard?” Brown prompted.

  “That the reverend was murdered up at the manor house.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Sure. There’s plenty of talk.”

  Brown stared at the publican in anticipation. But the publican said nothing more. Was he going to have to prompt the fellow for every sentence?

  “Such as?”

  “It’s just talk, you know.”

  “About the vicar?”

  “He’d been in Rosehurst only a fortnight.”

  “Any speculation as to why someone would want to kill him?”

  “No. That’s got folks stumped. Who would want to kill a vicar?”

  Since he hadn’t asked directly about the money belt, Brown had to assume no one knew about it, or at least had blabbed about it, at the pub.

  “If not about the vicar, then what?”

  “I wouldn’t want to spread gossip about the family.”

  “Lord Atherly’s family?” Brown asked.

  The publican nodded. His loyalty was commendable but didn’t help Brown one bit. “Or those American guests they have visiting,” the publican volunteered.

  Brown looked over the rim of his near-empty glass. This was promising. “What have you heard about the Americans?”

  “That Lord Lyndhurst is to marry the daughter. An heiress, they say.”

  Brown nodded. Maybe if he gave a little, the publican would reward him in return. “That’s true.”

  “Oh?”

  Brown sighed and took another sip of his beer. Suddenly, the door flew open, and a lad of no more than eighteen came tumbling in, as if he’d tripped over his feet when they crossed the threshold.

  “Cicero won the Derby, Mr. Heppenstall,” the boy shouted.

  The old man looked up from his newspaper. “Ah, the local horse beat the Frenchie, did he?” Old Joe said.

  The boy nodded.

  “What took you so long?” Mr. Heppenstall, the publican, said. “It should’ve taken you no more than half an hour. What’d you do? Ride up to Epsom to get the news?”

  “I, ah . . .”

  “I know all about the butcher’s daughter, lad. Just get back in there.” He pointed behind him with his thumb. “Those bottles aren’t going to stock themselves.”

  The boy’s face flushed a deep red. He stared at Mr. Heppenstall and then glanced at Brown and then at Old Joe before rushing past and disappearing through a door behind the bar.

  “Cicero, huh?” Mr. Heppenstall said. “That reminds me, Inspector.”

  Brown looked at the publican with anticipation. The arrival of the boy hadn’t ended his chances of getting more out of Mr. Heppenstall, after all.

  “One of those rumors is about the horses the Americans brought with them. Three thoroughbreds is what I heard told.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “One of them is related to the Derby winner.”

  “That’s right. The stallion the Americans brought was the sire.”

  The publican nodded. “It will be good to see racehorses at Morrington Hall again.”

  The publican fell into silence again. The old man went back to his newspaper, and Brown downed the last of his beer. This hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. The entire investigation hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. But he wasn’t about to give up. He wasn’t called Bloodhound Brown for nothing.

  “Ever get anyone from Morrington Hall in here?”

  “What? The family come into my pub?” Mr. Heppenstall chuckled. “I don’t think so.”

  “No, I meant more like the household staff.”

  “Bavage, the gamekeeper, comes in, and I see some stable lads now and again.”

  “Seen any strangers lately?”

  “Besides yourself?”

  Brown smiled and nodded.

  The publican glanced over at a corner of the room. “Now that you ask, I have.”

  “And?” A surge of energy filled Brown, and it had nothing to do with the strong ale. He’d shake the fellow to get it out of him if he had to.

  “A grockle came in for several days in a row. Fancy tweeds, always ordered a half, never said anything.”

  Fancy tweeds? That didn’t match up with Brown’s assumptions about the maid’s stranger in black trousers and boots. If he believed her at all.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. He wore his cap low and kept himself to himself, you know.”

  “Was he tall, fat, blond?”

  The publican shrugged his shoulders. “He was a grockle. I try not to mix myself up with grockles. Outsiders bring nothing but trouble.”

  “Did he say anything? Like where he’s from, why he’s in the area?”

  The publican shook his head.

  “Can you tell me anything unusual about the stranger?”

  Mr. Heppenstall looked up at the ceiling, as if he were studying the old spiderweb that dangled from the side of the nearest beam. “His hands shook,” the publican said, “like he was sick or nervous or something.”

  “Did he come in on Monday at all?”

  “Aye, Monday afternoon,” the publican said without a moment’s hesitation. “Left around the time we heard about the vicar. Haven’t seen the grockle since.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “Is that it?” Mr. Kendrick said as Sir Devlin escorted them away.

  Lyndy didn’t look at the horse breeder. Mr. Kendrick was a boor. His ingratitude was astonishing. A lack of acknowledgment by His Majesty was more than Mr. Kendrick deserved. Lyndy only had eyes for Miss Kendrick. She was on his arm, her head held high, and in that creamy yellow linen and lace dress that accentuated her long neck, she positively glowed. A slight breeze ruffled the feathers on her hat. When she caught his eye, she smiled, that wide, unabashed smile Lyndy preferred to any other. He became acutely aware of the beating of his heart.

  “But what about the horses? What about Orson?” Mr. Kendrick said, plodding behind them. “The King is a racing man, and he didn’t talk to me about the race.”

  Didn’t Mr. Kendrick know anything? The audience wasn’t about the horses or the race. As Sir Devlin led them back to their box, everyone watched them, or to be more precise, watched the woman on Lyndy’s arm. Behind parasols, gloved hands, fans, and hats, whispers followed them. Lady Arabella Brice-Campbell, whose husband owned last year’s third-place finisher, was among several elderly ladies who held spyglasses up to their wrinkled faces to catch a better glimpse. After the audience with the King, nothing would be the same.

  “That’s her. Isn’t she lovely?”

  “But I’d heard she was an American.”

  “She must have English blood.”

  “I always knew Lady Atherly would find a suitable match for her son.”

  Lyndy sought out the speaker of the last comment, but the members’ enclosure was too crowded, and there were too many onlookers, to tell. He’d never had any doubt of his worth. He was the most eligible bachelor in Hampshire and had rightly questioned the match his parents had made. Until he’d met his match. He looked at Miss Kendrick again. A few strands of silky curls brushed against her cheek. The charming smile hadn’t left her face. The murmurs and whispers
continued.

  “Did he actually take her hand?”

  “She is delightful, isn’t she?”

  “I wonder why we haven’t seen her in London?”

  As they approached their box, Mrs. Westwoode rushed out to greet them. She was beaming. Lyndy didn’t know the lady was capable of such a wide smile.

  Mrs. Westwoode grabbed Miss Kendrick’s hand. “Miss Kendrick, dear. We heard what the King said. We’re so happy for you.”

  And for yourselves, of course.The association with one praised by the King couldn’t do the Westwoodes any harm.

  “Already?” Miss Kendrick said, gently slipping free of the woman’s hold.

  “Good news travels fast,” Mrs. Westwoode said, a giddy lilt to her voice, which Lyndy had heard her use solely with her daughter or Hugh.

  “Bad news travels faster,” Mr. Westwoode muttered.

  Mrs. Westwoode scowled at her husband before flashing a bright smile at Miss Kendrick again.

  “Well, ain’t that something,” Miss Luckett, the chaperone, said, patting her niece’s cheek.

  “I never have met a king before,” Miss Kendrick admitted.

  “He called you ‘delightful,’” Mrs. Westwoode said. “That’s high praise, indeed. Of course, we all already knew that.”

  What a hypocrite.

  “Just don’t let it go to your head, girl,” Mr. Kendrick said. “Delightful is not the word I’d use to describe you.”

  Miss Kendrick’s smile disappeared.

  How dare he? His daughter had been triumphant, converting her staunchest naysayers, including Mrs. Westwoode, and all Mr. Kendrick could do was criticize? She’d risen to the challenge, risen above her humble roots. Didn’t Mr. Kendrick want society to accept her? For Mr. Kendrick’s part, wasn’t that what this was all about? Lyndy would never understand the heel.

  “Well, I agree with His Majesty. Miss Kendrick is delightful,” Lyndy said.

  Hugh regarded him with a smirk, his eyes full of questions. His friend knew Lyndy was not one to pay compliments, at least not with any sincerity. Miss Kendrick scrutinized him. Did she think he was teasing her, as he had when they first met? Or did she hear the honesty in his words? How frustrating not to be able to read her thoughts. Most women were so transparent. But then again, he didn’t even know his own mind right now.