“I do hope you’ll tell me more about your expeditions to Wyoming sometime, Lord Atherly.” She was studying the map Papa had tacked up on the wall.
Papa’s expression softened. He turned his face away and feigned a cough, as if needing to clear his throat. But Lyndy knew his father. Stella had won Papa’s heart.
“Yes, well, Miss Kendrick did find the vicar’s body,” Papa said, then again tried to clear his throat. “And the horse is part of her inheritance. If she desires to stay, I have no objections.”
Stella smiled. It didn’t matter that it was a simple upturn of her lips; only she could distract him from such a tragic turn of events. Lyndy stared at it. He’d adored her wide, bold smile before, but now that he’d tasted her lips, sampled their softness . . . he’d be more diverted by any of her smiles than what was good for him. He turned his attention back to the inspector and the dreadful matter at hand.
“I agree with Miss Kendrick,” Lyndy said. “It doesn’t follow that the two crimes are related.”
“From our preliminary investigation, I’d say the theft was planned,” the inspector said. “Perhaps the vicar participated in that plan but was betrayed and murdered by his accomplices.”
“Or the horse thief wants you to think that,” Stella said.
The inspector nodded. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it is, as you say, Lord Lyndhurst, a coincidence.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Mr. Kendrick said, swiveling back and forth in the desk chair, staring hard at the inspector. “Just get me back my horse.”
Lyndy was ashamed to admit he partially agreed with the brute. The vicar’s killer must be brought to justice, and Orson must be returned. But let the police figure out the why and where and when and how.
“We will do our best to find your horse, sir,” the inspector said. “As we will do our utmost to find who killed Reverend Bullmore.”
“Vicars are commonplace, like sheep in your fields. I wanted the bishop to marry off Stella, anyway. But Orson . . . he’s the most valuable horse in this damn country.”
Papa raised an eyebrow at Mr. Kendrick’s blatant disregard for the vicar’s violent end. Yet, to his distaste, Lyndy understood what the vulgar man meant. Any parish priest had the power to marry a couple, but the horse was unique. If Mother and Papa considered its theft a breach of promise, Mr. Kendrick wouldn’t be able to supply another suitable replacement. The wedding would be canceled. Would Mother and Papa do such a thing?
“All our ponies and horses are valuable, sir,” the inspector said. “This is the New Forest. But I, myself, put more value on human life.”
Mr. Kendrick ground the butt of his cigar in the silver tray on the desk, pushed himself up from the chair, and shoved his face within inches of the inspector’s. He poked the inspector in the chest with his thick, stubby finger.
“I don’t give a damn about what you think. Find my horse.” Without a backward glance or a word of courtesy to Papa, the American left the room.
The inspector sputtered incoherent curses.
“You were saying?” Papa said, as if Mr. Kendrick’s outburst were a mere distraction from the matter at hand. The inspector stiffened his back, pulled out a small notebook, and flipped it open. He didn’t consult it once.
In a clear and concise manner, Inspector Brown summarized everything the police had done to investigate the vicar’s death: examined the library, sent the body to the coroner’s office, conducted interviews with the Morrington Hall household staff, the vicar’s housekeeper, the vicar’s neighbors, and key members of the village community. He detailed the few facts they’d discovered: that the blows to his head were the confirmed cause of death, that the wrought-iron fire iron was missing, and that the time of death was between half past two and four that afternoon. He explained that they were investigating two possible leads: the fellow, described by the maid, seen running away from the library and a stranger spotted in the local pub. They’d also expanded their inquiries to include the stable staff and any relevant connections to the theft of the horse.
Inspector Brown flipped his notebook closed. He didn’t look happy.
“A stranger at the pub?” Stella asked. “Is that so unusual?”
“In these parts, yes,” the inspector said.
Mr. Westwoode blanched.
“Nothing to worry yourself about, sir,” the inspector said, seeing Westwoode’s reaction. “I promise you, if he was involved in the vicar’s murder, we’ll have him.”
Mr. Westwoode nodded.
“Our biggest lead so far has come from the vicar’s housekeeper.”
The inspector glanced at Lyndy and then at Stella as he explained about the vicar’s missing money belt but said nothing about their involvement in the matter. Stella, the shawl pulled as tightly around her shoulders as possible, rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Lyndy glanced at the fire grate. It was cold, as he’d expected. Perhaps with Stella’s inheritance, they’d be able to heat this old house properly.
“It contained ten thousand pounds. Were any of you aware of this?”
“No, most certainly not,” Papa said. “I’d never heard any such a thing.”
Judging by the negative responses, this was a secret the vicar had kept well. If Hugh’s argument with the vicar had been about the money, he gave no hint of it.
“Ten thousand pounds. That certainly could be a motive, if someone knew,” Lyndy said.
“Most definitely,” the inspector said, “and I regret the money is still missing, my lord.”
“What about the housekeeper?” Mr. Westwoode asked. “Is she reliable?”
“Miss Judd served in this house before taking the position at the vicarage,” Lyndy said, offended he should ask.
“She’s quite a sweet elderly lady,” Stella said. “I can’t imagine her doing anyone any harm.”
Mr. Westwoode still seemed skeptical. To further exonerate her, the inspector explained that Miss Judd had an alibi for the entire day of the murder and that they found no indication that she’d spent any sum greater than a few shillings in the past few days.
“There it is, then,” Papa said. “Someone came into the house, killed the vicar for his money, and then stole the horse.”
“No disrespect, my lord,” Inspector Brown said, “but we don’t think a stranger wandered into Morrington Hall, or its stables, for that matter.”
“What are you saying?” Papa said.
“We believe it was someone connected to the estate.”
“I don’t believe it.” Papa never could conceive of anyone he knew being guilty of a crime, be he a gamekeeper or a duke. Lyndy admired that about him.
Lyndy didn’t want to believe it any more than his father, but an outsider would be noticed. “But who?”
“We’re focusing on the staff, both inside the house and out,” Inspector Brown said. “My constable is searching the stables as we speak. We will then be interviewing the coachman, the grooms, and the stable lads.”
“But haven’t you already questioned all the house staff?” Lyndy had been annoyed to learn they’d questioned his valet. It reflected badly on him. His man was beyond reproach, and Lyndy didn’t appreciate having his judgment of character called into question.
“Yes, and we will need to do so again, considering the new developments.”
“Very well,” Papa said. “But I will not have my guests or my family disturbed by your investigations.”
“I will endeavor to be discreet, my lord.”
“Then if that’s all, Fulton will see you out.” Papa rang the bell.
At being dismissed, the inspector tipped the rim of his hat and followed the butler. But as he passed, Stella said, “We know you’re doing your best, Inspector. Please know, I’ll do whatever I can.”
The inspector raised an eyebrow as he paused beside her. He couldn’t make out what she meant any more than Lyndy could. What could Stella possibly do?
“I appreciate that, miss,” Inspector Brown said skeptically. He
was shaking his head when he left the room.
“Thank you for letting me stay, Lord Atherly,” Stella said, “but I’m not going to be any use to anyone until I’ve had a long hot bath.”
Lyndy tried desperately not to picture her in her bath but failed. At least he kept the grin off his face. Mr. Westwoode made his excuses, as well, and followed Stella out. Lyndy could barely wait until Fulton closed the door behind them. There was one more question to ask.
“If the horse isn’t found, or is found . . .” Lyndy hesitated. He couldn’t contemplate harm coming to the magnificent creature. The thief must know the horse’s value. Lyndy prayed the thief would treat the stallion accordingly. “If Mr. Kendrick doesn’t get his champion stud back, will you call off the wedding?”
“We’ve every right,” Papa said.
Lyndy couldn’t keep still. He began to rock on his heels. “But will you?”
Papa picked up a letter from his desk. It was dated this morning and was signed by Professor Gridley, the leader of Papa’s newest expedition. “I suppose that’s what you’d want.”
“No.” The word rushed from Lyndy’s mouth.
Papa accepted Lyndy’s answer with a nod and, continuing to read, sat behind the desk. Too engrossed in his letter, Papa hadn’t heard him.
“Lyndy, my boy, did you say no?” Hugh said, a smug grin on his face.
Papa looked up from his letter.
Lyndy hesitated to answer. This time the acceptance that he wanted to go ahead with the wedding came slower. When had it happened? When he’d heard her talking to her beloved horse? When her father had forced her to her knees? When she’d got up again? When she’d let unabashed tears run down her face upon finding the dead vicar? When she’d cheered on Cicero at the top of her voice? When His Majesty had warned him not to let another gain her affection? When he’d touched the softness of her lips with his? When Mr. Kendrick had abruptly left the room, leaving unsaid what Lyndy dreaded most? When she’d promised to help when no one else would?
“I did.”
Hugh’s smirk widened. Papa raised a questioning brow.
“Well, then . . . ,” Papa said, “we must hope the police apprehend the vicar’s killer and find that horse, mustn’t we?”
CHAPTER 15
“Anything?”
Constable Waterman shook his head. “Sorry, sir.”
Inspector Brown was disappointed, but he was also determined. He’d been humiliated informing Lord Atherly of their progress, or lack thereof. That a prize horse had been stolen from the Earl of Atherly’s stables during an active murder investigation was galling and embarrassing. But the lack of anything irregular in the stables, paddocks, or staff bedrooms, had convinced Brown more than ever that someone familiar with the stables had planned the theft. If so, Brown would find him.
“What about the coachmen, grooms, stable lads?”
Constable Waterman flipped open his notebook. “I’ve spoken to everyone except the groom Herbert Kitcher, the one found bound and gagged in the horse’s loose box. I thought you’d want to talk to that one yourself.”
“Right you are, Waterman. What could the others tell you?”
“Not much, sir. No one observed or heard anything unusual. Mr. Gates, the head coachman, was in Christchurch, visiting a niece. We’ve rung Christchurch, and they sent someone round the niece’s house. She corroborates his account. He left the groom Kitcher in charge in his absence. According to the second groom, Leonard, the horse was in its loose box when he said good night to Kitcher before retiring. Kitcher and the head coachman are waiting for you in the harness room.”
“Lead the way.”
The groom was sitting on a bench, wrapped in a green and blue plaid horse blanket and sipping a cup of tea, when Brown and his constable found him. Pieces of straw stuck out of his unruly black hair, evidence of the groom’s prior difficulty. Gates, the head coachman, leaned over a ledger set on a workbench. Both looked up when the policemen entered.
“Mr. Gates?”
The head coachman closed his ledger.
“I’m Inspector Brown. My constable tells me you’re the one who found your groom bound and Mr. Elijah Kendrick’s racehorse gone.”
“Yes,” Gates said. Brown looked over to make sure his constable was prepared to jot everything down. “What kind of person does something like that?”
Unfortunately, Brown could easily describe people he knew who were capable of it and worse. But he ignored the coachman’s question. “Are you Herbert Kitcher?”
“I am.” The fellow spoke through gritted teeth, as if challenging the inspector to dispute his identity.
“So, what happened, Mr. Kitcher?”
“I was waiting up for Mr. Gates, so I was in here, polishing the harnesses. I heard Orson snorting and got up to see what all the fuss was about.”
“Then what happened?”
“I was checking on the horse when someone hit me over the head.”
“Hit you over the head and what? Knocked you out?”
“Yeah, like the vicar.”
“But the vicar’s dead,” Brown reminded him.
The fellow sneered. “I got a hard head.”
And a bad temper.
Brown understood the fellow’s hostility. Mr. Kitcher had been bound and gagged not thirty yards from where the rest of his mates slept peacefully in their beds. Not the best way to spend the end of Derby Day. But something else nagged at Brown. There was something about the fellow Brown didn’t trust.
“And then what?”
“Then I woke up in Orson’s box, all bound up and gagged.”
“You never saw who hit you?”
“No.”
“Do either of you have any idea who could’ve done this?”
“No,” the groom said, without hesitation.
A bit too fast, perhaps?
“I can’t make it out either, Inspector,” Gates said, shaking his head. “I understand why someone would do it. That horse was worth thousands, if not millions, of pounds. But unless you forgot to lock the doors, Herbert, how did the thief get in?”
Brown couldn’t have said it better. He waited patiently for the answer.
“And now that I’m thinking about it, how did that lad the other night get in?” Gates added.
“What lad?” Brown asked.
“I found some village lad poking about the coach house the other night. I’d assumed he’d come to see the Americans’ motorcar. Now I wonder.”
“I asked Leonard to lock the doors,” the groom said, casting the blame elsewhere.
Gates put his palm against his forehead. “Ah, Herbert, what were you thinking?” The groom stared down into his tea. “The lad Leonard has been sick, Inspector. It’s possible that he might’ve left the stables unlocked.”
“Where were you between half past two and four Monday afternoon, Mr. Gates?”
The head coachman didn’t hesitate. “I had a bite to eat around two and went up to the house right after to take care of the new thoroughbreds when the Americans arrived. Then I was in the paddocks with Beau, Lister, and Sugar.”
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
“I saw the lad Charlie before I went up to the house. Lots of others saw me there. I walked backed here with Roy, the Kendricks’ groom. Lord Lyndhurst and Miss Kendrick were with me in the stables, and then I was with several lads in the paddocks.” Gates was clearly out of it, then.
“And you, Mr. Kitcher?”
“I was here in the stables when the new horses and the American lady arrived.”
“And before that?”
“Where do you think I was? Here, in the stables.”
“Anyone see you?”
“What are you asking me this for? I’m the one that was attacked.”
Brown ignored his outburst. “After the American lady arrived, did you stay in the stables?”
The groom didn’t answer.
“Mr. Kitcher?”
The groom took a sip of
his tea. Brown waited. No answer.
“Where were you after Miss Kendrick arrived, Mr. Kitcher?”
Still no answer.
If the fellow wanted to play this game, the inspector welcomed the challenge. Brown knew a liar when he saw him. It was only a matter of time until Brown discovered the fellow’s secret. “If you refuse to cooperate, I will be forced to escort you back to the station.”
“I was out walking on the Forest, alone.”
“Where?”
“Fletchers Green.”
“Do you typically go walking alone on the Forest in the middle of the day?”
The groom refused to explain himself.
“Herbert made a bit of a fuss about that time and left,” Mr. Gates said.
“Do you often lose your temper, Mr. Kitcher?”
Again, the groom refused to speak.
“Whomever this fuss was with, I’ll need to speak to him.”
“It was, ah . . .” The head coachman seemed uncharacteristically hesitant. “It was Miss Kendrick.”
“Lord Lyndhurst’s American fiancée?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
Now, this was interesting. Brown might have to interview the young lady again.
“Why were you up at the house, Mr. Kitcher?”
“Herbert wasn’t up at the house, Inspector. Miss Kendrick had come to the stables to see to the settling in of her horses,” Mr. Gates said.
“Right.” The groom had no alibi and was furious for being humiliated by a woman. Men had sought revenge for less. “So, Mr. Kitcher, after you had this row with the earl’s future daughter-in-law, you went walking on the Forest to cool off your temper? Or did you go up to the house and take it out on the vicar? To get back at Miss Kendrick, perhaps?”
“What? No!” The groom leaped to his feet, throwing the blanket and the cup and saucer to the floor. The unfinished tea in the cup spread like a stain across the wooden boards. Kitcher raised a finger at the inspector. “I never touched a hair on that priest’s head.”
Brown stared at the groom, unflinching. Mr. Gates open his mouth but shut it again. “What about his money?” Brown asked. “Did you also take that, Mr. Kitcher?”
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