“What are you talking about?” the groom said. “I’m the victim here.” Herbert pushed past the inspector, crunching several pieces of the broken white porcelain teacup beneath his feet, and charged out of the room.
“Don’t go anywhere, Mr. Kitcher,” Brown yelled after him. “We’ll need to talk to you again.”
* * *
“Take a seat, Mr. Finn,” Inspector Brown said, indicating the captain’s chair opposite.
Once they had finished talking to the staff in the stables and had washed the muck from their shoes, Brown and his constable had taken over Lord Atherly’s smoking room again. The scent of cigars and leather permeated the room.
It beat the smell of horse manure.
“I hope this isn’t going to take long,” the footman said, sitting down.
What was the fellow thinking? Brown didn’t know what he expected to see in the footman’s face—concern, fear, curiosity—but whatever it was, he didn’t get it. Harry Finn focused on the wall again.
“You told us before, Mr. Finn, that no one saw you in Lord Lyndhurst’s dressing room at the time of the vicar’s murder.”
“That’s right.”
“What if I told you that the tailor arrived with Lord Lyndhurst’s wedding suit about that time?” Brown had discovered this bit of news when he’d finally been allowed to speak to Mr. Fulton. He’d been itching to see how the footman would react ever since.
“Yes. What of it? The tailor was expected.”
“I would think that it would be your task to take charge of the wedding suit.”
“Yes,” the footman said slowly. Brown could see the suspicion in his eyes.
“Then why weren’t you there to greet him?”
The footman said nothing.
“Since you were nowhere to be found, the second footman was sent up with it, as well as with Mr. Kendrick’s trunk, which you say you retrieved. He visited the respective dressing rooms at the time you were supposed to be there, pressing the viscount’s riding clothes. He didn’t see you in either room. What do you say to that?” Brown folded his arms across his chest and leaned back. He had his man, and he knew it.
The footman sat silently, staring at a point over the inspector’s shoulder, his head held high.
“Where were you, Mr. Finn, when someone bludgeoned the vicar to death?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“If we search your room, we won’t find anything to incriminate you, such as ten thousand pounds hidden away?”
“Where would I get that kind of money?” the footman scoffed.
“From the money belt of the dead vicar.”
The footman’s eyes widened. The news had shaken the footman, but Brown couldn’t say why. Was Harry Finn afraid they’d discovered his secret, or was he startled to learn the vicar had carried that amount of money around?
“Have you been to the stables lately, Mr. Finn?”
The footman frowned. The abrupt change in subject seemed to take him by surprise, as the inspector intended. “No.”
“On friendly terms with any of the staff there? Herbert Kitcher, for instance?”
“Herbert, the groom?” Harry Finn relaxed his shoulders and unclenched his hands in his lap. Brown hoped his constable didn’t return too soon and spoil it. Brown might actually learn something. “I heard the horse thief tied him up.”
“Who told you that?”
“Mr. Gates told Mr. Fulton, and a kitchen maid overheard them talking. All the servants know about it by now.”
Brown frowned. He should’ve known.
“Besides, Lord Lyndhurst is quite beside himself over it all,” Harry Finn added.
“So, you would help Lord Lyndhurst get his horse back if he could?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Would you do anything for Lord Lyndhurst? Would you kill the vicar to rid your lord of a marriage he didn’t want?”
The footman shook his head vigorously. Anger flickered across his face as he made eye contact with Inspector Brown for the first time since he’d entered the room. “No, no, no!” Harry Finn shifted his gaze and stared over Brown’s shoulder again. “Besides, you have it all wrong.”
“Do I?”
The footman opened his mouth to say something but hesitated. Was he conjuring up a lie or debating whether to tell something he’d learned in confidence? Brown put his money on a lie.
“Mr. Fulton said that the death of the vicar won’t stop the wedding. It’s the missing horse that might do it. Mr. Fulton said Lord Atherly is within his rights to claim a breach of contract if the horse isn’t returned.”
“Thank you, Mr. Finn,” Brown said sincerely. This wasn’t the information he’d hoped to get from the footman, but this gossip was as welcome as it was unexpected. Brown waited a moment or two to say more. The footman licked his lips. There was more Harry Finn wanted to say.
When the footman wasn’t forthcoming, Brown asked, “Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?”
Harry Finn licked his lips again. But as he opened his mouth to speak, Constable Waterman strode into the room. The footman clamped his jaw and stared at the wall again.
“What do you have for me, Waterman?” Brown said, irritated. Now Brown might never know what Harry Finn was going to say.
The constable held up a small worn brown leather-bound book. “Found this in Mr. Finn’s room.” They’d decided earlier that while Brown questioned the footman, his constable would be searching Harry Finn’s room on the third floor.
“You searched my room?” Harry Finn’s face was hard.
Brown ignored the footman. He was piqued at his constable. First, the constable had interrupted what Harry Finn was about to tell him, and now this. He had sent Constable Waterman to the footman’s room to find the money, not a book. Why was the constable smiling? A surge of hope welled in the veteran policeman. “Did you find the money?”
“No, sir. I didn’t.” Constable Waterman handed the inspector the book. The gilded words Common Prayer were engraved on the cover. The constable reached over and opened the cover of the book. “I think you’re going to want to have a look at this, sir.”
“This better be good, Waterman,” Brown grumbled.
Brown looked down at what his constable pointed to. In a large sprawling hand, Reverend John Bullmore had signed the inside cover. Miss Judd, the vicar’s housekeeper, had mentioned a prayer book had gone missing the morning of the murder. Brown kept the smile from his face. It wouldn’t do well for either the footman or the constable to know how pleased he was.
“If you’d never met the vicar before he arrived at Rosehurst a fortnight or so ago,” Brown asked, “why do you have a book in your room that belongs to the victim, Mr. Finn?”
“He gave it to me.”
“This is an expensive gift to give a stranger.”
The footman said nothing.
“How is it you have his book, then, Mr. Finn?”
“As I said, he gave it to me. I introduced myself to him after his first sermon, and he gave me the book.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes, just like that.” The footman stared over the inspector’s shoulder again.
Brown didn’t believe him. Had the footman met the vicar a fortnight ago, or was the footman lying, and they’d known each other before Reverend Bullmore arrived in Rosehurst? The latter was more likely. But it didn’t matter. What did matter was why Harry Finn had possession of the vicar’s prayer book that went missing the day of the murder.
“You don’t have an alibi, Mr. Finn, and you have in your possession the dead man’s book that went missing the day of his murder. I say that warrants a trip to the station.”
“I didn’t kill him!” The footman leaped to his feet.
Constable Waterman immediately stepped over and placed a firm hand on Harry Finn’s shoulder. Brown was grateful the constable’s grip hadn’t lessened any since the days his constable wrangled ponies.
“
Take him away, Waterman.”
CHAPTER 16
Stella leaned forward and glanced in the dressing-table mirror, the carved tiger maple framing her face. Normally, her skin looked pale against the ivory lace of her gown, but now splotches of pink colored her cheeks. What was she last thinking of? Not the death of the vicar, the theft of Orson, the arrest of the footman, the rush of Epsom and her audience with the king, not even the strangers gathering below. So much had happened in such a short time. She covered her cheeks with her hands as she blushed again, remembering what she had been thinking about—Lyndy’s kiss.
What if she did marry Lyndy? Would she ever be anything but “the American”? Would she and her “strange ways” be merely tolerated by the Searlwyns, as it seemed she had always been by Daddy? Or was there hope? Lyndy seemed different, almost kind at times. The softness of Lyndy’s lips, the firm hold of his arms. She blushed again. And yet the arrogance, the impudence. . .
“What do you think, miss?” Ethel, Stella’s maid said, placing a string of pearls around her neck. Stella, wrapped up in her thoughts, started at the sound of the maid’s voice.
“I think I’ve decided not to go down.”
Lady Atherly had made good on her promise to hold a small gathering of friends and neighbors eager to meet and gawk at “the American.” Stella had never fared well at society events back home. That garden party at the Vanderbilts’ in Newport, that ball at the Astors’ in New York . . . She could envision the blunders, the comments, the disaster that awaited her downstairs. They expected her to smile and nod and make small talk about the weather. They might ask her to sing or play the piano. How disenchanted they would be. She’d meant her comment to be a joke, but maybe she’d stay upstairs, after all.
“But everyone will be so disappointed, miss. You being called delightful by His Majesty, and all.” Ethel pinned a few loose wisps of hair, then stepped back to check her work.
As the maid placed a comb, a swirl of tortoiseshell and pearls, in Stella’s hair, Stella smiled. The comb perfectly matched the hand-embroidered silk charmeuse dress Stella wore for tonight’s soiree. The maid was a natural. She was also friendly and kind and, dare Stella hope, a confidante? Stella could certainly use one right now.
Daddy hadn’t allowed Stella to bring Decker, her lady’s maid from home, with her. On the journey to England, she and Aunt Rachel had had to cope with each other’s help. Stella hadn’t minded. Daddy had hired Decker, and the woman had never been friendly, muttering as she wrangled with Stella’s thick hair. But here, Lady Atherly had insisted Stella find a proper English lady’s maid. Ethel, a housemaid, had been assigned the task temporarily. Stella liked Ethel: she was gentle, had a kind face, and seemed eager to please. The maid had a knack for doing Stella’s hair. If it were up to Stella, she’d let Ethel stay on permanently as her lady’s maid.
“But isn’t it in bad taste to throw a party so soon after the vicar’s murder and the arrest of their footman?” Stella meant it. It was exceptionally bad timing, though she suspected she’d say anything to get out of having to go downstairs. Her hands were shaking as she patted her hair, inspecting the superb job Ethel had done. “Ethel, I wonder . . . ?”
Stella paused at the sight of the maid’s reflection in the mirror. Stella swiveled on her cushioned bench seat. Ethel, tight lipped and knotting her pinkie fingers, stepped back until she bumped into one of the four carved oak posts of the bed.
“What’s wrong, Ethel?”
“Nothing, miss.”
Stella rose and approached the maid. Ethel’s hands stopped moving, and she grew rigid, as if, not being able to retreat, she rooted herself to the floor. Stella placed her hand lightly on the maid’s shoulder. The maid flinched, reminding Stella that the English weren’t familiar with their staff. She took her hand away.
“It’s obviously not nothing,” Stella said gently. “Perhaps I can help?”
The maid looked up at Stella, confusion and conflict on her face. Someone killed the vicar, someone stole a prize stallion, and the police had questioned Ethel about both. Stella knew from her interactions with Inspector Brown that he could be less than delicate. And to have a fellow servant hauled off to the police station on suspicion of murder . . . Who wouldn’t be upset?
“Harry didn’t kill Reverend Bullmore,” Ethel said.
“It’s upsetting to think so, I know.”
Although it was ludicrous that the maid should have to carry the water upstairs, Stella was glad she’d taken a long hot bath. But because of it, she’d missed much of the police’s comings and goings this afternoon. With Lyndy’s early departure from afternoon tea, she’d had to glean what had happened from Mrs. Westwoode’s subtle allusions and disparagements.
“You don’t understand, Miss Kendrick. I know Harry didn’t kill Reverend Bullmore.” How could Ethel know such a thing?
As if reading Stella’s mind, the maid added, “I know because I think I saw who did.”
Stella stepped back without taking her eyes off the girl and plopped down when her legs met the edge of the dressing-table bench. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know. A stranger, I think.”
Not someone she knew, then. Relieved, Stella exhaled slowly. “Did you see much of the man’s face?”
“No. I didn’t see his face at all.”
“Then how do you know it wasn’t Harry if you didn’t see his face?”
The maid hesitated, wringing her pinkie fingers together again.
“I can’t help if you don’t tell me, Ethel.”
The maid stared down at the lilac-, green-, and cream-colored area rug. “I was with Harry.” The maid’s words were barely audible.
“You were? I heard no one admitted to seeing Harry during that time, and Harry refused to admit where he’d been. Why didn’t you say something?”
The maid sniffled, choking back tears. Stella finally understood.
“You were alone with him, weren’t you?”
“It’s not what you think,” Ethel blurted out, meeting Stella’s shocked gaze with her own. “I’ve known Harry since childhood. We were neighbors in North Gorley.”
“That doesn’t excuse you, you know that. In fact, all the more reason to suspect—”
“No, miss, we weren’t . . . He’s like a brother to me. I was teaching him to read.”
“Oh, Ethel.”
What a heartbreaking conundrum. If Ethel admitted to being alone with Harry and then lying to the police and Lady Atherly about it, she would be dismissed without references, as would Harry. But if she said nothing, Harry could hang for a murder he didn’t commit. So why did they put themselves in such a precarious situation in the first place?
“Teaching Harry to read is commendable, Ethel. Why do it in secret? Why not do it in the servants’ hall, where you wouldn’t be alone?”
“His parents are so proud of how far and fast he’s risen in the household. When he applied for the position of first footman, he claimed he could read. But he can’t. He never learned and was afraid he’d lose his position if Mr. Fulton found out.”
“But why teach him now, if you’ve known him for so long?”
“Because he’d gotten away with it. At least he had until the vicar handed him that prayer book, hinting that he’d somehow found Harry out. I don’t know how. Harry asked me to help him that same day. So, you see, he couldn’t have killed the vicar.”
“I’m curious. How is it that Harry doesn’t know how to read, but you do?”
“My aunt is a schoolteacher in Fordingbridge. She taught me and all my sisters to read.” Since Ethel was literate and competent, maybe Stella could convince Lady Atherly to let her keep the housemaid, after all. If she wasn’t dismissed summarily for her misconduct, that is.
“That’s where you were when you saw the stranger near the library?”
The maid nodded. “We were in the music room. It’s difficult to do anything in secret here. Someone is always around. But no one ever uses that room
, except when the countess has her musical nights.” They had stolen away while everyone was outside waiting for Stella to arrive.
“Describe the stranger to me.”
Ethel told her what little she knew about the stranger and about going into the library.
“Is that what you told the police?”
The maid nodded and then paused. “I forgot to tell them about the clunking sound.”
“Clucking sound?”
“I heard him running, and he made an odd clunking sound, like . . . like he was stomping and running at the same time.”
Stella frowned.
“At least that’s what I remember. I told the police everything else.”
“Except the part about being with Harry.”
The maid looked down at the rug again. “Yes, except that,” she whispered.
“And Harry didn’t see anything?”
The maid shook her head.
Stella so wanted to believe Ethel. One’s maid had to be trustworthy. But Ethel’s description of the strange man was vague. Did she see someone? If so, what caused the clunking sound of his gait? Stella didn’t know what to think.
“You didn’t take the vicar’s money, did you?” Stella hated to ask, but she had to be certain she could trust her maid.
“No, miss. I didn’t know about the money. Not until the police mentioned it.”
Stella studied Ethel’s face. She believed her. “You need to tell the police what you told me.”
“But—”
“Ethel, I will do whatever I can to prevent your dismissal. In fact, I was going to ask if you could stay on permanently as my lady’s maid.”
“Miss!” The maid’s eyes lit up.
“But you have to tell the police.”
The maid’s face clouded over again.
“Ethel, they believe Harry murdered Reverend Bullmore. Harry could hang.”
The girl looked stricken. Had she never thought of it that way before?
“Promise me you’ll go tomorrow.”
Ethel nodded, her shoulders square, but tears dampened her eyes. “Will that be all, miss?”
Stella wanted to throw her arms around the girl and tell her that she’d been foolish, but for all the right reasons, and that Stella would never let Lady Atherly throw her out on the street. But that wasn’t proper behavior between an English lady and her maid. Instead, she smiled, hoping to convey her feelings that way.
Murder at Morrington Hall Page 14
