Lyndy didn’t know what to think. He appreciated Papa’s intervention, but Hugh had just admitted to arguing with the dead man. But with no explanation. Lyndy wanted to know more. What had he been arguing about? Who had overheard it besides Lyndy? What would the police do about it now? Did they suspect Hugh of stealing the horse?
“Right. Thank you for your cooperation, Lord Hugh. As our investigation continues, we may require your assistance again. Please do not leave the area without giving us fair warning.” With that veiled threat, the inspector dismissed Hugh.
Hugh shrugged before turning on his heel. Lyndy followed his friend as Hugh hummed some ditty they’d heard at the theater in London last season. Why was Lyndy more troubled by all this than Hugh appeared to be?
Hugh caught the concerned expression on Lyndy’s face and scoffed. “Don’t worry, old chap. That policeman’s gone off his chump.”
If only Lyndy could believe that.
* * *
Stella set her elbows on the dressing table, picked up the glass perfume bottle, and lifted the stopper. She loved that scent. It always reminded her of spring in the woods back home. She caught a glimpse of Ethel in the dressing-table mirror as the maid tugged on Stella’s hair. A small smile softened the girl’s face as she worked.
They had done the right thing. Harry was a free man. “Did you know the police came back today?” Stella asked, admiring the result of the maid’s efforts, a long single braid draped over her shoulder, tied with a pink satin ribbon.
Mr. Gates had arrived at the scene of their picnic, apologetic but tight lipped. Stella, Lady Alice, and Miss Westwoode had stood guard outside the door after the policemen called Lyndy and Hugh into the smoking room. Mr. Westwoode had stormed past, not even acknowledging his daughter as she tried to take his hand. When Lyndy and Lord Hugh emerged from their interview, Lyndy had been indignant but unforthcoming. As Lord Hugh reassured Lady Alice and Miss Westwoode that there was nothing to fret about, Lyndy had glared at him. Stella had not been reassured.
“Yes, miss. I did hear the police came back,” Ethel said, brushing a stray hair from the arm of Stella’s nightgown. She turned and picked up Stella’s evening gown from the bed.
“Have you heard any reason why? They summoned us from the banks of the river and never told us why.” Stella swiveled around to look at her maid when the woman wasn’t forthcoming. Had she overstepped her bounds again? No. The maid’s head and shoulders were deep in the wardrobe as she fetched something. A dress had slipped from its peg.
“It was Lord Hugh, miss,” Ethel said when she reemerged. “Seems he argued with the vicar the day before the murder.”
Stella was shocked. She hadn’t told anyone; Lyndy had been adamant. How did the police find out? What else did they know? Lord Hugh had seemed nonplussed when he’d finished his interview. Maybe he had a perfectly reasonable explanation for the argument, after all. But then why had Lyndy seemed so upset?
“And the Westwoodes, miss.”
Stella stared at her maid. This was the first she had heard of their involvement. But it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. The police had asked her and Lyndy about their whereabouts on the day they discovered the vicar’s body. Between the two of them, they could account for everyone, except Lord Hugh and the Westwoodes.
“I’m assuming the police wanted to know their whereabouts at the time of the vicar’s death?”
Ethel nodded, closing the wardrobe door. “They should’ve asked us instead of bothering Lord Atherly’s guests,” Ethel said, the first hint of disdain Stella had ever heard in the maid’s voice.
“Do you know?”
The maid nodded. “Markham, Mrs. Westwoode’s lady’s maid, told us she’d dressed her missus for riding about that time, and I remember Millie being put out when she’d gone to make the beds, as Miss Westwoode was having a lie-down. Millie had to go back twice before the young miss left the room.”
“What about Mr. Westwoode?”
“No one seems to know where he was. Will that be all, miss?”
“Help! Help!” A shrill cry reverberated through the closed bedroom door.
Without thinking, Stella leaped to her feet, snatched the silk embroidered robe Ethel had laid across the top rung of the needlepoint chair, and dashed across the room. She threw open the door, hurrying to don the robe, but paused the moment she crossed the threshold, realizing she had no idea which way to go. The vacant hallway, lined with paintings suitable for any museum, inlaid tables holding priceless Chinese vases and Japanese statuettes, artifacts accumulated by previous generations, stretched on and on in both directions. A well-polished silver suit of medieval armor stood on guard at each end.
“Help!”
The cry came again, echoing up from the grand saloon beneath them. Stella leaned over the carved oak railing as Mr. Fulton shuffled hurriedly across the parquet floor below. Miss Westwoode, her face as pale as a finish-line post, emerged from her room with a maid Stella hadn’t seen before on her heels. She’d hastily wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. Her hair, flowing down her back, was only partially braided. They scurried toward the stairs. Stella, with Ethel mere steps behind her, followed.
Stella bound down the stairs, taking them as fast as she could, and followed a footman, still dressed in his evening livery, to the library. The library door was open, and several servants lingered, whispering, outside. Surprisingly, Miss Westwoode didn’t hesitate and disappeared inside.
“Who is it?” Stella asked.
When no one responded, she approached the door. She’d known she would have to return to this room one day, but this wasn’t how she’d hoped it would happen. Until now she had relied on the books she’d brought with her from Kentucky and hadn’t had any reason to enter.
Please don’t let there be another dead body inside. She stepped across the threshold.
But there was a body lying prone on the floor. In a swirl of gray and navy-blue silk, next to the side table, the same one that had held the vicar’s last cup of tea, was Mrs. Westwoode. Lord Atherly and Lyndy knelt on the floor next to her. Miss Westwoode whimpered from the couch.
The room closed in on Stella. The stuffed birds in the display case leered at her. The shelves of books tilted toward her, as if to topple to the floor and bury her beneath them. Stella reached out for the nearest handhold and accidentally grabbed her father’s arm.
“Let go of me, girl,” he said, brushing her hand away. She snapped her hand back as if she’d been stung. When had he arrived? He pushed past her to gawk over Mrs. Westwoode’s body. Stella stayed where she was. She didn’t want to see the body or go anywhere near it.
“Get her to sit up, if you can,” Lord Atherly said.
Stella gasped as Mrs. Westwoode’s head and back, with Lyndy’s firm grip around her shoulders, rose from the carpet. Mrs. Westwoode looked around, blinking, as if seeing the room for the first time. Her cheeks were flushed, but otherwise, the matron appeared unharmed. Stella was astonished and relieved. Stray strands of hair, loosened from the elaborate knots on the back of Mrs. Westwoode’s head, fell limp about the lady’s shoulders. She clung to Lord Atherly, who, with Lyndy’s aid, helped her to her feet. Her breath came quick and shallow.
“Take a moment to compose yourself,” Lord Atherly said as others arrived—Lady Alice and Lady Atherly, who dismissed the gathering crowd of servants, and then Lord Hugh.
“What’s everyone getting hot and bothered about?” Aunt Rachel said, clutching her robe about her, as she hobbled in behind them.
“Where’s Augustus?” Mrs. Westwoode whined when the men set her down beside her daughter on the couch. “Elizabeth, darling, where’s your father?”
Miss Westwoode reached for her mother’s hand. “I don’t know. What happened, Mummy?”
“I was attacked. That’s what happened.” Mrs. Westwoode put a hand to her throat and then to her head. “They stole my jewels.”
Mrs. Westwoode began to ramble on about a gold amethyst pen
dant necklace and a tiara, about having matching earrings snatched away, and again and again, she mumbled something about the stench of the stables.
“I came in after dinner,” Mrs. Westwoode said. “All I wanted was a book to take to bed.”
Stella scoffed quietly. She didn’t believe it. Unlike the other women, Mrs. Westwoode never had a book in her hand. She’d never even picked up one of Lady Alice’s magazines. So, what was Mrs. Westwoode doing in this room, of all rooms? Stella could only guess.
Mrs. Westwoode went on. “I think he must’ve been lying in wait for me. I started to scream, but he whispered in my ear that if I did, he’d kill me.”
“Who was it, Mummy?” Miss Westwoode said.
“For God’s sake, woman. Who did this to you?” Daddy said.
“It was him. Him!” Mrs. Westwoode declared. “The stranger. That man who killed the vicar.”
CHAPTER 19
Leonard rubbed the callused palms of his hands over his face. He’d been dozing. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, let Mr. Gates down.
Lying in bed, sweating and shivering, Leonard had missed everything: the arrival of the new horses, the death of the new vicar, the Derby, seeing the viscount’s American lady with muck on her shoes, the theft of the new stallion, Herbert tied up and gagged. Not that he hadn’t heard about it all. Charlie, the young lad who never stopped talking, had made sure Leonard knew what he was missing when he’d brought up Leonard’s beef tea.
But who can think of anything when your head pounds every time you move?
He shifted his weight on the stool. He had to be alert, just in case. Sugar sighed and sniffed, and it echoed in the silence of the stables. She was always the last horse to fall asleep. Leonard pinched his cheeks.
Now Herbert had gone. Packed up all his things sometime after dinner and left without so much as a by-your-leave to Mr. Gates. Leonard had never liked Herbert. The groom thought too much of himself, ordering others about while he sat with his feet up, daydreaming. About what Leonard could only guess. Tonight Herbert was supposed to relieve Leonard after his turn of the watch. But Herbert had never come. Mr. Gates had asked Leonard to take the second watch. Leonard didn’t mind. It was important work, what with the theft of the prize stallion. Mr. Gates wasn’t taking any chances. And Leonard wasn’t going to miss out on anything else.
Leonard’s eyelids fluttered closed. He shook his head to rouse himself. But two shifts . . . when he was weak yet. His chin fell toward his chest.
Click.
Leonard’s head snapped up.
Creak. Click.
Someone had opened and closed the washing-yard gate.
“Who’s there?” Leonard leaped to his feet. He snatched the lantern hanging from the hook near the stable door. It swayed in his hands, nearly banging against the wall. He grabbed the bottom rim, steadying the flickering light, before reaching for the metal bolt on the door, polished from use to a high shine on one end. He slammed it to the side, flipped the latch, and swung the door open.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. The would-be intruder, merely a dark shadow in the lantern’s dim light, was running away through the gravel yard!
Clink! Crash! The washing-yard gate swung open and slammed against the outer wall.
“Stop!” Leonard tripped over the threshold as gaslight streamed down from the windows above. He’d woken Mr. Gates.
Leonard rushed through the gate and toward the fading sound of running feet until he cleared the practice yards. He stopped, unable to go farther, doubled over, and gasped for breath. His illness had left him short winded. With his hand on his knee for support, he looked up. Morrington Hall, a silent behemoth, cast a long shadow across the hill. There was no sign of the intruder. He straightened up and lumbered back toward the stables.
“Damn.” Leonard couldn’t believe it. He had had the culprit in his sights, and he had let him get away.
Mr. Gates, followed by every groom and stable hand, most in their stocking feet, rushed to meet up with Leonard. “What happened?”
“Someone tried to get in.”
“Who was it?” Mr. Gates asked.
“He ran away when I opened the door.”
“He got away?”
Leonard nodded slowly. With Herbert gone, Leonard had harbored thoughts of a promotion. Mr. Gates would never make him head groom now.
“Get yourself to bed, lad. I’ll take the rest of the watch, in case they come back.”
Leonard, his breath shallow, slumped his shoulders. He followed the others slowly as they headed back toward the stables, letting the lantern hang from his hand at his side. He was a full three yards behind when he reached the washing-yard gate.
“See to those bales before you find your bed, though, Leonard,” Mr. Gates called. Several bales of straw were stacked inside by the gate. Herbert was supposed to see them put away.
As Leonard hung the lantern on the nearest hook, a glimmer in the straw caught his attention. Was it the flash of an animal’s eye in the lantern light? He kicked at the straw. Nothing. But as he bent down to grab the first bale, he noticed it again. What animal wouldn’t have scampered off by now? He retrieved the lantern, then hovered it above the straw. The fresh scent of the straw prompted the first deep breath he’d taken since his pursuit of the intruder. He loved that smell. He peered in closer, taking another deep inhale. A glint of gold and purple shone brightly in the light. He shoved his hand into the straw, then pushed it back to get a better look. His eyes widened. A large purple gem twinkled in the lantern light.
CHAPTER 20
“Good morning,” Stella said, forcing a smile on her face, as she stepped into the warmth of the kitchen.
She didn’t mean it. The morning had been as dreary as any since she’d arrived, except for the brief clearing when she first awoke. The promise of sun, as she’d already learned from morning after morning of the same tantalizing brightness, was a hollow promise indeed.
She’d barely slept. Too many questions without answers. Who was this man who had first murdered the vicar and now had attacked Mrs. Westwoode? Would he attack again? How could he sneak past maids and footmen, butler and lord without anyone suspecting? Could it be someone they all knew? The moment the sun shone through her window, she had dressed without ringing for Ethel and had headed straight for the stables. Barely fifty yards from the house, raindrops had splattered around her. She’d headed back toward the house, but the skies opened up completely before she’d reached the front door. Drenched, her blouse sticking to her skin, her wet hair dripping and loose about her shoulders, Stella had crept back to her bedroom, grateful no one was up yet. After changing into dry clothes, she’d headed for the kitchen. She craved answers, warmth, and Kentucky black cake.
It had been her mother’s favorite. One of Stella’s earliest memories of her mother was sitting in a warm kitchen with Cook and Mama and stealing raisins from the cake batter when no one was looking. Daddy hadn’t allowed Cook to make it after Mama died. But Stella had, in secret, when she became old enough. The methodical steps of baking, the rich smell of cooking currants and raisins, and the memories of Mama tasting the batter with her pinkie could soothe away the worst of hurts. Oh, how she needed that now.
Clunk!
Mrs. Cole, a thick woman with a round, bespectacled face pulled taut by the severity of her bun, slammed the heavy black kettle back onto the stove. The other servants froze in place. The girl with flour on her cheek and her hands in the dough stopped kneading. They all stared at her.
“Miss Kendrick!” Mrs. Cole said, surprised and not particularly pleased.
At home, Stella would go into the servants’ hall or kitchen at any time. Cook knew to expect Stella any day the weather prevented her from escaping to the stables, like today. She’d never seen a kitchen staff react this way before.
“Can I help you, Miss Kendrick?” Mrs. Cole wiped her hands on her apron as she approached Stella. A mere glance from the cook as she passed compelled everyone to resume their duti
es.
“I wanted to bake a Kentucky black cake for everyone and wondered if you had all the necessary ingredients.”
Why was Mrs. Cole squinting at her like that? Stella looked down at herself. Her white blouse and pale brown and embroidered gold skirt hadn’t a speck on them. She touched her ears and the back of her neck—no stray tendrils of hair had escaped from Ethel’s skillfully placed pins. Her hair was nearly dry. She covered her mouth with her hand and ran her tongue across her teeth. Nothing.
Yet the others had again stopped what they were doing, their eyes wide or their mouths agape. One young maid held her apron up past her nose. Stella could hear the girl’s muffled giggle.
“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Cole said.
Stella caught the eye of the girl who was giggling. The maid dropped her apron and scampered toward the larder. “On such a dreary day as this, I hoped to share a recipe from home, Kentucky black cake, and wondered if I needed to take a trip into town to get anything for it.”
“Yes, miss. I heard you the first time.”
“Oh.” Stella focused her attention back on the cook. “I assume you have plenty of the basics—flour, brown sugar, butter, eggs, brandy. But do you have allspice, citron, currants, and raisins? I’m not sure if these are staples in an English kitchen, as they would be back home.”
“Yes, miss, I do indeed have all the ingredients.”
Stella smiled in relief. By the reaction of the kitchen maids, she’d worried she’d made yet another faux pas. Perhaps once she started baking, she could encourage the maids to talk. Who knew what they might tell her that they wouldn’t dare tell the police? “Do you have an apron I could wear, Mrs. Cole?”
“You want a what? To do what?” Mrs. Cole sputtered.
The quiet pounding of hands kneading bread against the wooden table, the click of a spoon as someone stirred a pot, the soft footfalls of the maids as they crossed the flagstones of the kitchen, fetching this and that, all stopped. Only the hissing of the steaming kettle left to boil too long broke the silence. All eyes were on her.
Murder at Morrington Hall Page 17
