Stella’s heart sank. “If this isn’t a convenient time . . .” Mrs. Cole began shaking her head vehemently. Stella’s voice trailed into silence.
“Never, miss,” Mrs. Cole said, straining to contain her indignation. “It will never be convenient for you to come into my kitchen and bake your Kentucky black cake.”
The quiet vehemence took Stella by surprise. The staff at home had always been so accommodating, so patient, after her mother had died, leaving Stella alone with Daddy. She didn’t expect the same sympathy here, but she had never expected to be unwelcome. Suddenly, pots banged, hands pounded bread, feet shuffled, voices rose as the kitchen staff tried to act busy.
“I don’t know what foolishness prevails in your own country, Miss Kendrick, but that is not the way things are done here!” Mrs. Cole folded her arms across her chest, daring Stella to contradict her.
There it was. Stella had done it again. She’d broken yet another of the unspoken rules of English etiquette. Would she ever learn?
So much for getting the maids to share their gossip with me.
“Miss Kendrick, is there something I can help you with?” Mrs. Nelson said, a cluster of keys jingling at the waist of her crisp black dress, as she descended the stairs.
“She wants to bake a cake in my kitchen,” Mrs. Cole said without taking her eyes off Stella.
“Now, now,” Mrs. Nelson said, her hands clasped against her chest. “I’m sure you misunderstood, Mrs. Cole. Miss Kendrick had a request? Is that it? Something from home to cheer her up in these troubling times? You know it was Miss Kendrick who found the vicar, don’t you, Mrs. Cole? And today was to be her wedding day, after all.”
Stella appreciated Mrs. Nelson’s attempt to ease the situation, but her words were hollow. The message—that no matter how awkward or inappropriate her behavior, Stella was soon to be a member of the family and was to be tolerated as such—was clear. But Stella didn’t want to be tolerated or placated or condescended to. Not by Lyndy, not by Lord and Lady Atherly, and not by the staff downstairs. She’d had enough of that from Daddy to last her a lifetime. She wanted to be accepted, loved, for who she was. Was that too much to ask? Stella regarded Mrs. Cole, who hadn’t relaxed her arms or the grim expression on her face. It might be.
“I’ll make you a Kentucky black cake,” the cook said, conceding. “If that is what you want.”
“That would be fine, Mrs. Cole. Don’t you agree, Miss Kendrick?” Mrs. Nelson said. “Though you’ll speak to myself or Her Ladyship next time you have a request, won’t you, Miss Kendrick?”
“Yes. Thank you,” Stella said, knowing Mrs. Cole’s black cake would be tasteless in her mouth. There wouldn’t be a hint of her mother’s touch or home in it.
* * *
The maid bit her fingernail and looked away. Stella tried to ignore her. Wasn’t that how most of them regarded her, as a thing of curiosity? She was the one that had dropped her cap the day Stella arrived. Stella had seen her pass in the hall outside the kitchen a few minutes ago, fastening a coarse morning apron around her waist as she walked. Millie, wasn’t it?
The maid had pressed up against the wall in the grand saloon, beside the grandfather clock, which towered over her. A brush stuck out of a metal pail beside her. As Mrs. Nelson had bid Stella good morning, the maid had stood silent and motionless, as if to hide in the clock’s shadow. But to no avail. Mrs. Nelson had noticed her and had left to have a word. Stella couldn’t hear what was said, but the maid looked stricken. She bobbed her head to the housekeeper, snatched up her bucket, and headed toward the staircase. She glanced over her shoulder at Stella before climbing the stairs. She was biting her nail again.
Could there be more in her gaze than curiosity? Stella, on an impulse, followed. Seeing Stella approach, the maid stopped. She curtsied as Stella gained the landing. The scent of smoke wafted up from the bucket.
“You don’t have to curtsy to me. I’m the American, remember?”
A hint of a smile crossed the maid’s face but vanished at the tap, tap, tap of footsteps on the parquet floor nearby. “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Wait,” Stella said, reaching out and grabbing the sleeve of the maid’s print dress as the young woman turned to leave. The maid dutifully stopped but hung her head and stared at the polished oak step beneath her feet. Stella quickly let go. “Did you want to speak with me?”
The maid peered around, making certain no one else was near, before pulling a charred piece of paper from the pocket of her apron, the bib soiled with what looked like strawberry jam. She handed it to Stella. All that was left of the yellowed typewritten paper was a fragment of the left side corner. It bore the word fragment prom, the partial monetary amount £10, and the word Cork. A promissory note? Stella handed the paper back toward the maid, who pushed it back toward Stella.
“It’s for you, miss. Ethel told me you were helping the police find the vicar’s killer.” She did? “As you were so kind, miss, to convince Lady Atherly to keep Ethel and Harry on, I knew what to do when I found that.”
All Stella had done was speak to the police about what she knew and convince Ethel to tell the police the truth. This was how rumors got started.
“It’s Millie, is it?”
“You know my name.” The maid sounded amazed.
“You clean my room every day, don’t you?”
The maid nodded.
“Millie, I don’t think—” Before she could set the record straight, the maid interrupted.
“But look, miss.”
The maid leaned in, pointing to the writing at the top edge of the promissory note fragment. Stella examined it again. It read y 29, 190. A date. It could have been from January, February, or July of any of the past five years. Or it could’ve read May 29, 1905—the day the vicar died.
“That’s not all. I found these too.”
The maid produced two more fragments of burnt paper from her pocket, pieces of what had once been a handwritten letter. When they were put together, partial sentences that contained the words Carcroft, silence, marriage, and money were discernible. One fragment was only an inch or two long. The word Bullmore was clear. Stella shivered, and not only because this manor was the draftiest building she’d ever stayed in. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders.
“The vicar probably burnt them that morning, before he died.” Stella remembered a fire had been lit that day. But even as she said it, she questioned her reasoning.
Why would the vicar have a promissory note when he had thousands of pounds strapped to his leg? And what about the letter? Whom was it addressed to? The vicar or someone else? How did the Carcroft scandal figure into all of this? Why would he burn the promissory note and the letter, and why at Morrington Hall and not at the vicarage? Was the word silence in the letter a threat? What did her and Lyndy’s marriage have to do with it?
“But I didn’t find them in the library, miss.”
Stella blanched at the maid’s revelation.
“I found them in Lord Hugh’s room.”
CHAPTER 21
Lyndy was annoyed. While dressing him, Harry had fussed over a mislaid tiepin Lyndy didn’t even like, and Gates had summoned him from the breakfast table before he’d finished his morning racing paper and before Stella had arrived. Not to mention that he’d slept little after last night’s dreary dinner and the return of the police. The attack on Mrs. Westwoode had put everyone on edge. Now Lyndy traipsed to the stables in the rain. Despite the fact that he was being escorted by a stable hand and had an umbrella, the bottom half of Lyndy’s trouser legs were wet.
“What’s this about, Gates? Why did I have to come all this blasted way in the rain?” Lyndy snatched the rough but dry towel the coachman held out for him. He rubbed his trouser leg more vigorously than necessary.
“I am sorry, but there’s something you must see, my lord.”
“They’ve found Orson?” Lyndy said, tossing away the towel. “Why didn’t you say so?
” If that horse has been injured . . .
Lyndy wouldn’t let this affront go unanswered. Once, a footman had been caught taking three silver forks and a serving spoon. He’d been summarily dismissed without references. At Eton, if a boy stole from you, he was sent to the headmaster for a good birching. The death of the vicar was monstrous, but Orson’s theft felt personal. The perpetrators must be dealt with.
The head coachman shook his head. “No, I’m sorry to say. But the police have enlisted the help of the agisters now, my lord. If Orson is anywhere in the New Forest, they’ll find him.”
What if he’s not in the New Forest? What if he’s not in England anymore?
“Make this quick, Gates,” Lyndy grumbled, his hopes dashed.
“If you would follow me, my lord.”
Gates waited for Lyndy’s impatient nod before heading down the aisle and out into the washing yard. A stable hand held the umbrella over Lyndy’s head as they followed. Gates stopped next to a stack of straw bales set against the wall. Lyndy rubbed his arms with his hands to ward off the chill. Rain dripped from the eaves of the stables, from the brim of Gates’s hat, from the umbrella above Lyndy’s head. Lyndy regretted his abrupt departure from the house. Annoyed at Gates’s summons, he’d stormed out without his overcoat.
“Why are we standing in the rain, Mr. Gates?” Lyndy did little to hide his annoyance.
“It’s imperative I show you, in person. I don’t want the police to say I did anything untoward.”
“The police? Bloody hell, Gates. What’s this about?”
Had Gates found another body? After the death of the vicar and the attack on Mrs. Westwoode, it wasn’t as inconceivable as it had once seemed.
Gates leaned over a bale of completely useless straw, its drenched stalks now brown and limp in the rain, and widened a burrow that had already been made on one side. Then he stepped aside. Lyndy approached and peered in. A cache containing gold, an amethyst, and diamonds, wet and glimmering, lay within. Mrs. Westwoode’s stolen jewels.
Well, at least the blackguard didn’t get away with this.
But who was he? It pained Lyndy to give it too much thought. He pulled the tiara from the bale and picked off a stalk of straw caught between two diamonds.
“Leonard, the second groom, found this during last night’s watch,” Gates explained. Lyndy had fully approved of the night-watch scheme when Papa had told him about it. One couldn’t be too careful. “Someone came through the washing-yard gate late in the night but fled when Leonard confronted them. In his pursuit, Leonard discovered these.”
“An intruder? Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
“I informed Lord Atherly last night, my lord, but he requested you be shown everything this morning.”
Lyndy nodded. Why would Papa leave the comfort of his study, set aside his work, planning out the details of this new fossil expedition, when he could get Lyndy to go out in the rain? “Do you trust the groom? Could he have been the attacker and hid the jewels here?”
“The lad could barely breathe after pursuing the intruder. He’s been laid up in bed until not long ago.”
“Then you’ve done right, Gates. I hate to do it, but the police must be informed.” Were they ever going to be rid of them? “Give the jewels to Fulton to lock up until the police arrive. Now let’s get out of this bloody rain.”
Gates nodded. “Charlie, run up to the house and tell them to call the police. Tell them they’re needed at the stables . . . again.” The groom handed the umbrella to Gates, pulled up the collar of his raincoat, and ran toward the house.
“Why, Gates?” Lyndy said as soon as the two were safely out of the rain.
“Why what, my lord?”
“Why leave the jewels there, hidden in a bale of straw?”
If the same man as attacked Mrs. Westwoode also killed the vicar and stole the horse, why would he need her jewels? Weren’t the vicar’s thousands of pounds and a champion stud thoroughbred enough? Why not kill her too? A killer, a horse thief, a jewel thief. Could there be more than one perpetrator? Or two or three? Lyndy had suspected Hugh of needing the vicar’s money. But he couldn’t fathom why Hugh or anyone else would do all these such things. That brought him back to his question. Why leave the jewels in the straw bale?
“To recover them later, my lord?” Gates said.
Gates didn’t have to elaborate. They both knew what he’d left unsaid. The culprit was someone living or working at Morrington Hall, as the police had been implying all along. As Lyndy had suspected all along.
“I didn’t want to say this in front of Charlie,” the head coachman said, shaking the rain from the umbrella, “but my head groom, Herbert, packed up his things and left after dinner last night, without a word or the pay coming to him. Not long after that, the intruder tried to get in, and we found the jewels.”
“Do you suspect him?”
Gates shrugged. “At this point, aren’t we all suspect, my lord?”
* * *
Stella went to breakfast, expecting to find Lyndy. She was eager to show him what the housemaid had given her. But when she entered the dining room, the long mahogany table reduced to two leaves and the buffet against the wall lined with silver warming trays filled with poached eggs on toast, sausages, roasted potatoes, and a smoked haddock dish called kedgeree, Lyndy wasn’t there. No one was except Daddy, who was hidden behind his newspaper, and Mr. Westwoode, who was setting his fork down as she entered.
Stella enjoyed breakfast. The formidable dining room, with its dark paintings of men on horseback and its closed green damask drapes, was bright and cozy by day, even on a rainy one like today. She could sit where she liked, always across from the tall windows, and she could eat as much as she liked, of what she liked, without the comments or disapproving scowls of the married ladies, who took their breakfast in bed.
Stella filled her plate at the buffet—oh, how the scent of dill and lemon made her mouth water—and sat across from her father.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Mr. Westwoode said, pushing back from the table.
“Have you seen Lord Lyndhurst?” Stella asked.
Daddy said nothing.
“He was here but was called away,” Mr. Westwoode said before leaving.
Stella ate in silence, gazing out the windows at the pond, a riot of splashes and ripples in the rain, while her father rustled his newspaper and occasionally grunted. Just like back home. When she finished, she left without a word. Her father didn’t notice. As she crossed paths with Mr. Fulton, coming to check on breakfast, she learned Lyndy had gone to the stables.
If he wasn’t daunted by the rain, neither would she be. She rushed toward the stairs to change.
“Are you going to help me or not?”
Stella paused. It was Lord Hugh’s voice. But he was nowhere in sight. His tone startled Stella. She’d known Lord Hugh only to be the most congenial of men. But his tone reminded her of her daddy. She decided not to respond.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
It was Lord Hugh again. He hadn’t been talking to her. But Stella listened and heard no one else. She looked around. Two footmen, carrying trays from the dining room, crossed the hall, but neither took any notice. Stella spied the cloakroom door ajar. The telephone cord stretched from the wall through the gap in the door.
“I should’ve known. You’re as bad as the vicar.”
She took a few steps closer. Why was he hiding in the cloakroom?
“Are you accusing me?”
The menace in Lord Hugh’s voice sent a chill down Stella’s back. She couldn’t believe it was the gentleman she knew speaking. Whom was he talking to? Did someone else think Lord Hugh had killed the vicar?
“I’ve done everything you asked of me.”
Silence.
Stella listened to the sound of her breathing, the hall clock ticking across the room, the tap-tapping of the footmen’s shoes as they crossed the polished parquet floor again.
&nbs
p; Suddenly, Lord Hugh roared, “You think I don’t realize that? You think I’m not reminded of it every day? If you aren’t going to help me, there’s nothing more to say!”
Slam!
Horrified, Stella froze. The cloakroom door flew open. Lord Hugh, holding the wooden candlestick telephone in his hand, glared at her, an uncharacteristic frown etched on his face. Overcoats, raincoats, capes, Stella’s and Daddy’s duster coats, among others, lined the back wall behind him.
“Miss Kendrick. What are you doing?”
Caught eavesdropping, she should’ve cowered in guilt and fear, but his tone sounded too much like Daddy’s when he scolded her like a child. She reacted without thinking.
“I’m looking for Lyndy.”
“I’m afraid I have no idea where our friend the viscount has gotten off to,” Lord Hugh said, trying to brighten his tone. His attempt at a smile was useless. Anger flashed in his eyes. The heat of fear radiated through her chest, urging her to flee. “I left the breakfast table before he did.” He set the telephone on the top of a tall carved walnut plant stand just outside the door. “A tedious call from The Duke. He won’t be able to make your and Lyndy’s wedding, I’m afraid.” He said nothing about taking the call in the cloakroom.
Lord Hugh nervously chuckled as Stella continued to stare at him. He was trying his best to ease the tension between them. “I’m looking forward to it, though, whenever it finally takes place.”
“Me too.” Stella could think of nothing else to say. She had to get away from him, now. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Stella gingerly stepped past him, half expecting to feel his hand reach out to restrain her. But it never came. She walked deliberately toward the stairs. Was he standing there watching her? Did he suspect she’d heard everything? What would he do now? Were those footsteps coming toward her? She strained to hear, but her heart pounded louder in her ears than the clock. When she reached the stairs, she grabbed hold of the rounded finial on the oak newel post and peeked over her shoulder. Something, a bee or a fly, hovered over a bouquet of peonies, but otherwise, the hall was empty. Stella closed her eyes and sank to the nearest step.
Murder at Morrington Hall Page 18
