Murder at Morrington Hall

by Clara McKenna

  CHAPTER 22

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Lyndy and Stella said simultaneously. They faced each other across the lawn: he, returning from the stables; Stella, dressed for riding, walking toward them. The rain had stopped. A small patch of blue sky shone through a break in the clouds.

  “You go first,” Stella said.

  When Lyndy had spied Stella, a compulsion to confess every distressing thought in his head had superseded his annoyance at not finding her at breakfast. But he knew better. He’d wait at least until he’d sorted his thoughts out.

  “Ladies first, as always.”

  “If only that were the truth,” Stella scoffed. Her tone took him by surprise. What had her father done now?

  “It’s the truth if you’re dealing with a gentleman.”

  “Are you claiming to be a gentleman, Lord Lyndhurst?” she teased.

  She was right. He wasn’t the gentleman Mother expected him to be. He wasn’t the gentleman that Stella deserved.

  I never claimed to be.

  Lyndy brushed aside all thoughts of murder, theft, and betrayal and closed the gap between them. He looped his arm around Stella’s tiny waist and, with the cool feel of her taut riding jacket beneath his hand, pulled her toward him and kissed her. When they parted, Lyndy regretted having to let go. Her closeness seemed to keep the unpleasantness at bay. At least the faint scent of rose from her tooth powder was still on his breath. Stella shyly looked around, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear.

  “Just as I suspected,” she said, straightening her top hat. “Not a gentlemanly bone in your body.” Then she smiled. How he adored that smile. “Why were you looking for me?”

  “I have news.” She looked at him expectantly. He motioned for her to follow him. He led her into the garden and invited her to sit on a wrought-iron bench beneath the ancient oak. Its branches, thick and gnarled, hung low toward the ground. When he was a child, it had been Lyndy’s favorite climbing tree. “One of the grooms found Mrs. Westwoode’s jewels in a straw bale in the washing yard last night.”

  “That means that whoever attacked Mrs. Westwoode didn’t get any farther away with them than the stables. Could they have hidden them there, hoping to retrieve them at another time?”

  She’d come to the same conclusion he and Gates had. “Gates suspects Herbert, the head groom. He’s absconded.”

  “But Herbert was found bound and gagged when Orson was stolen. That would mean that one person couldn’t have done all of this. Could there be two such horrible people? Or, God forbid, maybe even three?”

  “That was my thinking, too, but I was hoping to be wrong.”

  “You, wrong?” She was teasing him again. He chuckled. Despite the odious topic, she’d put him at ease.

  “Why were you looking for me?” he asked.

  Her smile faded. “I have news too. You’re not going to like it.” She pulled several pieces of charred, yellowed paper from her skirt pocket. She handed them to him. “A maid found these in Lord Hugh’s fire grate.”

  Lyndy read what was legible on the letter and the promissory note. What did the letter mean? That Hugh knew of or suspected the vicar’s involvement in the Carcroft scandal? Or that the vicar knew of or suspected Hugh’s involvement? Since the maid recovered the letter in Hugh’s room, Lyndy suspected the latter. The promissory note, on the other hand, was more encouraging. Hugh wouldn’t have borrowed money if he’d stolen thousands of pounds from the vicar.

  “There’s more.” She told him of the conversation she’d overheard Hugh having on the telephone. “He said he was speaking to his father but . . .”

  Why wouldn’t this go away?

  Lyndy yanked down hard on his jacket. The hem was wet. He’d confronted Hugh, and Hugh had denied any involvement with the vicar’s death. Why couldn’t Lyndy believe him, his closest friend? What was Hugh hiding?

  “Perhaps he was speaking to his father,” Stella said hopefully. “Hugh might not be involved in any of this.”

  Lyndy could’ve kissed her again for her optimism, for her attempt to ease his distress, but his heart wasn’t in it. He didn’t believe for a moment she was right.

  * * *

  Mrs. Westwoode settled into the captain’s chair Inspector Brown indicated. Mrs. Westwoode fiddled with the folds of her dark blue linen skirt before smoothing it across her lap. She fussed with her gloves, tugging at several fingers. She hadn’t once looked Brown in the eye. He’d stood across from countless people in that chair. Could this be the interview that helped him catch the vicar’s killer? Brown doubted it.

  “I simply don’t understand why you needed to speak to me again.”

  Brown apologized and patiently explained the police’s need to interview people on multiple occasions, especially when there was a development that necessitated it.

  “Well, I do hope it doesn’t take long. Now that the rain has stopped, I’m to go with my daughter and some others in a motorcar.”

  The excitement and awe in her voice were undeniable. The lady was not nearly as bothered by last night’s events as she’d appeared to be when he’d been called from the warmth of his bed to Morrington Hall late last night.

  If only a good night’s sleep could brush all my cares away.

  Constable Waterman, his notebook open and ready, raised an eyebrow. He’d noticed the difference too.

  “What is it you want from me?” She shifted in her chair.

  Knowing the difference between impatience and nerves, maybe Brown would learn something valuable, after all. This woman was nervous. But why?

  Brown retrieved the colorful cardboard Cadbury’s chocolate box from the end table. The box had been sitting around the station since somebody’s birthday last week. He’d been in a hurry when the call came in, and the box was empty, so he’d grabbed it. He lifted the lid.

  “Do you recognize any of these, Mrs. Westwoode?” Sparkling jewels and gold, none the worse for their time spent in the straw, filled the chocolate box.

  “You found them!” Mrs. Westwoode grasped at it. Brown took that as a yes. “Where were they? Are they all there? Have any been damaged?” Brown secured the lid and set the box out of the lady’s reach. “I want my jewels back, Inspector.”

  “We need to keep them a little longer, Mrs. Westwoode. You understand.” The scowl on her face said she didn’t understand, but Brown couldn’t care less. “As we found them alongside the fire iron that killed Reverend Bullmore.”

  That was a stroke of luck. When they’d inspected the bale of straw where the jewels were hidden, they’d also found the missing fire iron shoved deeper inside. It had been wiped clean, but Brown and, more importantly, the coroner had no doubt it was the weapon used to kill the vicar.

  “Then I was right! My attacker was one and the same as the vicar’s killer. Have you found the fiend?”

  “We have our suspicions, but we haven’t made any arrests yet.”

  “Why not? My maid said a stable hand disappeared last night. Perhaps it was him?” Yet again the rumor mill had preceded Brown, making his job more difficult.

  “Yes, Herbert Kitcher, the head groom, is being sought for questioning. But—”

  “But nothing, Inspector. I say you should arrest him.”

  “The one chink in the chain, if you’ll beg my pardon, ma’am, is your description of your attacker. It doesn’t match that of the groom.”

  Mrs. Westwoode had opened her mouth to object, to interrupt, to demand but snapped it shut at Brown’s pronouncement. Mrs. Westwoode shifted in her chair again. She fiddled with the lace on her blouse. She cast a quick glance at Brown and then at the constable.

  “Could you describe your attacker to me again, Mrs. Westwoode?” Brown asked.

  “I am not obliged to relive my ordeal again and again for you or anyone,” she said, sticking her chin out defiantly. Now Brown knew why she’d been nervous when she arrived. She was hiding something. Brown pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Why wasn’t
he surprised?

  “Forgive us, Mrs. Westwoode. We didn’t consider your constitution might be too fragile to . . . ,” Constable Waterman said.

  “Fragile? Do you take me as the fragile type, young man?” Mrs. Westwoode said, turning an indignant stare at the constable.

  Good ole Waterman. He was learning.

  Mrs. Westwoode went on. “You have no idea—”

  “Your attacker, Mrs. Westwoode?” Brown insisted.

  “The beast had curly black hair, stood not much taller than me, and had rough hands,” Mrs. Westwoode proclaimed. “And he smelled of the stables.”

  “Thank you. That description fits the groom perfectly.”

  Mrs. Westwoode stood up, her back ramrod straight. She smoothed her skirt again, as if merely the presence of the policemen had soiled it, and took a few steps toward the door.

  “Before you leave, I’d like my constable to read you the description you gave to us last night.”

  The woman blanched, and Brown knew he’d been right. She was hiding something.

  “The monster had fair hair, was at least a head taller, and had sun-spotted skin,” the constable read, “and he smelled of the stables.”

  Last night Mrs. Westwoode had described Mr. Gates, the head coachman. Today she’d described the missing groom, Herbert, but only after she’d learned of his disappearance. What was she playing at?

  “So, if we can agree the fellow smelled of the stables, we must consider that he could be anyone who worked in the stables, had recently visited the stables, had been out riding for an extended period, or had handled the horses for some other reason,” Brown said.

  “Why should I care? You’re the policeman,” the matron said. “That’s for you to find out.”

  “Did your attacker have fair or dark hair, Mrs. Westwoode?” She said nothing.

  “Was your attacker tall or similar to you in height?”

  “How should I know?” she said, frustrated.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Mrs. Westwoode? What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  She plunked back down on the edge of the chair. “You can’t imagine what it was like, having a man steal your jewels and threaten your life like that. It was so sudden and frightful.”

  “You lied?” Brown said.

  Mrs. Westwoode squinted at him. He couldn’t read her expression, but he could guess she was weighing her options. Would she deny it and lie again? Would she admit it and explain why?

  “I didn’t lie. I simply couldn’t remember. I was frightened. I’d been violently attacked. You were hounding me to say something, anything. So, I did.”

  Brown sighed. He was losing his patience. Then it came to him what she was hiding. If he was right, she had every reason to be nervous—lying to the police, obstructing the course of an investigation, not to mention wasting his time. Didn’t she know a killer was on the loose? If he had his way, which was unlikely given she was a guest of Lord Atherly’s, she’d be accompanying him in the police wagon instead of taking a joyride in a newfangled car.

  “Did you even see your attacker, Mrs. Westwoode?” Brown asked through gritted teeth, already knowing the answer.

  “How could I? He was behind me the whole time.”

  “You may go now, Mrs. Westwoode.”

  “I knew this would all be a waste of time,” the lady said, brushing imaginary lint from her sleeve.

  It took all Brown’s years of training and restraint not to kick the woman’s wide backside as she left.

  CHAPTER 23

  “I’ve never been in a motorcar before,” Miss Westwoode said, lumbering into the backseat of Daddy’s Daimler. She wore her heaviest overcoat and a sturdy short-brimmed straw hat with a wide green satin bow. Wearing borrowed goggles, she stepped on the hem of her skirt and landed in her mother’s lap. Mrs. Westwoode sat buried in Daddy’s driving coat.

  “Be careful, darling!” Mrs. Westwoode said as she and her daughter untangled themselves from the driving veil Stella had lent the matron. The trip had been conceived after the rain had stopped, but with the exception of Stella, none of the other women owned appropriate driving clothes.

  “Neither have I,” Lady Alice said, nestled, smiling, next to Stella in the front seat, looking much like Miss Westwoode’s twin in borrowed goggles, straw hat, and overcoat.

  Their enthusiasm made Stella smile. She took driving the car for granted. Daddy had bought the first one three years ago, attempting to be the first man in Kentucky to own an automobile. After Daddy had fired four chauffeurs, Stella was taught to drive and had been doing it ever since.

  “How kind of your father to loan us the motorcar,” Mrs. Westwoode said.

  Kind. That was not the word Stella would’ve used. The smile faded from her lips.

  Upon returning to Morrington Hall with Lyndy, Daddy had instructed her to drive Mrs. Westwoode, her daughter, and Lady Alice into Rosehurst in the Daimler. No discussion, no explanation. She’d bristled at the command. But she’d acquiesced because she enjoyed driving, and it would give her a chance to see more of the New Forest. Driving Ethel to Lyndhurst in the dark didn’t count.

  “It’s such a lovely day,” Miss Westwoode said.

  Stella looked at the gray sky, the muddy drive. This, a nice day? A nice day in June is dry and warm, with a sky the color of sapphires, the pastures of bluegrass the color of emeralds, and the air smelling of gardenias. But at least it had stopped raining. For now.

  “Ready?”

  The ladies giggled and nodded.

  Stella, taking advantage of Daddy’s absence, pushed the gas pedal hard and, to the sound of the women’s delighted squeals, raced down the drive, a spray of wet pebbles flying up behind the wheels. A group of New Forest ponies grazing farther down the lawn bolted at the engine’s roar. Stella let up on the gas, sorry to have frightened the animals. When she reached the end of the drive, she said, “Which way, Lady Alice?”

  “Rosehurst is that way.” Lady Alice pointed right. Stella turned left.

  “You’re going the wrong way,” Mrs. Westwoode said, looking down the lane behind her.

  “I thought we could tour a bit around the Forest first,” Stella said.

  “That’s an excellent idea,” Lady Alice said. “Turn here.” For over an hour they drove, passing through villages, clusters of whitewashed cottages with thick thatched roofs; rolling across miles of wide-open heathland, a patchwork of green lawn, flowering yellow gorse, sprawling carpets of heath, feathery stands of fern, and large, shallow puddles, dotted with grazing cows, horses, and donkeys; and winding through tunnels of ancient woodlands, the towering trees interlocking their upper branches, shielding them from the cloudy sky. Stella inhaled the salty air when they reached the windswept sandy hillocks of a coastal road, with its unimpeded view of the Solent and the towering white cliffs of the nearby Isle of Wight, before returning inland again. They drove across such places as Beaulieu Heath, Setley Plain, Widden Bottom, Lady Cross Walk, and Bagshot Moor. They encountered the villages of Boldre, Bat-tramsley Cross, Norleywood, and Keyhaven, agreeing to circumvent the bustling port of Lymington, a destination better saved for another day.

  Stella delighted in every encounter with this exotic landscape, hoping to explore it more. Preferably on horseback. But would it ever feel like home?

  After seeing a sign for a village called Burley, Mrs. Westwoode said, “It has been a pleasant tour, Miss Kendrick, but time to go to Rosehurst now, I think.” Mrs. Westwoode was right. Burley would have to wait.

  “Which way, Lady Alice?” Stella said.

  “A few miles down that lane.”

  Stella steered down the narrow lane, barely wide enough for the Daimler. She drove at a steady clip, splashing through shallow puddles, until the lane curved around a squat gray building hidden partially by the largest yew tree she’d ever seen. She didn’t know yews could become trees.

  “Is that . . . ?” Stella asked, slowing down as she rounded the curve and letting the car g
lide to a halt.

  “It is,” Lady Alice said cheerfully. “Our parish church, St. Peter’s. That is where you and my brother will marry.”

  Stella had never seen anything like it. The ancient gray stone walls, tilting slightly askew from the redbrick steeple, a glaring modern addition, and topped with a red slate roof with several tiles missing, looked as if they had risen from the earth, not been crafted and molded by a man’s hand.

  “How old is it?”

  “Most of it dates to about 1086. The Normans used part of a Saxon wall to build the present nave.”

  Stella tore her gaze from the church to stare at Lady Alice. Had she said 1086? And so casually? If this church were in the States, it would be a national treasure. Here it was a parish church hidden down a country lane. There was nothing, nothing in her experience to compare it to.

  “The yew itself is about a thousand years old,” Lady Alice added.

  Stella had learned about redwood trees in California that were saplings when Columbus sailed from Spain, but she’d never seen one. This quiet giant could be a witness at her wedding? She didn’t know what to say.

  “The vicarage is down the lane a bit,” Lady Alice said. That explained why Stella hadn’t seen the church when she and Lyndy visited the vicarage. It was hidden by the trees and the curve in the lane. “I believe the new vicar is expected soon.” Lady Alice hesitated. “I don’t suppose they’ll ever discover who killed Reverend Bullmore.”

  “Of course they will,” Stella said.

  “Mummy says we shouldn’t discuss the vicar’s death,” Miss Westwoode said. “It’s upsetting.”

  “So, it is, darling,” Mrs. Westwoode said. “Shall we go, Miss Kendrick?”

  Stella pulled the hand lever, releasing the side brakes, and put her foot on the gas. As she drove away, the ancient church and yew receded from view. A few days ago, the sight of the church would’ve repelled her, its squat, solid walls symbols of her daddy and his unbending demands. Now the yew, a shrub that had overcome all odds to grow tall and thrive for a thousand years, beckoned her to return, to put down roots of her own. Could she, with the pall of the vicar’s murder casting a shadow across the marriage? Or was it the vicar’s death that hinted at the need for a new beginning? Could she and Lyndy make it work, or could she defy her father and still start a new life?