“Two? Who else surprised you?”
“Why, Lord Hugh did. I hadn’t seen him since, well, years. Before the war, I dare say.”
“When was this?”
“The day on the note, May twenty-nine.”
“Lord Hugh was here, in London, on the twenty-ninth?” Lyndy demanded.
Harris squinted at Lyndy from over the rim of his spectacles. “Yes. Is there something wrong, my lord?”
Lyndy could reach across and shake the man. “When? Do you remember exactly when?”
“Before tea. Around three o’clock, I’d say.”
Lyndy banged his hand on the desk and laughed. Hugh had claimed to be in Rosehurst, when he had actually been in London, borrowing money. Hugh couldn’t have killed the vicar.
* * *
A shadow crossed the window as Inspector Brown pounded on the door. Herbert was inside. Brown nodded to his constable, who disappeared around the corner. They’d catch the groom if he tried to escape out the back.
“Oi!” Herbert yelled. “Let go of me!”
Brown smiled. Got him!
“We have your brother-in-law, Mr. Dobbs,” Brown yelled as Herbert Kitcher, struggling in the firm grip of Constable Waterman, was hauled into view of the front door. “Open the door.”
The door creaked open, and the round face of a towheaded man appeared, the same face that had peered out through the lace curtain at them when they’d first approached the cottage. A cat, an orange and white tabby, darted through Brown’s legs and straight in through the opening in the door. The cottage’s owner launched backward and grabbed the cat by its tail. Brown seized the door and forced his way in. The cat screeched as the towheaded man pulled it toward him and picked it up by the scruff of its neck.
“It keeps trying to get at me female.” The fellow pointed with his thumb behind him. A persistent high-pitched yowling sound emanated from a back room.
“Mr. Frank Dobbs, I presume?” Brown waved Constable Waterman and his captive into the house.
Frank Dobbs, sucking a finger scratched by the determined cat, nodded.
When his constable and Herbert were in the hall, Brown let Dobbs toss the tomcat onto the garden path before locking the door behind him.
“We need to ask you a few questions about a missing horse,” Brown said. “Shall we?”
Brown indicated the first room off the hall. With plain whitewashed walls, it was furnished with two wingback chairs with drab yellow upholstery; a center table, stacked with copies of the Sporting Life and the Sporting Times going back a few weeks; and a dining table, covered with dirty dishes on one end and several polishing cloths and horse tack on the other. The disarray had Brown wondering what had happened to Herbert’s sister, Mrs. Dobbs.
“Should I make tea?” Frank offered, rubbing the stubble on his chin.
“No. Have a seat,” Brown said.
“I didn’t do it,” Herbert said as Constable Waterman pushed him into one of the wingback chairs. Frank sat in the other.
“What are you denying, Herbert?” Brown asked. “That you didn’t steal the horse or that you didn’t kill the vicar?”
Herbert leaped to his feet. “I didn’t kill the vicar! Tell them, Frank. Tell them I was with you,” Herbert said, desperation in his voice. “Tell them!” Constable Waterman pushed him back into the chair.
“He was,” Frank said. “He was with me.”
“Right. You two were too busy planning the theft of a thoroughbred racehorse to have killed the vicar. Is that what I’m to believe?”
“That’s right,” Herbert said.
“It’s true,” Frank said.
“You heard that, didn’t you, Waterman?” Brown said.
“Aye, I did,” the constable said, smiling.
“Please make note that Herbert Kitcher and Frank Dobbs confessed to the theft of the racehorse known as Orson.”
The constable scribbled something in his notebook.
“You never thought I killed the vicar, did you?” Herbert asked, slumped in his chair.
“No,” Brown said. “A stableboy . . .”
“Charlie,” the constable offered.
“Right. Charlie saw you around the time of the vicar’s murder, talking to someone in the back paddock. I’m assuming that was you, Frank?”
Frank nodded.
“Why did you leave the estate so abruptly last night, Herbert? You didn’t give notice,” Brown asked.
“I left the minute I could.”
“After you attacked Mrs. Westwoode in the library.”
“Wait, what?” Herbert lifted his head, his eyebrows scrunched together. “Who?” To Brown’s surprise, the groom seemed genuinely perplexed. “I’ve never even been inside the manor house.”
“But you could’ve used her jewels, couldn’t you?”
“No, no, you got it all wrong.” Herbert shook his head, looking from Brown to Constable Waterman and back again. “I don’t know anything about that lady, and I don’t know anything about her jewels.”
“Then where did you go?”
“I went straight to the pub. You can ask Tom Heppenstall if you don’t believe me. I thought I had something to celebrate.”
“How wrong you were,” Brown said, chuckling. Herbert glared at him.
“No, Inspector, we did have something to celebrate,” Frank said, misunderstanding Brown’s gibe. “We had a buyer, Lord Islington. That’s what we’ve been waiting for.”
Lord Islington! He was a prominent and powerful member of parliament, and his name was synonymous with horse racing. He would do anything to win.
“Whose idea was it to tie Herbert up when you two stole the horse? Yours or Herbert’s?”
Frank looked at his brother-in-law.
“Don’t say anything, Frank,” Herbert said.
“But it was a good idea, Herbert,” Frank said. “I wouldn’t have suspected you.”
Herbert dropped his head and stared at his lap.
Yes, it had been a good idea. Brown was loath to admit he’d been fooled, but Herbert had done just that. If they hadn’t been investigating the vicar’s death at the same time, Brown might never have been suspicious of the groom. The vicar! Brown still hadn’t found the killer. Who else was fooling them? Brown, hiding his frustration, walked over to the center table and riffled through the stack of racing newspapers.
“When did you plan it? Before or after the vicar’s death?” he asked.
“Right after we heard that the Americans were bringing racehorses.” Herbert grumbled something, but Frank continued. “We nearly didn’t pull it off, though, did we? First, Herbert had that row with the American lady. We had to meet up at a different place than planned. Then, the night the vicar died, Mr. Gates nearly caught me in the coach house.”
Brown asked, “You planned to do it on Derby Day?” “That’s when Herbert said everyone would be gone. We didn’t know that the stallion’s offspring would win the Derby, did we? That was just good luck, I guess.”
“Yes, that was good luck, wasn’t it?” Brown said, not hiding his sarcasm. “Get them out of my sight, Waterman.”
CHAPTER 27
Hugh was squatting beside the birds’ display case, examining the magpie. Lyndy had hated that unblinking bird as a child. When he had viewed it at the eye level of a four-year-old, the magpie had seemed ominous. Now its black feathers were faded and tattered on the edges. Perhaps someone should capture a new specimen for the case. Hugh straightened up as Lyndy joined him in the library. “Collect any of these, old boy?”
“No. Grandfather caught most of them. Papa helped as well.” Lyndy looked around the room. The maids had scrubbed and dusted and polished. It was the picture of genteel sophistication. As if the vicar had never come to a violent end on the other side of the sofa.
“We’d thought you’d deserted us. Drink?” Hugh held up his glass.
Lyndy nodded. For what he had to say, Lyndy was going to need all the help he could get.
“
We had a rousing game of bridge earlier,” Hugh said, stepping over to the tray on the card table. There was a spare glass beside the decanter.
He’s been expecting me.
“It seems your American isn’t as skilled at cards as she is at croquet.”
“Everyone else went to bed?” Lyndy asked, avoiding the inevitable. He feigned looking at a set of bound volumes of The Hampshire Antiquary and Naturalist. How many of the books in this room had ever been read? He spotted The Romance of the Scarlet Leaf, and Other Poems. Stella seemed to enjoy reading such things. Perhaps she would make a dent in them. Lyndy took Hugh’s proffered drink but didn’t sit down.
“Yes. A bit early, don’t you think?” Hugh laughed. It was after two in the morning.
Lyndy tipped back his glass and emptied half its contents, the port heavy and sweet as it slid down his throat. “I have something I must admit.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I suspected you of killing the vicar.” The words tumbled out of his mouth as fast as he could say them.
“How could you think such a thing?”
Lyndy wanted to make excuses. He wanted to catalog the long list of suspicious behavior: the argument with the vicar, the argument with the duke in the cloakroom, Hugh’s avoidance in answering questions about his whereabouts, the burnt letter, the burnt promissory note, the large bets at the Derby while complaining about a pinch in funds. Lyndy wanted to ask why Hugh had burned the vicar’s letter, why he’d lied about being in Rosehurst when he’d been in London. Lyndy wanted to rail against Hugh for not trusting him with the truth. But instead, he said what came difficult to him.
“I’m sorry.”
Hugh tipped his glass back, emptied the contents, and poured himself more port. He strolled over to the mantel and tossed another log on the fire. Lit to take off the late spring chill, it crackled and snapped. Lyndy never took his eyes off him. Was Hugh going to say anything?
“I spoke with Harris,” Lyndy said, unable to stand the silence.
“How’d you find out?” Hugh said, without rancor. He stood with his back to Lyndy, warming his hands by the fire.
“A promissory note. It didn’t burn completely either.”
Hugh chuckled. “I shouldn’t have trusted the fire, or the discretion of a housemaid, to hide my mistakes.” Hugh turned to face Lyndy. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not proud of what I did. Quite ashamed, to tell the truth.” Hugh grabbed for the fire iron to poke the fire, but it hadn’t yet been replaced.
“Your father has cut you to the quick, hasn’t he?”
Hugh studied Lyndy intently. “You don’t know anything, do you?”
“I know you and the vicar both were at Carcroft House the night of the scandal,” Lyndy said, pacing about and counting off on his fingers. “I know a burnt letter with the vicar’s name on it was found in your fire grate. I know you argued with the vicar the night before he died. I know you lied about where you were when he was killed. I know someone stole the vicar’s money and you were in desperate need of funds. I know you didn’t kill the vicar. What else is there?”
“I’m impressed. Knowing all that, I’d suspect me too. You didn’t mention any of it to the police?”
“Certainly not.”
Hugh took a sip of his port before settling onto the sofa. Lyndy eased into a leather club chair, his eyes never leaving Hugh. He waited, hoping to finally get some answers.
“Right after the war, I was in a bad way,” Hugh said, staring into the fire. “Not myself, shall we say. It was during this time I attended the infamous house party at Carcroft House. His Grace, His Majesty, and Reverend Bullmore, among others, were in attendance. As you know, there was an illegal game of baccarat. It was all the rage at the time.”
“I know all this,” Lyndy said. “I know you were there. I know the vicar cheated and was sent to Everton Abbey to do penance.”
“No, Lyndy. It was me. I cheated.”
Lyndy was dumbfounded. He’d had it backward all along.
“Excuse me, my lord.” Lyndy started when the butler appeared. He would never admire Fulton’s impeccable timing again.
“What is it, Fulton?” Lyndy snapped. The butler showed no signs of noticing Lyndy’s irritation.
“Will you be needing anything more, my lord?”
Hugh held up his glass and rattled it. “More port!” he exclaimed. His voice, which was a bit too loud, echoed in the large room. The decanter was almost empty.
“No, Fulton,” Lyndy said, ignoring his friend. “Get yourself to bed.” The moment the butler was out of sight, Lyndy turned back to Hugh. “You were saying?”
“I was saying, I cheated. I wasn’t myself. But in my arrogance, I still expected to win. It made me wild when I didn’t. I drank more and more.” Hugh smiled and took another sip of his drink. “I placed larger and larger wagers until I was on the brink of losing . . . Well, I won’t go into the particulars, but we’ll leave it at that. Unbeknownst to me, everyone was wise to my deceit. When the night was over, everyone agreed to keep the truth to themselves, but only after eliciting a promise from me never to gamble again.” Hugh sat silent for several moments, tapping the rim of his glass to his lips but not drinking. “For his loyalty and his silence, The Duke gave Bully a large sum.”
“Ten thousand pounds,” Lyndy said.
Hugh nodded.
“But?”
“But someone talked, didn’t they? I’ll always blame their crafty butler. I woke up the next morning with a nagging headache, like the one I’m sure to have tomorrow, and a father near to disowning me, to learn that our host had banished Bully from Carcroft House and that the scandal had made it into the newspaper. I never crossed paths with Bully again, until this past Saturday.”
“But the gossipmonger said only that someone cheated, not who?”
“Why do you suppose the old boy spent three years at that dreadful abbey?” Hugh said. “To avoid any hint of involvement by His Majesty, The Duke, or myself, Bully offered himself up, like the sacrificial lamb he was meant to be. He never said a word in his defense. Everyone assumed he’d been the cheat.”
“He did your penance for you,” Lyndy said. Hence the vicar’s reference to the ten thousand pounds as his “penance.”
“One could look at it that way. Though I’m sure Bully minded the rigors of monastic life far less than I would have.” Hugh chuckled, and then he shivered, despite the warmth of the fire.
“But you didn’t hold to your promise, did you?” Lyndy said.
Hugh emptied his glass again and reached for what remained of the port.
“Is that why you argued?”
“No. We argued because I asked him to give me some of that ten thousand pounds. He refused, in that blasted letter. I tried to change his mind,” Hugh scoffed. “I was in debt. The Derby was two days away. Why not give me a couple of thousand pounds? It was part of my inheritance, really. What good was it doing strapped to the chap’s leg?”
The full impact of the vicar’s sacrifice for Hugh hit Lyndy hard. He hadn’t known the vicar well, but the tragedy, the irony of the vicar’s murder, and Hugh’s betrayal of the man threatened to overwhelm him. Clearing Hugh’s name of murder didn’t bring the resolution or peace of mind he’d expected. Quite the opposite. Knowing what he knew now, would he ever sleep well again?
“Does Elizabeth know?” Lyndy asked, his mouth dry, his stomach churning.
Hugh shook his head. “None of them do, and I’d like to keep it that way. Mr. Westwoode would call off the engagement if he suspected, and The Duke would disown me. Bully hinted that he might tell, but he never did, thank God.” Or didn’t get the chance. Hugh finished the port in his glass and frowned. “You won’t say anything, will you?”
“No, not to her or her parents or your father.” Lyndy wouldn’t promise not to tell Stella. He’d have to unburden this to someone someday. “But you must do something for me, Hugh. Keep your promise. Quit gambling.” I
t was as much an entreaty as a requirement for his silence.
“But, Lyndy, I won nine hundred pounds on Cicero at the Derby. I couldn’t possibly—” He slurred his words, but Hugh knew what he was saying.
“No more!”
Lyndy sprang up, upsetting the glass on the table beside him. The red liquid splashed across the table and dripped onto the carpet. Another mess for the maids to scrub away. Lyndy didn’t care. He couldn’t look at Hugh again or listen to his excuses. If he didn’t get out of the room now, they would both regret it.
* * *
Lyndy?
Stella had waited all night for his return from London. Even the book Lady Alice had recommended, Undine, A Romance, hadn’t been enough to distract her. She’d listened to every creak and tick and scurrying sound the quiet night hours revealed. Finally, she heard footsteps, loud footsteps, by someone not trying to hide his passing. She put her book down, crossed her bedroom in three steps, and cracked open her door. It was Lyndy.
She grabbed her robe from the top rung of her bedroom chair, put it on and poked her head out the door. No one was about. Lyndy had already disappeared behind his bedroom door.
Tightening the robe’s sash about her, she slipped into the hall. She tiptoed down the carpet, barefoot, hoping to muffle any sound. But when she reached Lyndy’s bedroom, she left her raised hand hovering a few inches from the door. What was she doing? It was after two in the morning, and she was outside a man’s door, alone. Lady Atherly insisted Aunt Rachel chaperone the couple. Though they had circumvented Aunt Rachel’s efforts on more than one occasion, what would Lady Atherly think if she saw Stella now? He was her fiancé, after all, though, wasn’t he? Who else could she tell about seeing Mr. Westwoode in the pub? How else would she find out what he’d learned about Lord Hugh in London? Did he even know about Orson yet? Stella had to speak to him.
She glanced down the hall one more time and softly knocked. No answer.
He had come this way. He couldn’t have fallen asleep yet; she’d seen him just moments ago. She knocked again. He had to be in there.
“Lyndy,” Stella whispered.
Murder at Morrington Hall Page 22
