Mr. Kendrick tipped back his teacup and audibly slurped down its contents.
“Does anyone know where she is?” This Mr. Kendrick addressed to everyone else, before setting down his cup and biting off the end of a scone, the cream and lemon curd dripping back on to the plate. He lapped up the fallen cream with his finger and licked it off. Obviously, he wasn’t overly concerned. “Rachel, aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on her?”
Miss Luckett bristled at the accusation. She set her teacup in her lap. “Hold your britches on, Elijah. I reckon she’s changing for tea.”
Mother eyed Lyndy, a knowing, unapproving expression on her face. She knew Lyndy had ignored her admonition not to go riding with Stella without the chaperone. She suspected he wasn’t telling all he knew about Stella’s whereabouts and the reason behind her absence. Her stare was unusually compelling.
“She’s resting,” Lyndy said. “She had a bit of a tumble earlier.”
Mother shook her head, as if to say, “I knew nothing good would come of it.” As if the old chaperone could’ve prevented Stella from falling off the horse. She didn’t seem overly concerned about Stella either.
“Is she unwell?” Alice asked, looking up from one of her magazines. Alice flipped through these magazines, mesmerized, for hours a day. Lyndy didn’t see the draw. If it didn’t have sporting in the title and give him details of the upcoming races, why bother?
The illustration on the left page of the magazine Alice held open in her hands was of a somber-looking couple with their eyes downcast, the woman in a wedding dress and veil. Were they simply being reverent? Lyndy bent his head to get a better look. No, they looked miserable. He glanced over at Hugh and Miss Westwoode. Hugh plucked the last madeleine from his plate and took a bite. Miss Westwoode sipped her tea, glancing up at Hugh now and then. Hugh appeared oblivious to his fiancée’s need for attention. Must every marriage be miserable? Mother and Papa’s certainly wasn’t blissful. Lyndy glanced at the drawing-room door again. Would his be?
“She’s late, that’s what she is,” Mr. Kendrick said. “I was afraid this would happen. She’s getting disrespectful and full of herself.” Mr. Kendrick dipped the remainder of his scone in his tea.
An audible groan arose from Mother’s direction. If he kept talking about Stella like this, Lyndy might have to throttle the brute.
“I blame myself. I’ve let her have too much freedom. But I’ve always insisted that ‘a lady must never be late.’ Isn’t that right, Lady Atherly?”
Mother, the tightness around her mouth the only indication that she’d rather chew her fingernails than agree with the American, said, “One must maintain the highest standards in all aspects of etiquette, Mr. Kendrick. Pity that’s not always the case.”
“Well, I’ve done my best by the girl. Seems it wasn’t enough.”
“No, it seems not,” Mrs. Westwoode said, watching over the rim of her teacup for any reaction. Lyndy, suppressing his desire to throttle her too, was careful not to give her one. Mr. Kendrick frowned. He presumably didn’t expect to be agreed with.
“Well, whatever’s keeping her, I daresay Miss Kendrick will regret missing these lovely madeleines,” Hugh said.
“They are delicious, aren’t they?” Mrs. Westwoode said. “Don’t you agree, Elizabeth, darling?”
Miss Westwoode nodded and sipped her tea.
“What did the police want to speak to you about, Augustus?” Mrs. Westwoode asked.
Mr. Westwoode, silent since the police had dismissed him and he had gone downstairs to have their tea, nibbled on a scone. “Nothing, dear. Just some clarification, is all.”
Satisfied, Mrs. Westwoode turned the conversation to the weather, again. Between Mrs. Westwoode’s surprise over how it hadn’t rained on them while they greeted the new vicar after church this morning and Papa’s hopes that it would be warmer tomorrow for his planned visit to the Bronze Age barrow that reportedly contained ancient horse bones, a footman arrived with the requested second tray of mushroom tartlets and egg and watercress sandwiches. Mr. Kendrick, holding out his plate, waved the footman to his side. Stella might partake more of a meal than the average Englishwoman, but her father was the one with the prodigious appetite. As Mr. Kendrick helped himself to the savories, the footman, an unveiled look of horror on his face, was helpless to stop him.
Lyndy struggled to recall the servant’s name. The footman hadn’t been at Morrington Hall long. Stella probably knew. Where was she?
“Aaahhh!”
Lyndy flinched, heat flashing through his chest. He’d never heard a scream like that before. Gasps and cries and the clattering of teacups and saucers and plates followed as the others dropped their china. The tartlets and sandwiches slid onto the carpet as the footman let the tray slip. Lyndy was on his feet before anyone else. He had to get to the library, where the scream had originated. It had come from Stella.
As he reached the adjoining door, the others weren’t far behind. Lyndy swung it open and ran into the library. A stream of late afternoon sun stretched from the tall French windows across the carpet, the sofa, to light up the stuffed roseate spoonbill, now a beacon of pink, in the display case on the other side of the room. The library was empty.
“It’s him! It’s him!” Miss Westwoode screamed. “The man that attacked Mummy!”
The leg of a man in black boots and black riding trousers disappeared through the door opposite. The thud, thud, thud of running footfalls sent chills down Lyndy’s spine. The man was wearing riding boots.
“What?” Mrs. Westwoode said as Lord Hugh and Mr. Westwoode made chase after the figure.
“Stella? Stella!” Lyndy’s gaze darted about the room in confusion. It was her voice he’d heard. It was her scream. He was certain of it. Lyndy could still smell the scent of her perfume, hyacinth and moss. He turned over cushions; he threw aside curtains; he knelt and looked beneath furniture, desperate to find her, desperate not to. But she was gone.
He turned to the footman, who was peering over the heads of the ladies lingering in the doorway. “You,” Lyndy barked, angry that he couldn’t remember the footman’s name, angry that he didn’t know what had happened, angry that Stella wasn’t there, angry that he cared so much. “Fetch the police downstairs.”
“My lord? What’s happened?” said a familiar voice.
Lyndy swiveled around at the questions. Inspector Brown was standing in the servants’ doorway. A group of gaping maids stood on the steps behind him. Stella’s scream must’ve reached the servants’ hall.
“She’s gone!” Lyndy said.
“Who’s gone?” the inspector said.
“Miss Kendrick,” Alice said, stepping into the room and putting her hand on Lyndy’s arm. “They’ll find her, Lyndy,” she whispered.
He nodded. He had to believe she was right.
“We heard a terrible scream, and then we saw the intruder,” Miss Westwoode said. “Perhaps the one that attacked Mummy.”
Mrs. Westwoode’s face paled.
“First, my horse, and now my daughter!” Mr. Kendrick declared, spreading the blame to everyone in the room. “What kind of people are you, anyway?”
His sister’s gentle restraint kept Lyndy from striking the wretch, but no one would restrain his tongue.
“What kind of man are you?” Lyndy said. “Your daughter—”
“By God, I knew something like this would happen.” Mr. Kendrick, ignoring Lyndy’s rebuke, focused his gaze across the room. All eyes but Lyndy’s followed. Lyndy hadn’t finished saying what he had to say.
“Mr. Kendrick, you are the most—” Lyndy said.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Papa demanded.
“What is she wearing?” Miss Westwoode whispered, scandalized.
Lyndy, interrupted by the others’ declarations, tore his eyes away from Mr. Kendrick to see what all the fuss was about.
“Stella!”
Flanked by Mr. Westwoode and Lord Hugh, Stella was ushered into the lib
rary, her arm held tightly by the constable. She hadn’t changed out of her riding habit but wore only her white blouse, jacket, and riding trousers. Her skirt was bundled up in her arms.
If they had harmed her . . .
The rip in her jacket’s shoulder was from her fall, Lyndy reminded himself as he noticed the hint of white blouse beneath. She wasn’t crying, but melancholy clouded her countenance. There was no sign of the terror Lyndy had heard in her scream. She was safe and seemingly unharmed.
What the bloody hell is happening?
“Constable Waterman,” Inspector Brown snapped. “You have some explaining to do.”
“She fits the general description. Black trousers, black boots, taller than the maid,” the constable said.
“And?” Inspector Brown said, a darkness to his voice, which made the constable flinch.
“Miss Kendrick could be the vicar’s killer.”
Inspector Brown glowered at his constable and strode over to him. Hugh and Mr. Westwoode stepped aside.
“We caught her running away, sir.”
“Miss Kendrick is not our killer, Constable Waterman,” the inspector said, prying the constable’s hand from Stella’s arm.
“She could’ve attacked me,” Mrs. Westwoode said feebly.
“No, Mrs. Westwoode,” Lyndy said, refraining from adding, “You asinine woman.” “Miss Kendrick was with her maid, dressing for dinner, when you were attacked.” He approached Stella, trying to discover what had happened from her eyes. Fatigue and pain looked back at him.
“On behalf of myself and my constable, I humbly apologize for your detainment, Miss Kendrick.”
Rubbing her arm, Stella said, “No apology is necessary, Inspector.”
“I could not agree less, young lady,” Mother said. Mother crossed the room, pinning Stella with her livid glare. “I insist on an apology and a great deal more from Inspector Brown, and from you, Miss Kendrick. Please cover yourself up.”
Stella fastened the skirt about her waist.
“We thought you were dead,” Miss Westwoode said.
“Don’t be dramatic, Elizabeth,” Mother said.
Mother might roll her eyes now, but Lyndy had seen the fear in them. Miss Westwoode wasn’t far off the mark.
“I’m so sorry if I gave anyone a fright,” Stella said.
A fright? Lyndy’s heart flipped and fluttered in his chest. How dare she do that to him? He, like Mother, would demand more from her than an apology. But later, when they were alone.
“But I won’t apologize for my tactics. It was the only way,” Stella insisted.
“Only way to do what, Miss Kendrick?” Inspector Brown said.
“To prove who did kill Reverend Bullmore.”
CHAPTER 31
“Right,” Inspector Brown said, nodding to his constable. “No one leaves this room until Miss Kendrick tells me what she’s talking about.”
Mother, her face a picture of composure, but for the hardness of her stare, indicated for everyone to take a seat. She was not pleased. When was she ever?
Lyndy tugged on the sleeve of Stella’s riding jacket. The strain of it rent the cut in the shoulder farther as he pulled her down onto the sofa beside him. He regretted his use of force when she groaned in pain. Her ribs must be giving her trouble. But he didn’t release his grip. He was not letting her go until he knew exactly what was going on.
“I, for one, do not appreciate your use of theatrics, Miss Kendrick,” Mother said. “You have disrupted afternoon tea.”
Disrupted? Mother was a master of understatement. The tips of Lyndy’s fingers tingled. He still wavered between rage and relief. Stella, with her bloodcurdling scream, had made fools of them, of him, making them believe she was in danger or worse. On the other hand, he wanted to cover her lovely face with kisses. He’d never been so pleased to be wrong.
“I wouldn’t have done any of this if it wasn’t necessary, Lady Atherly,” Stella said.
“Does any of this pertain to the vicar’s killer, Miss Kendrick?” Inspector Brown said, folding his arms across his chest. Lyndy was surprised not to see him tapping his foot, given the unveiled look of anticipation and impatience plain on his face. “If so, I think we’d all appreciate you illuminating us.”
“I did it to prove a point,” Stella said. “Two actually. The first relates to the mistaken assumption that a man murdered the vicar.”
“Are you suggesting, Miss Kendrick, that a woman killed Reverend Bullmore?” Mother said, flabbergasted by the idea.
Papa fumbled to get out his lorgnette, as if he needed to see better to understand what was said. Miss Westwoode, her face pale, swayed, as if about to faint.
“Yes. Ethel saw the vicar’s killer as the person ran away, wearing only her riding trousers, and assumed it was a man. As did all of you when you saw me.”
“That’s preposterous!” Mrs. Westwoode declared.
“Is it?” Lyndy said. Stella’s charade was outlandish, but her reasoning was not.
“I think after Miss Kendrick’s little demonstration,” Inspector Brown said, “it’s not only possible but highly likely. Jolly good, Miss Kendrick.” The inspector grinned and nodded in approval. He was the only one.
Why was Lyndy looking about the room for the culprit? It had to be one of the maids, surely. Could it be one of them? Mother? Never. Alice? Lyndy hoped to God no. Mrs. Westwoode? She was attacked. Old Miss Luckett, the chaperone? She didn’t have the strength. Miss Westwoode? She couldn’t squash a ladybird. Then who?
The inspector and Stella both looked at the same person. Lyndy followed their gaze.
“Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Westwoode?” Inspector Brown said.
“What?” Mrs. Westwoode clutched a fist to her throat as the constable stepped behind her to prevent her retreat. She looked about her, as if in a daze. “What are you talking about?”
“You killed Reverend Bullmore,” Stella said.
“Now, that is preposterous,” Mother said. “Mrs. Westwoode was attacked. She is a victim, not a villain.”
“Quite so,” Mrs. Westwoode said, nodding.
“I’m afraid, Lady Atherly, she is no more a victim than you or I am,” Stella said. “She only wanted us to believe that. That was my second point.”
Hence her need for the scream, Lyndy realized. Again, Stella’s charade had proved the impossible.
“Miss Kendrick’s right, Lady Atherly. Mrs. Westwoode only pretended to be attacked,” Inspector Brown said. “Then she implicated the stable staff by hiding the jewels and the fire iron near the stables.”
Mrs. Westwoode waved her hand dismissively at the inspector. Was she going to deny it?
“Mummy?” Miss Westwoode said.
Slouched in her chair, her lips loosely parted, Mother was visibly shaken. “Caroline, is this true?”
“I . . .” Mrs. Westwoode reached for Hugh’s arm. Hugh jerked away from her in disgust. Mrs. Westwoode looked about her, as if hoping to find sympathy elsewhere. She didn’t find it. “Well . . . if you must know, yes,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “that pretense was an unfortunate necessity. You can rest assured, Lady Atherly, that unlike Miss Kendrick, I didn’t find one moment of pleasure in all that screaming and panting and playacting.”
“But?” Hugh asked.
“But what with the footman’s release, Lord Hugh, dear, the police were suspecting you of the vicar’s death. I couldn’t have that. As to the stables, it’s a den of thieves already, isn’t it?”
“You couldn’t have us suspecting you either,” Inspector Brown said. “Isn’t that right, Mrs. Westwoode?”
“That isn’t it at all,” Mrs. Westwoode scoffed.
“Mummy?” Miss Westwoode said. “Did you kill the vicar?”
“Elizabeth, darling. Don’t you see, I had to?” she said, exasperated.
“But why, Caroline?” Mr. Westwoode said. “Why?”
“Because of you, Augustus!” she snarled, turning on her husband. “You and your hors
e races. What I haven’t suffered because of you. You know nothing of the indignities I’ve been subjected to.”
“Indignities?” Mr. Westwoode said, his voice barely audible.
“You killed a man.”
“Do you suppose I enjoyed smashing the head of a man of God with a fire iron? Do you think I would willingly demean myself by such violence? I had to rummage through a dead man’s clothes because of you.”
Mr. Westwoode, his face losing all color, dropped into the nearest chair. “To find his money?”
“Yes, to find the money that would pay off your debts. I had to strip it off his leg, Augustus. His bare leg!”
“But you could’ve sold your jewels, Mummy,” Miss Westwoode whimpered.
“No, she couldn’t,” Inspector Brown said. “They are paste.”
“How did you . . . ?” Mrs. Westwoode said, as if seeing the inspector for the first time. “Oh, it doesn’t matter how you found out,” she sighed. “But do you know how I found out?” She looked about, pinning every pair of eyes to her. “Forced to pay off my husband’s debts, I visited a pawnbroker the last time we were in London. You can only imagine my humiliation when I discovered I’d been wearing glass.”
“Then you overheard Reverend Bullmore and Lord Hugh talking about the money the vicar kept on his person,” Stella said.
Mrs. Westwoode took her daughter’s hands in hers. “Don’t you see, Elizabeth? It was an answer to our prayers,” she cooed. “It was heaven sent. Besides, he was a vicar. What need did he have of the money?”
“But you killed him, Mummy,” Miss Westwoode whined. “You hit him with a fire iron.”
“Yes, darling, I hit him, and it was awful. But I needed to knock him out. I needed to get to his purse.”
“But why the trousers?” Papa asked, staring in the general direction of his paleontology collection on the bookshelf. He was curious but couldn’t look Mrs. Westwoode in the eye.
Murder at Morrington Hall Page 25
