Читать книгу Murder at Morrington Hall - Clara McKenna - Страница 14

CHAPTER 6

Papa’s study was a small, dark room at the back of the house. The inspector had requested that the men gather somewhere private, and this was the perfect place. From the half-empty teacups and the full waste bin, it was evident Papa hadn’t allowed a maid entry in weeks. The engraved oak partners desk was covered with a small microscope and an array of fossilized horse teeth and was bestrewn with papers pertaining to his expensive “hobby,” paleontological expeditions in search of extinct horse fossils. A leather cylinder containing the map of Wyoming sat propped up in the spindle-backed desk chair. The desk dominated one half of the room, forcing the men to cluster near the mantel. With only a single north-facing window to allow the sun in, a chill permeated the room, and not only because the fire grate stood empty. Papa preferred the cluttered, closed-in space to anywhere else in the house. To Lyndy, it was as cozy as a cave.

“Reverend Bullmore was murdered, then?” Papa said.

“There will have to be an official inquest, of course, but yes,” Inspector Brown said. “He was hit on the head with a hard, sharp object.”

“That wouldn’t be enough to kill him,” Mr. Kendrick said. “I smacked a hapless gamekeeper in the head with the butt of my shotgun once. All it gave him was a lump as a reminder to be more diligent.”

The inspector stared at Mr. Kendrick, his expression unreadable.

“I assumed he hit his head on the corner of the table,” Lyndy said, trying to ignore the American. He picked up a fossilized horse leg bone from the mantel. A shape in the dust marked its place. Papa snatched it from Lyndy’s hand and gently put it back in its place.

“We did, too, at first,” Inspector Brown said. “But no, the wound is far too deep for that. I’m sure the coroner will confirm it. We believe someone hit him with the fire iron. It’s heavy enough, hard enough, and has gone missing. We’re assuming the killer took it with him.”

“But who would want to murder Reverend Bullmore?” Hugh said, picking up and examining a sheet of paper bearing Professor Gridley’s signature that had fallen to the floor. Hugh spoke for everyone. It was inconceivable why anyone would want to kill a man of God.

“That is what I hoped you’d be able to tell me,” Inspector Brown said.

“I won’t be much help, I’m afraid, Inspector,” Papa said, plucking the paper from Hugh’s fingers. “Reverend Bullmore was a friend of a friend, I admit, but we knew him more by reputation until he moved into the vicarage a fortnight ago.”

Papa yanked open a drawer that was a bit stuck and dropped the papers from his desk in it. Lyndy had had no idea Papa had any connection, however distant, to the dead vicar. Who was this friend of a friend? Papa shut the drawer with a bang.

“You know of no enemies, no altercations, no recent arguments with anyone?” the inspector said.

“No, not that I know of,” Papa said.

Lyndy’s breath caught in his throat. He glanced at Hugh. Like everyone else, Hugh shook his head. But Lyndy had overheard Hugh and the vicar involved in a heated discussion. Why was Hugh lying?

“Right,” Inspector Brown said. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you, my lord, but I’d be obliged if I could have a small space to set up as an interview room.” The inspector looked about him with a sour expression. “Not anywhere that will inconvenience you, of course.” He undoubtably didn’t want to have to be cooped up in this hovel any more than Lyndy did. “I will have to speak to the servants, your guests. I will have to ask for your assistance, as well, Lord Lyndhurst.”

Lyndy nodded. He’d expected as much. Papa had not.

“No one in this house would do such a thing,” Papa said.

“Be it as it may, my lord, I would be most grateful,” the inspector said.

“If it will help, speak to Fulton, our butler, about it. I’m sure he can accommodate you.” Papa was not about to offer up his study, to the inspector’s obvious relief.

The inspector tipped his hat. “Thank you, my lord, for your cooperation. We’ll speak again soon.”

“It’s all such a damn inconvenience,” Mr. Kendrick muttered as he bent to peer into Papa’s microscope. “Never would be too soon.”

* * *

“What now?” Silas Gates, the stable manager and head coachman, looked up from his accounts.

He’d been interrupted twice already today, and he had a long night ahead of him. The provender bill was due by morning. Gates had expected the first interruption; the Americans had arrived with the new horses. He’d welcomed the break. Not every day did a man add champion thoroughbred racehorses to his fold. The second time had been shocking; a stable lad had run about yelling something about the vicar dying up at the house. Gates had met the vicar only this past Sunday. After a single sermon, he hadn’t had time to form an opinion. This time someone lingered outside the harness-room door.

Who could it be at this hour? The others were having their dinner. No one should be about. If any of his lads were where they shouldn’t be, he’d find out right quick.

“Hello?” Gates called.

No answer. He didn’t give much credence to the rumor that someone had murdered the vicar, but just the same, he didn’t relish someone lingering silently outside his door.

Gates slid back from the workbench. Firelight gleamed off the harnesses hanging in neat rows along the walls. Although Lord Atherly had provided him with a small office of his own, Gates preferred to do his accounting in here. An organized room for an organized brain, he’d reasoned. But, in fact, it was the nicest room in the stables: wood-paneled walls, parquet-tiled floor, and the immense two-sided stone fireplace that guaranteed the horses’ comfort year-round, which was more than he could say for his office or the bedrooms upstairs. Lying in his bed at night, he often suspected the hayloft would be warmer.

Gates stepped out of the harness room. “Hello?” No one was about.

But someone had been.

He walked past the empty standing stalls, making a note to have the brass ball finials on the stable posts polished. The scent of nothing but fresh hay assured him the lads had done their work before heading to their dinner. He passed the loose boxes, which were occupied for the first time since Lord Atherly’s late father died years ago, their mahogany walls newly scrubbed. The horses followed him with their gaze but showed no other sign of interest. Only the new thoroughbred stallion, Orson, stomped and snorted as Gates passed. He’s going to be a handful, that one.

Gates continued past the wash stall, the sick box, and the coal room. All appeared in hand. All was quiet. He entered the coach house. The vast room was filled with Lord Atherly’s family carriages, cleaned, polished, and ready to go at a moment’s notice. The Americans’ motorcar was parked in the far corner. Gates had looked the contraption over while the lads were cleaning it. If the American expected him to service the machine, he’d have to request help. What did he know of motorcars?

A shadow darted between the victoria and the dog cart.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

A man’s figure skirted around the carriages and dashed toward the door. Lamplight briefly illuminated the side of his round face. Blond stubble dotted his chin. Gates didn’t recognize him. It wasn’t one of his lads. It wasn’t Roy, the Kendricks’ groom, either. Then who could it be? Who would be poking around the coach house, uninvited and unannounced? The appearance of Lord Lyndhurst’s fiancée earlier had taken him by surprise; the family never visited the stables. Perhaps this was someone from her party he didn’t know of. Everyone knew the Americans did things differently. After his groom’s mistake, Gates had to tread lightly.

“Sir?” Gates’s call went unheeded. The stranger shoved the door open and disappeared.

No gentleman would act so, not even an American one. Must be a local lad, then, who’d heard about the motorcar and wanted a peek. Two years ago, the miller from Rosehurst’s youngest boy had been discovered sleeping in the hayloft after a fight with his brother. A local lad. That had to be it.

“Oi!” I’ll teach him to creep about my coach house.

Gates weaved his way through the carriages, in pursuit. By the time he reached the washing yard, the lad was gone. As Gates debated which direction to take, Herbert rounded the corner.

“Herbert! Did you see a village lad come by here?”

“No, I haven’t seen anyone. Everyone’s at dinner. Why? Do you think it was the vicar’s killer? Everyone’s saying he was murdered, you know.”

Dragons in Burley Beacon, kingly ghosts in Hurst Castle, and now vicar-slaying murderers. What will these lads think up next? Gates was not going to dignify Herbert’s speculation with an answer.

“Why aren’t you at dinner?” Gates asked.

“Leonard’s still sick, so I came to check on the thoroughbreds. The stallion wasn’t eating earlier.”

“Then off you go.”

Gates stood a moment or two after Herbert left, his palm against his forehead and his eyes closed. His head was pounding. It was no small feat preparing for the new horses with one of his grooms sick in bed, and what with news of the vicar’s death . . . The strain of the past few days had caught up with him. Now this. Either way, the lad was long gone by now.

Gates retraced his steps, reassuring himself that the intruder, whoever he was, had caused no mischief. Tomorrow he’d inform Lord Atherly about the incident, just the same. But back in the harness room, odd Americans, mischievous village lads, and rumors about murderers slipped from his mind as he sat back down to finish his infernal accounts.