Читать книгу Murder at Morrington Hall - Clara McKenna - Страница 15

CHAPTER 7

“Saddle up the new filly,” Lyndy said to the first stable hand he encountered. Frustrated and restless, he’d headed for the stables instead of waiting for a horse to be brought to him.

Lyndy had intended to ride the new stallion this morning. He’d been in a foul mood. What better time to pit his skills against the feisty horse? But when he’d approached the stallion’s loose box, the horse was stomping inside, sending bits of straw flying. The ornery animal had already chewed a chunk of wood off a corner of his box’s door post. Until the angry horse had adjusted, why risk getting bitten or worse?

“Which filly, sir?” the groom asked. “Tupper or Tully, the one Miss Kendrick is with?”

Miss Kendrick? His mood brightened. So, this was where she was. He’d waited for Miss Kendrick to appear at breakfast until the servants came to clear everything away. She’d never come. Who would’ve guessed she’d be here? He couldn’t help but smile.

“Tupper.”

Lyndy strode behind the groom, passing empty loose box after empty loose box. It had been too long since the stables were at even half capacity. There were the carriage mares, Sugar and Spice; and Lister, Papa’s horse, a gift from the board of Rosehurst Cottage Hospital when Papa inherited his title; and Lyndy’s horse, Beau, a striking chestnut Irish Hunter. But now his family would have thoroughbreds again, racehorses to ride, to race, to breed.

As it should be.

Grandfather, the seventh Earl of Atherly, had owned Augustine, a champion thoroughbred filly, among others. He’d cultivated a love for the Turf in Lyndy, as his own son cared more about discovering fossils of ancient horses than about the racehorses in his own stables. As a small boy, Lyndy had wanted nothing more than to follow in Grandfather’s footsteps. But soon after Grandfather died, Papa had discovered the estate no longer paid for itself. Unwilling to give up his fossil-hunting expeditions, Papa had sold Augustine and the other racehorses, as well as let go of several of the staff, to fund his hobby. Lyndy hadn’t forgiven him. Until now.

Lyndy stopped short of Tully’s loose box. Miss Kendrick was inside it, with her back to him, checking the balance strap on the horse’s sidesaddle. She was stunning, the tailored lines of her black riding jacket clinging to her curves, the top hat accentuating her long, pale neck.

“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” she said.

Who was she talking to? The groom was over in Tupper’s loose box. She couldn’t have seen or heard Lyndy approach. He leaned against the wooden wall, waiting for her to say more. He brushed aside the shame of spying on her, not once but twice in so many days.

“I can’t think of anything else to do,” she said. With one hand on the horse’s back and the other one over her eyes, she began to weep, and not, Lyndy suspected, for the vicar.

A surge of unexpected emotions flowed through Lyndy: confusion, misery, compassion, empathy, guilt. Their engagement had come as a bit of a shock to her, yes, but marriages between the better families were always arranged like a business transaction, each getting something from the alliance. In their case, Mr. Kendrick got a title in the family, Papa got Mr. Kendrick’s money, Lyndy got champion thoroughbred racehorses, and Miss Kendrick gained an eminently charming husband. Why was she so upset?

“At least I have you, Tully,” she whispered.

She was talking to the horse! With a sudden urge for her to talk to him instead, Lyndy pushed away from the wall and stepped into Tully’s loose box.

“Lord Lyndhurst,” she said, swiveling around at the sound of crunching straw beneath his boots.

“Miss Kendrick. I’m surprised to see you here.”

She brushed away tears from her cheeks with the back of her gloved hand. “Why would that be? Because you don’t expect a woman in the stables or because you already pay good money to a stable hand to do this?”

“Well, yes to both, but mostly because we expected you were in your room, recovering from yesterday’s shock. You didn’t come down to breakfast.”

She turned away from him and began tugging at the balance strap again. “I don’t always do what’s expected.” She needn’t tell him that.

“No, in fact, you haven’t done a single thing since you’ve been here that was as we expected.” She stopped her adjustments of the saddle. Lyndy expected her to deny it or to protest, but as he should have predicted, she did neither.

“I can imagine. You and your family aren’t what I expected either.”

What had she expected? Warmth, humor, kindness, acceptance, perhaps? Instead, she had gotten barely veiled disapproval, feigned interest, and obligatory civility. If the former was what she’d imagined of her reception, then, yes, he could understand her disappointment.

“More’s the pity, since we might be stuck with each other,” she added.

Might? This wasn’t going the way he’d planned. And she still wouldn’t call him Lyndy. After yesterday, they should be on less formal terms.

“I’m so sorry about the vicar.” She faced him and laid a hand on his arm. The gesture was so like another, it made him flinch. But nothing but sincere sympathy shone from her eyes. “Your family must feel horrible about his accident.”

She didn’t know. Lyndy dreaded being the one to tell her.

“It’s worse than you know. Reverend Bullmore was the victim of more than fatal clumsiness. He was murdered, bludgeoned to death.”

Lyndy held her gaze, brushing his hand methodically down the filly’s neck. How would this unpredictable woman respond to such a pronouncement? She didn’t faint. She didn’t swoon. She didn’t burst into a fit of tears.

She did that only when she contemplated spending eternity with him.

“Besides me, perhaps, who would benefit from the vicar’s demise?” she asked.

Lyndy sputtered as he stifled an undignified guffaw. Her words were, yet again, completely unexpected.

“Do you find the poor man’s death funny, Lord Lyndhurst?”

“Certainly not. But I am taken aback by your confession that you had motive to kill him.”

“I do have a motive, and everyone knows it. You do, too, if you’re entering into this marriage against your will.”

How did he answer that? This marriage was to save Morrington Hall from Papa’s folly, to acquire the thoroughbreds, and bring pride back to his family. It was his duty. But how did he tell her that now that he’d met her, he had no objections to wedding, and bedding, her at all?

“I don’t fancy myself a murderer, Miss Kendrick,” was all he could say in his defense.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “Neither do I.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

She studied his face. Wondering whether he was teasing her, no doubt. He willed his expression not to give him away.

“But someone did kill him,” she said in earnest, “and they must’ve had a reason, presumably one far more compelling than trying to stop a wedding.”

“Presumably.”

“She’s ready for you, my lord,” the groom called, walking Tupper toward them. Lyndy strolled back into the aisle and took the horse’s reins from the groom.

Miss Kendrick led her horse out of its loose box and mounted it in the aisle with the aid of the groom as Lyndy flung his leg across Tupper’s back. He’d decided to join her, whether she wanted his company or not. A quizzical expression crossed her face as he and Tupper fell in beside her. Maybe he was as unpredictable to her as she was to him. What an intriguing notion.

“By the way, where are we going?” he asked as they walked the horses through the stable doors.

“To the vicarage,” she called over her shoulder as she and her horse trotted across the yard.

* * *

“I wouldn’t know. That was the last time I saw him.”

Inspector Archibald Brown nodded curtly to his constable in disgust. He rested his elbow on the edge of the small oval oak center table serving as a makeshift desk and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Hours of interviewing maid after footman after housekeeper and . . . nothing. No one had noticed anything, heard anything, would admit to anything. No one knew the vicar well, but all had heard his sermon about the faith of the centurion on Sunday and had agreed it was uplifting. No one knew of any enemies he might have had, any disagreements he might have had, or any reason why anyone would have wanted to do him harm. Yet someone had gone into the library and bashed the poor bugger’s head in.

“Thank you,” Constable Waterman said. “We’ll let you know if we need to speak to you again.”

The footman—a tall, fair-haired fellow, indistinguishable from all the other tall, fair-haired footmen on these country estates—in his morning livery of a black double-breasted coat, striped waistcoat, black trousers, and small black tie, got up without a word and left.

From his interviews of the staff, all Brown could confirm was that the vicar was alive and well in the library at about quarter past two, when a maid brought him tea and lemon biscuits. From his examination of the crime scene, all Brown could conclude was that the murder weapon was most likely the fire iron. They hadn’t found it, yet. They had found the vicar’s pocket watch; the glass had been smashed beneath him. It had stopped at 2:47 pm. Was that when the vicar fell on it and died? Or had it stopped before he fell? Brown didn’t know. What he did know was that by teatime, the vicar was dead and not a single bloody servant had seen or heard a thing.

“Who is next on our list, Waterman?” Brown grumbled.

It didn’t do taking his frustrations out on his constable, but someone had to take it. If their luck didn’t change soon, they were finished. Lord Atherly was most cooperative, giving up his rarely used—according to the butler—smoking room for them, but even the most reasonable aristocrat had his limits. Brown had already put most of the household staff through the paces. He wouldn’t be able to do it again, not without just cause. Interviews with the family, beyond the two who had found the body, were hardly guaranteed. Brown peered around at the large antlers of roe, fallow, and red deer mounted above him on the dark wood-paneled walls. His head might be mounted up there if he didn’t come up with something soon.

“Miss Ethel Eakins, chambermaid,” the constable said, skimming down the list. They were almost out of names.

A small, big-eyed, freckled woman in her midtwenties, wearing a plain gray dress and starched white apron, entered the smoking room. A white cap covered her tidy ginger hair. She kept her eyes cast down as she covered the distance between them.

“Thank you for helping us with our investigations, miss,” Brown said, indicating for her to sit in the seat across from his constable.

Was she like the others, who had refused to sit in their master’s chair, or could this one be different? The girl looked at the dark leather-covered captain’s chair.

“I’d rather stand.”

Constable Waterman shrugged. “As you may know, Miss Eakins, Reverend Bullmore was found dead yesterday in the library,” the constable said.

The maid cast a brief glance at the inspector before shifting her gaze back to the swirling green, brown, and black leaf pattern of the carpet. Her hands were clasped tightly at her waist, with her pinkie fingers oddly intertwined on top.

“Yes . . . I heard.”

Brown, slouched against the back of his chair, sat up. His seventeen years in the Hampshire Constabulary might not end in disgrace, after all. This maid knew something.

“Could you tell us where you were between half past two and four yesterday afternoon?” the constable asked. The maid twisted her pinkie fingers again.

“I saw a stranger running away from the library,” the maid blurted.

Brown was on his feet. Within half a second, he loomed over the girl. Despite his exhilaration, Brown hadn’t failed to notice that she didn’t answer the constable’s question.

“When was this?” the inspector asked.

The maid, her large green eyes wide open, cowered under Brown’s scrutiny. “I . . . I don’t remember.” She sunk down onto the edge of the chair behind her, despite her previous inhibitions, and stared at her lap.

Brown strode back to his seat in silence, not wanting to intimidate the maid further. He nodded to his constable to continue.

“Can you tell us what the stranger looked like?” Constable Waterman said.

“I caught but a glimpse of him as he turned the corner of the grand saloon,” she said, looking up.

“What type of build did he have? How tall was he?”

“Average build, I think, and taller than me, maybe.” That wasn’t saying much. Brown was starting to lose his enthusiasm.

“What color was his hair?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Can you think of any identifying characteristics of the fellow?”

The maid bit her lip as she considered the question. She cast a furtive glance at Brown. “His boots and his trousers were black.”

A man of average height and build, wearing black boots and trousers. That could be any number of men: Lord Atherly, his guests, visiting tradesmen, the butler, the footmen, even the vicar. It all seemed a bit too vague, a bit too convenient, this barely seen “stranger.” Was the maid making it all up to avoid telling the truth? Or had she honestly not gotten a good look at the fellow? Brown studied every twitch of the maid’s face and had the sneaking suspicion she wasn’t telling them everything.

“If you caught only a glimpse, how do you know this wasn’t someone you’ve seen before?” his constable asked.

“I don’t, I suppose. But at the time that’s what I thought. None of the family would be running in the house.”

“But it could be a footman, perhaps?” Brown asked. Didn’t footmen wear black shoes and trousers? Could she be wrong about the height?

The maid blanched, and her lip trembled before she stared into her lap again.

Now we’re getting somewhere. “Or a guest visiting for Lord Lyndhurst’s wedding?”

“Yes, one of the Americans, maybe,” she said, latching on to Brown’s suggested alternative.

“Did you speak to this stranger or hear him say anything?” Constable Waterman said.

“No. But I did wonder about the vicar.”

“You did?” The surprise in Constable Waterman’s voice reflected Brown’s own.

“We were specifically told not to disturb him,” the maid explained. “But the library door was ajar.”

“You feared this stranger might have disturbed the vicar?” the constable said.

The maid nodded. “That’s why I peeked into the library.”

“You went into the library after the stranger left?” Brown demanded, unable to contain himself.

The maid’s shoulders bowed, and she shrank into herself, clutching part of her apron in her lap.

“You did nothing wrong, Miss Eakins,” Brown said, commanding the softest tone his rough voice would allow. “But we want to learn the truth.”

The maid looked at the constable and then at the inspector again, both of whom nodded encouragingly.

“I didn’t go into the room. But I did push the door open a bit more and peek in.”

“What did you see?” Brown said, cooing to the frightened maid.

“Nothing. The room was empty.”

Brown remembered the position of the body, hidden from view, at the foot of the chesterfield sofa. She wouldn’t have seen the dead man. So that much of her story was true.

She went on. “So, I didn’t worry about it again, until I heard what happened. You won’t tell Mrs. Nelson I peeked into the library, will you?”

Could this be her cause for alarm? Why she appeared so nervous?

“But you never did, did you?” Brown said.

The woman looked blankly at him for a moment before her eyes lit up with understanding. “No, I didn’t.”

“What time was this?” Brown asked again.

“About the time the Americans arrived.”

Brown nodded and smiled. “Thank you, Miss Eakins. You have been most helpful. You may go.”

The maid scurried away like a scared rabbit. She knew exactly when she’d entered the library. The clock ruled life in these country houses. So why not say so? Because she was still holding something back. Had she seen a man running through the saloon? It was worth checking into. The inspector sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers together. Finally, they were getting somewhere.