Murder at Morrington Hall Read online

  MURDER AT MORRINGTON HALL

  CLARA McKENNA

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018912562

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1777-1

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1777-5

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: June 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1780-1 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1780-5 (e-book)

  To my intrepid travel companion, pink hair and all. Who loves ya, Mom!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank Liz Galton, Dr. Katherine Walker and the staff at the Christopher Tower Reference Library at the New Forest Heritage Centre in Lyndhurst, Hampshire, UK. They guided me through the treasure trove of their collection. They answered my questions (literally for hours) while I was in their library and through thoughtful emails after I was back home. I relied heavily on the material I discovered with their assistance for authenticity, accuracy and detail. Any errors are mine alone.

  I would like to thank Kathryn Whalley of the Cornucopia Bed and Breakfast in Brockenhurst, Hampshire, UK for providing the support and sustenance for my long research days, as well as introducing me to her church, St. Nicholas’. She made my (and my mother’s) visit to the New Forest a joy.

  Anette Engel at the Thoroughbred Racing Center in Lexington, Kentucky was extremely knowledgeable and patient as she guided me and my family through her facility. Meeting Thoroughbred racehorses up close and personal was an experience I’ll never forget.

  I’m grateful to my agent, John Talbot and my editor at Kensington, John Scognamiglio, for their faith in my writing. A huge thank you to the members of Sleuths in Time, both past and present for their critiques, their encouragement and their unfailing support. And finally, to my family, especially Maya, Mom and Brian. I hope they know how much their love and support means.

  CHAPTER 1

  May 1905

  Hampshire, England

  “Americans are different, Mother.”

  Lyndy pulled on the lapels of his morning coat and paced the room, studying the portraits lining the walls, as he had since childhood. The pale faces stared down at him with disapproval, or so he always thought. Some wore lace ruffs; others, long curly wigs; two were in full dress uniform; and one countess clutched a silver, pearl-encrusted cross. All his ancestors, God forbid, dour and boring to the last. Not unlike the many prospects his parents had paraded past him during the Season in London over the years. Was different too much to hope for?

  “Not this one. I have your father’s assurances.”

  Papa looked up from the map he’d spread out on the small satinwood inlaid table between the French windows, the vase of pink peonies he’d displaced near his feet on the floor. Lyndy glanced over his father’s shoulder at the map, a partial sketch of a region in the American West called Wyoming.

  “Yes, Frances. She’s quite the young lady, or so I’ve been told.” Lord of the manor he may be, but Papa was far too willing to give Mother her assurances.

  “Perhaps Miss Kendrick will be one of these radical Americans we’ve all heard of,” Lyndy said, peering out the window. A pair of ponies emerged from the woodland and drank from the grassy edge of the pond. “Maybe she’ll drink Irish whiskey instead of coffee after dinner.” That would be a bit much even for Lyndy, but Mother needn’t know that.

  Papa, bent over, studying his map again, laughed.

  “I don’t know how you can find any of this humorous, William. If it were not for your . . . hobbies”—Mother waved an accusing finger at Papa’s map—“we might not be in this predicament.”

  “The boy was only joking.”

  “Was I?”

  Mother raised her eyes, appealing to a higher power for forbearance.

  What would be so wrong with a woman taking a sip of whiskey now and then? Like so many of society’s rules, it seemed archaic. Like the one not allowing them to sell any land. It was their land, wasn’t it? Or the one enabling his parents to determine his fate. It was his life, wasn’t it?

  “Lyndy, why must you always—” Mother began.

  “My lord, the guests have arrived.” Another quarrel averted. Fulton always did have impeccable timing.

  * * *

  “Move over,” Daddy grumbled. “You’re too far to the left.”

  Stella ignored him. She was having too much fun. Digging her heel in, she lifted as far out of her seat as she could. The chimneys of Morrington Hall, reflecting in the first rays of sun in days, jutted up in the distance, above the ancient trees, and she wanted to see more.

  But Stella wasn’t used to driving from the right side of the car. Feeling the wheels pull toward the middle of the road again, she steered sharply to the right, instead of the left. The vehicle swerved to the right, crossed the lane, and headed straight for the open heathland, a rolling patchwork of ferns, heather, bright green grazing lawns, and yellow flowering gorse bushes, before she corrected the wheel.

  “For God’s sake, sit down!”

  Stella plopped back down into the black leather seat of the brand-new 22 hp Daimler automobile and stole a glance at Daddy. He stared straight ahead, nose in the air, gray hairs protruding out of his ears. With his bottom waistcoat button undone to accommodate his considerable girth, he clutched his leather bag tighter to his chest. Too bad she wasn’t leaving him at Morrington Hall instead of Tully. She sighed.

  Oh, Tully.

  Pushing aside the pale pink motoring veil billowing around her face, she pictured the parade of wagons following her. Daddy had spared no expense in assuring the comfort and safety of his prize thoroughbreds: fresh air and fresh hay on the ship; a refitted first-class carriage on the train; the customized ambulance wagons for the trip from Southampton; and a groom, Roy, to tend to them personally. She’d enjoyed every minute of the ten-day trip from Bronson Ridge Farm, their home in Kentucky. It was her first trip to England. It was her first trip anywhere besides New York and Newport. But the adventure was bittersweet. Even now, with Morrington Hall within sight, she couldn’t reconcile losing her best friend. When she returned home, she’d be leaving her horse behind.

  “Watch out for that bu
ggy up ahead,” Daddy warned.

  Orson, the stallion inside the lead wagon, snorted and stomped as the skittish bay mare pulled the buggy past. Stella waved, but the buggy’s driver scowled at the strange conveyance.

  “Tell me again why you’re giving Orson, Tupper, and Tully to this viscount, Lord Lyndhurst?” Stella asked.

  “If Cicero wins the Derby at Epsom this week, Orson, being his sire, will be the most valuable stud in England.”

  “Then why give him away? And why give up Tupper? You expected her to win the Belmont Stakes this year.” Daddy might breed some of the best racehorses in the world, but even so, prospects like Tupper were rare.

  “Because it suits me.”

  “But why Tully, Daddy?” He knew she was Stella’s favorite.

  Silence.

  Stella gripped the steering wheel as tightly as she could. The automobile glided down the wooded lane, its blue metallic fenders gleaming in the sunlight that filtered through the leaves. Gnarled oak, redwood, ancient beech, yew, and holly towered above them. Silence. Having lost all feeling in her fingers, Stella loosened her grip and inhaled. The air smelled fresh, earthy, and sweet after the morning’s rain. How could she be upset on a day like this?

  “Don’t you want to ride Tully while you’re here?” Daddy said.

  “You know I do.” Could Daddy have brought the horse to please her? “You’re not giving Tully to the viscount?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Truly? The kind gesture was so unlike him. But then, so was inviting her to accompany him on this trip. What brought about this change? Whatever it was, she couldn’t be more grateful for it.

  “I haven’t thanked you for bringing me along on this trip, Daddy.”

  “No need. Just drive,” Daddy said as Stella smiled at him. Daddy had never been one for any demonstration of affection.

  “Like this?” Stella, biting her lip, pushed down on the accelerator. How fast could this car go?

  Stella laughed as she caught a glimpse in her side-view mirror of Great-Aunt Rachel in the backseat. The old lady, wrinkles deep around her puckered mouth, clutched her hat, the plume of black ostrich feathers flapping in the breeze. Her squinting eyes—dark blue, like Stella’s own—popped open.

  “Whoa, girlie!” Aunt Rachel shouted.

  Stella snapped her attention forward. A cluster of ponies, a mix of chestnut and bay, with powerful hindquarters, stood rooted to the middle of the road a few yards away. As one, they bolted, scattering in every direction. Stella yanked hard on the steering wheel and veered around the slowest of the bunch. The wheels bumped up over a small boulder, sending everyone bouncing out of their seats. The car plunked down, brush and twigs crunching beneath the tires.

  Whack! Daddy yelled something inaudible as the side of the Daimler connected with a long, sharp branch of a tree. As Stella struggled to control the steering wheel and keep them from careening off the road, the ponies trotted out of harm’s way. With a final swerve and swish of the back wheels, the car straightened in the lane again.

  Stella laughed with relief.

  “What the hell was that?” Daddy said.

  “New Forest ponies,” Roy said from the backseat. Leave it to the groom to know about every breed of horse and pony in the world.

  Like a creature from a mythical land: unicorn, centaur, New Forest pony. Stella looked at the groom in the side-view mirror. He’d pushed his goggles onto his high forehead, exposing two clean rings around his eyes, where the dust hadn’t settled. Although gripping the edge of his seat, he studied the ponies as they passed.

  “The New Forest region is famous for them,” he said.

  Stella smiled at the term the New Forest. On the ship, Roy had told her all about it and its mythical ponies. An odd name for a place created as a royal hunting ground by King William the Conqueror over eight hundred years ago.

  “The Ancient Forest is more appropriate, don’t you think?” Stella said.

  “Wild ponies?” Daddy said. “Shouldn’t they be rounded up? They look hardy enough to be good workhorses. Left to wander, they’re a nuisance.”

  Stella waited for Roy to say more—to tell Daddy that New Forest ponies weren’t wild at all and were rounded up on occasion, or to explain why the region was called “new” when it was ancient or “forest” when it was mostly heathland. Stella had even overheard the locals say ‘on the forest’ like they would say ‘on the range’ back home. But the groom had fallen silent again.

  “Actually, Daddy,” Stella began, “the ponies—”

  “Finally,” Daddy grumbled. Stella gazed up at the arch as she passed through the wrought-iron gates. “I thought we’d never get here.”

  “Me neither.” Stella eagerly glanced around her.

  As she drove the mile-long gravel drive, passing more ponies grazing out on the lawns, Morrington Hall came into full view. Stella was used to luxurious homes. The Kendricks had a townhome on Fifth Avenue in New York, a summer cottage in Newport, and a three-story white-pillared “farmhouse” in Kentucky. But nothing rivaled Morrington Hall, which was more reminiscent of Grand Central Station in New York City than any home Stella had ever seen, in opulence and grandeur. The large bricks of gray and yellow stone that made up the house, if one could call it that, spoke of its unquestionable permanency. With a half a dozen gables and four turrets, the building rose four stories, like a castle. Chimneys, haphazardly placed and too numerous to count, climbed at least a dozen feet more. Stella guessed it would take her several minutes, walking swiftly, to cross from one end of the house to the other. Surrounding the colossal home were sculptured gardens, a large pond, wooded parklands, rolling pastures, extensive grazing lawns, fenced paddocks, and heathland as far as she could see. The stables, tucked away on the edge of the woodland and made of the same stone as the house, were almost as large as her house in Kentucky. She couldn’t wait to explore.

  “Slow down,” Daddy said.

  Stella let the car coast as they approached the house. Waiting for them on the front steps and in the gravel drive were the Searlwyns, owners of this grand estate, and their household staff.

  The Earl of Atherly, in contrast to Daddy, fit his morning coat impeccably, with his lean, athletic build. Only the silver threading through his dark brown hair attested to his being Daddy’s peer. Beside him stood his wife. Lady Atherly’s high-necked collar, the lace brushing the bottom of her chin, her curled hair mounded on the crown of her head, and her Roman nose tilted up created the impression that the countess nearly matched her husband in strength and height. Standing beside them, clutching the lapels of his morning coat, was a man in his midtwenties. With the addition of a dimpled chin and high cheekbones, he was a younger and more dashing version of Lord Atherly. Viscount Lyndhurst, no doubt. Unlike his father, who stood as erect as a rooted tree, Lord Lyndhurst exuded barely contained energy, like a cat ready to pounce. Beside Lord Lyndhurst stood a wisp of a girl a few years younger than Stella. With a sweet face and rounded shoulders, she withered in the shadow of the others around her. She had to be the viscount’s fiancée. Stella didn’t envy her.

  Lined up in single file off to the side on the gravel drive were members of the household staff, or at least some of them—the butler, his nose rivaling his mistress’s in heightened angle; the housekeeper, her eyes darting about, noticing everything; a lady’s maid perhaps, with a tidy, stylish coiffure; a handsome footman in full livery; and two housemaids in black dresses and crisp white aprons. With a house this big, there had to be an army of servants out of sight.

  Without exception, every face wore a stern or, at best, blank expression. Stella couldn’t understand it. Wasn’t there to be a wedding in a few days? Weren’t they receiving two champion racehorses from Daddy as gifts? Not to mention the excitement of the upcoming Derby at Epsom Downs. She’d heard about the race all her life. Why weren’t they all giddy with excitement?

  As Stella untied the motoring veil from her chin, a slight breeze caught it, an
d it floated in front of her face. It turned the world—the clouds, the sky, the gravel drive, the close-cut lawn, the towering stone mansion, Lord Atherly and family, even Daddy—into a pale pink haze. How lovely it all was.

  And then Daddy smiled. Nothing good ever came when Daddy smiled.

  * * *

  Reverend John Bullmore came to a decision. He set his empty teacup on the square oak inlaid side table and stuffed the last lemon biscuit in his mouth.

  It will be awkward once the Americans have arrived, but needs must.

  He pulled out his pocket watch; he still had a few minutes. He snapped it closed and approached the glass-paneled mahogany display case set against the one wall of the library not lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He’d been staring at the birds in the display case while he sipped his tea, while he considered what to do next. Each bird specimen had a label. Each had been collected on or near the grounds of Morrington Hall by the current Earl of Atherly and his father: honey buzzard, sparrow hawk, curlew, lapwing, hawfinch, stonechat, even a tiny, rare Dartford warbler. Unable to decide which was more reminiscent of himself, the scrawny purple heron or the gray-feathered shrike, Reverend Bullmore bent over to look at the magpie in the case. Its glass eyes stared back. He’d always been fascinated by the black-and-white bird. A crick in his back forced him upright.

  If only life were black and white.

  The vicar hobbled to the fire. Warming the spasms out of his back, he licked the glistening butter off his fingers, the scent of lamb and roast chicken mingling with the tea on his breath. It would be sinful to let even a taste of such a lovely meal go to waste. He appreciatively patted his slightly bulging stomach. A rare treat indeed.

  When was the last time he’d committed the sin of gluttony? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember the last opportunity. Three years at Everton Abbey had seen to that. Had it been worth it? After yesterday, he had his doubts. Either way, he hadn’t been this satiated or this comfortable in years, thanks be to God.