Murder at Blackwater Bend Read online

  Books by Clara McKenna

  MURDER AT MORRINGTON HALL

  MURDER AT BLACKWATER BEND

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  MURDER AT BLACKWATER BEND

  CLARA MCKENNA

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 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: 2020931280

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1778-8

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: July 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1781-8 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1781-3 (e-book)

  To the people who call the New Forest home.

  CHAPTER 1

  August 1905

  Hampshire, England

  Lady Atherly didn’t dare look at her husband. She couldn’t trust herself not to overreact. And then what would everyone think?

  She’d once thought William exceedingly handsome. But she’d lived with him too many years, endured that self-satisfied glint in his eyes too many times. Instead, she stared straight ahead at the swirling assembly of colorfully dressed dancers, the brilliant light of the chandelier reflecting off the ladies’ jewels, their dresses’ sparkling embellishments, the highly polished floor. The musicians, as good as any you’d find up in London, had begun the Lehár piece, “Gold and Silver.” Lady Atherly was partial to Johann Strauss II, remembering a time when she’d whirled about on the arm of a well-turned-out beau to Strauss’s “Viennese Blood,” but she loved all waltzes, even this new one. Lady Atherly’s jaw ached in her attempt to keep a scowl from her face.

  “You’d think you’d be pleased, Frances.”

  Pleased? William would say something like that. She knew why he was happy. He’d gotten everything he’d wanted. Besides, what did happiness have to do with it? This was about tradition, decorum, survival. And everything rested precariously on the shoulders of a young, ill-bred American girl. How could that possibly make her happy?

  The girl in question whirled by, close enough the women’s eyes would’ve met had Lady Atherly not avoided Miss Kendrick’s gaze. The hem of Miss Kendrick’s ivory lace and rose satin gown swished along the floor as she yet again took a misstep. Even in the arms of a highly capable partner (Hadn’t she warned her son not to dance too often with the American?), the girl lacked grace.

  “Isn’t she lovely?” William said. Lady Atherly rolled her eyes and held her tongue. Fool.

  Of course, all the men admired her. How could they not? Miss Kendrick was beautiful and offered smiles and compliments to everyone like they were sweets. Her persistent questions made them think she was interested in what they had to say. But the women knew better. Just look at the way Mrs. Cowperth-waite and Mrs. Edsall whispered about Miss Kendrick behind their fans as the girl passed. No well-bred lady was interested in horse breeding or fossil hunting or fishing or who was elected to Parliament or any other such masculine pursuit.

  And then Lady Philippa Fairbrother waltzed past. Lady Philippa was graceful. She was witty. She was stunningly beautiful. And she didn’t show her teeth like a horse. In her emerald and ivory satin gown, she was the quintessence of good English breeding. And hadn’t she adored Lyndy? As the daughter of a marquess, she was everything a mother-in-law could want.

  If only Lady Philippa had married Lyndy and not Lord Fairbrother. Morrington could’ve been saved from ruin without Lady Atherly suffering the humiliation that was the Americans. If only Lady Philippa had inherited more.

  “You insisted Miss Kendrick attend, Frances. So why are you scowling when your future daughter-in-law is the belle of the ball?”

  Because no well-bred lady laughed while she danced either, nor would she ignore the disapproving stares of the society matrons. What did Miss Kendrick even have to laugh about? It certainly wasn’t something Lyndy had said. Her son was not that amusing.

  From the beginning, Lady Atherly set out to put a stop to Miss Kendrick’s outlandish behavior. No more stepping out with Lyndy unchaperoned or driving herself in the motorcar. No public displays of affection, no unauthorized visits to the stables, and no more shirking her social obligations. But despite Lady Atherly’s best efforts, Miss Kendrick still acted on impulse, let herself be swept away by emotion, and worst of all, persisted in asking inappropriate questions. Lady Atherly had made the mistake of insisting Miss Kendrick and her insufferable family move out of Morrington Hall. With Miss Kendrick living at Pilley Manor, though, Lady Atherly lost control over the girl. Whom she fraternized with was a constant concern. Lady Atherly had already nipped the inappropriate friendship with that silversmith’s daughter in the bud. But just tonight, Lady Atherly heard an untenable rumor that Miss Kendrick was well acquainted with the old village hermit, a snakecatcher of all things.

  Will the girl stop at nothing to embarrass this family?

  “Lovely evening, isn’t it?” the rotund wife of a minor landowner said, sidling up beside her. Her crimson silk dress clashed garishly with the woman’s ginger hair, her scent a vulgar overuse of rosewater. Lady Atherly had invited her to one garden party years ago, and the woman presumed to speak to her on familiar terms at every social gathering since. Lady Atherly acknowledged her with the barest of nods. The woman collapsed her fan and pointed it across the room. “Oh, dear. Whatever is your child up to?”

  Lady Atherly, knowing her daughter, Alice, had gone in to dinner, sought Lyndy on the ballroom floor. A cluster of dancers had stopped and gathered on the far end. Lyndy and Miss Kendrick were among them. A footman, his expression uncharacteristically showing concern, spoke to the group and gestured toward the door. Before the footman had finished talking, Miss Kendrick hitched up the train of her skirt and dashed past him, disappearing from the room. Lyndy chased after her.

  Lady Atherly let out a long, silent sigh. What now?

  With all the self-control Lady Atherly could muster, she pinched her lips together, lightly pressed her fingertips against the cold diamonds in her tiara, and said, “If you’ll excuse me.”

  What she wanted to do was scream at her husband, “See what you’ve done to this family, William? See what I must put up with?
” But she didn’t. She deliberately maneuvered her way across the crowded ballroom as she made her mind up. This was going to stop.

  * * *

  Tom Heppenstall flicked back the tap handle too late. The frothy head bubbled up over the rim and foam slid down the side of the glass. He shook his head in disgust as he reached for the towel draped across his shoulder. After wiping the glass dry, he set the pint down on the bar and collected the tuppence, all without glancing at who had ordered the stout. Instead, he stared across the sea of ruddy faces toward the door as it opened.

  Ah, bloody hell.

  Standing in the doorway, with an old potato sack flung across his shoulder, Harvey Milkham scowled beneath the dusty, worn hat that flopped down on both sides of his head. Had Tom ever seen him take it off? The snakecatcher’s hair was greasy white, Tom knew, in part because everyone knew Harvey was as old as the New Forest. Some joked Harvey once met King Rufus himself before that royal’s unfortunate premature demise. But also, Tom knew because of the thick, curly gray eyebrows that protruded wildly out from under the hat. It was a wonder the old man could see. But he had eyes as sharp as a tawny owl, and those eyes scanned the crowded pub.

  On any given day, Tom would pour Harvey his usual, before the old bloke reached the bar. The regulars didn’t have a problem with the hermit; he kept himself to himself. On slow, rainy nights, Tom even enjoyed prodding the snakecatcher with questions. Had Harvey found a new barrow? Had he visited Lord Duddleton to feed His Lordship’s talking bird with snakes he’d caught that day? Had Harvey met with the gentlemen from the London Zoo? Or had he been to Pilley Manor yet again, to visit with the Americans? What an odd pair, those two, Miss Kendrick and the snakecatcher, but their friendship made a bit of sense; they were both a bit daft.

  But (God help him), on a night like tonight, Harvey’s arrival could spell disaster. Not all of the locals were as welcoming. And Harvey didn’t help his case much. On more than one occasion, the snakecatcher had decided the crowd at the Knightwood Oak was too thick to traverse and had emptied the contents of his potato sack on the floor. The local greengrocer, and who knows who else, hadn’t set foot across the threshold since.

  Tom had to get to Harvey before the old snakecatcher decided to do it again.

  Ignoring someone’s call for a pint of bitter, Tom hobbled from behind the bar as fast as his swollen ankle would allow him and pushed into the lively crowd. If Harvey Milkham weren’t standing in the doorway with that blasted sack on his shoulder, Tom would’ve been pleased with the uptick in business lately. Ever since the previous vicar’s murder and rumors spread that the killer had spent his time pondering his crime in the Knightwood Oak, Tom has seen an influx of new customers. Mostly folk from the nearby villages, some traveled from as far away as Ringwood and Minstead to drink a pint in the same pub as a murderer. Luckily the rumors hadn’t reached beyond the boundaries of the Forest. The moment grockles started pouring in, for all the trouble they were worth, Tom might have to put a stop to all the idle gossip. Until then, who was Tom to argue?

  “How’s the ankle, Tom?” a well-wisher asked, as the publican tried to push past. Tom answered with a grunt and a shake of his head, as he spied that good for nothing boy who was the bane of his existence and the cause of his swollen ankle. The boy held a tray piled with dirty pint glasses before him. As he tried to navigate by a cluster of men, the boy lifted it. The glassware, teetering dangerously above his head, clanked but didn’t fall.

  “Oi!” Tom yelled. “Watch what you’re doing there, lad.”

  Yesterday, unbeknownst to Tom, the boy had spilled a glass of half-finished cider on the floor, purportedly after hearing the ghost of Old Bertie, the original proprietor of the pub. Tom knew it was just the wind blowing, not the moaning of an apparition of a man who’d died languishing in prison for smuggling more than a hundred years ago, but the boy believed the legend. The boy also failed to clean the spilled cider up. This morning, after checking on the stores in the cellar, Tom slipped on the sticky liquid and twisted his ankle. Tom, not one to fuss, simply choked down a syrupy teaspoon of laudanum before demanding the boy mop the entire floor. But even he knew standing behind the bar all day wasn’t doing himself any favors. Tom, his ankle throbbing, limped by the well-wisher toward the door.

  “Harvey! Harvey!”

  The shout—which rose above the din in the room as field hands, clerks, merchant’s assistants, and farmers unburdened themselves of the day with alcohol-loosened tongues—didn’t come from inside the pub. Men looked up from their beer as Tom neared the open doorway. A groom from Morrington Hall leaped from a dogcart and pulled the horse into the gravel yard of the pub.

  “Oi! Move your horse,” Tom yelled. Nothing good came from mingling the scent of a fine bitter with that of sweating horseflesh. But the groom, his face flush, obviously anxious, ignored him and unwisely grabbed Harvey’s arm with the hand not holding on to the reins of his horse.

  “You have to come with me. Now.”

  Harvey, startled, swirled around to push the groom away. The burlap sack slipped from his shoulder to the threshold of the pub. Several men nearby jumped back. With spikes of pain shooting up his leg, Tom lumbered forward as fast as he could.

  “Harvey, Miss Kendrick needs you,” the groom added. At the mention of the American lady, Harvey rubbed his bristly chin and followed the groom to the dogcart.

  “But isn’t the lassie at a party?” the grizzled old voice asked.

  “She is, but Tully’s been bitten by an adder. You have to come quick.”

  The two men leaped into the cart, the old snakecatcher being nimbler than Tom would’ve credited him for, and were driving past the green before Tom reached the threshold. He carefully reached down toward the abandoned potato sack as something wriggled inside. Tom snatched up the burlap bag, twisting the open end tightly closed in his fist. He limped slowly out the door, across the gravel yard of the pub—past the wooden tables that had been there so long they looked rooted—across the lane, and onto the village green. After approaching a dense flowerbed on the edge of the green, Tom set down the sack on its side and backed away. A long, thin tongue flicked out as a sleek brown head protruded from the bag. The rest of the body, marked with a dark brown zigzag on its back, followed, slithering out and disappearing under the brush.

  “Bloody hell.” Tom hated snakes. Who didn’t, but Harvey Milkham? But it wasn’t only the snake he cursed. Tom was profiting, yes, but why must it always be off the misfortunes of those up at Morrington Hall?

  * * *

  Stella leaped out of the automobile and jerked to a stop. She twisted around to see what was holding her back. Her ball gown had snagged on the corner of the door.

  “Augh. Let go.”

  She yanked on it with both hands, ignoring the tearing sound as a rent a foot long sliced up the side of her rose-colored satin skirt. Free of the door, she dashed toward the stables.

  I told them something like this would happen.

  Inside, darkness pervaded. The long orange rays of the setting sun, seeping through the half-open windows, barely lit the way. Why hadn’t the lanterns been lit yet? She rushed down the aisle that she’d treaded a hundred times in the past two months, dodging the anxious, downcast eyes of stable boys lining her way like the suits of armor up at Morrington Hall. She passed the stalls of the other horses. Most of the horses were calm, but curiously sticking their heads out the stall doors. Orson, their thoroughbred stallion, barely pulled his head away from his hay. But Tupper, their promising filly, whinnied as Stella passed, sensing something was wrong.

  When Stella finally reached her horse’s stall, she could barely make out the familiar shape of the prone figure on the straw-covered floor.

  “Tully!”

  She flung herself to her knees beside the horse, ignoring the prickly straw sticking into her silk stockings. Tully didn’t respond; no welcoming nicker, no raised head, not even an acknowledging glance. The horse’s eyes were closed and st
ayed that way, as Stella leaned down, snuggling her head against the thoroughbred’s sleek neck.

  Please, God, let her just be sleeping.

  A clean, white bandage was wrapped around Tully’s swollen left front knee. With her hand shaking, Stella reached toward the inside back of Tully’s uninjured right front knee. She nearly wept when she found a clear and consistent pulse. But it was faster than it should be.

  Harvey had warned her that he’d seen a high number of snakes in the area lately. And with the adder-breeding season in full swing, even she knew a pregnant adder was a dangerous snake. Stella had told Lyndy, but he’d explained that it wasn’t his place to alert the estate manager. She’d warned Lord Atherly, but he’d been too preoccupied with the upcoming visit of Professor Gridley to care. Finally, she herself had approached the estate manager. But without word from Lord Atherly, the estate manager merely shrugged at his inability to act. These hierarchical rules were maddening.

  And they say Americans do stupid things.

  A movement in the straw drew Stella’s attention. Until now she’d ignored everyone but Tully. She lifted her head and recognized the old man kneeling nearby, his floppy, old hat nearly covering his eyes. She grabbed his rough hand in relief and hopeful desperation.

  “Harvey, tell me she’s going to be all right.”

  “Oh, aye, lass. She’ll be lancing over the heath in no time.” Harvey gently patted Tully on her rounded barrel. “She’s sleeping soundly now.” His voice was heavily accented and gravelly, but Stella didn’t need to understand every word he said. His reassuring tone was enough. Stella flung her arms around him, clamped her eyes shut, and hugged the old snakecatcher. He smelled of damp soil and sweet pipe tobacco, like Grandpa Luckett. Stella had loved Grandpa Luckett.