Murder at Keyhaven Castle Page 12

  “Blame lies for what?” a voice asked from behind Ivy.

  Ivy spun around abruptly at the sound of Stella’s voice. How much had she heard? “Nothing,” Ivy stammered.

  “It didn’t sound like nothing,” Stella said when a groom approached with a stunning dapple-gray mare. Could that be Stella’s pet horse? The mare had been a foal the last time Ivy saw it.

  “Is that Tully?” Ivy said. “How lucky you are she’s here with you.”

  Stella crinkled her beautiful face in dissatisfaction at Ivy’s deflection.

  “I am.” Stella stepped into the groom’s cupped hands and hoisted herself into the mare’s saddle. “And I’m lucky you’re here too.” Stella’s tone was sincere but suspicious. Before Ivy could reassure the girl, before she could express how delighted she was to be here, Stella steered her horse away, called away by the others.

  Was Elijah right? When Stella learned the extent of what Ivy was hiding, would she ever trust Ivy again?

  As if reading her mind, Elijah smirked. “Maybe you shouldn’t have come after all, eh, Ivy?”

  When he lumbered off toward his waiting mount, Ivy stared at the shiny bald spot at the back of his head, resisting the urge to fling her handbag at it.

  CHAPTER 13

  Stella smelled the salt in the air long before the sea came into view. They had taken a route that crossed the windswept shrubby heath from Rosehurst toward the small coastal village of Keyhaven, a cluster of whitewashed cottages and red-tiled brick buildings facing a picturesque harbor with more boats anchored in the bay than buildings on the shore. Past the village, the marshes spread out before them, vast mats of floating grass blurring the edge between land and the Solent, the deep, wave-crested, miles-wide channel between them and the Isle of Wight. But for a few wispy clouds, the sky and the water matched in color; crystal-clear blue. What an inspired plan. A prewedding picnic. All her concerns, her questions, her doubts about Uncle Jed, Aunt Ivy, the dead jockey, the anxiety of getting married in two days, drifted away like the yachts on the water, their sails flashing bright white in the sun.

  “I don’t see any castle,” Daddy said from the landau he shared with Aunt Ivy, Penny, and Mr. Swenson.

  The other Americans followed her father’s lead, searching the approaching coastline for turrets and flags, but there was nothing.

  “Me neither,” said Sammy, disappointed.

  Stella halted Tully beside Lord Atherly’s carriage where Sammy, his sister, and Ethel squeezed in beside each other. Uncle Jed had offered to drive. He’d wanted to use the Daimler, but Lyndy had assured everyone the terrain was no place for an automobile.

  Stella turned to Lyndy when he and Beau rode up beside her. “Lyndy? Where is it?”

  “You don’t see it because it isn’t on the coast here,” Lyndy said. “It’s out on a spit, a curling, narrow peninsula of sorts, that juts out into the water a good mile or more.”

  “Better to defend the mainland from foreign invaders coming by boat,” Sir Owen added, astride Lister, Lord Atherly’s Cleveland Bay. “King Henry had a string of them built along the coast.”

  “What are we waiting for then?” Sammy said impatiently. “Let’s go.”

  Sir Owen, as eager as the boy, took the lead. Stella and Lyndy, on horseback, followed him single file down a well-worn track of gravel and sand onto a narrow strip of land. The two carriages and the dogcart with the picnic supplies bumped along behind them. As they rode, Stella couldn’t keep her head still; there was so much to see. On one side of the spit was the calm, bay-like River Keyhaven, sheltered from the breeze off the water by the thick mats of grass that lined both sides of the river. Dozens of boats—white yachts with spindly, tall masts; small fishing vessels; and dinghies anchored to the bottom—bobbed gently in the river. Waterbirds—redshank, little egrets, curlews, and various terns and gulls—swooped over the water, fished the shallows, or paddled about enjoying the sunshine. And was that a seal popping its head out of the water?

  The other side of the spit, no less impressive, was dominated by the Solent and the hazy outline of the humpback hills of the Isle of Wight beyond. In the distance, an ocean liner, its smokestacks like black lines smudging the sky, having left Southampton behind, headed out to the open sea. Stella’s thoughts immediately leaped to the dead jockey, his threats, his missing gun. Why was she still worried about him? As her father had assured her, and she Lyndy, Pistol Prescott was dead, and his threat gone with him. Wasn’t it?

  She patted Tully on the neck and turned away from the ship, from the distant, vague shimmer of Southampton in the east, to observe the meandering western coastline, captivated by the sun’s glare on distant chalky white cliffs.

  “There it is!” Sammy shouted, standing up in the carriage and pointing.

  Ethel held Gertie tightly on her lap to keep the little girl from following her brother’s example as Stella surveyed the landscape in the direction Sammy pointed. At the end of the spit stood a massive three-story crenelated stone tower keep ringed by two-story stone circular bastions. A moat, long since dried up, encircled the entire complex. Despite being abandoned, the British Union Jack flapped from a single flagpole jutting up from the central tower’s roof.

  “Wow!” Penny exclaimed when they drew nearer, the thick, gray stone walls looming large and high above their heads.

  “You said it, Penelope, darling,” Mr. Swenson said. “I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it.”

  “And in this country,” Daddy boasted, “places like this are a dime a dozen.”

  “Really?”

  Stella had never heard such admiration in Penny’s tone. Could Penny be genuinely impressed?

  “I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Kendrick,” Sir Owen corrected. “But granted, we probably have a few more medieval castles in England than you do.”

  “I’ll say,” Aunt Ivy said, gaping up when they entered the shadows beneath its walls.

  “And surely, this one is special. Some would say even sacred,” Lyndy said. “When King Henry disbanded the Catholic Church, he literately dismantled the abbeys as well. The stones you see here once formed Beaulieu Abbey, right here in the Forest.”

  Stella steered Tully closer, reaching out to touch the massive stone blocks that made up the walls. The castle had risen from the abbey’s destruction, like a phoenix. And here it stood almost five centuries later. Could this wedding be like the building of this castle, making something stable and beautiful after her father’s betrayal and lack of affection?

  “Pa, where are you going?” Sammy said.

  Stella swiveled in her saddle as Uncle Jed handed the reins of the carriage to his son and leaped down from the driver’s seat. The pebbles covering the spit crunched beneath his boots when he landed. He pulled a cigar from his waistcoat pocket and stuck it between his teeth.

  “I need to stretch my legs.” Without further explanation, Uncle Jed skidded down the moat’s embankment, rounded the corner, and disappeared.

  “Why did he come in the first place?” Daddy grumbled.

  With no one left to drive, Ethel urged the children to climb out and walk. But Mr. Swenson kindly offered to take the reins for the last few dozen yards.

  Owen, Stella, and Lyndy led the way across the drawbridge that spanned the grass-filled dry moat, the horses’ hooves clip-clopping on the thick wooden boards. The chains of wrought iron rings attached on either side of the bridge harkened back to a more turbulent time when raising the bridge was often a necessity. Now the narrow two-story stone gate gapped open. The carriages rattled in behind Stella and Tully, the rumble of the wheels echoing against the high walls of the weed-choked cobblestone courtyard. When the party clustered together, no one spoke. For several moments, only the soft sound of the horses’ breath, the cooing of roosting doves, and the distant lapping of waves broke the silence. Like everyone else, Stella was in awe. . . . Of the light streaming through the slit-like windows, designed for shooting through. Of the dozens of darkened doorways,
hinting at the high number of people who once lived and worked here. Of the surrounding stone walls that blocked out the rest of the world.

  Lyndy was right. Abandoned a long time ago, it did have an air of sacredness. And they had it to themselves.

  “We’ll have our picnic there,” Sir Owen suggested, pointing to a patch of ungrazed, grassy lawn. “It’s the only sunny spot.”

  Stella agreed. The day was too lovely to waste sitting in the shadows.

  “I say we all wander about a bit before regrouping for the picnic,” Lyndy said, slipping down from Beau.

  “Come on, Gertie,” Sammy said, grabbing his sister’s hand and pulling her down from the carriage. “Let’s explore.”

  “Don’t go too far,” Stella called when the children disappeared into one of the many unlocked doorways.

  Stella and Lyndy helped unhitch the carriage horses while Ethel and James, the first footman, unpacked the dogcart. After Stella made sure all the horses were free to graze, she noticed everyone but Lyndy and the servants had made themselves scarce. Even Penny, whose wide-brimmed straw hat Stella glimpsed disappearing into the central tower, was surprisingly eager to explore.

  “Shall we?” Lyndy offered Stella his arm and led her away from the central keep.

  He ducked into the first door they encountered. It was a dark, cavernous room covered in the rubble of an old coal pile. What Stella mistook for gravel on the floor soiled her boots and the hem of her dress with soot. That room lead into a narrow hall with a wet, slick ceiling so low Stella could reach up and touch it. Everything was made of stone.

  As the hall twisted and turned, they passed room after room, dark, damp, and empty. Lyndy lead them down a wide staircase that ended in a flooded basement. From there, they climbed single file up a winding staircase, where countless feet had worn deep hollows into the edge of the stone steps. When light spilled into the stairwell, they followed it through an open doorway. The room was large with several fireplaces and brightly lit and dry, the sun streaming through several well-placed windows. Inexplicable nooks, carved deep into the stone, haphazardly punctuated the walls. Stella tried to picture the room when fires raged, tapestries hung on the walls, and the floors were covered with carpets. Was this the living quarters of the medieval soldiers? Their dining room? Or was this where they planned their defenses? Now it was eerily quiet and cold.

  “We’re finally alone,” Lyndy whispered, his breath warm against her ear. He pulled the pin from her hat and tossed it to the floor. Wrapping an arm around her waist, Lyndy pressed his lips against her cool skin, kissing slowly, from her ear to the nape of her neck. His other hand reached into her hair, supporting her head as he guided her gently backward. After the warmth of his embrace, the heat of his lips, the icy cold of the stone through her linen dress as he pressed her against the wall rocketed down her spine. But instead of pushing away from the wall, she pulled him closer. She placed her hands on his cheeks, the hint of stubble tickling her palms, and lifted his face from her neck to her lips. He hungrily pressed his mouth against hers, the hard, cold stone forgotten. A pulse of heat shot through her belly as she sought to bury herself into him.

  “Whaaaaaa!” At the sound of the distant, guttural yell, Stella and Lyndy jerked apart.

  “What the devil?” Lyndy cursed, his face flush, his eyes bright and glistening.

  Stella, bile rising in her throat where moments ago Lyndy had planted kisses, stared at him in horror. “Oh, my God! What was that?”

  “It sounded like a man crying out in pain.”

  “We have to go.”

  Stella bolted for the door. But instead of the winding staircase she expected, she was in another narrow, darkened hall. She swiveled around to turn back and collided against Lyndy a few steps behind her, lace from the collar of her dress snagging on his waistcoat button.

  Lyndy pointed over her head toward a door down the hall she hadn’t noticed before. “It came from the direction of the central tower. We’ll get there faster that way.”

  “Then let’s go,” Stella said, yanking her collar free.

  Lyndy squeezed by her and grabbed her hand. With their fingers tightly lacing together, he guided her toward the direction of the cry.

  * * *

  Stella squinted when she and Lyndy emerged from the dark into the castle courtyard. “Ethel?”

  “Right here, miss.” Ethel knelt on the checkered picnic rug laid out on the grass and clutched the children, one in each arm. Gertie sniffled in fear. Plates filled with fresh fruit, finger sandwiches, and chunks of cheese lay on the rug before them.

  Stella was relieved the children were safe. She counted the horses, and except for a few nervous whinnies, they too seemed fine. So, what happened? Stella asked her maid.

  “I’d begun to feed the children when someone cried out,” Ethel said. “I didn’t know who or why so I thought it best to stay put and keep the children with me.”

  “Was it a ghost?” Sammy asked, his voice shaking.

  “No, Sammy,” Stella said gently. “Someone is hurt somewhere.” She surveyed the courtyard. “Where is everyone else?”

  “I haven’t seen anyone but James and the children since you all left,” Ethel said, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping away Gertie’s tears.

  Mr. Swenson, his face flush from running, burst through a nearby doorway. “What happened? I heard someone call out.”

  “I don’t know, but it came from up there.” Ethel pointed to the top of the central tower.

  Without hesitation, Stella aimed for the wooden stairs that spiraled around the outside of the stone tower. Lyndy and Mr. Swenson were right behind her.

  “Who yelled?” Aunt Ivy, leaning over the edge of the bastion wall, called down to those below. “Is everything okay?”

  “We don’t know,” Stella answered, trying to keep her focus on not losing her step.

  If there had been a railing for the stairs, it had disappeared long ago. As they climbed, Stella trailed her hand along the rough stone wall, purposefully positioning her foot on the next step. When the stairs ended halfway up the tower, Stella stepped tentatively through the open doorway, not relishing exchanging the bright day for darkness. Who knew what she would encounter inside? But with the gun slits positioned at equal intervals around the circular, vaulted room, it was lighter inside than Stella expected. Still, she had to let her sight adjust.

  The first thing she noticed was Penny, backed up against the wall, her arms hugging her knees, the brim of her hat bent against the stone, her face flush, tears streaming down her cheeks. Stella rushed to her side and knelt before her on the hard stone floor.

  “Penny! Are you all right? What happened?”

  Penny sniffled and gulped for air. She wordlessly pointed past Stella’s shoulder, her finger shaking toward an inner spiral staircase across the room. Hidden by the stairwell wall, it hadn’t been visible when she’d entered. In the shadows at the foot of the stairs lay a man’s body. His feet, legs, and knees, bent in unnatural angles, draped upward across the bottom few steps. With his arms sprawled out before him, his head and torso lay flat on the floor below. A smoldering cigar, its glowing red tip unmistakable in the dark, lay inches from the man’s outstretched fingers. He wasn’t moving or making a sound.

  Uncle Jed!

  This couldn’t be. Stella had only reunited with him yesterday. Whatever suspicions she had about him, he was still her uncle. And the children. How was she going to tell Sammy and Gertie their father was dead?

  Stella leaped to her feet. Mr. Swenson grasped her arm when she moved toward the stairs, hoping perhaps to shield her from the worst, but she wouldn’t be deterred. She pulled away and crossed the room, Lyndy following closely. With tears welling up, blurring the body before her, Stella knelt, slipped her hand under the man’s cheeks, still warm to the touch, and gently raised his head off the floor. She rotated his face toward her.

  It wasn’t Uncle Jed.

  “No!” she cried, letting go
and slumping onto her hip. Stella gasped for breath. Her fingers and hands and face tingled and grew numb.

  “Bloody hell!” Lyndy muttered from behind her.

  The man stared upward, unblinking, his mouth a frozen grimace of shock and pain. With a burning pain in her chest, she reached for his hand. Callouses, earned as a hardworking youth and never lost, hardened the inside of his palm. She squeezed it, trying to remember the last time she’d held his hand. In life, he’d shunned her touch and her affection. In death, he no longer had a say.

  No! Daddy! No!

  Stella curled over the body of her dead father and released all the tension between them, sobbing until her body was wracked with convulsions and she couldn’t breathe. So lost in her grief, she never questioned how it happened or why. She’d lost both of her parents now, orphaned two days before her wedding, and she’d never felt so alone in her life.

  And then the weight of Lyndy’s hand on her shoulder brought her back. Back to the tower room, back to cold seeping up through the floor numbing her hip and legs, back to the world where a man she’d met a few months ago loved her more than her father did.

  Lyndy pressed a handkerchief into her hand.

  Seeking the comfort of the light and hungering for the fresh air that wafted down the wide stairs spiraling above her, she wiped her cheeks and lifted her face. There, at the top of the stairs, framed against the blue sky, was Sir Owen. He stared down at her from the roof, his hand held against his cheek, blood running down his fingers.

  CHAPTER 14

  Inspector Brown peered down at the mangled body. The loss of life was a terrible thing, even to a terrible man. No one, not even Mr. Elijah Kendrick, deserved to end up this way.

  When he received the call to the castle, Brown’s first thought was a reckless lad had tried to scale the walls and had lost his footing or had been caught down in the dark recesses of the castle basement with high tide coming in. And with his resources bent on tracking down the puzzling circumstances behind the life and death of Mr. Jesse James Prescott, Brown inwardly cursed the lad who was wasting his precious time.