Murder at Keyhaven Castle Page 4

The source of the commotion, shielded from Stella’s view by an increasingly growing knot of onlookers, was centered near the front of a colorful fruit market. Below the market’s dangling banana bunches were an ocean of hats. When the distinctive hard dome of a policeman’s helmet waded through the expansive gathering, Stella speculated about what had happened. Had someone tried to rob the fruit market? Had the pickpockets she’d heard frequent busy ports struck an unsuspecting passenger? Had someone been injured? Had they captured a stowaway?

  “Whatever it is, it doesn’t sound good,” Penny said when the shouting continued.

  “Don’t worry,” Stella’s father assured them. “They make a lot of fuss about nothing over here.”

  Stella wasn’t so sure. With multiple police whistles now blaring, she hoisted up the hem of her skirt and took a step forward.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” her father asked.

  “To find out what the ruckus is all about.”

  “Remember, a future viscountess doesn’t rush toward trouble.”

  “But—”

  Her father gripped the stiff fabric of her jacket sleeve and tugged her closer. Ensuring the Swensons’ attention was still captivated by the disturbance near the fruit stand, he leaned in and lowered his voice. “You will not embarrass me in front of my friends.”

  Stella bristled at his insinuation and jerked her arm away.

  He should talk. He’d embarrassed everyone at the engagement party. But saying so wouldn’t do Stella any good. She held her tongue.

  “I think I’ll go see what’s going on,” Mr. Swenson said, stepping forward.

  Stella willed her face not to betray her satisfaction. Had Mr. Swenson overheard the confrontation between father and daughter? Or was his comment a coincidence? Not being able to catch his eye, Stella couldn’t tell. Either way, she’d been vindicated; she wasn’t the only one bursting with curiosity.

  “Don’t, Theo,” Mrs. Swenson said, laying her hand on his sleeve. “You’ll only be getting in the way.”

  “Nonsense. I have to go check on the luggage anyway.” Without a backward glance, Mr. Swenson joined those still making their way down the wharf.

  Mrs. Swenson pinched her lips in disapproval, deepening the creases around her mouth and sagging chin line. Stella always thought of her as youthful. When had she aged so much?

  “See, it’s already dying down,” Daddy said when the whistles quieted. “I say we meet Theo with the carriage. I’ll have my coachman wait for your luggage.”

  “Excellent idea, Elijah. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Swenson, offering Stella’s father her hand for his assistance, stepped lightly into the carriage, followed by Penny, who forcefully shouldered her way in front of Stella to enter the carriage next. When she was a child, Stella would’ve been miffed at Penny’s behavior. Now Stella was untouched by whatever petty advantages the other woman sought. Besides, Stella didn’t want to get into the carriage at all. She squinted in the direction of the fruit stand, straining to spy Mr. Swenson in the crowd that was already thinning out. Mr. Swenson wasn’t there, but a disgruntled policeman was, shouting curses as he held a handkerchief to his nose and waving onlookers to move on.

  “Get in the carriage.” Daddy’s stern order startled Stella, and she clambered in.

  He banged on the carriage door to spur the coachman on, but they made little headway. Joining the hansom cabs, buckboard wagons, and passenger coaches squeezed together on the pier, they inched along in their effort to reach the broader city streets. Pedestrian stragglers outpaced them—it was exasperating! Stella wanted to leap over the side. But remembering her earlier lucky escape, she stayed put. To avoid Penny’s smug stare, she commiserated with a New Forest pony pulling a dogcart a few yards behind them; neither of them was as free to roam as they’d like.

  “What the hell?”

  Her father’s curse alerted Stella to the hard, frantic rumbling of hoofbeats as a team of horses tore into the crowded street. Screams followed. Men and women, dropping suitcases and snatching up wailing children, scrambled out of the path of the runaway wagon. Still trapped on the pier, Stella’s father’s carriage was well out of harm’s way, but Stella witnessed everything. One abandoned travel trunk, with destination labels from Shanghai, Paris, and New York, lay where it had dropped in the middle of the road. A policeman again blared his whistle. The driver of the wagon, his feet pressed against the footboard, shouted for the team to stop. He tugged back on the reins with all his strength, but to no avail. Barreling into the trunk, the driver barely managed to keep his seat. The team careened forward, leaving the travel chest crushed and forgotten behind it.

  “Watch out!”

  Stella bolted to her feet and shouted when a hansom cab, unaware of the approaching danger, rounded the corner. With others adding to her warning, they alerted the cab driver to the impending danger. He yanked on the reins, steering his horse to the side, hoping to avoid a collision. And it worked. The runaway horses of the wagon veered away. Then suddenly, a man stumbled into their path.

  “Get out of the way!” Stella screamed.

  The man never had a chance.

  Within seconds, the frightened horses enveloped him, the wooden bar between them smashing the man in the chest. A spray of bright red blood spurted from the man’s mouth and clung to the sweaty froth on the horses’ shoulders. Struggling to breathe, he flailed his arms, grasping, clutching for any part of the wagon or harness, as the force of the horses’ speed lifted him off the ground. Unable to catch hold, his head snapped back, a red bandanna around his neck evoking a bloody gash. In the next instant, his body was swept beneath the hooves of the horses. Shrieks punctuated the horror of it.

  “Dear God!” someone gasped when the cab, having rattled over the man’s trampled body, tipped and crashed, hurtling the driver into the street. He lay crumpled and unmoving while his wagon, smashed into shards from bouncing behind the bolting horses, lay scattered across a field of debris dozens of yards long. Spent from their exertions, the runaway horses finally halted when they reached the walls of the train depot at the far end of the street. It took less than a minute, and among the ruins of the wagon lie two broken bodies.

  “Let’s go!” Stella’s father called to their coachman.

  “But—” Stella began, her hand on the door handle, enthralled by the wreckage. “Shouldn’t we offer to help?”

  “We need to meet up with Theo,” Mrs. Swenson said, nervously searching the crowd.

  “Besides, this doesn’t have anything to do with us,” Daddy said when their carriage jerked forward, sending Stella backward into her seat. “And for once, you’re going to have to mind your own business.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Lyndy glanced up from his racing paper at the sound of Mother’s scissors. Snip. Snip. Snip. Green tips littered the tabletop as she clipped the stems of her Michaelmas daisies. Why must she insist on doing this while he was there? Wasn’t it enough she’d sent Owen and Alfred out into the garden to collect dahlias? Must she disturb the only peace he’d hope to find until tonight? Lyndy tossed the paper to one side in defeat. He’d admired the zeal with which Mother had taken up the mantel of flower arranging when their situation demanded economy; she was surprisingly good at it. Every room burst with the fragrance and color of her bouquets. But given her proclivity for doing it in his presence, Mother wouldn’t be the only one gladdened to hire a proper gardener again.

  “Now that we’re alone, there is a matter I’ve been meaning to speak to you about,” she said, eyeing the arrangement carefully before sticking the lavender daisy among the others in the vase. Lyndy tugged at the end of his sleeve. He didn’t like the sound of that. He should’ve joined Owen and Alfred while he had the chance. “I think it’s time we—”

  With his impeccable timing, the butler arrived, ending all chances of an intimate conversation. Lyndy popped up out of his armchair, hoping to escape while he could.

  “What is it, Fulton?” Mother s
aid. To Lyndy, she added, “You, stay put.”

  “I regret interrupting, milady,” the butler said when Lyndy plopped down into the nearest chair, crossing his arms and stretching his legs out before him, “but there is a somewhat scruffy ‘gentleman’ with two young children at the door.”

  “What could they possibly want?” Lyndy wondered out loud. “Are they selling something? Has their horse gone lame?” His questioning surprised him and brought Stella to mind. He allowed himself an inward smile.

  “What does it matter?” Mother said curtly. “Send them away, Fulton.”

  “I tried, milady, but—”

  “Try harder, Fulton.” Mother’s tone as she snipped the leaves off another daisy should’ve dismissed the butler, but Fulton held his ground.

  “I beg your pardon, milady, but he claims to be a guest of this house, that he was ‘invited to stay at Morrington Hall by Her Grand Ladyship.’ His words, not mine.”

  “Who on earth? I would never . . .” Mother sputtered, annoyed to be imposed upon in such a way.

  “He gave his name as Mr. Jedidiah Kendrick, milady.”

  Mother dropped the flower to the floor.

  Lyndy snorted in disbelief. “Are you certain this man called himself Kendrick?”

  The butler nodded. “I am, my lord.”

  Mother’s cold stare shifted from her flowers to Lyndy to the butler. She was not amused.

  “You may let them into the hall, Fulton, and have them wait. Someone will arrive shortly to deal with them. And get this cleaned up, will you?” She motioned toward the colorful jumble of stems, leaves, and petals on the table and floor. The moment Fulton left the room, Mother glared at Lyndy. “Do you know anything about this?”

  “Me? I’ve never heard of the man.”

  Stella had never mentioned having any other living relatives. Though, to be honest, Lyndy had never asked.

  “Nevertheless, since he claims to be a relation of your fiancée,” Mother said, her voice strained, “you will sort it all out.”

  Lyndy, curious to meet this uninvited mystery relative, was all too happy to “sort it all out.” But when he strolled into the hall, he wasn’t prepared for the scene before him. Sitting on the ladderback chair was a man unquestionably related to Elijah Kendrick, albeit with a scruffy beard, an amiable crooked smile, and considerably less around the middle. A heavily worn knapsack and small travel trunk with tattered edges lay on the floor at his feet. On the trunk sat two modestly but well-groomed children, their hands folded in their laps. The fair-haired, cherub-faced boy bent his head toward his younger sister, whispering something as she kicked her legs mindlessly against the trunk.

  “Mr. Kendrick?” Lyndy called.

  The three faces snapped up at him, and Lyndy’s breath caught in his throat. The little girl, despite the shy, frightened expression on her sweet face, was how Lyndy imagined Stella as a child. The boy’s green eyes held the same eager curiosity and kindness evident every day in Lyndy’s future bride. There was no mistaking the close kinship.

  “I’m Lord Lyndhurst. You must be relatives of Miss Kendrick’s?”

  “She’s our cousin,” the boy said, puffing out his little chest in pride. The girl’s face gleamed as she grasped her brother’s hand, but she said nothing. She might resemble her cousin, but she lacked Stella’s vitality and courage. Perhaps Stella was once like this shy little girl too. Lyndy chuckled to himself.

  I doubt that.

  “I’ll answer His Lordship, Sammy,” Mr. Kendrick said. It was a rebuke but laced with a warmth seldom heard on his brother’s tongue. Mr. Kendrick rose and held out his hand. “I’m pleased to meet ya, Lord Lyndhurst. Jedidiah Kendrick, at your service. As the young’un said, Stella is my brother’s girl. So, may I add my hearty congratulations to the many I reckon you’ve already gotten.”

  Lyndy took the man’s hand without hesitation. This Kendrick’s manner was so unlike his brother, Lyndy took an instant liking to the man. “Thank you, Mr. Kendrick.”

  “Please, call me Jed. Everyone does.”

  “And since we are soon to be family, please call me Lyndy.”

  Jed glanced down at his children and grinned in surprised triumph, revealing a chipped front tooth. “Well, how do ya like that. I haven’t been in this country twelve hours, and already I’m on a first name basis with an English lord.” He poked the boy playfully in the shoulder with his elbow. “Oh, I forget my manners. This here is Sammy, who’s ten.”

  “Please to meet you, Sammy,” Lyndy said.

  Without hesitation, the boy stood, wiped his hand on his trouser leg, and offered Lyndy his hand. Lyndy, who’d spent so little time in the company of children, managed not to laugh at the earnest expression on the boy’s face when he deliberately shook Lyndy’s hand up and down twice before letting go.

  “I’m ten and a half,” Sammy said, correcting his father.

  “And this is my little sweet pea, Gertie.”

  Gertrude leaped down from the trunk, dropped into a curtsy, and quickly bobbed back up. The awkward, sweet action recalled the day Lyndy had met Stella and the deep curtsy she’d so carefully practiced. While Mother had been put off by the awkward gesture, Lyndy had been as captivated as he was now with this little creature.

  “I’m six,” she declared. Lyndy chuckled. “Why’d the man laugh, Daddy? Didn’t I do what you’re supposed to do?” The little girl’s high-pitched voice rang out, offended.

  “Ya did very well, Gertie,” Jed reassured his daughter. “Now, Lyndy, where should we drop our bags?” He picked up his knapsack and threw it over his shoulder.

  Lyndy stiffened at the reminder of the problem at hand. “As to that, Mr. Kendrick,” Lyndy said, a note of regret in his voice. He’d have no problem housing these charming creatures, but Mother would never allow it. “There has been a misunderstanding.”

  “Jed, remember? And what is this about a misunderstanding? We were invited to stay with Stella, so here we are.” He dropped his bag again, squatted down, and began rummaging through it. “I’ve got the invitation in here, somewhere.”

  How odd. Stella’s father hadn’t included his brother on the guest list. If Lyndy recalled right, Mr. Kendrick hadn’t invited any of his family besides Miss Luckett, Stella’s great aunt. Stella must’ve sent the invitation. Whom else had she invited? What other relations might they expect?

  “It’s not that,” Lyndy said, motioning for Jed to quit searching. “The thing is, Miss Kendrick doesn’t live here. She, your brother, and your Aunt Rachel are currently residing in town at the dowager house.”

  Jed’s face twisted tighter in confusion with every word. “Are ya trying to tell me we’ve come to the wrong house?”

  “Essentially, yes. But don’t worry. I’ll arrange to have your luggage transported to Pilley Manor and word sent to Miss Kendrick that you are here.”

  “Thank you, kindly, Lyndy. It was heavy work carrying the trunk from the train station.”

  “Indeed.”

  They walked?

  Lyndy took in the condition of the assemblage with new insight. In places, the trunk’s leather straps had thinned and lost all color. Several of the steel studs had popped off. The blue ribbon on Gertrude’s little hat frayed along the edge, Sammy didn’t have a cap at all, and Mr. Kendrick’s beard could benefit from a trim. But instead of squirming under his scrutiny, the trio waited patiently, with open, friendly faces.

  Poor relations, then. Is that why Stella never mentioned them? More likely, it’s why her father didn’t invite them.

  “Would you like to meet my mother and a few of the other wedding guests while you rest a bit? And if you’re hungry, I’ll see something’s brought up.”

  Lyndy knew very well the invitation wouldn’t meet with Mother’s approval. But her displeasure would be but a bonus. In showing this family a little kindness, and getting to know them better, perhaps he’d discern how the woman he loved came to have such a gentle nature. She plainly hadn’t taken after h
er father.

  “Well, thank ya, kindly,” Jed said. “That is if ya don’t think we’d be imposing?”

  “Absolutely not,” Lyndy said, pushing the button summoning Fulton. “My mother will be delighted.”

  * * *

  What a mess! Inspector Archibald Brown could see the extent of the wreckage from here. Brown didn’t envy those assigned to its cleanup. Whatever Clark meant by “unusual circumstances” didn’t bode well for the investigation into the accident either. Happily, for him, all this was a job for the Southampton County Borough Police. He was simply here to help an old mate. Matilda, the police horse, nickered, declaring her readiness to head home now.

  Constable Waterman, the brown bag of apples cradled in the crook of his arm, offered one to the mare. Matilda greedily gobbled it up while Brown handed tuppence to the grocer.

  “Right!” Brown said, stuffing the banana he’d bought to bring home to the Mrs. into his waistcoat pocket.

  Brown patted the mare on the neck and stepped away from the police wagon. Ignoring the press of onlookers in the street, he approached the nearest local policeman keeping them at bay. Brown flashed his warrant card and, without waiting for a response, motioned to Constable Waterman to dispense with the apples and follow him. Brown located Sergeant Clark, a competent fellow he’d known from his uniform days, and headed for him, straddling splintered planks and sidestepping broken wagon wheels as he went. Behind him, Waterman did the same.

  “Archie,” Clark said, acknowledging him with a solemn nod. “I appreciate you coming so promptly.”

  “What’s all this about?” Brown said. When he’d telephoned, the sergeant had expressed the urgency of the situation but little else. “I’ve seen nothing you Southampton lads can’t handle.”

  “Oh, we can handle it all right,” Clark said.

  “So why ask for me?”

  “Over here.” The sergeant led Brown, with Waterman in tow, down a stretch of debris-covered street to where a gray woolen blanket covered the prone figure of a body. Three bloodied fingers poked out from underneath. “As I told you over the telephone, we have two casualties. The wagon driver sustained several serious injuries and is lucky to be breathing. We’ve already sent him to hospital. This chap, however”—Clark indicated the body at their feet—“wasn’t so fortunate.”