Murder at Keyhaven Castle Page 5

  Clark knelt, with apparent difficulty, the old horse injury still plaguing him no doubt, and pulled back the blanket. Lying beneath was the mangled, broken body of a man, his limbs flailed out and twisted in unnatural ways. His nose was crushed to one side. One cheek, scraped and bruised, bore the muddy imprint of a horse hoof. Blood was everywhere. Thick mats of it caked his hair and eyebrows. It pooled beneath his head and in the unnatural recesses around his battered eyes. It had dried in streaks down his face. Instinctively, Brown shied away for an instant. Brown had viewed more than his share of damaged dead bodies. Yet he couldn’t remember anything worse than this.

  “Is that . . . ?” He trained the tip of his boot on a bloody lump of something lying near the man’s head. Behind him, his constable retched.

  Clark shook his head. “It was a bandanna or necktie of a sort. Someone tried to use the cloth to stem the bleeding. I’m guessing it was red to start with.”

  Brown nodded, relieved not to have been pointing at bits of the man’s brain. “What happened? He wouldn’t have gotten all that from falling from a wagon.”

  Clark replaced the blanket over the victim’s face and struggled to his feet, shrugging off all offers of aid. “He wasn’t in any of the vehicles. He was a pedestrian, the poor sod. Got tramped by a team of bolting horses and then ran over by the wagon.”

  Brown knew of one other case where horses had trampled a man, and that poor chap survived, though he never walked right again. “So, who is he?”

  “We don’t know. When we searched the body, we found no wallet, no money, no identification whatsoever.”

  Brown glanced over his shoulder at the curious crowd straining to see past the barriers being set up by Southampton’s uniformed lads. Then he peered out toward the docks. Smokestacks, from no less than three ocean liners, towered above the city. “He could be anyone. With several newly arrived ships, he might not even be local.” The sergeant nodded.

  “Which is why it’s imperative we put a name to this man, posthaste.”

  “Why the rush?”

  “Because before he died, multiple witnesses overheard our victim threatening to kill someone, and we have but one clue to this man’s identity. Here, Inspector, is where you come in.”

  “How’s that?”

  Clark held out a creased, soiled newspaper clipping that had been torn out by hand. Brown took the fragment and read it. He hesitated a moment before passing it to his constable to read. Constable Waterman whistled his surprise.

  “I’ll need photographs taken immediately,” Brown said, hoping the trauma hadn’t made the man’s face unrecognizable.

  “I thought you’d say that. The police photographer is already on his way.” Clark rubbed his injured sore knee. “Now you see why you’re here.”

  Brown, pinching the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes and nodded. The circumstances Clark had calmly described as unusual, Brown silently dubbed a potential powder keg.

  “I suspected you’d want to be the one to handle this aspect of the case, Archie,” Clark said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “seeing Morrington Hall is on your patch.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Squashed between Penny Swenson and the wall of the carriage, Stella concentrated on the landscape they rumbled past, trying to shake the tragic accident they’d left behind. She hoped the changing scenery would divert her attention in a way the inane chitchat between her father and the Swensons about the quality of the meals, the cabins in first class, and the company on the ocean liner had not. The brick and stone three-story buildings lining the city streets of Southampton gave way to vistas of meadows and farmhouses on one side, mudflats and the broad channel of the River Test on the other. They rattled across the iron expansion bridge, through the modest village of Totten, and finally under the overhanging branches of a New Forest woodland. She remembered the journey from the day she arrived in England, though at a less puttering, jolting pace. She’d been driving her father’s Daimler and fluttering with excitement and anticipation, unaware of what was to come: betrayal, ridicule, tragedy, love. Had she known what had awaited her, she might’ve turned back. Yet now, when the carriage emerged from the shelter of the shaded grove onto the sprawling heath land, checkered with green grazing lawns, shallow seasonal ponds, and fading purple heather, a soothing calm rippled through her, much like that of returning home.

  When the carriage creaked to the pace of spilled molasses, Mrs. Swenson interrupted the men’s talk of Saratoga and the Travers Stakes to ask, “Why are we moving so slowly?” where a quick peek out the window would have told her why.

  Up ahead, four shaggy donkeys, one white and three of varying shades of brown, loitered in the middle of the gravel road. When the animals showed no signs of moving on, the carriage came to a halt. Stella’s father poked his head out the window, shouting for the coachman to do something. Before the coachman could clamber down from his perch in the front of the carriage, Stella opened the door, ducked through, and hopped out.

  “What are you doing?” Penny Swenson said as if Stella had stepped off into a lava field.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” Stella said, leaving the door ajar.

  She approached the animals cautiously, shooing them away, her gloves like white flags waving in a brisk wind. Although one donkey, the white one, squinted at her with disdain, the others were more skittish and scampered to the safety of a tall gorse bush on the other side of the road. A few yellow flowers still clung to its prickly branches. After a few clicks of Stella’s tongue, the last donkey sauntered away to join the others.

  After Stella settled herself back in the cramped space of the coach, Mr. Swenson, across from her, leaned out their shared window. He held the crown of his hat tightly against his head.

  “I’ll be darned. Folks let their livestock run wild here? It’s akin to what the West was like before barbed wire.”

  “Crazy people even allow the animals in town,” Daddy said. The carriage jerked forward again.

  “It’s true,” Stella said, to the expressions of disbelief on the Swensons’ faces. “And wait until you see the pigs.” Stella laughed when Penny’s expression flashed from doubt to disgust.

  The pannage season, as the locals call it, had just begun. When the oaks dropped their acorns, pigs were allowed free range on the Forest, to forage for the nuts poisonous to cattle and ponies. The lumbering animals snorted and squealed as they rooted through fallen leaves across village greens, along wooded roadsides, and between gravestones in churchyards. The first time Stella had encountered one, she’d slammed on the breaks, leaped from the car, and pursued it across the grassy triangle between the crossroads. She’d crept closer and closer until she realized the pig didn’t have a mouthful of acorns, as she suspected, but was dragging the carcass of a rat in its mouth.

  “But aren’t they dangerous?” Penny asked as they approached the outskirts of Rosehurst and its famous watersplash.

  “They can be,” Stella said. “I’d stay clear if I were you.”

  When the carriage waded into the stream flowing across the road, Penny peered out the window, her forehead wrinkled in worry. As if the landau might be swept away by sudden rapids or rabid animals might leap through the window at any moment. Stella had forgotten how Penny didn’t have an adventurous bone in her body.

  She’s in the wrong place to find a husband.

  “Wait a minute,” Penny said, in surprise. “Is that Miss Ivy?” Penny’s voice rang with both hope and disappointment as she dismissed the vision before her. “It couldn’t be. Could it?”

  No, it couldn’t be.

  “Where?” Stella scoured the street but saw no sign of the woman Penny had spotted. Rosehurst lacked the commotion of the Southampton wharf, but it still teemed with bustling traffic.

  Penny pointed toward the corner hotel, the White Hart Inn, a redbrick building with half-timbering on its many gables. Skipping down the wooden steps was a petite dark-haired woman dressed in a smart wine and gold walking sui
t. The woman glanced up at the corner street sign, and Stella’s breath caught. Hers was another face that resembled Stella’s mother. This must be who she’d seen at the wharf.

  “Stop the carriage!”

  Catching a glance of the woman who’d turn at the sound of Stella’s shout, Daddy swore under his breath. “For God’s sake, what the hell is she doing here?”

  * * *

  Mrs. Robertson stepped into the kitchen again. And she was right to.

  Why was there still a sack of unpeeled potatoes at the foot of the table? Didn’t Mrs. Downie need to put them to boil? The wee lad would be so disappointed if they didn’t serve neeps and tatties. Yet Mrs. Downie was rolling out pastry. And why did the room smell of gingerbread when they’d agreed on Dundee cake?

  Could the cook not have started yet? How can that be? Twenty minutes ago, Mrs. Downie had insisted supper would be ready on time. Ten minutes ago, Mrs. Downie had assured the housekeeper she had everything in hand.

  Mrs. Robertson strode from one end of the kitchen to the other, peeking under tea towels, sniffing over steaming pots of savory broth, lifting pot lids. The smells wafting from the dishes of roast pheasant, plum jelly, fig compote made her mouth water. She bent to retrieve a wooden stirring spoon from the floor.

  “Might I remind you, Mrs. Downie,” Mrs. Robertson said, “that we have a guest coming for our servants’ supper?”

  “As you have reminded me six times in the past hour.”

  “And to what end? From the state of things, we’ll never be ready on time.”

  “When have I ever failed in my duties, Mrs. Robertson?” The housekeeper flinched at the cook’s injured tone. Mrs. Downie was right. She, in all the years they had worked together at Pilley Manor, had never found Mrs. Downie’s cooking or her punctuality wanting. Granted, the cook gossiped a wee bit much, but that was beside the point. “But this might be a first,” the cook continued, “if you don’t stop traipsing through my kitchen and bothering me.”

  “Aye, you’re right, of course. I should leave you to it.”

  “Yes, please.” Mrs. Downie, a strain in her usual congenial voice, nodded appreciatively as the housekeeper swept from the room. But then Mrs. Robertson remembered something else, swiveled on her heels, and returned to the kitchen again.

  “Lordy, Mrs. Robertson,” Mrs. Downie complained. “What is it now?”

  “Is the table in the servants’ hall set?”

  Mrs. Downie, laying her crust across a pie tin, blew frizzy wisps of hair from her face. “I should think so. Ethel walked by with the Battenburg lace tablecloth, the one used at Christmastime, draped over her arm an hour ago.” Mrs. Robertson, inspecting the potted herbs growing in the window, was barely listening. She pinched off a sprig of rosemary and held it to her nose. At that moment, the herb’s fragrance overpowered every other in the kitchen. “I should think she would’ve had time to lay the table for supper as well as the master’s tea.”

  Of course, Mrs. Downie would prepare the afternoon tea first. Having arranged everything for the arrival of Mr. Kendrick’s guests, the housekeeper had allowed herself to be distracted by the imminent arrival of her visitor.

  “How silly of me.” Mrs. Robertson brushed the herbs onto the counter. In one fluid motion, Mrs. Downie placed the pie tin in the oven, snapped shut the door, and swept the sprigs of rosemary into her uplifted apron with the flat of her hand.

  “Are you well, Mrs. Robertson? It’s not like you to fuss.”

  “Aye, you’re right. I’m being ridiculous. He’s only my sister’s boy, after all.” She lifted the small watch dangling from her chatelaine. “But why isn’t he here yet? His ship must’ve landed hours ago. It doesn’t take more than an hour from Southampton.” What will I tell my sister if something has happened to him? Or worse yet, what if he’s too high and mighty now to want to visit his auntie?

  “And here I thought you were worried about having more Americans in the house,” Mrs. Downie said, deftly chopping carrots.

  Mrs. Robertson bristled at the accusation. She held nothing against all Americans—just one. Besides, didn’t her nephew now hail from America? The old aunt, Miss Luckett, was harmless enough. And wasn’t Miss Kendrick a lovely girl? Granted, she’d proven to be the most unconventional mistress the housekeeper had ever worked for: young, brash, a bit too familiar, prone to odd requests. It was off-putting at first. Yet once Mrs. Robertson understood it was what the girl was used to, that she meant no offense by it, the housekeeper learned not to mind. The young woman’s father, on the other hand . . . And what was to become of them once Miss Kendrick married? Would the master stay on at Pilley Manor, alone? Mrs. Robertson rechecked her watch, refusing to indulge in further worry on the subject.

  “From what Willie, the greengrocer’s boy, said when he dropped our order off earlier, they might all be late.”

  “And why would that be?” Mrs. Robertson thought little of the gossip gleaned from hall boys and nursemaids. But if it had any bearing on the arrival of their expected guests, the housekeeper should be aware of it.

  “There was a carriage accident near the Southampton docks. From what he said, it caused a great commotion.”

  “And how would the greengrocer’s boy from Rosehurst,” Mrs. Robertson asked, already dismissing the gossip as the hearsay it was, “know anything about what happened this morning near the Southampton docks?”

  Mrs. Downie, having moved on to the celery, paused with the chopping knife in the air between them. “Willie got it from a delivery man who’d been to Snook’s fruit market this morning. You know the one. They have the dangling bunches of bananas in the front?” Mrs. Robertson nodded, regretting, with the cook’s every word, that she’d encouraged Mrs. Downie to repeat such idle nonsense. She glanced at her watch again. The lad was quite late.

  “Well, that delivery man,” Mrs. Downie continued, “said the traffic was backed up all along the town quay. Said a team of horses bolted and that they’d found a man trampled to death among the wreckage. Said blood was splattered everywhere.”

  “That will be quite enough, Mrs. Downie,” Mrs. Robertson snapped, releasing the watch chain. It thumped against her leg. She raised her chin, straining to fill her lungs properly, a bitter taste clinging to her mouth. “I’ll hear no more of this monstrous chatter.”

  Unaware of the suffocating dread the housekeeper grappled with, Mrs. Downie, abandoning the knife and chopped celery at one end of the table, upturned a ball of dough onto the other end and began kneading it with a heavy hand.

  “No need to bite me head off. Mind, you’re the one who asked. And seeing as your nephew arrived from America there this afternoon, I thought you’d like to know. I’m hoping he might’ve seen something.”

  “And I’m praying he’s not bleeding his life out in the dirty street!”

  Mrs. Downie’s mouth dropped open, her hands frozen still in the dough. The housekeeper had never raised her voice before.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Downie,” the housekeeper said contritely. The outburst had surprised even her. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to the wee lad.”

  “I’m sure the lad is fine,” Mrs. Downie said. “He’ll be tucking into me neeps and tatties come supper time.” Wiping the flour from her hands on her apron, Mrs. Downie retrieved a copper pan filled with a mix of chopped rutabaga and potatoes. “See, it’ll all be ready and waiting for him. In the meantime, I’ll make us a cup of tea. Then everything will be as right as rain.”

  Mrs. Robertson collapsed into the nearest chair. She wasn’t herself. Concern for the lad, the stress of the wedding, and three additional houseguests with no additional staff added to her biggest headache. Come three days and their future—hers, Mrs. Downie’s, and Mr. Tims’s—was uncertain. Only Ethel was assured a place.

  “I do hope you’re right, Mrs. Downie. I do so hope you’re right.”

  * * *

  “You came!” Stella said, flinging herself into her aunt’s open arms.

&nb
sp; Her aunt wrapped her in a warm embrace. Aunt Ivy’s cheek, pressed against Stella’s, was soft and smelled of the same bergamot-scented face powder.

  Who cared if they were in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking the entrance to the inn? Who cared if news of her public demonstrations of affections reached Lady Atherly’s ears? Aunt Ivy was family and Stella hadn’t seen her in years.

  “Of course, I did. I wouldn’t have missed my sister’s baby’s wedding for the world.”

  Aunt Ivy had been a fixture in Stella’s life while her mother was alive, a frequent visitor to Bronson Ridge Farm. She’d been widowed young, left childless, and never remarried. When Stella’s mother died, Ivy attempted to stand in for her sister as much as Stella’s father would allow. But after a particularly loud argument (over what neither would ever say), he forbade Aunt Ivy to step foot on the farm again. Soon after, he dispensed with Stella’s nannies and governesses too. Stella, loosened on the stable hands, was on her own. But Aunt Ivy had never stopped writing, never stopped sending birthday and Christmas presents, never stopped trying to find a way back into Stella’s life.

  “Now, let me get a good look at you.” Aunt Ivy gripped Stella’s shoulders and held her out to full arm’s length. The two women studied each other.

  Seventeen years Stella’s senior, Aunt Ivy had filled out a little in the middle, her face had become plump and round, wrinkles lined her high forehead and creased the edges of her mouth, crinkled strands of gray marred her smooth chestnut brown hair. Aunt Ivy had aged. Yet she was still Aunt Ivy, with a welcoming smile and the same kind brown eyes. Until this moment, Stella hadn’t realized how much she’d missed her.

  “You’ve grown into a fine lady.” Stella beamed at Aunt Ivy’s compliment. “How do you reckon your daddy managed not to ruin you?”