Murder at Keyhaven Castle Page 7

“You have some nerve coming here, Jed.”

  “I say!” Sir Owen chuckled behind them, baffled by her father’s rude entrance. “What’s he got the hump over? Someone pour this man a glass of sherry.” Lyndy shot his cousin a warning glance. He was trying to lighten the mood, but Sir Owen didn’t know Stella’s father.

  “I don’t want sherry!” Daddy said, pinning Sir Owen with an ugly glare while pointing an accusing finger at Uncle Jed. “I want this lying backstabber, this leech, to crawl back into whatever hole he weaseled his way out of.”

  Sir Owen pinched his lips shut in shock. Stella guessed the aristocrat had never been spoken to that way before. Stella was unfazed. Her father had been bad-mouthing his brother for years.

  He swung his finger around to point at Stella. “And you! I could cut you out of my will for inviting him.”

  Like the name-calling, Stella had heard this threat before too. “I didn’t invite him, Daddy,” Stella said. “I invited Aunt Ivy but—”

  “Invited yourself, did you, Jed?” Daddy scoffed. “I should’ve known.”

  “But I’m so glad he did,” Stella said. “Won’t it be nice to have more family at the wedding?”

  “This man stopped being family years ago. Besides, my brother doesn’t care about the wedding. He didn’t come here out of his love for you. His wallet is all he cares about. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, Jed? Stop deluding the girl and tell us what handout you’re expecting this time.”

  Uncle Jed, his head cocked to one side, smirked. “You’ve done me wrong, Elijah. I’m here to celebrate with our Stella.” He eased out of his chair to match his brother’s height and shrugged. “What uncle wouldn’t want to kiss the bride on her wedding day?” He winked at Stella.

  It was what Stella wanted to hear, but for the first time, Uncle Jed’s words didn’t ring true. Had he crossed an ocean to ask for money? Stella noted the frayed cuffs on Uncle Jed’s coat, Sammy’s worn shoes. But then how did he pay for the voyage over? She never put much faith into her father’s rantings, but suddenly she wasn’t sure whom to believe.

  Daddy snorted in disgust. “You never did anything that didn’t end in you taking my money.”

  “But he brought Sammy and Gertie with him,” Stella said. He wouldn’t have dragged the children across the ocean to press her father for money. Would he?

  “I don’t care if he brought John D. Rockefeller,” he said. “You’ll never convince me he came for any other reason than to leech off me.”

  “Either way, they’re here. So, of course, they’ll attend the wedding,” Lyndy said, taking up her cause. Stella rewarded him with a smile.

  “Who’s paying for this shindig?” her father reminded Lyndy. Sir Owen sniggered behind his hand at her father’s mention of money. In polite society here, it wasn’t done. But her father didn’t care about that. He cared that everyone knew how rich he was. “I am. And I say he and his aren’t welcome.”

  “Never could handle being outshined, could ya, Elijah?” Uncle Jed goaded. Stella’s chest tightened. She wished he wouldn’t do that. “Just like ya never could accept that Kate liked me best.”

  Kate? She’d never heard Mama called that. And what did Stella’s mother have to do with it? What was Uncle Jed insinuating?

  “How dare you!” her father bellowed, launching himself at Uncle Jed.

  He barreled into his brother’s stomach headfirst, knocking him off his feet. Uncle Jed’s pointed-toe boots, one with the sole flapping loose at the tip, upended the side table. The silver tea service, the tray, the uneaten sandwiches and scones, and a half-finished cup of tea flew into the air and clattered with a crash to the floor. Stella swooped in to grab Gertie from the couch while Lyndy grasped Sammy’s hand, yanking the poor boy to his feet and out of harm’s way. Her father and uncle collided as one with the plush chair Uncle Jed had occupied, tipping it over. The men spilled onto the carpet in a huddle of thrashing arms and legs as they tried to punch and shove and kick each other.

  “Stop it!” Stella shouted, cradling Gertie, the girl’s tears dampening her face. “Stop it!”

  The men ignored her, instead, they rolled around, through the mess of broken porcelain, squashed sponge cake, and spilled tea, first one getting the advantage and then the other. Only the sudden blare of a piercing whistle got them to stop.

  Stella swirled around at the sound. Lady Atherly, the bright glint of her diamond tiara in stark contrast to her gray and black evening gown, gaped in horrified astonishment. At Stella, not the men. As if their juvenile behavior was Stella’s fault. Beside Lady Atherly was Inspector Brown, the nickel-plated whistle still held to his lips. Lord Atherly, his pair of gold-plated lorgnettes held up to his face, peered over his wife’s shoulder.

  “Enough!” Lady Atherly declared.

  Uncle Jed shoved Stella’s father off him. With a welt already forming on his cheek and chunks of broken cheese scone lodged in his beard, he pushed himself up off the floor. Stella’s father, holding the back of his hand to a cut on his chin, held out the other, to no one in particular, expecting to be helped to his feet. When Lyndy wouldn’t budge, to his credit, Sir Owen obliged.

  “I do apologize for disturbing you, Lord Lyndhurst,” Inspector Brown said, masking all but a hint of sarcasm. “I see that I’ve come at a bad time. But, as I explained to Lord and Lady Atherly, I’m afraid I have news that can’t wait.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Bloody hell, Brown,” Lyndy exclaimed. “What is it this time?”

  Stella couldn’t have said it better. She liked Inspector Brown. She’d even invited him, over Lady Atherly’s objections, to the wedding. But the way her day was going . . .

  “I realize you’re entertaining guests,” the inspector said, noting her father slouched in the armchair rubbing his head and Uncle Jed dabbing a cut with a handkerchief, “but I must speak with you, and Miss Kendrick.” Inspector Brown indicated the children, clutching each other’s hands and cowering on the couch, with a nod.

  Stella cast a questioning glance at Uncle Jed. Too wrapped up in his misery, he hadn’t consoled his children. Perhaps the brothers were more alike than she’d hoped.

  “Preferably, in private.”

  Stella knew it. His news was going to be bad.

  “Of course,” Lyndy said.

  “I say, Lyndy,” Sir Owen inquired flippantly. “Do you get called on regularly by the local constabulary?”

  Sir Alfred stomped on Owen’s foot to silence him when the policeman preceded them out the door. Lady Atherly pinched her lips in disapproval and settled on the edge of the chair farthest from Uncle Jed. Lord Atherly hid a snicker by turning his back and pouring himself a glass of sherry.

  “One moment, Inspector,” Lyndy called before crouching down before the children.

  “Why don’t you two play checkers,” he said. “Or Sammy can continue reading The Tale of Two Bad Mice.” The little illustrated book lay on the inlay side table. Someone must’ve brought it in from the library. “Would you like that?” He brushed a tear from Gertie’s cheek, and the girl nodded.

  Stella’s heart fluttered at his tenderness. How could she ever have thought him callous and cold?

  Sammy, who hid his distress better than his simpering sister, said, “I’ll read to Gertie, Cousin Lyndy.”

  “Okay, then. Stella and I shall be right back.” Lyndy handed Sammy Miss Potter’s latest book before gesturing to Stella to proceed him out into the hall. In the doorway, out of sight of those in the drawing room, she stopped. When Lyndy bumped into her, she grabbed him by the lapels and pressed her lips hard against his. The inspector’s bad news could wait.

  “Oh, I’ve missed you,” he whispered when she ended the kiss.

  “It’s only been two days,” she said, her smiling lips an inch from his. “There’s been lots to do.” She pulled away, teasing him. But secretly she couldn’t bear the distance. She’d come to crave his closeness—more than she wanted to admit. The past two days had been lonely wi
thout him. “Soon, we’ll be together every day, and then you’ll get sick of me.” She joked but held her breath, awaiting his answer.

  Lyndy’s breath was hot when they again leaned into each other, their foreheads touching. “I shall never tire of you. Ever.”

  “Uh-um,” the inspector, a few yards away down the hall, politely cleared his throat.

  Had he heard every word? So what if he had?

  Stella gave Lyndy a quick peck on the cheek for good measure before joining the inspector beneath the Gainsborough painting that so captured the inclement English landscape. With its billowing clouds and shadowed trees, she swore she could feel the raindrops whenever she passed.

  Stella glanced down the hall to the etched glass windows on either side of the door. The evening light was unusually dim, and shimmering splashes of rain dotted the panes. How appropriate. The inspector chose his position well; the Gainsborough reflected the storm that was brewing inside and out.

  “Now, what’s this all about?” Stella asked. Brown held up a finger to silence her.

  Footsteps echoed in the hall as someone crossed the wooden parquet floor in the grand saloon beyond. A servant, most likely, going about their business. The policeman waited until the hall was silent to begin.

  “There’s been a carriage accident—”

  “On the Southampton wharf,” Stella finished for him. “Inspector, I was there. Daddy and I were meeting family friends from Kentucky who’ve come over for the wedding. I saw the whole awful thing.”

  Stella never imagined this was the inspector’s news. But why? As her father had reminded her, it had nothing to do with them.

  “Then perhaps you know why I’m here?”

  “I have no idea,” Stella said, searching the policeman’s round, weathered face. “I assume the two men died of their injuries?”

  “The cab driver may yet survive, but the other fellow was dead when I arrived. It is because of the dead man that I’m here.”

  “But isn’t this a matter for the Southampton police?” Lyndy said.

  “You’re correct, my lord, but they’ve requested my assistance. Both Sergeant Clark of the Southampton police and I thought it better you were interviewed by someone you were already acquainted with.”

  “That’s kind of you, Inspector, but certainly you needn’t come all this way to ask Miss Kendrick what dozens of others must’ve witnessed.”

  “Lyndy’s right, Inspector,” Stella said. “Of course, I want to help, but I don’t know what more I can tell you.”

  “I’m hoping you can explain this.” Inspector Brown pulled a tattered newspaper clipping from his jacket pocket and handed it to Lyndy. Stella leaned over to see what it was. It was the announcement of their wedding that had run in the Courier-Journal in Louisville. The same one Uncle Jed had mentioned. “We found it on the trampled man.”

  “So, the man has a copy of our wedding announcement,” Lyndy said, handing it back to the inspector.

  “The odd thing is, this newspaper clipping and a packet of matches were the sole items we found on the dead man’s body. He had no wallet, no money, no passenger tickets, no grocery receipts.”

  “And you think we might know who he is?” Stella said.

  The inspector pulled a small black and gray photograph from his pocket. “I apologize for the grim scene, but it’s all we have. A police photographer took this earlier. Do you recognize this man?”

  Stella’s stomach flipped in revulsion at the muddy horseshoe print outlined on the man’s broken, bloody face. What a horrible way to die. But a spark of recognition steeled her to study the photo more closely. The curls on his head sprang about as if they had a life of their own. His sharply pointed nose was grotesquely crushed to one side. A bandanna lay discarded on the ground by his head. She did know this man. And not just from the accident.

  “I don’t know his name, and I have no idea what interest he had in our wedding, but I saw him on the wharf. Earlier, before the accident. He was at the center of the commotion near the fruit market. Lots of other people witnessed it too. I think even the police got involved.”

  The inspector nodded. “Yes, we’ve confirmed he was in an earlier altercation. Lord Lyndhurst?” Stella handed the photograph to Lyndy. Lyndy’s head drew back stiffly in surprise.

  “My lord?” the inspector said expectantly, almost eagerly.

  “Lyndy?” Stella asked. “Do you know him?”

  “I do. I’m surprised you don’t recognize him as well.” Lyndy showed Stella the photograph again.

  “Should I?” Stella was confused. The first time she’d seen him was on the wharf. Or so she thought.

  “He’s an American jockey,” Lyndy explained. Stella still didn’t remember him.

  “And his name, my lord?” Inspector Brown insisted. “Do you know the man’s name?”

  “Prescott, if I remember correctly,” Lyndy said, handing the inspector back the photograph. The name was familiar, but Stella had no memory of meeting him. Her father rarely invited jockeys to Bronson Ridge Farm.

  “I can’t thank you enough, my lord,” Inspector Brown said, slipping the photograph away.

  “Quite.” Lyndy put his hand on the small of Stella’s back and turned to leave. “See yourself out, Inspector?”

  “Of course, but if you could answer one more question.”

  “I’m happy to have helped,” Lyndy sighed, impatient to dismiss the inspector. He held up his hand when the inspector opened his mouth to continue. “But before you ask Inspector, I know him only from the racing papers. He was well known on the turf. But that’s the extent of it, I’m afraid.”

  “If that is true, Lord Lyndhurst, answer me this.” Inspector Brown pressed his lips together in a grimace. “If you didn’t know this jockey, then why was he, if not for his death, on his way to kill you?”

  * * *

  “Me?” Granted, Lyndy could imagine a few who might enjoy taking him down a peg or two, but murder? The idea was preposterous. Yet the firmness of the policeman’s jaw, his steady stare, made the hair on the back of Lyndy’s neck rise. The man was deadly serious. “Why would this jockey want to kill me?”

  “So, you have never had any occasion to meet or interact with the deceased then, my lord?” Inspector Brown asked.

  Lyndy shook his head, emphatically. “No. Never.”

  “But you do know who he is.” Lyndy had skimmed an article about the Woodhaven Downs scandal the jockey had been embroiled in a few months back. That was the extent of his knowledge.

  “Yes, but I assure you,” Lyndy said, addressing the fearful questions clouding Stella’s countenance more than those of the policeman, “I can think of absolutely no reason he’d want to cause me harm.”

  Stella smiled, halfheartedly, to reassure him, but Lyndy recognized the effort it took. Her apprehension was palpable.

  “To be fair, my lord, the victim wasn’t overheard saying your name specifically, but a man at Morrington Hall. I assumed when you said you knew who he was, that the man he mentioned was you. Could anyone else at Morrington Hall be acquainted with him then?”

  Who else was there? Papa? Papa barely knew the difference between a quarter crack and a quarter pole, let alone have any occasion to wrong an American jockey to the point of violence. Fulton? Gates? Could one of the servants be dabbling in something they shouldn’t? Lyndy wouldn’t believe it. Could the jockey have meant a wedding guest? He had been carrying a copy of the wedding announcement. But how would Prescott know who was staying at the house?

  “But Prescott’s dead now,” Lyndy said, hoping to avoid Brown’s questioning the staff or worse, their wedding guests. “Surely, so too is the threat.”

  “We do hope so, my lord,” Brown said. “But since we don’t know what he was planning and why, we can’t rule out that he hadn’t set in motion something that could be harmful to you or someone here. That’s why it’s imperative we discover everything we can about him.”

  Stella, who’d been crink
ling her porcelain-like brow in concentration, laid her hand lightly on Lyndy’s arm, her face lit up with recognition. “Prescott. Pistol Prescott! I remember him now.”

  “Pistol?” Inspector Brown said. “Is that a moniker for his racing acumen?”

  “If memory serves,” Lyndy added, “Prescott didn’t have a winning record until recently, which was part of why he got caught up in the scandal. Sudden success is suspect.”

  “You’re right,” Stella said, laughing mirthlessly. “His full name is . . .” She hesitated, correcting herself. “Was Jesse James Prescott. He got the nickname Pistol, not for his speed as a jockey but because he was never without a pocket revolver, one he claimed once belonged to Jesse James, the outlaw, and his namesake. But being named after the outlaw and wanting to kill someone isn’t the same thing. What reason could he possibly have to want to hurt anyone?”

  “We didn’t find a gun, of any kind, on the victim,” Brown said, without answering her question.

  “He must’ve lost it when the horses trampled him,” Stella said.

  “No, we searched the whole area. We never recovered an unclaimed gun.” The inspector’s countenance clouded, and Lyndy took a hard swallow. “Tell me more about this scandal, if you would, my lord.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Mrs. Robertson, her keys jingling at her side, paced back and forth the full length of her small study, wringing her hands. The distant roll of thunder echoed in her ears.

  Where was the wee lad? His supper had long since grown cold.

  With the Kendricks returning from Southampton with their guests, and still no sign of Robbie, the housekeeper had told herself to buck up and see them settled in. With Miss Kendrick dashing away after receiving a note from Lord Lyndhurst, the old auntie taking to her bed, and Mr. Kendrick and Mr. Swenson off in the motorcar soon after, only the Swenson women were left to attend to before they too departed for dinner. Mrs. Swenson wanted a fresh set of linens, Miss Swenson insisted a bath be drawn, and the Swensons’ maid had to be shown about. When Ethel had it all in hand, Mrs. Robertson retreated to her study, pouring over her accounts. With the upcoming wedding and the arrival of wedding guests, there had been a flush of new expenses to tally. But the carriage accident had been on everyone’s tongue. Two men had died, they said, many more had been injured. Only her long years in service had kept her fears from showing on her face. And still, there’d been no Robbie. Abandoning her receipts, she paced, imaging any manner of ill that could’ve befallen her dear nephew.