Murder at Keyhaven Castle Read online

  “You agree with him, Mr. Swenson?” Stella asked.

  “I do, darling. You shouldn’t trouble yourself a minute longer over the likes of Jesse Prescott.”

  “For once, I agree with your daddy,” Jed said. “A lady like you’ve become shouldn’t get wrapped up thinking about such filthy things as guns and killings.”

  Stella caught Lyndy’s eye, sharing his amusement at the irony. Stella’s uncle had no idea what “filthy things” she’d been involved in.

  “Well put, Mr. Kendrick,” Mother said, smugly glaring at Lyndy. “I’ve often advised your niece to stay clear of anything that might taint the Earl of Atherly’s good name.”

  “More than her son has already done, that is,” Owen said good-naturedly.

  Everyone shared in the laugh, everyone except Mother, of course, and Mr. Kendrick, who’d lumbered from his chair to stare out the rain-streaked windows. “Where is the damn baron with that champion horse?”

  CHAPTER 10

  Constable Waterman wanted to go home. He’d never been fond of Southampton. The crowds of passengers had thinned, but the wagons laden with crates of cotton and silk, sacks of sugar and grains, barrels of butter, and tins of tea would clatter down the town quay for hours yet. A product of the Forest, Waterman wasn’t used to the cramped buildings, the chaos, the noise, the stench of the city docks. Give him a boisterous drift, when Commoners annually round up their Forest ponies, or the gentile bustle of Lyndhurst High Street any day. But his wife, Meredith, and his warm cottage would have to wait.

  Waterman lifted his boot over a fresh horse pile and knocked. He pulled the collar of his policeman’s jacket up against the chill. A fire truck wailed past. He covered his ears, but they were still ringing when the shopkeeper, a man with a pencil-thin mustache and hair thickly slathered with pomade, cracked open the door.

  “Good evening, sir. I’m Constable Waterman, making inquiries after this man.” He presented the photograph. “Could he have been in your shop today?”

  The merchant grumbled at having been called away from his tea. When pressed, he gave the photograph a passing glance, denied ever seeing anyone like that, and promptly shut his door. And so it went. After knocking on dozens of doors, Waterman had nothing but mud on his boots and reddened knuckles to show for it. He plodded on to the next building on the quay, the cold rain tap-tapping on the crown of his helmet.

  With Inspector Brown off to face them at Morrington Hall, Waterman had stayed to assist the Southampton men. Sergeant Clark had first assigned Waterman to interview onlookers, an endless string of passengers, drivers, tradesmen, and dockworkers who’d helplessly witnessed a man get trampled. If it had been a routine carriage accident, Sergeant Clark would’ve interviewed the drivers of the two vehicles involved, informed the dead man’s family of the tragedy, typed up his report, and called it a day. But with the cab driver unconscious in hospital, the wagon driver out of view when the accident occurred, and an unidentified victim, last heard threatening to kill someone, Sergeant Clark needed all the help he could get.

  After a couple of hours, and learning nothing new, Waterman had spoken to a Robbie McEwan, a Scot who had arrived on the ship from New York that morning. He’d witnessed the dead man stumble into the path of the horses, and in trying to save the chap got his head banged up. Mr. McEwan wasn’t acquainted with the victim, but had witnessed him coming from the direction of the alley behind Snook’s, the fruit market. It was the only lead they had. Then news came that Inspector Brown had identified the dead man as Jesse James Prescott, a jockey from America, and that locating the victim’s gun took priority. That’s when it got complicated. With Sergeant Clark interviewing the proprietors of Snook’s, the rest of the Southampton men searching for the pistol, Waterman had been left to conduct the house-to-house inquiry.

  Only five more blocks to go. Waterman blew warm breath into his cupped, numb hands.

  Waterman gratefully huddled beneath the shelter of a second-floor balcony, the sign above his head swaying with the breeze that had picked up off the water. THE RIVOLI INN. He tried the handle, and happily, the door opened into a lobby, equipped with a registration desk, two wicker rocking chairs by the expansive front window, two by the hearth, and a lush fern in a tall brass plant stand. The glow of the crackling fire colored the whitewashed walls with shadows of orange and gold, and colorful but faded area rugs dotted the plank floor—a workman’s hotel, simple, clean, and welcoming. But no one was about.

  The constable tapped the bell on the desk; its ring echoed in the empty room. A middle-aged woman, her black hair pulled back tightly into a bun, emerged from a side door, brushing something from the starched white apron she wore over a plain black dress.

  “How can I help you, Officer?” Her accent was thick with a singsong lilt that said she wasn’t born in this country. Not unheard of in this bustling port city that beckoned a good life for those willing to work for it. France or Italy, perhaps? Waterman was terrible with accents.

  “I’m Constable Waterman, and you are?”

  “Marie Prudhon. This is my hotel.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Prudhon. I’m hoping to trace the movements of the man killed in the carriage accident this morning.”

  “Oh, bad business, no?” she said sympathetically. “You think he might’ve been staying here?”

  “It’s just routine. I’m asking everyone along the quay.” Except for the sighting near the fruit merchant, they had no idea where Jesse Prescott had been or why he was on the docks. With such dismal luck tracking down any information in that regard , Waterman could only assume Prescott arrived on a ship this morning.

  “What was the man’s name?” she asked, opening the large leather guest register book.

  “Jesse Prescott.” She retrieved a pair of spectacles from her apron pocket and settled them on the tip of her patrician nose before using her finger to trace the lines of names written across several pages.

  “I am sorry, Monsieur Waterman. I have no one registered in that name.”

  “Perhaps he visited someone here?” Waterman retrieved the photo from inside his breast pocket but didn’t turn it around immediately. “I must warn you; this isn’t a pretty picture.”

  “Let me see,” she said, reaching for the photograph. “Yes, I know this man.” Waterman swelled with self-satisfaction and was mentally congratulating himself for his persistence when the hotel matron added, “I should’ve known.”

  “Should’ve known what?” Had he congratulated himself too soon?

  “Follow me.” She tossed the spectacles back on the register, skirted the desk, and headed for an unmarked door Waterman hadn’t noticed on the other side of the room. The matron produced a jumbled set of keys from her apron pocket. She swiftly found the right one and unlocked the door. After pulling it open, she stepped aside, revealing a small, tidy linen closet. A worn leather steamer trunk sat in the middle of the floor. Faded stenciled letters read JJP.

  “I wondered why he never came back,” Madame Prudhon added. “Said he would be a couple of hours. He had a boat to catch, you see.”

  A boat to catch? Where was Prescott going? Had he premeditated his need to escape? Or perhaps the jockey hadn’t arrived this morning as Waterman assumed, after all. If so, where had he been staying? When had he arrived? What had Prescott been up to?

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “Back to America.”

  “If he didn’t stay with you, why do you have his trunk?”

  “He stopped in hoping to store his trunk. I said he could, for a small fee, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Waterman knelt in front of the trunk. “Don’t happen to have the key, do you?” he asked, flipping the brass lock on the hinge with his finger.

  The matron shook her head. Then she raised a finger. “Ah, but I have the next best thing.” She crossed back over to the desk and returned with a flat-head screwdriver. She inserted the screwdriver into the keyhole. After a moment
of jiggling and twisting, the lock flopped open. When Waterman raised his eyebrows in surprise, she shrugged. “Monsieur was not the first to leave behind locked luggage.”

  With the lock swiftly dispatched, Waterman lifted the lid. He did so slowly, conscientious of the dangers of the unknown. But the trunk held no surprises. Only the usual: undergarments; a couple of pairs of cotton shirts; a cheap, dark gray, worsted suit; a pair of boots; a shaving kit; and a packet of miscellaneous racing papers. The one unusual item was a pair of dark blue denim pants with metal rivets; Waterman had never seen anything like them.

  Waterman pulled out the items one by one. When he stared at the bottom of the empty trunk, he pulled up the cotton fabric lining it. No hidden compartment, no billfold, and most importantly, no gun. Frustrated, he gathered up the pile of Jesse Prescott’s belongings and tossed them carelessly back into the trunk. Two small pieces of paper fluttered to the ground. Cursing himself for not thoroughly checking the pockets, Waterman picked them up. One was a torn receipt for a wager at last week’s St. Leger Stakes. Prescott had bet on Challacombe to win. The other was a round-trip ferry ticket to the Island, dated two days later.

  Finally! Something to take back to Inspector Brown. Waterman could already taste the steak and kidney pie warming in the oven for him when he dodged back into the rain.

  * * *

  “My, my, who do we have here?” Sir Owen whispered when the two Swenson women swept into the room. Penny, yawning, snapped her mouth shut when she caught sight of Sir Owen staring at her. She sheepishly batted her eyelids at him, a coquettish smile on her brightly rouged lips.

  “Mrs. Sarah Swenson and Miss Penelope Swenson,” Fulton announced.

  Sir Owen, captivated by Penny’s beauty, and the tight bodice of her sky-blue silk and lace evening gown, winked at Sir Alfred, who bolted up to his full height.

  Stella rolled her eyes. Men!

  After the introductions were made, the two Swenson women immediately separated, Penny gravitating toward the younger men clustered around the mantel, Mrs. Swenson joining the ladies.

  “How kind of y’all to invite us to your beautiful home,” Mrs. Swenson said, admiring the vaulted ceiling, the portraits on the walls, the crystal vases overflowing with fragrant blossoms. “Elijah’s descriptions don’t do it justice.”

  I bet they don’t. Daddy never boasted about anything he didn’t own.

  “We were afraid you wouldn’t make it,” Lady Alice said, having returned from calling on a neighbor. “What with the rain, and the wind, and the roads being quite muddy.”

  Stella hadn’t noticed the wind whistling outside. She peered through the windowpanes, blurred by the rain. Flashes of distant lightning danced across the sky.

  “And you’ve had a long day,” Lady Atherly added politely.

  “What’s that when you’ve invited us to dinner at Morrington Hall?” Mrs. Swenson said. “Of course, we wanted to meet y’all. With Stella and Penelope growing up together, that makes us practically family.”

  Stella distinctly remembered Mrs. Swenson complaining about the invitation, that is, before she discovered potential husbands for Penny would be there.

  “Are all these spectacular bouquets from your garden? I caught a glimpse of it as we came in. It looked wonderful, even in the dim light. I hope you’ll invite me back when we get better weather.”

  Lady Atherly’s face softened. Whether she knew it or not, Mrs. Swenson had found the one possible way into Lady Atherly’s good graces—praise her garden.

  “Please, won’t you sit?” Lady Atherly said, indicating the seat beside her. She’d never offered for Stella to sit that close.

  Within minutes, Mrs. Swenson and Lady Atherly were companionably discussing the wedding plans, which Stella had wholeheartedly given into Lady Atherly’s capable hands. What did she care what flavor the cake would be or what flowers she would carry? She was thrilled Uncle Jed and Aunt Ivy had come, but all she wanted was to start her life with Lyndy, free of her father’s control. When the discussion included seating arrangements at the reception, Stella interrupted.

  “I’d like to thank you, Lady Atherly.”

  “For what, Miss Kendrick?” Despite the wedding being a few days off, Lady Atherly still refused to call Stella by her Christian name. Would she ever?

  “For inviting my uncle to dinner. I know he arrived unexpectedly.”

  A laugh rose from the group across the room. Penny, who had weaseled her way between the two young bachelors, held a drink in one hand and the other against her heaving chest. As if the men needed help noticing Penny’s ample bosom. Lyndy, taking a sip of his sherry, rocked on his heels. Stella had seen him do it countless times. It was an endearing sign of his boredom, his restlessness, his desire to be anywhere but cooped up in the drawing room listening to other people talk. It was a sentiment they shared. With the exception of enjoying Uncle Jed’s company, Stella too wished she were somewhere else. Riding Tully in the rain would be an improvement over listening to Penny’s hollow laughter.

  Lady Atherly dismissed Stella’s gratitude with a flick of her wrist. “No need to mention it again.” The tone in her voice was light, but Stella caught her meaning. The dismissal was for Stella as well.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Stella said as Lady Atherly turned back to her guest.

  “From what you’ve told me, you have the wedding plans all sewn up, Lady Atherly,” Mrs. Swenson was saying when Stella leaped from the settee. “And you’re so kind to have taken the poor motherless child under your wing.”

  If I hear her say that one more time . . . Unfortunately, the conversation with Penny and the younger men was no better.

  “So, what is it about the bride-to-be you like best, Lyndy?” Sir Owen was asking when Stella silently took a place among them. Lyndy greeted her with a soft peck on the cheek.

  Penny regarded them with a familiar expression of part disgust, part jealousy. “I imagine it’s her money.” Penny laughed lightheartedly, but she intended the comment to hurt. And it did.

  “Oh, my!” Sir Alfred sputtered. Lyndy yanked on the sleeve of his dinner jacket.

  “What? Did I say something wrong?” Penny asked with false innocence.

  “I’m afraid that’s a touchy subject, Miss Swenson,” Sir Owen playfully admonished.

  “I’d marry Miss Kendrick if she hadn’t a penny to her name,” Lyndy blurted.

  “Now you’re talking nonsense,” Penny said dismissively.

  It was nonsense, and Stella and Lyndy both knew it. He would never have been allowed to marry her if she wasn’t bringing a fortune to the marriage. His duty required it. Lady Atherly demanded it. With the Earl of Atherly siphoning off more funds than the estate earned to fulfill his dream of finding ancient horse fossils in Wyoming, Morrington Hall was in desperate need of an infusion of cash.

  But Stella loved to think it was true, that Lyndy meant what he said.

  “As we have just met, Miss Swenson,” Lyndy said through clenched teeth, “I would think you are in no position to comment on—”

  An intense flash of brilliant light radiated through the windows. For a second, the drawing room was transported from evening back to midday. A boom of thunder exploded a moment later, shaking the ground and rattling the paintings on the walls. Penny screamed, her eyes squeezed tight and her hands covering her ears. With the second clap, a crackling that set the hairs on Stella’s neck on end, Penny dropped into a squat and curled up into herself as tightly as possible. Sir Owen knelt at her side and wrapped a comforting arm around Penny’s back as Penny rocked back and forth in terror until the crashes of thunder rolled off into the distance.

  “It’s past now, Penelope, darling,” Mr. Swenson said over the clinking of the crystal chandelier as it swayed from the storm’s impact.

  That’s when Stella smelled smoke.

  “My God! The stables are on fire!” Sir Alfred shouted, pointing out the window.

  Tully!

  With a single thou
ght in her mind, Stella jumped up and raced Lyndy toward the French doors. They bumped shoulders when each sought to get outside first. Lyndy pushed the doors open. Caught by the wind, the doors clattered against the wall. The crash of a crystal vase, the shouting, and the heavy footfalls of the others dashing around behind her weren’t enough to slow her down.

  Once she was outside, the wind tugged at Stella’s hair and gown, whipping the dress’s train like a whirligig behind her. The rain, driving sideways, stung like tiny cold pellets against her exposed skin; her silk gown protected her only slightly better from the elements. Her beaded pumps, once ivory, were now a muddy mess. But the smell of burning wood, the blaze of the fire, raging even in this storm, propelled her forward. Horses whinnied in fear, but thank heaven, the stone stables stood apart and unharmed from the fire. Lightning had struck the ancient oak fifty yards behind the stables, the one they called the Earl Oak, five hundred years old if it was a day. Towering sixty to seventy feet above them, its branches, burning as bright as a giant beacon, soared toward the sky like a man imploring aid from heaven.

  Lyndy caught up to her and snatched her hand as he passed. Together, they dashed for the shelter of the stable yard. Gates, the stablemaster, the grooms, and the stable boys, rivulets of rain dripping from the brim of their hats, raced around putting out any stray embers landing on the roof or in the straw bale stores. With no hat or coat, Stella was drenched to the bone, her hair sticking to her cheeks, her dress scandalously clinging to every curve of her body. At least the horses are safe. She shivered.

  Lyndy, his hair and clothes just as wet, snatched up two gray woolen horse blankets from a pile on a bench and wrapped one around her. The rough blanket scratched against Stella’s exposed neckline and arms, but she hugged it tighter around herself to ward off the chill. To her surprise, Lyndy stripped off his jacket. The pale skin of his chest and stomach shined through the wet, white dress shirt. He toweled off his hair, which for a moment resembled an angry porcupine before he straightened it with his fingers. No longer dripping, he wrapped his blanket and his arms around Stella’s shoulders. After the dash to the stables, her breath was rough and labored. Lyndy’s nearness, his warmth, didn’t help things.