The clatter of carriage wheels on the drive drew Mrs. Robertson to the window. It was Lord Atherly’s. Two wee children scrambled out, a lass and a laddie. Stumbling with fatigue, the wee lass hooked her finger over the bridge of her nose and sucked on her thumb. They waited in the drive, shivering in the cooling night air. Ethel went out to meet them and wrapped an arm around each bairn’s shoulder, cooing words of assurance. Mr. Tims, not unkindly, shooed them toward the front door while the coachman unstrapped more luggage.
More guests? Where were their parents? Where was Mrs. Robertson going to put them? Who was going to look after them? Ethel already had too much to do. Mrs. Robertson would need to hire a nanny. As the housekeeper mentally considered and rejected several available village lasses, the top of a man’s head bobbed by along the path to the tradesmen’s entrance. Thank God! She’d know that jaunty step anywhere. She clasped her hands to her chest in gratitude and strode quickly from her room.
“Robbie, it that you?” she said, throwing open the door. She had a mind to scold him for making his poor auntie fret, but for the bandage covering the side of his head, his flaxen hair matted with something resembling blood, she held her tongue. Instead, she cooed and fussed, snatching his arm and pulling him into the safety of the servants’ hall. “You’re injured, lad. What happened?”
Before Robbie could speak a word, the housekeeper forced him gently down into a chair. Mrs. Downie left checking what was cooking in the bain-marie by the window and set a cup of tea on the table. The housekeeper, eyeing the bandage, longed to brush the hair from his forehead as she was wont to do when he was a wee one. But her nephew, gratefully reaching for his tea, was a grown man now, broad at the shoulders and a full head taller than she. Even so, allowing him the time to relish the hot, sweetened tea without pressing for answers tested the limits of Mrs. Robertson’s immense patience. Despite the bristly whiskers on his upper lip, he was still his sister’s bairn; she could barely contain her concern.
When Robbie set down his cup, Mr. Tims strolled into the room, his perpetual frown flicking at the edges at the sight of her nephew at the table.
“We have unexpected houseguests, Mrs. Robertson.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Mr. Kendrick’s brother and his family. Ethel has begun settling the children in. They will need supper, Mrs. Downie.” The cook nodded but made no motion toward the kitchen. She too wanted to hear what Robbie had to say. “Mr. Kendrick, the junior, is dining with the Kendricks at Morrington Hall. He will need a room made up.”
“Of course, but would you be so kind as to give me a few wee moments? As you can see, my nephew has arrived and he’s injured.”
“I do hope you are well, young man?” Mr. Tims inquired, eyeing the bandage on Robbie’s head. The lad nodded over his cup of tea.
“Thank you. It looks worse than it is.”
“If that’s all, Mr. Tims?” Mrs. Robertson said, wanting to hurry the butler along. “I will be there presently.”
Mrs. Robertson turned to Robbie the moment the butler’s back had disappeared through the door. “You feeling a bit better, lad? Can you tell us what happened?”
Without asking, Mrs. Downie had ensconced herself at the table at Robbie’s right, her arms folded to support the weight of her ample bosom, so Mrs. Robertson lowered herself into the chair on his left. Thank goodness Ethel had taken charge of the children. The maid would be able to attend to much that needed doing, leaving Mrs. Robertson time before she was called away.
“Aye, Auntie. I am sorry to have kept you waiting. I know you’d had a meal prepared and everything.”
“Don’t you worry about that, love,” Mrs. Downie replied. “I’ll warm it up for you in no time.” And good to her word, she pushed back from the table and disappeared into the kitchen.
“By now, you must’ve heard the news about the accident at the docks at Southampton?” Robbie said, lightly touching his bandaged head. Mrs. Robertson nodded. “As you see, I got a wee bit caught up in it. Had to spent much of the afternoon speaking to the police. That’s why I’m late.”
“But how did you get injured, lad?”
“When those horses rounded the corner at a gallop, I knew to keep well away. But then this man stumbled by me. He had to have noticed them coming. I don’t know why he kept going, but he did, straight into their path.”
Mrs. Downie, shuffling along quickly, reappeared with a plate covered with a plain white tea towel, and another with a large slice of Dundee cake. She set the plates before Robbie and lifted the cloth, revealing a heaping portion of steaming neeps and tatties, a roll, and a slice of pheasant pie she must’ve set aside from the Kendricks’ luncheon. If Mrs. Downie didn’t tell, neither would Mrs. Robertson. The cook placed a knife, fork, and napkin beside the plate.
“You were saying, love?” Mrs. Downie said, settling back into her seat. After her kindness, Mrs. Robertson didn’t have the heart to remind the cook she had business elsewhere.
Sighing appreciatively, Robbie shoveled several ravenous bites into his mouth before continuing.
“I grabbed at the poor lad’s coat, hoping to stop him, but he was small and wiry and moving forward fast. And his coat was thin. When it slid off his arm, I should’ve let go. But I dinna. Instead, the coat freed itself and slipped off him. Without the sudden loss of the lad’s weight pulling me forward, I lost my balance. I was still clutching the coat when I slammed against a brick wall.”
“You poor lad,” Mrs. Robertson said.
“At least you didn’t find yourself beneath the horses’ hooves,” Mrs. Downie said when Robbie took a few more bites of his dinner. “We wouldn’t be talking right now if you did.”
“Aye, it could’ve been worse,” he said, after wiping his lips with his napkin. “They gave me a tincture for the pain, but the wretch I tried to stop is dead.”
Mrs. Robertson glanced at the tiny watch on her chatelaine. Ethel would be needing her soon. She rose from the table, confident Mrs. Downie, who had poured Robbie another cup of tea, would hover protectively over the lad as he finished his dinner.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to attend to these new guests. Then we’ll see to settling you in. I want to hear all about your trip to America.”
“Of course, Auntie.” He smiled at her, then winced at the pain. Inwardly, Mrs. Robertson flinched in sympathy. Brave lad, trying to save that man.
When Mrs. Robertson dragged herself away, Mrs. Downie asked, “Do you think that man did it on purpose? Jumping in front of those horses like that?”
What on earth? Mrs. Robertson’s heel hit the wooden floor plank hard as she came to a halt by the door. Mrs. Robertson pivoted around, preparing to scold the cook for voicing such scandalous conjecture when Robbie’s thoughtful expression stilled her tongue. Could there be some truth to it?
“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” he said. “I dinna think so at the time, but after all the police’s questions called to mind the momentum he had, racing toward his doom if you like. It did make me wonder.”
“Perhaps he was simply rushing about, preoccupied with a task we’ll never know, and didn’t spot the carriage coming?” Mrs. Robertson said, hoping to put an end to the conjecture.
Robbie hesitated, as if to say more, then changed his mind about it. “More likely than not, Auntie,” Robbie said, before taking an enthusiastic bite of his cake.
“Or someone in the alley pushed him,” Mrs. Downie said.
“Mrs. Downie!” The housekeeper couldn’t let the cook by with that comment. Of all the wicked, ridiculous things to say. Why on earth would anyone do such a thing? Mrs. Downie had always been a bit of a gossip, but this was going too far. “That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard you say.”
The cook shrugged. “You would never have thought we’d have three murders in the Forest in so many months, either.” Robbie paused his fork halfway to his mouth in surprise. “You have to admit, Mrs. Robertson,” Mrs. Downie said, hauling herself u
p from the table and clearing away Robbie’s dinner plate, “it’s not as preposterous as it sounds.”
What could Mrs. Robertson say? Mrs. Downie was right.
* * *
“I remember a mention of doping, which isn’t uncommon, and race fixing, which is, but it was the audacity of the ring-in schemes that made the headlines,” Lyndy said of the scandal.
“Ring-in schemes?” Inspector Brown asked.
“That’s when someone switches look-alike horses either before or after a race,” Stella explained.
“And how was Mr. Prescott involved in all this?” Brown asked.
Lyndy shrugged. “I’m afraid the details beyond what I’ve already mentioned have long left my memory.”
“My father will know more about it,” Stella said.
“I’m not certain he would. It all happened about the time you would’ve left New York,” Lyndy said.
A creak of a floorboard behind him caused Lyndy to turn around. A man with a well-trimmed beard and damp tan duster coat hovered in the door to the grand saloon. Goggles dangled from around his neck. Glancing at the stranger’s stylish leather shoes, Lyndy suspected he wasn’t someone’s chauffeur. But then who was he? How did he get past whoever was manning the front door? And most importantly, how long had he been standing there? When he spotted Lyndy staring at him, he strolled toward them like he lived there.
“Well, hello, Stella, darling. Which one of these fine gentlemen is to be your lord and master?”
Lyndy liked the ring of the title lord and master, but from the icy expression on her face, Stella wasn’t as equally pleased.
“Hello, Mr. Swenson,” she said, her tone flat and unimpressed. “May I introduce Lord Lyndhurst and Inspector Brown of the Hampshire Constabulary.”
Lyndy turned a keen eye on the newcomer. So, this was Swenson. Mr. Theodore Swenson’s reputation on the turf for breeding champions was second only to his friend and fellow Kentuckian, Elijah Kendrick. Several chaps Lyndy knew had had good runs with Swenson thoroughbreds. Lyndy aimed to get the man’s opinion on Orson and Tupper tonight at dinner. Assuming he was more reasonable than Mr. Kendrick.
“I am pleased to know you, Lord Lyndhurst,” Mr. Swenson said, offering his hand.
“Inspector.” Brown acknowledged the newcomer with a tilt of his head. “And congratulations on your upcoming wedding, my lord. You and Miss Stella will make a fine match.”
“Thank you, Mr. Swenson. How kind of you to make the journey.”
Inspector Brown turned to Lyndy. “With your permission, my lord, I’d like to show the photograph to other men on the estate, starting with the stable staff.”
“Of course, Inspector,” Stella said, answering for Lyndy. “Whatever you need to do.”
Lyndy had hoped to keep the staff out of this but was loath to contradict Stella. “I trust you’ll keep the disruption to a minimum. This close to the wedding, I wouldn’t want to put undue stress on the staff.”
“You can rest assured, my lord, we will conduct our investigation as swiftly and discretely as possible. We will get to the bottom of this.”
Stella rested her hand on Lyndy’s shoulder reassuringly, lightening his mood.
“Let us hope so, Inspector. All Miss Kendrick’s and my plans shall be for naught if someone comes to the door and shoots me with Jesse James’s gun.”
Lyndy regretted his flippant remark the moment he said it. Stella’s hand clutched Lyndy’s shoulder in distress. Only Theo Swenson laughed.
“I dare say, I will do everything to prevent that from happening,” Inspector Brown said, taking Lyndy’s flippancy for fear. “I would like for one of my men to stay close if that would be amenable?”
Lyndy was about to object—who needed a policeman underfoot? But the truth of what he said blossomed as a wave of heat in his chest. Lyndy, though he wouldn’t admit it even to himself, suffered a twinge of trepidation.
Sensing Lyndy’s apprehension, the inspector added, “You won’t even know he’s here.”
“If you think it best,” Lyndy conceded. Relief washed over Stella’s smiling face.
“Good. Then I will take my leave,” Brown said. He dipped his head almost imperceptibly and left.
“Shall we join the others, Mr. Swenson?” Lyndy said, gesturing for Stella and the horse breeder to precede him toward the drawing room.
“Ah, none of this ‘Mr. Swenson’ stuff, son. Call me—”
“Theo!” Mr. Kendrick said when they entered, brightening as if he hadn’t been brawling on the floor with his brother a few minutes ago. “Where have you been? You didn’t happen to see the baron arrive with Challacombe, did you? He said he’d come before dinner. I wonder what’s keeping him.”
“Didn’t see your baron, Elijah. I was too busy admiring your automobile,” Mr. Swenson said. “I’ll have to get something like it before I head home.”
Mr. Kendrick’s lips spread into a wide grin, his cheeks still flush from his fight. Mr. Swenson tugged the goggles over his head. Handing them and his duster to Fulton, who had tracked him down, he added, “And who are all these fine people?”
Lyndy proceeded to introduced Theo Swenson to his parents and friends. Mother graciously welcomed him, inquiring after his wife and daughter, who’d be arriving shortly. Owen quickly offered him a drink. Theo Swenson and Jed Kendrick shook hands as if they were old friends.
“Has the policeman gone?” Mother asked, as Lyndy took up his half-finished glass of sherry and settled in with his friends near the fire. An inexplicable chill had grabbed hold of him.
“He has.”
Mother’s shoulders relaxed and returned to the conversation she’d been having with Sir Alfred about his mother’s new garden. Should Lyndy divulge that the policeman was questioning the staff and that he’d be placing a police guard on the house? Typically, Lyndy relished the pinched expression such a revelation would cause. But not tonight.
“Where are the children?” he asked.
“I’ve sent them to Pilley Manor with the luggage,” Lady Atherly said.
“Daddy,” Stella said, “Inspector Brown was telling us about the man who was killed in Southampton.”
“And?”
“It was Pistol Prescott.”
Owen gulped down the last few drams in his glass. “The disgraced jockey from America?” Of course, Owen would know of him too. “What was he doing in Southampton?”
“That’s what the police are attempting to discover,” Lyndy said.
“Did you hear about the scandal Pistol Prescott was involved in?” Stella asked, pressing her father for an answer.
“Of course I did. It was disgusting. Half a dozen jockeys and trainers tainted the sport with their doping, race fixing, and filthy ring-in schemes. All of them lost their jobs, their licenses, and thankfully won’t ever work on the track again. Most were lucky not to end up in jail.”
No wonder the man wanted to murder someone. Lyndy suppressed a strong desire to pace. But why me or someone at Morrington Hall? None of us were involved.
“Prescott was lucky he didn’t get tarred and feathered. Good riddance, I say.”
“Come now, Elijah,” Theo Swenson said. “No man deserves getting trampled, no matter what he’s done.” Mr. Kendrick shrugged.
“But what do you think he was doing in Southampton?” Stella asked, tenacious in her questioning as always when she was unsatisfied with the answers. It was a quirk about her Lyndy had come to admire. Except when he was on the receiving end, of course. “And why would he have a clipping of our wedding announcement in his pocket?”
“Maybe your daddy invited him,” Jed taunted, knowing full well his brother, with all his faults, would never associate with anyone who cheated on the racetrack. It was one of Elijah Kendrick’s few redeeming qualities.
“As usual, you are making too much of this,” Mr. Kendrick said, ignoring his brother. “The man was in the wrong place at the wrong time. End of story.”
“But that may not
be the end of the story,” Stella said. “What you don’t know is that Prescott threatened to kill someone before he died.”
Lyndy sighed in silent relief. They hadn’t spoken of it, but how grateful he was that Stella hadn’t mentioned the minor details about whom. Again, he was struck by how she could read his mind.
“But we don’t know why,” she added. “And now Pistol Prescott’s gun is missing.”
“That is a bad business,” Papa said, no doubt recalling how much he’d been rattled when someone had stolen his valuable fossils.
“Is that what you meant by someone shooting you with Jesse James’s gun?” Theo Swenson said. For a second time, Lyndy regretted his remark.
“What’s this, Lyndy?” Mother said, her voice pitched higher than usual. “What does Mr. Swenson mean?”
“Sorry to worry you, ma’am,” Theo Swenson said. “Having fallen on hard times, Prescott probably pawned the gun. Anyone with half an eye for such a thing would know its worth and offer him more than he could refuse.”
“But—” Stella began.
The neighing of horses and the crunching of wagon wheels in the gravel drive announced the arrival of two carriages before they passed by the French windows. The rain pattered lightly against the glass, but Lyndy could tell there was no horse wagon attached to either of them. Not the baron then.
“But nothing,” Stella’s father said. “Like I said, you make too much of everything. If that man were still alive, blocking the aisle of the church, waving his gun at your viscount on your wedding day, I still wouldn’t be bothered. You didn’t know Prescott like we did.” He looked to Mr. Swenson for affirmation, who nodded knowingly. “The man was a coward. He couldn’t have squashed a flea.”
Murder at Keyhaven Castle Page 8