Jedidiah Kendrick had proved more difficult. Brown tried every tactic he knew to pry information from the tight-lipped and oddly belligerent bugger, appealing to his love for Miss Kendrick, reminding him of his civic duty, threatening him with time spent in a jail cell. But Brown guessed the reticent American had been interrogated before. He resented being imposed upon by the police, even if it meant convicting his brother’s killer. Why that surprised Brown, he couldn’t say. But after an insufferable hour of hearing the man claim, repeatedly, nothing more than having roamed the spit, never observing nor hearing anything pertinent to the murder, Brown knew better than to press on. The man was hiding something. Of that, Brown had no doubt. But learning the nature of it was beyond Brown’s patience and ability. For now.
Lord Lyndhurst, when he arrived, refused to sit down. He refrained from pacing but exuded a barely suppressed desire to. With his arms folded against this chest, the viscount denounced Brown for arresting Sir Owen when Miss Kendrick’s Uncle Jed was by far the more obvious suspect. Hadn’t anyone told Brown of the second altercation between the two brothers last night? Lord Lyndhurst had asked. When Brown admitted ignorance, the young lord described a heated row where the victim threatened to throw his brother’s children out on the street, and “Uncle Jed” pronounced his desire for the victim to “go to hell.”
Why then had Jedidiah Kendrick accompanied his brother on today’s excursion? Brown wanted to know. Had the two reconciled? Or had other factors come into play? Lord Lyndhurst couldn’t tell him.
Brown cursed himself, then, for not pressing the younger Mr. Kendrick further.
Not wanting to make the same mistake twice, Brown questioned Lord Lyndhurst further, pressing for details: where had he been, whom was he with, what else had he seen? Even he refused to give Brown details, volunteering nothing more than he’d kept company with Miss Kendrick the entire time and knew nothing of what had transpired in the tower. It was as plain as beans on toast that Lord Lyndhurst had a secret he was anxious to keep. But Brown, having gotten to know the gentleman, chalked it up to one of a more personal nature than a criminal one. They parted congenially, both men agreeing that questioning Miss Kendrick could wait.
When Brown had spoken to Mrs. Ivy Mitchell, the victim’s sister-in-law and the second to last to arrive, he’d detected an undercurrent of triumph, as if she were glad the victim was dead. But to Brown’s chagrin, she’d supplied him with little more insight into Sir Owen’s movements, his motive, or that of the others, than she had at the castle.
He’d spent hours questioning the excursion party. And he was getting nowhere.
Brown, rubbing the crick out of his neck, returned his attention to the woman sitting in the dark leather-covered captain’s chair across from him, powdering her nose from a silver compact with blue enamel flowers. She was the last on his list.
“Try harder if you please, Miss Swenson.” Brown was losing his patience.
She’d changed from her traveling suit into a pale purple tea gown and tapped her foot impatiently as if he’d called her away from an engagement with far more important men than he. Gone was the petrified creature who huddled in her father’s arms. The young woman had regained her composure and an all-together unhelpful attitude.
“I’ve already told you.” Miss Swenson snapped the compact closed. No amount of powder could hide her red, puffy eyes. “I don’t remember where I was when I heard the shout.”
Brown wasn’t unsympathetic. The young woman had discovered the murdered man’s body. It was her defiance that made him press her. What wasn’t she telling him?
“Sir Owen was most adamant you were with him at the time.” Brown could picture the deflated young gentleman when Constable Waterman installed him in the cell. “Are you telling me that isn’t true?”
“As I said before, and I will say again, he’s lying.” She shifted in her seat.
“Were you with someone else then?”
Anger flashed across her face. “What are you implying, Inspector?”
“I’m not implying anything, Miss Swenson. I’m trying to establish the whereabouts of all the members of Mr. Kendrick’s party. If you were not with Sir Owen as he claims, then I must conclude you were alone. Am I correct?”
“Yes, I was alone.” The young woman flipped open the compact again. She studied her reflection in the compact mirror, the silver case glinting in a stray ray of sunshine.
“Then, you too have no alibi.” His statement lingered in the silence between them until she snapped the compact shut. Brown leaned forward in his chair, hoping to stress the precariousness of her position. “Sir Owen claims you as his alibi. Which, if true, would make him yours as well. But if you were both alone at the time, as you insist, then you are both suspects.”
Miss Swenson squared her shoulders, but a trace of arrogant desperation colored her voice. She shoved her compact back in her bag.
“Owen was the one gaping down at Mr. Kendrick from the top of the stairs. He was the one with the scratches on his face. Not me.” She crossed and recrossed her ankles. “Why are you even questioning me? You have your killer. Why can’t you leave me alone?”
Brown pinched the bridge of his nose. If only murder inquiries were as simple as that. Or any investigation for that matter. Yes, Sir Owen sat accused of killing Elijah Kendrick, but where was the evidence that would convict him? What was his motive? And with Jedidiah Kendrick having more obvious animosity toward the victim, and Miss Swenson having discovered the body, who’s to say Sir Owen wasn’t at the wrong place at the wrong time?
But Brown wasn’t about to satisfy Miss Swenson with an answer. She was the one who had a bit of explaining to do.
“Did you have any reason to want Mr. Kendrick dead?” he said.
She shot up out of her chair. “What? You think I . . . ?” She sputtered in surprise a moment, glaring down at him. “I promise you, Inspector. If I wanted anyone dead, it wouldn’t have been her father.”
Miss Swenson snatched up her handbag and, without requesting permission, flounced out of the room.
Brown nestled back into his chair and stared up at the deer heads again. Her father. Had Miss Swenson realized what she’d said? From Brown’s reckoning, she probably had no idea she’d revealed her animosity toward Miss Kendrick. He slapped his cap on his head and stood.
“Right! Now we’re getting somewhere.”
* * *
Brown had finished at Morrington Hall and was eagerly anticipating tea with his wife when he spied Mrs. Mitchell along Lyndhurst High Street. She ducked into a gabled brick building, nondescript, but for the distinctive red metal box mounted into the wall by the front door. The petite American had been his most valuable witness, placing Sir Owen at the top of the stairs at the time of Mr. Kendrick’s fall.
He might’ve kept going, the taste of his steak and kidney pie already on his tongue, but for a nagging curiosity, which, when aroused, served him well. Brown guided Matilda toward the curb and parked the police wagon. He leaped down, wrapped the horse’s reins around a lamppost, and headed back toward the post office. Mrs. Mitchell emerged when he approached the post office door.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Mitchell.”
“Inspector!”
The parcel she was carrying slipped from her grip at the sight of him. He bent to retrieve it, but she hurriedly snatched it up.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, yes, thank you.” The American lady’s face flushed a bright red, and she glanced about her as if afraid to be seen speaking with him. If she’d been a horse, Brown would’ve described her as skittish. But why? “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, brushing past him and scurrying down the sidewalk, quickly disappearing into an alley between a tea shop and a dressmaker’s.
Now, what was that all about?
Glancing over his shoulder, he checked Matilda was well secured to the post before pushing open the post office door. Post office was an oversimplification. Besides collecting and de
livering the Royal Mail, sending and receiving money orders and telegrams, the office served as a savings bank as well as a government insurance and annuity office. Inside, banks of wooden, glass-fronted, numbered letter boxes created a wall on both sides of the open counter.
The jingling ring of the bell above the door brought the clerk to the counter straightaway. The middle-aged man exuded a sense of precision and orderliness, from his clean-shaven face, his blindingly white starched shirt, and sleeve garters down to his oiled hair that appeared to have been parted using a straight edge. Brown pulled out his warrant card.
“Inspector Brown, Hampshire Constabulary. There was a small woman, in her midforties, American, who—”
“You just missed her,” the clerk interrupted.
“No, I spoke to her outside. She was carrying a parcel. I’d like to know what was in it.”
“Why ask me? She came in with the parcel.”
“She didn’t collect it here?”
The clerk shook his head. “She didn’t receive anything here.”
“Then what business did she have?”
The clerk pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. Behind him in the corner was a highly polished desk with a potted geranium with delicate blue flowers. A lined ledger with a pencil in the binding crease lay open beside an electric telegraph.
“She sent a telegram.”
“I need to know what it said and to whom she sent it.” When the clerk hesitated, Brown pinned him with his most disapproving glare. “As I am conducting a murder inquiry, I advise you to assist me, Mr. . . . ?”
The clerk swallowed hard, his large Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Stote. Bertram Stote. But I don’t think it proper that I—”
“Mr. Stote, the contents of that telegram may prove vital. If you refuse to assist me, I may have to arrest you for impeding my inquiry.”
Mr. Stote paled, spun around, sliding on the waxed plank floor, and snatched up the ledger from the desk.
“She sent it to, to . . .” He stammered nervously. The answer came in a rush. “To a one Mrs. Eugene Smith, care of the Star Hotel, High Street, Southampton.”
Southampton? Could Mrs. Mitchell know someone staying there? Plenty of people overnighted in the city after they arrived in this country or before they shipped out. But with the unanswered questions surrounding Jesse Prescott’s death, Brown couldn’t brush the possible connection aside.
“How did the telegram read?”
“I’m not quite sure how to say. Even before you arrived, I wondered about it myself, but I’m not paid to question the customers, am I?”
The simple mahogany wall clock above the clerk’s desk chimed half past five. Brown was late for tea.
“What did it say, Mr. Stote?” Brown repeated less patiently.
The clerk, a moment ago pale, sprouted two red blotches on his cheeks.
“It was simple, really. All it said was, It’s over. He’s dead.”
CHAPTER 17
“She’s had a bad night of it, I suspect, milord,” Gates whispered, “but she’s a tough one. She’ll mend.”
Lyndy and the stablemaster peered over at Stella curled up in the corner of Tully’s box stall, like a child, in the hay. Bits of golden-brown bracken clung to her skirt, brown and green splotches stained her white blouse, and a scratch, etched in dried blood, marred her perfectly porcelain forehead. She was fast asleep. Tully, although calmly chewing her oats and hay, kept a wary eye on the men. As if Stella were her foal, Tully had positioned herself protectively between her and the men.
“Have someone tell Miss Kendrick’s maid we’ve found her mistress,” Lyndy quietly instructed a passing groom. The maid was sick with worry.
Lyndy had kept one eye on the dining room door during breakfast. When Stella hadn’t come down, he’d ordered a tray sent up. He’d been more concerned than he’d admit. Stella never missed breakfast. He shouldn’t have been surprised then when Stella’s lady’s maid, breaking all rules of decorum, had burst into Papa’s study, uninvited. Lyndy and Papa had been discussing hiring Sir Charles Nighy, Papa’s solicitor, to free Sir Owen from his predicament. Papa, who strictly prohibited the female servants from entering his study, surprised Lyndy by allowing the maid to explain herself instead of sacking her on the spot. The poor distraught thing rambled on about last night’s tray being left untouched and a nightgown left in a pile on the floor, all to say Stella had gone missing.
“Will do, milord,” the groom whispered back.
Lyndy detected the surprise in the groom’s tone, the approval in his eyes. His instinctual reaction was one of annoyance. Who was the groom to approve of him? But more to the point, why had the man been surprised? Was Lyndy’s concern for Stella’s maid so unexpected? That’s what troubled him. It was uncharacteristic of him to notice or care. Was he becoming a better master? A better man? If so, he had the woman asleep in the straw to thank.
Thank heavens, she is safe and unharmed.
“What happened?” Lyndy strained to keep the concern from his voice.
Luckily, after a frantic few minutes in Papa’s study, wondering what he would do if harm had come to her, Lyndy had gotten word from Mr. Gates that she’d been found.
“Charlie discovered her like this when he came to feed and water Tully.”
Lyndy stifled his desire to scoop her up and carry her back to the house. If he had his way, he’d tuck Stella into his bed and never let her out of his sight again.
The stablemaster shook his head in regret. “I wished I’d kept a better eye out for her when she came in yesterday.”
“You saw her here yesterday?” Lyndy had thought her resting in her room.
Gates nodded.
“She came around to take Tully out for a ride. Considering what had happened to her father, I wasn’t surprised.”
No, Lyndy wasn’t surprised either, come to think of it. How else would Stella outchase her worries than on the back of her horse? It’s what he would do.
“It’s not unusual she wouldn’t require a groom on her return, preferring to brush and wash down the horse herself. But none of us heard her come back. And what kind of watchdog is Mack? The mongrel didn’t even bark.”
“One that knows his mistress,” Lyndy argued, his fondness for the dog evident.
Mack, as if he’d heard his name, came loping down the aisle, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Gates dashed to intercept the dog before he bounded into the open box stall. As Gates motioned for one of his men to take charge of the restrained dog, Lyndy rewarded Mack’s loyalty with a few hearty pats on the head.
“You get Tully,” Lyndy said softly once the dog was secured outside.
The horse swished her tail slowly, swatting flies, but her vigilance was undeniable; her gaze followed every movement the men made. Lyndy knew Stella’s horse to be the gentlest of creatures, but a mare protecting her foal was unpredictable. Lyndy wasn’t taking any chances.
Gates retrieved Tully’s bridle and offered the mare a piece of peppermint as he slipped it over her head. With that in place, the stablemaster gently led Tully out of the stall. The moment he was clear of the horse, Lyndy was inside, on his knees in the straw beside his bride-to-be. Resisting the urge to pull her into his lap, he brushed strands of matted hair from her forehead, his fingers grazing her smooth, soft skin. He slowly traced the scratch with his fingertip.
“Wake up, my love.”
He bent forward and lightly kissed her cheek and, with a rush of relief, felt her stir. Cold and stiff, she uncurled slowly, before pushing up onto her elbows. She vigorously rubbed her hands over her arms.
“Lyndy, I think Pistol Prescott wanted Daddy dead.”
Her words hit him like a bucket of ice water.
“But he threatened to kill someone at Morrington Hall,” Lyndy reminded her.
“I think the jockey made the same mistake Uncle Jed did, believing Daddy and I were staying at Morrington Hall. It was never about you or Lord Atherly. It was about Dad
dy all along. But why, I don’t know.”
“Does that matter now? Prescott’s dead, Stella. Even if he had wanted to bring harm to your father, he didn’t kill him.”
Stella sighed in exasperation. “But someone did. And I’m not convinced it’s Sir Owen.”
“No, you’re right. Owen didn’t do it.”
“But it’s too much of a coincidence. The two deaths have to be related.”
“Come on, let’s get you back to the house.”
Lyndy pushed up from his knees and held out his hand. Stella, smelling of hay and damp earth, clamped it and let him haul her to her feet. She brushed bits of straw and bracken from her blouse and skirts. Lyndy plucked bits and pieces from her braided hair.
“How did you injure yourself?”
Stella raised a hand to her scratched brow. “I was careless. A branch hit me when I was riding.”
“But why stay here all night? You nearly frightened your maid to death.” Not to mention how he’d suffered.
“Oh, poor Ethel. I should’ve left her a note. But I was so upset yesterday,” she said, stepping out of the stall and glancing down the aisle. One of the other horses neighed in greeting. “Where is Tully?”
“Gates took her outside. You were saying?”
Standing in a pool of sunlight in the middle of the aisle, like an angel sent from heaven, she turned to face him. “Lyndy, I was devastated. I was confused. I was mortified. I was relieved. I had so many unanswered questions.”
She dropped her head in her hands, distraught, ruining the angelic tableau. He stepped out of the box stall and joined her in the aisle. As he strode toward her, planning to wrap her in a comforting embrace, she slid her hands down her face and rested her fingertips on her delicate jawbone.
“You know how I felt when Daddy betrayed me and forced me into this engagement?”
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