Murder at Keyhaven Castle

by Clara McKenna

  “Are you certain?” Mr. Swenson asked.

  “Why would anyone do that?” Aunt Ivy added.

  “Who pushed you?” Lady Atherly demanded. For once, Lady Atherly wasn’t angry at Stella, only adamant to learn who was to blame. “Who was it?”

  “Pardon the interruption, Lady Atherly, Lord Atherly. . . .” Inspector Brown, with Constable Waterman, strode through the doorway.

  “Finally!” Lyndy slapped his thighs and rose from the settee. “What took you so long?”

  “I do apologize, Lord Lyndhurst. I came as quick as I could. And may I say how pleased I was to learn of your safe return, Miss Kendrick.”

  “Thank you, Inspector.”

  “May we know the purpose of your visit, Inspector Brown?” Lady Atherly said tersely. “I do hope it’s not to subject Miss Kendrick or my son to any more of your questioning. I think they’ve had enough to deal with for one day.”

  Did Lady Atherly just say that?

  Stella and Lyndy exchanged bewildered glances for the second time. The countess’s tone was typical, but her sentiment, the safeguarding of Stella, was unprecedented. Had Lady Atherly found a tenderness for Stella, after all? If so, Stella reevaluated her ordeal. It had been worth it, after all.

  “Didn’t Lord Lyndhurst and Miss Kendrick tell you?” Inspector Brown said. “I’m here at their request.”

  “And that being?” Lady Atherly insisted.

  “I’m here to catch a killer.”

  * * *

  “Would you mind showing the photograph to the baron, Inspector?” Stella said, soon after Lord Atherly excused himself to return to his study, and Lady Alice and the baroness decided to, as the baroness explained, “take a turn in the garden to capture the rare spot of sunshine.”

  For once, Stella wasn’t envious of the ladies’ escape outside. After experiencing too much fresh air earlier, she was grateful for the warmth and security of sitting shoulder to shoulder with Lyndy in the crowded drawing room. Besides, this was her chance to get answers.

  And Baron Branson-Hill has them.

  Uncle Jed’s alibi had forced Stella to refocus her suspicions. On the ride back from the coast, her mind had been a muddle of who and why. Her father had made many enemies, but which one of them killed him? Who pushed her off the ferry, and why? Was it the same person? Was the crime connected to Jesse Prescott? Or was it two separate people, as Lyndy had suggested? Someone with a personal grudge? What with all she’d learned about the Woodhaven Downs scandal, the disgruntled, disreputable jockey, the Isle of Wight ferry, Challacombe, the same name popped up over and over. But Baron Branson-Hill hadn’t even been at Keyhaven Castle that day. He couldn’t have killed her father, but she was convinced he was the key to figuring out who did.

  Inspector Brown retrieved the photograph of Jesse Prescott from his waistcoat pocket. “Mind it was taken after death,” the inspector said. “It’s the man who was trampled on the Southampton docks.”

  “Should I know him?” the baron said, alarmed.

  “He had a ticket for the Island ferry,” the inspector said. “We think he may have called on someone at your estate.”

  Baron Branson-Hill solemnly took the photograph, found an empty seat by the French window, and pulled a pair of spectacles out of his inside breast pocket. Mrs. Swenson, not having seen the photo before, hovered nearby.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” Aunt Rachel warned when Mrs. Swenson leaned closer to peer over the baron’s shoulder. “Not if you don’t want to see a fella who looks like the racetrack at the end of a rainy day.”

  Mrs. Swenson, whether duly warned or embarrassed to be caught peeking, Stella couldn’t say, scuttled away like a frightened squirrel to the safety of the opposite settee. Lady Atherly frowned.

  “Do you recognize the man, Baron?” Inspector Brown asked.

  “I do,” the baron said in astonishment. “It was he who delivered Challacombe. He was a nervous, curious little chap. Never got his name, though.”

  That’s it!

  Stella caught Lyndy’s eye. It was the connection they’d been looking for.

  “It was Jesse Prescott,” Stella said, knowing the name would mean nothing to the baron. Anyone in the racing world would recognize the name of the disgraced jockey, but Baron Branson-Hill collected horses, he didn’t race them. “Did he have anyone with him? Did he say or do anything unusual?”

  “No. Rode up on Challacombe, alone. We barely exchanged a dozen words between us.”

  “And when was this?” Inspector Brown asked.

  “About a week ago.” The baron scowled in confusion. “I don’t understand. What’s this all about?”

  “We think there’s a connection between Mr. Prescott and the person who pushed Stella off the ferry,” Lyndy said.

  “Jesse Prescott may even have been connected to Daddy’s death,” Stella added. “Are you sure, Baron, that Mr. Prescott didn’t do or say anything that might help us figure out if he was working with or for someone else?”

  Before the baron could answer, Inspector Brown, a slight irritation to his voice, said, “Right! If you don’t mind, Lord Lyndhurst, Miss Kendrick. I appreciate your aid in the matter, but I prefer to be the one asking the questions.”

  “Of course, Inspector,” Stella said grudgingly.

  “Thank you. Now, my lord, did you give this man the money for the horse, or was it your stablemaster?”

  “Really, Inspector,” Lady Atherly scoffed, perturbed anyone should think the baron so crass as to handle the money personally.

  “Indeed,” the baron agreed. “No money exchanged hands. That was taken care of through my bank. I had it wired as soon as I took possession of the racehorse.”

  “And the name of the bank?”

  “The Phoenix National Bank of Lexington.” The name meant nothing to Stella. From the frown on the inspector’s face, it didn’t ring any bells for him either.

  “And to whom did you wire the money?”

  “My bank has the account numbers, of course. Mr. Washington Singer was the animal’s previous owner.”

  “You’ve undoubtedly been cheated, my good fellow,” Sir Owen said to the baron. “I’ve met Mr. Washington Singer, on several occasions, and I’m afraid he doesn’t hail from Kentucky any more than you do.”

  “But he’s an American,” the baron protested.

  “Owen’s right. Mr. Singer was born in New York but has lived on the Devon coast since he was boy,” Lyndy added. “He’d never use a bank in Kentucky.”

  “Have you spoken to this Mr. Singer?” Inspector Brown asked.

  “Well, no. All our correspondences were through telegrams.”

  Sir Owen poured more sherry into the baron’s half-empty glass. “I’m afraid the late Mr. Kendrick got it right, Baron.”

  “And what did the late Mr. Kendrick get right?” Inspector Brown asked, beating Stella to it.

  “He claimed I’d been sold the wrong horse, an imposter if you will, and not the real champion.”

  The baron, flustered, glanced around for a sympathetic face. He settled on Stella.

  She smiled at him warmheartedly, understanding the sting of duplicity, understanding that the baron was another victim of these sad circumstances.

  “Don’t feel bad, Baron,” Sir Owen quipped. “I couldn’t bloody well tell the difference.”

  Lyndy nodded in agreement. “I’ll give Mr. Prescott that. He picked an exact look-alike.”

  “It does make sense,” Inspector Brown mused. “Prescott had been convicted of horse switching schemes before. It’s reasonable he’d do something like it again. And we have evidence Prescott had been to Doncaster for the races. So, he would’ve known what the winning horse looked like. But how did he get the look-alike?”

  “He must’ve bought it,” Mr. Swenson said.

  “Surely, no one would sell a racehorse to a banned criminal?” Sir Owen asked.

  “Perhaps they didn’t know he was disreputable,” Mr. Swenson said.
>
  “And I’m a former beauty queen, Theo,” Aunt Rachel said, scrunching her wrinkly nose to prove her point.

  “Oh, I reckon anyone who is anyone would know better than to deal with him,” his wife suggested. “Don’t you? No offense, Baron,” she added when the baron sniffed at the insult.

  Mr. Swenson stroked his beard and shrugged.

  “Maybe he stole it,” Aunt Ivy said.

  “Maybe he brought it with him,” Stella said when the memory of a Quarter Horse being raised into the hold of an ocean liner that day at Southampton flashed in her mind. “Isn’t that something you could check, Inspector?”

  Constable Waterman stopped scribbling and looked up from his notebook. “No need, Miss Kendrick. We received a list from the ship’s steward’s office. Mr. Prescott did ship a thoroughbred horse to England.”

  “But why would he do that? He couldn’t have known Challacombe would win,” Penny pointed out.

  “You’re right,” Stella admitted. “He couldn’t have. But I’m guessing it didn’t matter. Such a remarkable horse would be valuable, win or no win.”

  “But that still doesn’t explain how Prescott got such a horse,” Inspector Brown said gruffly.

  “In the newspaper accounts covering the Woodhaven Downs scandal, Lord Lyndhurst discovered insinuations that others were involved but were never named,” Stella explained. “I think that’s where Jesse Prescott got the baron’s horse.”

  “Someone Prescott could still work with,” Inspector Brown said, continuing Stella’s reasoning. “Someone involved in the scandal but who hadn’t been caught.”

  “Exactly,” Stella said. “Someone who my father discovered was as willing to undermine the integrity of the sport as Pistol Prescott was.”

  “And you think that is why Mr. Kendrick was killed?” Inspector Brown said. “Because he discovered the duplicity of one of his colleagues and was going to expose them?”

  “Why not. Isn’t that why Jesse Prescott threatened to kill him?”

  “Stella’s right,” Aunt Ivy chimed in. “Like Mr. Swenson so eloquently said at the funeral, Elijah wholeheartedly believed in the integrity of the sport he owed his life and livelihood to. If he thought someone had done something to diminish the reputation of horse racing, and indirectly himself, I’ve no doubt he’d make sure the crook was punished.”

  “But what does any of this have to do with anything?” Penny whined, fiddling in her beaded handbag and pulling out her compact. She flipped it open. “Whoever gave the jockey the horse would be in Kentucky so they couldn’t have killed Mr. Kendrick, let alone pushed Stella off the boat.”

  Penny was right. Everyone involved in the Woodhaven Downs scandal would still be in the States. Or were they?

  “You forget the obvious, Miss Swenson,” Inspector Brown said. “One highly disreputable chap did come from Kentucky to England before all this happened. Robbed the jockey of his valuables and then, according to Mrs. Robertson’s nephew, pushed the jockey under the hooves of runaway horses, thus ridding himself of a liability.”

  “Uncle Jed?” Stella said, her heart pounding in distress. That’s not the conclusion she’d come to.

  “And to think I entertained him here at Morrington Hall,” Lady Atherly said.

  Stella wanted to remind the countess she’d entertained murderers before but, not wanting to upset the newly forged peace between them, held her tongue. But she had no compulsion with the policeman.

  “You never said Robbie saw Uncle Jed push Prescott under the horses,” Stella said, disappointed the inspector would’ve held back such a damning accusation. Despite everything, she still believed her uncle incapable of murder.

  “Well, Mr. McEwan didn’t accuse your uncle by name, but yes, he swore a man fitting Jed Kendrick’s description he saw coming out of Pilley Manor was the same as the one who pushed Jesse Prescott. I came to tell you earlier, but you weren’t in.”

  No, I was fighting for my life in the Lymington River, she wanted to say.

  “But what about the lighthouse keeper?” Lyndy said. “Mr. Boothroyd told Miss Kendrick he saw her uncle out on the spit. He couldn’t have killed his brother.”

  “But who else could it be?” Mrs. Swenson asked as if they’d already discussed the matter too much.

  And then, Stella knew. “It wasn’t Uncle Jed whom Robbie McEwan recognized at Pilley Manor. It wasn’t Uncle Jed he saw on the wharf that day.”

  She caught Theo Swenson’s eye over his wife’s shoulder, resting his hand on the walnut carving on the back of the settee Mrs. Swenson sat on. “It was you.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “You were Jesse Prescott’s accomplice. You killed him, and then you killed Daddy,” Stella said, struck breathless with the weight of what she knew to be true.

  “Well, shut the front door!” Aunt Rachel swore.

  “Stella, darling,” Mr. Swenson said, chuckling. “I think you’re more shaken by that little swim of yours than you care to admit.”

  “You pushed Stella?” Lyndy flew from his seat with fists raised, bounding toward Mr. Swenson, preparing to lunge at him. He knocked into the table with his knee, rattling the teacups. “You bloody bastard!”

  “Oi!” Inspector Brown blocked Lyndy’s path with his whole body. “Let’s not lose our heads now, Lord Lyndhurst.” The inspector silently motioned for Constable Waterman, who had been inconspicuously scribbling down every word in his notebook, to step closer.

  Lyndy backed off but began pacing the length of the Persian carpet in front of Stella, like a wolf protecting its den. He stopped once to point an accusing finger at Mr. Swenson, his hand shaking with rage. “I’ll see you hang!”

  Mrs. Swenson launched to her feet, the stiff silk of her skirt rustling as she confronted Stella. “I will not sit by and hear Theo accused of such horrible things.”

  With the tips of her ears burning, Stella turned away, noting how a ray of sun seeping through the window struck the whiskey decanter. The light sparkled off the crystal, spraying patches of rainbow colors across the floor. “Horrible but true,” she said.

  “How can you possibly think that, Stella, darling?” Mr. Swenson said. “You know I’ve always cared for you.”

  “Wish I could say the same,” Penny muttered under her breath.

  “It will be easy enough to have Robbie McEwan identify you,” Inspector Brown said.

  “I don’t deny I was near the runaway horses, Inspector. I was trying to locate our luggage,” Mr. Swenson said. “It was chaotic. I wouldn’t blame the boy for what he thought he saw. But I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “How do you respond to the charge you killed Mr. Kendrick?” Inspector Brown said.

  “Well, that. I was nowhere near the castle tower’s top room when Elijah fell. I was in the alley near the courtyard when he cried out. You, yourself, saw me, Stella, darling.”

  If he calls me darling one more time . . .

  “Except it was not Mr. Kendrick who cried out,” Inspector Brown said. “The victim was strangled with the drawbridge chains and already dead before he hit the stairs.”

  “Come again, old chap?” Sir Owen paused as he raised his glass to his lips. “Are you now saying someone else called out?”

  “Dr. Lipscombe confirmed it, which means we’re unable to use the time of the cry to establish the time of death,” Inspector Brown explained.

  “But if it wasn’t Mr. Kendrick, who was it? And why would anyone do such a thing?” Sir Owen asked.

  “To make Mr. Kendrick’s death look like an accident?” Aunt Ivy offered. “It was what we all initially thought.”

  “Perhaps,” Inspector Brown said. “More likely, the killer wanted to deceive us into believing Mr. Kendrick was alive long after he’d died.”

  “Thus, giving the killer an alibi,” Stella said, staring at Mr. Swenson, bile rising in her throat. “You even used me as your witness.”

  “I’m telling you I didn’t kill anyone. Think!” Mr. Swenson tapped the side of hi
s head. His condescending tone sent chills through Stella. He sounded like her father. “I couldn’t have done it. We all agree the cry came from the tower. I couldn’t have gone from the top of the three-story tower to the bottom and then across the courtyard in the short time between the cry and when Stella saw me. It isn’t humanly possible.”

  “You could if you shouted from the bottom of the tower,” Penny said, her voice barely above a whisper. “From there it’s a few yards to the courtyard.”

  “Penny?” Stella said. Penny glared at Stella, pure hatred in her eyes, her rouged lips curling into an animal-like snarl.

  Maybe Penny had been the one to push me overboard, after all.

  “If you know something that would help me in my investigation, Miss Swenson,” Inspector Brown insisted, “you are obligated to inform me.”

  “What could my child have to do with this sordid affair?” Mrs. Swenson said.

  “When does it ever have to do with me, Mama?” Penny sneered. “Owen was telling the truth. I was with him, and I did slap him. No one would blame me; he deserved it. Afterward, I went somewhere I could be alone. From the outside tower stairs, the second-story room looked empty. But it was dark, so I didn’t notice Mr. Kendrick right away. He was lying there as though he’d flopped headfirst down the stairs. I was going to check on him when the cry echoed up from the ground floor below. I recognized the voice.” Penny’s gaze shifted, barely moving her head. “It was you, Dad.”

  “Penny!” Mrs. Swenson cried, shocked by her daughter’s betrayal.

  Inspector Brown called Constable Waterman into action. The broad-shouldered constable stuffed his notebook in his jacket pocket and marched forward, apprehending Theo Swenson by the arm.

  “Theodore Swenson,” Constable Waterman said, clamping the accused’s wrists with handcuffs, “you are under arrest on suspicion of murdering Jesse James Prescott and Elijah Kendrick.”

  “Don’t listen to my daughter, Inspector,” Mrs. Swenson pleaded. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  “I know exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Mr. Swenson said, scolding his child. “Your mother and I have given you everything. We even came to England to find you a husband.”