Murder at Blackwater Bend

by Clara McKenna

  Meow.

  For goodness sake, what was that doing in here?

  From the safety of the shadows beneath the white wicker lounge chair, a tabby cat, its green eyes shining in the dark, peered up at him and hissed. Hodgson had noticed the cat before. Nelly, a chambermaid, was known to put out milk for the stray. Hodgson did not approve—cats made Lord Fairbrother itch—but the housekeeper had a soft spot for the animals and was turning a blind eye to the maid’s indiscretion. But here now, Hodgson had a good reason to banish the feral thing from the grounds—the cat had found its way into the house.

  “Shoo, shoo.” He flapped his hands, trying to scare the cat from under the chair. When it refused to move, Hodgson retreated to the kitchens for a dish of milk. When he returned, he carried the dish outside and set it down several yards away. The cat dashed past him and happily lapped up the treat. Hodgson quickly closed the conservatory door and locked it. Satisfied, he turned to leave, but stopped and glanced back.

  How had the cat entered the conservatory in the first place?

  Hodgson jiggled the doorknob, satisfied it was securely locked. The butler snorted his displeasure. For the wind to have blown it open or for the cat to have pushed it, someone must’ve left the door ajar. But who? The gardener? Highly unlikely. The gardener was conscientious and meticulous. He’d never have left the conservatory in a state that would threaten the health of the plants. Nelly? More likely. Banishing the cat would only serve the maid right. She’d be lucky if that’s all he did.

  * * *

  Why hadn’t she ever done this before?

  The water swirled and rippled around Stella’s knees, pushing and pulling, forcing her to plant her feet solidly in the gravel streambed and bend her knees to keep from falling. She gripped the long willowy rod, as Lyndy stepped behind her and pressed against her back, steadying her. With the warmth of his breath tickling her ear, he guided her arm in a methodical wave of the rod, sending the line into the air, flowing back and forth above her head. Water droplets, clinging to the translucent line, reflected the purple and pink and orange of the rising sun. The intimacy of it was almost her undoing.

  “Now,” he said.

  She flicked her wrist, as he’d shown her, and aimed for a dark pool beneath the feathery branches of an overhanging willow. A silent splash marked where her line entered the water.

  “Brilliant,” Lyndy said, his words low and muffled by the rushing water. “You’re a natural.” He leaned in and nibbled her ear but stepped back as soon as she began to giggle. “Keep doing that, and we’ll be eating trout for breakfast.”

  Stella grinned at him as he waded a few yards away. His usually immaculate hair, unkempt and damp, stuck to the side of his face. His hat lay on the bank, and his tie dangled loosed around his neck. She hadn’t seen him this relaxed since the Derby. Who knew dressing in rubber wading pants and forging into the middle of the Blackwater was all it took to be near him when he was like this? Why hadn’t she done this sooner?

  Because he’d never asked. Until yesterday.

  When he’d left the tea tent after the Cecil Pony Challenge, Stella had run after him, ignoring Lady Atherly’s demand to let Lyndy be. Without discussion or agreement, they’d shared Stella’s umbrella and crossed the heath back to Morrington Hall in silence. Stella had so many questions. Did Lyndy think Lord Fairbrother had anything to do with burning down Harvey’s hut? Did he believe Mr. Parley’s accusation of cheating had any truth in it? What did Harvey mean about Lord Fairbrother taking men’s money? Why had Lyndy so rudely dumped the sack at Lady Philippa’s feet? But his brooding expression had stilled her tongue and she’d said nothing. When they’d arrived, and Stella turned toward the stables to check on Tully, Lyndy had caught her by the hand, pulling her to him and kissing her with a ferocity that left her breathless. Where did that come from?

  “You seemed to have recovered your good humor,” she’d teased as a sly smirk crept across his face.

  “Come fishing with me tomorrow,” he’d whispered, his lips flushed and his eyes shining. “I’d like to teach you.” Of course, she’d agreed, the strength of his arms still wrapped around her. She never imagined she’d enjoy it so much.

  As her fly, a clever combination of tiny feathers and thread coiled around the flat end of the hook, bobbed on the current toward her, a heron leaped into flight from atop the nearby fir tree. Stella swept the riverbank with her gaze, past the slumbering figure of Aunt Rachel, toward the open heath, unbroken for miles by nothing but swaths of purple, flowering heather, clumps of gorse bushes that looked like stunted fir trees, and a scattering of ponies grazing on the lush green grass. She breathed deeply of the earthy scent of the streamside vegetation mingling with the pungent odor of her rubber pants. She thrilled at the strange combination, associating it with the sudden freedom she felt. Here there were no expectations, no constraints, no rules of etiquette to follow. Just the rhythmic peace of swish, cast, and reel. Swish, cast, reel.

  No wonder Lyndy looked so relaxed.

  Stella reeled in her line, swished it above her head, and cast again, this time without Lyndy’s help. Almost immediately, she felt the pull of something. But this couldn’t be a fish. There was no tug or play, as the fish tried to swim away. This was a heavy, static pull.

  “My line is caught on something,” Stella said as she slowly waded against the current toward the overhanging tree. “Don’t worry. I can get it,” she added when Lyndy began wading toward her.

  Her line had disappeared into the branches of the willow on the bank. Stella tugged on it as she approached. The branches bobbed, rustling the leaves, but her fly was stuck. Stella pulled again. It was no use. She ducked beneath the overhanging branches, the fronds tickling her face, hoping to spot her snagged fly and pry it loose by hand. But the sun hadn’t reached this dark hollow, and she tripped. She let go of her rod, frantically snatching at the nearby branches to keep from falling, but her clumsy, heavy boot became wedged under something beneath the water.

  “Ohhh!”

  Stella buckled forward and splashed to her knees, expecting to connect with the sharp gravel bottom. But her knees jabbed into something softer and squishy. It wasn’t a large clump of fallen leaves, accumulated by the current, or a moss-covered log covered over recently by the seasonal rains. It was a man’s body, caught in the roots of the tree.

  “Oh, no!”

  “Girlie, are you okay?” Aunt Rachel shouted from the stream bank.

  “Stella?” Lyndy’s call was muffled and far away.

  Stella clamored frantically backward, water splashing in her eyes, branches tangling her hair. She twisted around, but the rubber pants were filled with water, weighing her down. She could barely drag herself away. She crawled as she went until Lyndy reached her and hauled her to her feet.

  “What is it?” he demanded, his face creased with worry. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, it’s not me,” she said, pointing toward the willow. “It’s Lord Fairbrother. And, Lyndy, he’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Stella stared into the rushing water. A thin, brown branch floated downstream, momentarily catching between two large algae-covered rocks jutting up through the surface. How could the water be so clear, so clean with a dead body in it? She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Despite Lyndy draping the picnic blanket around her shoulders, she was still shivering.

  How could this have happened again?

  Constable Waterman, as burly as he was, squeezed into Lyndy’s borrowed rubber pants and boots and waded toward the spot beneath the willow. With one forceful jerk, he pulled the dead body from the tangle of roots and heaved it up onto the bank. Water rushed from the body back into the stream as if frantic to escape its grim touch. Bile rose in Stella’s throat.

  “Perhaps you’d like to wait in the carriage?” Inspector Brown said gently. Furrows formed on his high forehead.

  Stella looked back at the carriage, parked behind the police wagon and its calmly grazi
ng horse. Leonard, the groom from Morrington Hall who had accompanied them on their fishing trip, stood beside it. With his face buried in her neck, the groom stroked Sugar, Lord Atherly’s Hanoverian, over and over as the horse snorted and neighed nervously. Aunt Rachel huddled on the seat under a thick woolen blanket the police had provided and stared into her lap. Stella shook her head.

  What good would that do? No matter where she was, in the carriage, on the bank, with her eyes open or closed, she’d still see Lord Fairbrother’s face, the minnow darting out of his open mouth, his eyes staring unblinking up at her as if he was as surprised as she was. She shivered again.

  The policeman nodded his understanding before stepping over to where the constable had laid out the body and squatting down to inspect it.

  Lyndy, who had been pacing the bank like a tiger in a menagerie, stopped to wrap his arm around her. “You do need to get into drier clothes.”

  “Not yet,” was all she could say, staring at Lord Fairbrother’s feet. One boot had fallen off, and a small tear in his black silk hose revealed a patch of bluish-tinted skin.

  What happened? Was it an accident? Or something more sinister? And when? Only yesterday the lord was basking in the glow of his Cecil Challenge Cup win. Then Harvey threatened him. When she’d found the body, her first thought was of the snakecatcher. She couldn’t fathom why. Was it the way Lord Fairbrother’s hair had waved among the roots that made her think of snakes? Or was it finding Harvey’s empty burlap sack laying on top of a bush when they’d first arrived at the river this morning? With Harvey nowhere around, she’d tucked it under the seat in the carriage. No, she couldn’t leave yet. Not until she knew if Lord Fairbrother had been murdered and if Harvey had something to do with it.

  “Are you up to answering some questions then, Miss Kendrick?” Inspector Brown asked, his gruff voice almost at a whisper when he approached them again. Lyndy opened his mouth to protest.

  “Yes, Inspector, you know I’ll help any way I can,” she said.

  “Lord Lyndhurst?” Inspector Brown asked.

  Lyndy hesitated, searching her face for his answer. She struggled to smile, but her efforts were feeble and exhausting. He acquiesced and nodded. “But let’s get this over as quickly as possible, shall we?”

  Inspector Brown waved his fingers to his constable when Waterman had finished stripping off the rubber pants. The constable, still in stocking feet, pulled a notebook and pencil from his uniform jacket pocket.

  “Which of you found the body?” Inspector Brown asked.

  “I did,” Stella said. “It’s horrible, I know, that we left him there. But we thought . . . just in case it wasn’t an accident.” She rested her hand at the base of her throat, struggling to swallow. “Like last time.”

  Inspector Brown nodded appreciatively. “No, you did right. Now, what time did this happen?”

  Stella looked out at the horizon and took a deep breath. “A little after sunrise.” It had been so beautiful, so peaceful. She shuddered knowing Lord Fairbrother had been trapped under the water all along.

  “We sent the groom to alert you the moment we found the poor chap,” Lyndy added.

  Stella could barely remember the interval between Leonard’s departure and his return with the police. How long had it been, ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour? She had no idea. She’d sat on the bank, hugging her knees and staring into the water. Lyndy had alternatively sat beside her and paced. They’d barely spoken.

  “We just saw Fairbrother yesterday at the fete.” Disbelief clouded Lyndy’s voice, echoing Stella’s thoughts.

  “I wasn’t there myself, but Waterman here was,” Brown said, glancing at his constable sitting on the ground putting on his shoes. “The lord won the Cecil Challenge Cup again, apparently.”

  “Didn’t do him much good, did it?” Lyndy said, without a trace of sarcasm.

  “No, I’m afraid not. Did you see Lord Fairbrother out on the heath this morning? Or anyone else, for that matter?”

  Stella shook her head and said nothing about Harvey. Why should she? Just because his sack was there didn’t mean he’d been here this morning. It could’ve laid there for days. At least that’s what she told herself.

  “No, it was still a bit dark when we donned our wading gear,” Lyndy said.

  “We? I’d assumed . . .” The policeman stammered.

  “That I’d found the body from the bank?” Stella saw in the inspector’s eyes that that’s precisely what he’d assumed. “No, I was in the river. Lord Lyndhurst is teaching me to fly-fish.”

  “Good for you, Miss Kendrick,” Inspector Brown said as if a woman learning to fly-fish wasn’t any more unusual than rain on a summer’s day. He tipped his hat. “Thank you, Miss Kendrick, Lord Lyndhurst. You’ve been most helpful. Of course, I may have to speak to you again.”

  “Of course, Inspector,” Lyndy said, ushering Stella gently toward the carriage. “We understand.”

  “But—” Stella sputtered.

  “We need to get you warm and dry. You need to get a cup of tea in you.” Lyndy meant well, but she hadn’t asked any of her questions yet. She twisted in his embrace to face the policeman again.

  “But what happened to him, Inspector?” She’d avoided asking but couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to know. “Did he drown, or was he murdered?”

  Lyndy halted midstride, impatience etched across his brow. Was he overly anxious to get her safe and dry, or was he too eager to learn what the policeman had to say? Perhaps a bit of both.

  “Heavens to Betsy, girlie,” Aunt Rachel called from the carriage. “Murder? Why are you crying cyclone just because the wash on the line is flapping? The man fell in and drowned, is all.”

  Aunt Rachel had been at the fair. Didn’t she remember the threats? First, Mr. Parley, and then Harvey. Killing someone over the results of a breed competition did seem far-fetched, but Harvey had accused Lord Fairbrother of burning his house down. The inspector hadn’t been there, but his constable must’ve told him.

  Inspector Brown hesitated as if he loathed having to say it out loud. “It’s too soon to be certain, but . . .”

  “But you suspect foul play,” Lyndy said. It wasn’t a question.

  Brown nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid, I do.”

  * * *

  With Constable Waterman taking notes over the body, Brown surveyed the scene. Finally.

  Miss Kendrick had refused to leave, wanting, for her own unspoken reasons, to accompany him to Outwick House. Not that Brown minded; he wasn’t relishing the task. Having Miss Kendrick there might soften the blow when he informed Lady Philippa of her husband’s death. Besides, Brown had thrown away any semblance of standard protocol when these two aided him with his last murder case. They’d caught the killer, hadn’t they? What was the harm in involving them again?

  But the American lady stood there shivering, cold river water dripping from her hair and clothes. So, Brown struck a deal: Miss Kendrick would go home, change into dry clothes, have a spot of tea and a bit of toast, and when he finished up here, Brown would meet her and Lord Lyndhurst outside Outwick House. They would inform the widow of her husband’s death together. Miss Kendrick had readily agreed—she was a quick lass—leaving Brown to examine the banks and nearby area without distraction.

  He started next to the overhanging willow, where Miss Kendrick had found the body. Its lowest leaves floated on the water. There was no obvious point of entry, no treads in the bank where the man was dragged in, no broken branches as his body fell. Waterman, when he’d entered the water and retrieved the body, had been careful to preserve this stretch of bank. But to no avail. Nothing here indicated this is where the man went in.

  Brown ambled upstream along the bank. He found nothing, no tracks, no traces of anything until he came to the site where the fishing party had laid out their blanket and gear. Had they disturbed something pertinent to the case? He couldn’t tell. He continued walking. The splash of unseen frogs, leaping into the water, mar
ked his advance as he followed the distinctive curve in the bank known as Blackwater Bend. Eventually Brown came to a towering oak tree, the grass around and near the base trampled and worn. Could this be a favorite watering spot for the ponies? Perhaps, but it was also the preferred spot for someone to rest and smoke. Brown knelt and picked up the nub of a cigarette. It still smelled strongly of Turkish tobacco. As Brown widened his inspection, he found two spent matches and several more cigarette nubs, two flicked out onto the heath and four crushed into the riverbank soil. Brown preferred cigars himself. Some men puffed a pipe. The only cigarette smokers he knew were men who had brought back the habit from the Boer War.

  Had Lord Fairbrother fought in South Africa? Had he taken up with cigarettes? Or could this be evidence of something more nefarious? Someone had stood here smoking for quite a bit. Had it been Lord Fairbrother or had someone been waiting for him?

  Brown pocketed the cigarette nubs and marked the oak by tying his white handkerchief on the upper part of a root arching out over the bank. He continued with his search up the bank but found nothing more. He returned to the willow, where Constable Waterman stood guard over the body, and walked downstream, his eyes on the ground searching for drag marks, deep cuts in the bank, broken limbs, or anything that indicated where Lord Fairbrother entered the water. All he found was a tweed cap caught in the current beneath an undercut in the bank. Presuming it belonged to the deceased, Brown retrieved it, picked off bits of clinging algae, wrung it out, and shoved it in his jacket pocket.

  Lord Fairbrother must’ve gone in near the oak.

  When Brown returned, his constable was kneeling beside the body. The lord had dressed for walking: Wellingtons, tweed jacket, and pants. Brown had also found signs of a walking stick poking into the exposed soil near the oak but never found one. If Lord Fairbrother had used a walking stick, it was far downstream by now. Twigs and leaves intertwined with the lord’s hair, his skin was bluish, and his fingers were puckered and wrinkled like dried fruit. But Brown, not being an expert on the effects of water on a dead body, couldn’t guess how long the lord had been in the water. Brown would trace the lord’s last steps and leave the rest to the medical examiner.