With no apparent injuries to the dead man’s head or neck, all evidence pointed to accidental drowning. But Brown knew better. Bodies that drown don’t float, at least not for several days, and this body had floated up in the constable’s grasp. Lord Fairbrother was dead before he entered the water. Brown knelt opposite his constable as Waterman began turning out the man’s pockets. A distasteful job but needs must. They found no cigarettes or means to light one, only a key in a trouser pocket. The lord’s watch, an elaborately engraved silver piece, dangled at his side, still intact and attached to his pocket by the fob. Brown flipped it open. It was stuck at 11:03. He tapped on the watch crystal; the hands didn’t move. Had it wound down on its own or stopped when it entered the water? Brown wished he knew. He set down the watch and reached into the man’s waistcoat. Lodged in the inside pocket was a thick wad of paper. Limp and drenched as the envelope was, its contents were unmistakable. What wasn’t obvious was why it was there in the first place.
“There must be over four hundred pounds there,” his constable exclaimed, staring at the soggy stack of fifty-pound notes, almost four months’ worth of the constable’s wages.
“Right!” Brown leaned back on his heels. Now they were getting somewhere.
CHAPTER 8
“I don’t understand why you want to be there.”
Lyndy could certainly think of better ways to spend the rest of his day. Hadn’t they had enough of murder? And this time, the death had nothing to do with them. They had no cause to be involved. It was strictly Philippa’s concern. Besides, he didn’t relish spending a moment more in that woman’s company. But Stella was adamant about going, and he’d be damned if he let her do this alone.
“How can I explain it?” Stella said, sitting next to him behind the wheel of the Daimler, her pink driving veil fluttering about her face.
Lyndy had directed Leonard to drive them to Pilley Manor before returning the carriage to Morrington Hall, insisting the distressed groom take the rest of the morning off. Stella had dried off, changed, and had a bite to eat while he waited. Luckily Mr. Kendrick had been out. When they’d clamored into the motorcar, Lyndy could barely see Stella’s shape, form, or face, bundled up in her duster coat, gloves, and veil, but her exquisite blue eyes had a glint to them again.
“Perhaps it’s because I found him,” she said, pressing down on the gas.
The motorcar bumped and tilted as they drove through ruts in the lane that cut across the open heath, the wind rushing in his ears, threatening to lift his cap from his head. Swaths of pink and purple heather interlaced with patches of feathery bracken and wide stretches of lush green grazing lawns spread out for miles on either side of them. And they were alone; Miss Luckett, the old chaperone, had retired to her room, too shaken by the morning’s events to care what they did. If they weren’t heading to Outwick House, Lyndy would be quite enjoying the ride.
“That doesn’t make you responsible,” Lyndy said.
Back at the Blackwater, Stella’s comportment had troubled him. With her wet hair clinging to her pale face, she’d seemed numb, oblivious to him. While they’d waited for Leonard to fetch the police, she’d sat clutching her knees. He’d tried to chat with her, even recruiting the aid of Stella’s Aunt Rachel. But Stella sat, unresponsive. Lyndy hated her silences. He’d rather she railed against him for dragging her to the river this morning or rattled on with a hundred questions than blankly staring at the stream. He’d turned to pacing. But luckily, she seemed herself again—insisting they do something unprecedented.
“To me, it does. Besides . . .” She hesitated. She frowned and looked around her, on the seat and then at the floor.
“Stella,” Lyndy warned as she veered off toward a wooden mileage post at the crossroad. With multiple pointed signs jutting this way and that—to Burley, Sway, Boldre, Minstead, Beaulieu, Lyndhurst—the tall, thick post was a formidable obstacle. Quite likely if they hit it, they’d be walking the two miles it indicated toward Rosehurst.
“Eyes on the road, please.” The Daimler swished its back end, like a fish in the water, as she righted them on the lane.
Stella bit her lip. “Sorry, I was just looking for something.” She glanced down quickly again. “Oh, I forgot we brought the carriage to the river and not the car.” She sounded relieved, but Lyndy frowned. How could she possibly forget that? He’d thought she’d recovered from her shock of finding Fairbrother. Was he wrong? Should she be driving at all?
Suddenly she jerked the wheel. The motorcar swerved hard, sending Lyndy crashing against the metal door. As they entered a side lane, the wheels kicked up a cloud of dust. Lyndy closed his mouth and adjusted his goggles. This was not the way to Outwick House.
“Whoa,” he shouted, but he needn’t have asked where they were heading. The chimneys of Morrington Hall were in sight. Had she changed her mind? “I think I need to learn to drive this contraption.” He’d said it as an admonishment, but it wasn’t a bad idea.
“Don’t you appreciate my driving, Lord Lyndhurst?” she said mockingly. Her smirk was the closest to a smile he’d seen on her face since . . . far too long.
“It’s much like breaking in a feral horse, Miss Kendrick,” he said. “Dangerous yet necessary.” She laughed. Music to his ears. “Why are we going to Morrington?”
“I need to get something.” Her smile faded, all levity gone. They raced up the gravel drive, but she surprised him yet again. Would she ever stop doing that? He hoped not. She turned toward the stable, instead of circling up to the house. “I’ll be back in a minute.” With that, she opened the motorcar door, clamored out, and rushed into the stable.
Did she expect him to sit there and wait?
True to her word, she was racing back toward him before Lyndy could decide whether to follow or not. She held a small bundle against her chest. She tossed it into his lap, started up the car, and they were off again.
Lyndy unfurled the burlap cloth that smelled like an animal had died in it. It was a sack, like the one the snakecatcher threw at Lord Fairbrother. A smile tugged at Lyndy’s lips as he relished the look on Philippa’s face when she thought snakes were in the bag. But then he remembered where they were going.
“Why ever did you come back for this rancid thing?”
Taking a hand off the wheel, Stella snatched the sack from him and shoved it into the little drawer under the seat. A glance inside it revealed a clean pair of gloves, a hand mirror, a handkerchief, and a tin of chocolates.
“I don’t want to lose it. I didn’t tell you about it sooner because I didn’t think it important at the time. But now . . .” What was she prattling on about? “That’s another reason I want to be at Outwick House.”
“But how does a potato sack have anything to do with Fairbrother’s death?”
“It’s Harvey Milkham’s. I’m sure of it.”
“And?”
“I found it at Blackwater Bend,” she said slowly. “Near where we were fishing this morning.”
No wonder she’d behaved so curiously, so distant. Is this what she’d been fretting about? Lyndy attempted to catch her eye, craning his neck to see around her veil and goggles, but to no avail. She was for once doing what she should—facing straight ahead watching the road.
“You suspect the snakecatcher killed Fairbrother?” he said, as they whisked past a scruffy old donkey grazing at the edge of the lane.
“No,” she said, her hands tightening on the wheel. “I don’t know.”
* * *
As the motorcar careened down the lane, Lyndy and Stella sat in silence, the rumble of the speeding motor loud in Lyndy’s ears. They passed a field dotted with grazing cattle, men in shirtsleeves working scythes, and bales of hay. On this day that promised to be unseasonably hot, the long winter the field hands were preparing for seemed far away. And then Outwick House came into view. Lyndy’s lip curled at the sight. He’d almost rather be out in the fields with the men.
The rectangular, three-story, limestone bu
ilding with two symmetrical chimneys and a marble-pillared portico was more reminiscent of a prison than a home. Tucked into a clearing in one of the ancient stands of trees, it felt isolated, cut off from the rest of the New Forest. Lyndy doubted the house’s occupants could ever see the sun rise or set here. Once the country estate of the Marquess of Outershaw, it was a wedding present to Lady Philippa, the marquess’s daughter, for her exclusive use.
How many times had Lyndy danced, dined, and suffered there? And yet here he was racing toward it. Why? Not due to any sense of loyalty to Philippa, or Fairbrother, for that matter. It wasn’t proper to speak ill of the dead, but Lyndy never did take to the pompous ass. Then why? Lyndy pushed his goggles onto his forehead and studied Stella’s exquisite face: the soft curve of her chin, the turned-up tip of her nose, the bow-shape of her lips he longed to kiss, the bright, inquisitive sparkle in her deep blue eyes.
Because I’d do almost anything for this amazing creature. Why Stella affected him like no other woman he’d ever met, he may never know.
Lyndy leaned in to kiss those lips he’d been admiring the moment the motorcar came to a halt. But he hesitated at the sound of footsteps crunching the gravel drive.
“Shall we?” Inspector Brown called, as the policeman approached Outwick House’s front door.
Damn. Without hesitation, Stella swung open her door and clamored out, leaving Lyndy little choice but to follow. She slipped out of the duster coat, driving hat, and veil, and tossed them into the backseat. Lyndy offered his arm and was rewarded with a smile as she slipped her arm through his. Her fragrance, that heady mix of floral and woody tones, scented the little space between them. His heart pounded as they joined the policeman on the portico, frustrated by the policeman’s interruption. He wasn’t looking forward to being under Philippa’s roof again either.
“My dear, Lyndy, this is a pleasant surprise,” Philippa cooed after Hodgson announced them.
Philippa made them wait while she dressed. She’d donned the lacy, green day dress. Mother once commented on how it matched Philippa’s eyes. As if Lyndy should care. The woman’s cold, sly smile as she rose to welcome him hadn’t changed in all the years he’d known her. Philippa wasn’t fooling him. She wasn’t happy to see him; she was happy he’d wanted to see her. This time she’d be wrong. Her cold, enchanting beauty, which had once derailed him, no longer had any effect.
Philippa indicated for him to sit on the plush, ivory sofa, the vines of the floral-patterned cushions threatening to entwine him. He stood his ground. The ever-present scent of gardenias, from the vase on the end table, permeated the room. Lyndy hated the smell of gardenias. Staring up at the geometric pattern of plasterwork on the vaulted ceiling, Lyndy pulled on his lapels. How soon will this be over?
“Ah, Miss Kendrick,” Philippa said, with less enthusiasm, when her eyes settled on Stella. “I should’ve known you were behind this little visit. Men don’t know such things.” Philippa playfully swatted Lyndy’s arm. “But you, Miss Kendrick, should know by now the proper time to call.” Philippa smiled, but Stella’s fingers tightened on his arm.
“Inspector Brown of the Hampshire Constabulary, my lady,” Hodgson announced as the policeman stepped into the room. He slipped off his hat.
“What is going on? Lyndy?”
The confusion, the consternation on Philippa’s face, was unsettling. Self-assuredness was Philippa’s trademark. Lyndy should rejoice in her uneasiness. Instead, he felt nothing but pity: Stella’s influence, no doubt. And as if reading his mind, his compassionate fiancée stepped away from him and took Philippa’s hands in hers. But Philippa only stared at Lyndy, demanding an explanation with her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Lady Philippa,” Stella said gently. “We were fishing and . . . I found your husband—”
“Well, where is he?” Philippa said, yanking her hands free from Stella’s. “Must you all look at me like that?” She brushed past Stella, knocking her in the shoulder as she passed, and glared up at Lyndy. “Lyndy. I demand you tell me what’s happened.”
His pity for Philippa vanished as he looked over her head at Stella. Hurt and tears welled in Stella’s eyes. How dare Philippa demand anything from him.
“Fairbrother’s dead,” he said bluntly.
“What are you talking about?” Philippa demanded. She grabbed hold of his arms. Lyndy stiffened but took no steps to remove her grip. She pinned him with her imploring eyes. “I know you can be cruel, Lyndy, but this lie is too much even for you.”
Lyndy saw the alarm Philippa’s accusation caused in Stella’s wide eyes. He could only imagine what she was thinking. He wanted to rush to her and explain everything, but Philippa’s nails were digging into his arms through his coat.
“I’m afraid, Lady Philippa,” Inspector Brown said, “what Lord Lyndhurst says is true. Miss Kendrick and he discovered your husband’s body in the Blackwater this morning.”
Philippa opened her mouth to protest. Then her grip relaxed on Lyndy’s arm, her body swayed haltingly, and her eyes fluttered. He’d forgotten how long her lashes were.
“What are you playing at?” Lyndy demanded, certain she wasn’t undone by the message they’d brought; she hadn’t loved Fairbrother in the least. Her theatrics were unbecoming.
Philippa squeaked in reply, staggered back on one foot, and collapsed. Only Lyndy’s reflexes saved her from crumpling to the floor.
* * *
Professor Gridley highly approved. Lord Atherly’s study, a small enclave in the back of his large manor house, was a private haven with everything necessary close at hand: maps, notebooks, microscope, hand lenses, a bottle of cleaning vinegar, with only a hint of it in the air, and a clever desk lamp that they could raise or lower depending on the need. Lord Atherly had cleared the large desk, which dominated the room, of everything but a sheet of clean, heavy, white cotton canvas on which to lay the bones.
Click.
“Now, my good fellow, we are certain not to be disturbed,” Lord Atherly said, with childish glee. “I’ve locked the door.” Wasn’t being the lord of the manor enough to guarantee a lack of interruption? Perhaps Lady Atherly was more intrusive than she appeared.
With three strides (it was a tight space), Lord Atherly was leaning over the desk, adjusting the lamp lower in anticipation. Gridley, taking his cue, bent down, flipped up the lid of his steamer trunk, and lifted out the first bone. To his satisfaction, the fragile metacarpal was perfectly intact. Gridley had had the good fortune of crossing paths with the brilliant Mr. Hatcher when both men were at Yale. Having revolutionized the method of collecting fossils, Professor Hatcher had instructed Gridley in his way of preserving the integrity of each field site and each find. No more tedious reconstruction of broken fragments in the laboratory, no more unexplained chips after a long, arduous journey. Lord Atherly’s eyes widened as Gridley set the smooth leg bone on the desk. Hand lens at the ready, Lord Atherly immediately began inspecting the fossil.
“A Miohippus, you say?”
“I have no doubt,” Gridley said, unwrapping the tiny phalanx bones and arranging them so Lord Atherly could see the skeleton’s three-toed structure.
“But Mesohippus are three-toed as well,” Lord Atherly said, gingerly lifting a phalanx to his hand lens.
“Yes. But wait.” Lord Atherly’s anticipation was palpable. Gridley continued unwrapping bone after bone until a partial skeleton of the extinct horse spread out across the entire surface of the desk. Lord Atherly inspected each bone in turn.
“No teeth?” he said, with a hint of irritation. “How can you say it is . . .” Lord Atherly stroked his chin as Gridley placed the decisive bone on the desk—the jaw. The extinct animal’s entire array of molars and premolars was intact.
“You found an intact lower jawbone?” Lord Atherly stammered.
Gridley pushed up his spectacles and beamed. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
Lord Atherly gingerly reached out to touch the bone. When he looked up from gazing at
the fossil, Gridley couldn’t read the thoughtful expression on the lord’s face.
“Pleased? Gridley, you’ve uncovered more than I could’ve hoped for. Well done, Professor. This is one of the most significant finds to date.”
Gridley nodded. He couldn’t agree more. “As you no doubt noticed from the teeth, it is not only a Miohippus but an undescribed species of the genus. With your permission, I would very much like to present this to the Royal Geology Society next week when I present my paper on the Paleocene mammal fossils of the Fort Union Formation in Montana.”
Presenting his paper to the RGS in London had been the primary purpose of Gridley’s trip. His side visit to Morrington Hall was to be but a courtesy call. That changed the week before he was to leave New York. The telegrams reiterating his colleagues’ concerns over the site he’d decided to excavate would’ve been enough to unnerve him. But then the letter came from Elijah Kendrick about Lord Atherly’s inability to produce the funds he’d promised, throwing the future of the entire expedition in doubt. Gridley had booked an earlier passage and packed a second steam trunk, risking possible damage or, God forbid, loss of his most significant find. He’d hoped seeing fossils would impress upon the lord how necessary, and worthwhile, his continued patronage meant.
“I thought I’d name it Miohippus atherli.” From the look of astonishment on Lord Atherly’s face, Gridley’s gamble had worked.
“You would be doing me a great honor, Professor.” Lord Atherly cradled the jawbone of the species to be named after him in his palms. He gently put it back on the desk.
“Should we discuss plans for another expedition, then?” Gridley said, eager to put to rest his concerns about Lord Atherly’s financial commitment.
“Not quite yet, for there is something I would like to show you, Professor.”
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