Murder at Blackwater Bend

by Clara McKenna

  “You mentioned a second reason for not liking Lord Fairbrother,” Brown reminded the girl.

  “That’s right.” She held up two fingers. “Two. I know I’m not supposed to repeat what I hear . . .” Brown didn’t remind her she had done just that a moment ago. “. . . but milord burned down the poor snakecatcher’s hut.”

  So, Harvey Milkham’s accusations against Lord Fairbrother had reached the attentive ears of Outwick House’s scullery maid, had they? Then the whole of the New Forest probably knew about the snakecatcher’s threats.

  “Why do you say that, Mary?” Brown asked. “Because you heard that Mr. Milkham accused your lord of doing so? Or because someone told you Lord Fairbrother did it?”

  Mary shook her head vigorously, sending the frizz about her face waving. She swept the hair from her face with the back of her hand. “Because I heard them talking about it, didn’t I?”

  Brown was starting to lose his patience. Hearsay, from a scullery maid no less, only took his investigation so far. And it wouldn’t help Harvey’s case either, what with Lady Philippa calling for his head. He shifted his weight against the wall again; his shoulder blade was starting to ache.

  “Who did you hear talking? One of the other servants?”

  “No,” she said, as if speaking to a child. She waved the two fingers she held up as a reminder of her number of grievances. “Lord Fairbrother. He was on the telephone, wasn’t he? And he was the one doing all the talking.”

  In the rush of jubilation, Brown could’ve kissed the pitiful creature, but instead handed her a fresh handkerchief to wipe the ash off her nose. “Keep it, and thank you, Mary. You’ve been most helpful. Most helpful, indeed.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “Lady Philippa is coping surprisingly well, Lyndy; you’ll be pleased to know.”

  Mother smoothed her skirt across her lap. As usual, she’d chosen a drab-colored tea gown. This one happened to be the color of dried mud and as cheerless as Lyndy’s mood. Mother and Alice had returned from Outwick House far sooner than Lyndy had expected, and after changing from their traveling clothes, had settled, not in the drawing room as was usual before tea, but into the library with him. Mother perched awkwardly on the edge of the leather club chair nearest to Lyndy, sitting snug in the corner of the Chesterfield sofa. Alice nestled into the opposite end. So much for peace and quiet.

  “I don’t care, and I didn’t ask, Mother.”

  “I have to say, if something like that were to happen to me, I wouldn’t be able to eat a bite. But not Lady Philippa. She has such courage, such strength, to continue on as she has.”

  “Jolly good for her.”

  Mother continued as if she didn’t hear the sarcasm lacing his every word. “It may be inappropriate of me, but don’t you think Lady Philippa looks quite becoming in black?”

  Alice, flipping through her magazines, looked up. Lyndy craned his neck to see what she was reading about this time. A photograph of Cecil Barlow wearing a wide-brimmed, floppy hat and holding a tall, wooden stick, surrounded by towering trees lay open on her lap.

  “No widow is becoming in black, Mummy,” Alice said, frowning.

  Lyndy picked up his racing paper. He hadn’t finished reading it yet, thanks to Miss Cosslett’s intrusion. Perhaps with no one paying her attention, Mother would stop singing Philippa’s praises, or better yet, leave the room.

  “Well, I think Lady Philippa could wear window drapery and look more appealing than most women look in silk evening gowns,” Mother said.

  “As Mr. Barlow looks dashing without a tie,” Alice said. Mother grimaced. She obviously didn’t agree. “Speaking of Mr. Barlow, have you seen my copy of McClure’s Magazine, Mummy?” Alice began sorting through the stack of magazines on her lap. She didn’t see Mother lift her eyes, appealing for strength from above. “I know it’s got to be here somewhere.” When she didn’t find it, she plopped the magazines one by one on the floor.

  “You should go to Lady Philippa and pay your respects, Lyndy,” Mother continued, ignoring Alice’s question. Lyndy turned the page on his paper and snapped it straight. “Lyndy, are you listening to me?”

  “You seemed to have forgotten that Stella and I were there this morning.”

  “How could I forget? I don’t know how Lady Philippa bore such a visit, Miss Kendrick bragging how she pulled Lord Fairbrother out of the river with her fishing line.”

  Lyndy slapped his paper down against his lap. “Stella wasn’t bragging, Mother. She was trying to explain what happened.”

  “Well, I don’t think I’d admit to doing such a heinous thing, especially not to the grieving widow.” Mother raised her nose and puckered her lips, as if even talking about it was distasteful.

  “Do you think Stella enjoyed her ghastly discovery?” he asked indignantly.

  Mother shrugged. How dare Mother insinuate such a thing? Lyndy couldn’t escape the feeling of Stella shivering, like a hare cornered by a hound, despite being wrapped in the carriage blanket, despite being enfolded in his embrace. “She was devastated by it.”

  “What was Miss Kendrick doing there in the first place?”

  “Does it matter?” Lyndy tossed aside his racing paper, leaped from his seat, and strode to the nearest bookshelf. He pulled out the first title his hand touched, A Popular Guide to the Geology of the Isle of Wight, and opened it. He flipped through the pages, unseeing. It smelled of dried paper and dust.

  He’d hoped that as she got to know Stella, Mother would come to, not love perhaps, but accept Stella. Approve of her for who she was, not just as “the American heiress” and all that implied. And for a time, Mother seemed to, at least, tolerate Stella.

  Until today.

  “I know I had it right here, with these others,” Alice said, sifting through her pile of magazines again, oblivious to the tension in the room.

  “Aren’t the ones you have enough?” Lyndy asked.

  His sister shook her head. “All of these have been published since Mr. Barlow’s reappearance. The one that’s missing is rare. It features the tale of Mr. Barlow’s first plant-hunting expedition years ago. It only just arrived the other day from the bookseller in London.”

  “Oh, Alice,” Mother sighed, shaking her head. “How can you concern yourself over a missing magazine when the fate of this family is at stake?”

  “I haven’t gotten an opportunity to read it yet,” Alice insisted. “How can I be witty and interesting the next time we meet? How am I to impress him with my knowledge of his adventures? What if I were to win his heart? Wouldn’t that, too, affect the fate of the family?”

  “Alice, don’t be absurd,” Mother said. Alice, her cheeks burning from the sting of their mother’s dismissal, hugged the magazines to her chest. Mother could be so cruel.

  Lyndy snapped his book shut. “Do you know, Mother? That London reporter, Miss Cosslett, was here earlier.”

  “She was? Why?”

  “She said she had your permission to view the wedding presents, to write about them for her newspaper.”

  “I said no such thing.” Just as Lyndy suspected, the journalist had lied and was snooping about. What was Miss Cosslett playing at? “You didn’t answer my question, Lyndy,” Mother said.

  “What question?”

  Alice again buried her head in her magazines. Lyndy shoved the book into its place on the shelf and strode over to the mantel. He picked up one of a pair of Chinese cloisonné vases decoratively bursting with large flowers of violet, blue, and red. Someone had given them to Papa as a gift. It was lighter than it looked.

  “Why was Miss Kendrick in the river fishing? What kind of behavior is that? Next, she’ll be lassoing ponies, like some heathen cowboy.” Lyndy had to stifle a chuckle at the thought. Knowing Stella, she just might. “And I suppose the two of you were out there alone? I’ve warned you before about causing a scandal.”

  “Miss Luckett was with us the entire time, Mother, as was a groom.”

  “Well, still. I can�
�t imagine a proper English lady, like Lady Philippa, for instance, would willingly traipse into water up to her knees.”

  “I’m teaching Stella to fish.”

  “My point exactly. Only a common woman would want you to teach her to fish.”

  “It was my idea.”

  “And a proper English lady would have scoffed at your ridiculous idea.” Lyndy knew too well how proper English ladies acted. Hence his attraction to Stella. “Where is Miss Kendrick now, by the way?” If she didn’t like the idea of Stella fishing, Lyndy couldn’t imagine Mother’s reaction to Stella joining Papa in digging in the barrow. “I should like to have a word or two with her about—”

  “What is this about?” Lyndy set the vase down and faced his mother. “I thought we were past this.”

  “I’ve been having second thoughts.”

  “What?”

  Mother stiffened her back, but her words rushed out, showing her exasperation. “In my estimation, Miss Kendrick has fallen far short of all expectations. She is simply not up to the task of being Lady Lyndhurst.”

  “How can you say that? Stella has done everything you’ve asked of her.”

  “As she should.”

  “Including dragging that poor old aunt of hers everywhere, be it a picnic on the Forest or an early morning fishing lesson.” Much to Lyndy’s chagrin, it was true. He relished the few moments they’d stolen to be alone.

  “As I said, we don’t want the slightest hint of scandal.” Mother retrieved her book from the oak inlay side table: The Life of Nelson. From the position of the gold-plated bookmark, she was halfway through. She left it unopened in her lap.

  “Scandal? At your insistence, Mother, Stella has accepted every invitation you thought worthy. She’s planning an engagement dinner she’s loath to attend. She has read every English history book you’ve handed her. She even sat through those ridiculous etiquette and elocution classes. And you know what happened? She knows more about this country than I do. She’s charmed all of New Forest society. She’s befriended everyone from the governess whom you hired to teach her to the local silversmith’s daughter to the insufferable Branson-Hills.”

  “I can’t help the girl’s unfortunate habit of being familiar with servants and merchants’ daughters. I had to insist she not invite Miss Snellgrove to the engagement party.”

  “My point, Mother, is that everyone from Bournemouth to Southampton thinks highly of her. Everyone but you, and Philippa.”

  “Lyndy’s right, Mummy,” Alice said, closing her magazine. An illustration of Cecil Barlow’s smiling face stared back at him. “Miss Kendrick has been trying very hard to live up to your expectations.”

  “As she should. If she’s ever to deserve a place in this family.”

  “I would argue she has succeeded, Mummy,” Alice said. Mother scoffed.

  “Why do you criticize her at every turn?” Lyndy asked, sitting down again on the sofa and facing his Mother square on. “When her horse nearly died, you sent her a kind, sympathetic note. When she finds the body of a dead man, a man she knew, you have nothing but disdain to offer her. I want to know, Mother. What has changed?”

  Mother stared across the room toward the mahogany display case, which housed Papa’s bird collection. Which glass-eyed, stuffed bird held her attention, Lyndy could only guess. Or was she avoiding looking Lyndy in the eye? “Lord Fairbrother is dead.”

  “Yes, we have established that fact.”

  “And after the requisite period of mourning, Lady Philippa will be free to marry again.”

  “As there are many fools about, I’m sure she will.”

  Mother finally met his stare. “Free to marry you, Lyndy.”

  Lyndy leaped to his feet. “What?” How could his mother entertain such a notion?

  “Whatever do you mean, Mummy?” Alice said, her face as pale as the linen and lace dress she wore.

  “Don’t you see, Alice, dear. With Lady Philippa free, he can marry her, instead of that brash American girl. After a respectable mourning period, of course,” she added as if she were canceling a picnic on account of rain. Regrettable but necessary.

  “I am to marry Stella, Mother.”

  “Only because you had to. But don’t you see, Outwick House was a gift to Lady Philippa from her father, His Grace. And with no children to lay claims, Lady Philippa will now inherit enough from Lord Fairbrother’s estate that we won’t have to grovel to those American peasants anymore.”

  “Is this why you ambushed me in the library?”

  “I certainly wouldn’t call it that, Lyndy, but yes, I thought we might discuss—”

  “There’s nothing to discuss.”

  “But what about the contract with the Kendricks?” Alice asked. Lyndy glanced at his sister in surprise. How did Alice know of such things? But then again, his sister was almost marrying age herself. With his upcoming wedding over, she would be next. Lyndy pitied her, knowing Mother would make the match.

  “Your father will find a way to break the engagement,” Mother said. Lyndy doubted that. “And when he does, Lyndy will be able to marry Lady Philippa. Isn’t that splendid?”

  “I wouldn’t marry Philippa, Mother, if she were the last woman in England.”

  Mother slapped her unopened book back onto the side table, rattling the empty teacup Lyndy had set there earlier. “Lyndy, you ungrateful child. You should be pleased.”

  “I already have a bride, Mother. One with plenty of money to satisfy even you.”

  Mother scoffed. “But not one with a pedigree like Lady Philippa. No, I’ve made up my mind. Your father had his way and look how that turned out. Now you will do as I tell you.”

  “Doesn’t Lady Philippa have a say?” Alice asked, not knowing Philippa as Lyndy did. Philippa didn’t do anything she didn’t want to do.

  “Of course, she does. We’ve already discussed it.”

  Lyndy, who had been pacing the length of the sofa, locked his knees and stopped. “You . . . what?” he stammered, imagining the two women, one in black crape, the other in drab brown, both wearing smug smiles as they hatched this devilish plan over the tinkling sound of porcelain teacups.

  “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” Mother continued, “but Lord Fairbrother was not the best of husbands. When I suggested the arrangement, Lady Philippa was most amenable. She always did have an eye for you, Lyndy.”

  An eye? Philippa was a viper, willing to do anything to get her teeth into him. But this abominable plan was all Mother’s doing. He hadn’t thought her capable.

  “It’s unseemly, Mummy, and you of all people should realize that. Widowed for mere hours and already, Philippa is discussing future marriage plans?” Lyndy nodded vigorously in agreement.

  “But don’t you see,” Mother sputtered indignantly, surprised to have both her children against her, “this is best for all of us.”

  “Listen to me carefully, Mother,” Lyndy said, tensing every muscle in his body from his jaw to his fists to his knees. “No matter what you say, no matter what you do, no matter what plans you make, I’m going to marry Stella. Do you hear me? Not Philippa, Stella.”

  “But, Lyndy—” With his mother renewing her argument, he threw up his hand to stop her.

  “Not another word.” Then, releasing his pent-up frustration, he swiveled on his heels and rushed out of the room as fast as his dignity would allow.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Girl, is that you?” Daddy called.

  Stella handed Tims, the butler at Pilley Manor, her walking stick as she stepped into the hall. “Yes, Daddy. I’m back.”

  “Come in here.” Small clumps of mud flaked off Stella’s boots as she followed the sound of her father’s voice across the marble floor to the library.

  Her father, in the oversized leather chair, his black and red smoking jacket tied around his considerable girth with a velvet belt, had a newspaper draped across his bulging middle. Miss Cosslett, seated primly across from him on the edge of a gilded armchai
r, held a notepad and pencil. She was wearing a very familiar blue tea gown with pink satin ribbon threaded through the Battenberg lace on the collar and down the sleeves. She smoothed the silk fabric across her lap and smiled sheepishly.

  Is that my dress?

  A dozen other newspapers were strewn about the carpet. Despite it being August, a small fire crackled in the grate. Like Stella, her father wasn’t used to the damp. After her long walk across the heath, the warmth that caressed her wind-burnt cheeks almost made up for the coldness in his tone. Aunt Rachel, with a delicate white shawl of ice wool and silk wrapped around her shoulders and her chin drooping toward her chest, blissfully slept in a rocker by the fire.

  “Where have you been?” Daddy said through teeth clutching a cigar.

  “With Lord Atherly and Professor Gridley at one of the ancient barrows,” Stella said, slipping the pin from her hat. Her white-lace-inlaid shirtwaist was clean, but her tan and pink skirt was creased and smudged with soil. What did she care? A benefit of living at Pilley Manor—no Lady Atherly there to judge her. Besides, Ethel was a wonder with stains.

  Stella flung her hat onto the curving walnut molding on the back of the couch. She knew she should hang it on the hall tree or better yet, should’ve given it to Tims, but she didn’t bother with formalities here. Unlike at Morrington Hall.

  Pilley Manor almost felt like home.

  In that, she and Daddy agreed. He liked Pilley Manor so much that he jokingly, at least Stella hoped he was joking, offered to buy the mansion. Lord Atherly politely refused. The manor house was much smaller than Morrington Hall, with only four bedrooms, as many servants (Tims, a housekeeper, a cook, and Ethel), and a compact garden on the edge of the village of Rosehurst. But it had a spacious, airy dining room, this cozy library with its glass-faced book cabinets and expansive collection, and a drawing room happily absent of any daunting family portraits. With plenty of windows to let the sun in, light-colored walls, furniture, and drapery, and a large fireplace in every room, it was brighter, warmer, and more reminiscent of their home in Kentucky than Morrington Hall. Only the carriage house, too small for anything more than a buggy and a carriage horse, was lacking; Tully couldn’t be stabled here.