Murder at Blackwater Bend

by Clara McKenna

  “And how is Professor Gridley holding up?”

  “He decided to remain with Papa. Perhaps they are already conniving to dig again.” Stella hoped so. And she was heartened to think that her inheritance, once she and Lyndy got married, would help fund that next expedition.

  “Have you told Inspector Brown about the theft?”

  Lyndy shook his head. “Mother thinks there’s no need.”

  “No need? Lord Fairbrother had a priceless dagger stolen and now this. They might not be related to Harvey or Lord Fairbrother’s murder, but Inspector Brown should know, just in case.”

  “You’re right. He should know.”

  Slam! Crash! Stella and Lyndy twisted around toward the commotion in the hall. Was that the front door?

  “Is she here?” Stella’s father’s voice demanded. He was shouting. Stella swung open the library door and hurried out into the hall, Lyndy a step behind her.

  Stella had been right. The front door was wide open. Glass, glistening in the light of the chandelier above, lay shattered on the marble floor beside it. Tims called for someone to clean it up. The door’s frosted glass pane, with its pastoral scene of grazing horses etched into it, had cracked and broken. A slight chill of the late summer night air flowed into the hall. Daddy, ignoring the glass, crunched across it, throwing his white dress scarf and hat for Tims to catch. He was furious.

  “I say, what is all the commotion?” Lady Atherly sauntered out into the hall. Lady Alice and Cecil Barlow weren’t far behind. Lady Alice, barely glancing at the others, obviously left the drawing room in pursuit of the more curious Mr. Barlow. “What happened here?” Lady Atherly scoffed in disbelief, as Ethel, the only maid on hand, dashed in with a broom and dustpan.

  “Another reason why we should never have . . .” Lady Atherly left her thought unfinished, but Stella knew what she meant; she was yet again regretting her association with the uncouth Americans. Luckily, Daddy was too upset to notice.

  “Where have you been, Daddy?” Stella asked gently, hoping to diffuse her father’s anger and cut off any more of Lady Atherly’s grumbling.

  “I’ve been to the police station. What a bunch of worthless—”

  “Mr. Kendrick, if you will kindly keep your voice down,” Lady Atherly said. “We do not want the guests alarmed by your behavior.” As if she were in charge. As if they were her guests and not Stella’s.

  Would Lady Atherly always act this way? Stella could only assume so. Forcing down her growing impatience with her future mother-in-law, Stella returned her attention to her father. Daddy and Lady Atherly. Stella could do without the pair of them.

  “Why were you at the police station?” Then Stella remembered the only time her father was concerned enough to call in the police. When they first arrived in England, Orson, their champion thoroughbred stud, had been stolen. Her shoulders tightened in fear. “Has something happened to Tully or the other horses?”

  She couldn’t bear it if something else had happened to Tully. Then Harvey sprang to mind. A sour taste filled her mouth.

  “The horses? Not that I know of.” Stella relaxed her shoulders in relief.

  “Then, what did happen?” Lyndy demanded, frustratingly pulling on the lapels of his dress coat.

  “Jane is missing, damn it! That’s what happened.” Daddy pointed a stubby finger at Lyndy as if he had something to do with it. “She’s not in her rooms; she’s not here. She’s not at Morrington Hall. She’s not anywhere. Something has happened to her.”

  “You are overreacting, Mr. Kendrick,” Lady Atherly said coolly. “Perhaps the woman simply tired of your company and went back to London.”

  “Without her case?” Daddy stomped out the door, snatched up a light brown, rectangular suitcase, and dropped it with a thud. It nearly hit poor Ethel as she swept away the last of the broken glass. It had JAC monogrammed on the side. “I don’t think so. I think she’s been the killer’s third victim.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Inspector Brown scanned the crowded pub and spotted the bald head he was looking for. If only every murder suspect made his job this easy. Brown had wagered George Parley, being as bullheaded as a wild stallion, wouldn’t change his routine to avoid the police. Sure enough, the landowner was firmly established at the bar.

  “Thought I might find you here.”

  “Where else would I be?” George Parley asked, before taking an exaggerated swig from his pint.

  “Keeping my head down, if I were you,” Brown said, waving the publican over.

  “This is keeping me head down, Inspector. I’ve got nothing to hide from me friends here.” George Parley raised his chin as if pointing to Mr. Heppenstall. “Ain’t that right, Tom?”

  “Yup,” the publican agreed.

  Brown ordered himself a half-pint. Mr. Heppenstall grunted in acknowledgment, none too pleased to see Brown again. He was a man of few words, the owner of the Knightwood Oak. And Brown appreciated his taciturnity, except of course when Brown needed answers. But he wasn’t here to question Mr. Heppenstall. Tonight, he was here for George Parley.

  Despite having two murders to investigate, Brown had spent his evening, first listening to that wealthy American horse breeder bemoan the disappearance of his paramour, a reporter from London, and then, placating the distressed Lord Atherly over the theft of some old bones. After listening to the earl’s guest run on about the loss to the scientific community, Brown caught the paleontologist fellow mentioning George Parley’s name. Supposedly they’d uncovered some rare fossil in a barrow on the man’s land, the same one where they’d found Harvey Milkham’s body. A coincidence it might be, but Brown wasn’t taking any chances. He’d sent Waterman out looking for the girl, and he’d headed straight for the Knightwood Oak.

  The publican placed the half-pint of ale on the bar, and Brown paid him. Having no reason to linger, Mr. Heppenstall reluctantly limped a few paces away. Even as he helped another patron, he kept his eye on Brown. Or was he keeping tabs on George Parley?

  Brown wrapped his hand on the glass and leaned in. “No secrets, eh? So, Mr. Heppenstall knows all about your little arrangements with Lord Fairbrother, then, does he?”

  George Parley stopped midsip and set his glass down. He licked the foam from his lips. “What do you want from me, Inspector?”

  “I want the truth, Mr. Parley.”

  “I told you the truth.”

  “The whole truth.”

  “I’ve told you the whole truth.”

  A clattering of glassware beside them startled both men. The lad who worked at the pub suddenly stumbled into sight carrying a pallet of bottles. He rested it on the edge of the bar, panting.

  “I heard you found your ghost, lad,” Brown said.

  The boy shook his head. “No, found that the snakecatcher had been living in a sub-basement no one knew about.”

  “Seems he might’ve found it years ago when he was hired to clear the pub of hibernating snakes,” the man called Old Joe interjected.

  “Just never bothered to tell me about it,” Mr. Heppenstall grumbled.

  “That still doesn’t mean there isn’t a ghost,” the lad insisted.

  “Of course,” Brown said, chuckling as the publican swiped the side of the boy’s head with a snap of his towel. The lad lifted the pallet, nearly losing his grip in his hurry, and disappeared into the back.

  “Speaking of the snakecatcher, Mr. Parley . . . Why were you shoveling dirt into the barrow, covering up Harvey Milkham’s body?”

  George Parley wiped his mouth with the length of his sleeve. His hands were shaking. “I just wanted to reclaim what’s mine. That barrow is on me land, and I was done waiting for the likes of Lord Atherly to say when I could fill it in.” He reached for his pint as a drowning man might grasp for a rope. “I swear I didn’t know the snakecatcher was there.” He put the ale to his lips and tilted his head back until the glass was empty.

  “So, you have no idea why Harvey Milkham was there, on your land?”


  “None. I swear.”

  “Sorry to hear the verderers voted against your rifle club.”

  Brown had requested a closed session with the members of the court. Hearing what Brown had to say, they immediately voted against granting permission to establish the rifle club. George Parley curled his lip and grumbled something incoherent into his glass. Brown’s change in subject didn’t get him anywhere. Time to change tactics.

  “Has anyone seen Miss Jane Cosslett, the journalist in town to report on Lord Lyndhurst’s wedding?” Brown called out, raising his voice over the din of the men chatting, throwing darts, and having a laugh. “She’s petite, ginger-haired, about twenty-five, give or take a year or so.”

  George Parley rounded his shoulders as if curling up to the bar would make Brown forget he was there and signaled to Mr. Heppenstall for another drink.

  “Why?” the publican asked Brown, pouring another draught for George Parley.

  “She’s gone missing,” Brown said. He took a quick sip of his ale. Too hoppy for his tastes but slipped smoothly down his throat. “It’s possible she might’ve gotten tangled up with the same killer who stabbed Lord Fairbrother and Harvey.” Brown didn’t believe it. Not now, not when Mr. Kendrick was shouting it at him in his office, but it got the reaction he was hoping for.

  A low murmur of disbelief reverberated through the pub. To a man, the locals were shaking their heads—all except George Parley.

  “Do you know where Miss Cosslett is, Mr. Parley?” Brown said, in a voice he’d hoped carried across the room.

  “What? Why would I know anything about that girl? I’ve only seen her once, at the Cecil Pony Challenge.”

  “Perhaps we should go to the police station and talk about this further.” Brown clasped his hand around the man’s arm and lifted him from his seat. All eyes were on them.

  “I’m telling you I don’t know what happened to that girl.” George Parley struggled to shrug off Brown’s hold. He’d had a few, or Brown wouldn’t have been able to detain him. Still Brown had to step lightly. The man was an ox, and there was no saying how much damage he could do. If only Brown had brought Waterman along. His constable would be a suitable match for the belligerent landowner.

  Brown leaned in again and whispered, “Then you wouldn’t mind telling me everything you know about Lord Fairbrother and the bribes he’s been taking from you?”

  George Parley’s eyes widened. He yanked out of Brown’s grip and then wobbled before he regained his balance. The drunken landowner pointed to a vacant table in the corner. “We can talk over there.

  “Let me say first that I haven’t done anything that a lot of other men haven’t done,” he began the moment they sat down, his words starting to slur. “There are few commoners in this part of the Forest who didn’t know that Fairbrother was willing to ‘work’ with you, considering you paid him enough.”

  Brown was skeptical, but he made sure his face didn’t show it. He’d accepted the accusations about Lord Fairbrother as possibilities, not pervasive patterns of behavior. But then again, it would explain the envelopes of money found on the dead lord’s body and in his private study. But could what George Parley said be true? Could Lord Fairbrother have been that corrupt?

  “So, yes,” the landowner was saying. “I asked Fairbrother to look the other way when I moved me fences out. And yes, I paid him to ignore the need to investigate the burning of Harvey’s hut. As I said before, it was a disgrace anyway. I was doing everyone a favor.”

  “You admit to burning Harvey’s house down?”

  George Parley lifted the glass he’d carried with him, took a long drink, and wiped the beer from his mustache with his fingers before nodding. “It was the only way to get a hold of the land. Only way Fairbrother would sell it to me. I needed it for the rifle club, you see.” So Fairbrother was complicit in that too.

  “And what about Harvey Milkham?”

  “What about him?”

  Brown refrained from comment. He had the landowner for arson, if nothing else, so he didn’t need to show his contempt, but Brown also wanted to see what more he could learn. “Did you kill him?”

  “No!” George slammed his hand on the table, making the beer glass jump and drawing the attention of many fellow drinkers. “I didn’t kill Fairbrother, either,” he said, much quieter.

  “When was the last time you gave him money, to ‘look the other way’?”

  “The night before the Cecil Cup Competition. He was supposed to vote in me favor at court this morning. Why would I kill him? Without him, I might have done all this for bloody nothing.”

  Brown sat back in his chair, astounded. Against all his previous conclusions, and despite himself, Brown believed him. But if not George Parley, then who? Could Harvey have killed Lord Fairbrother? And then someone else killed Harvey? It seemed a stretch. But then again, both men were dead, with nary a connection between them but the burnt down hut George Parley admitted to setting light to. Again, he had to ask, if not George Parley, then who?

  “And you still say you don’t know how Lord Fairbrother’s medieval dagger got to be in the barrow?”

  George Parley looked sheepishly over the rim of his glass. “I might’ve taken that one,” he mumbled. “As insurance, you see. For his vote.” Brown could see how the man’s twisted thinking might lead him to do such a thing. “Didn’t know the man was going to get himself stabbed, now did I?”

  “You did this when you visited Lord Fairbrother at his home?” He nodded. “Did you rummage through his desk, take a photograph?”

  “No, why would I do that?” His eyes glazed over in confusion. “His desk, a photograph? What value would be in that? No, that dagger is worth hundreds, if not thousands of pounds. And it was there for the taking. Just slipped it off the wall when Fairbrother’s back was turned.” There was something in what George Parley said. Could he be telling the truth? Brown tended to think so.

  “So how did this precious dagger come to be in the barrow?”

  Parley drained his beer. “Dropped it on me way home from here. Had a bit too much, I suspect.”

  “I suspect you had. Finished?” The man nodded. Brown stood and slapped his hat on his head. “Right! Mr. George Parley, I’m arresting you for arson, theft, obstruction of justice, and interference in the investigation of the murders of Lord Fairbrother and Harvey Milkham. Do you have anything to say?”

  The drunken scoundrel, swaying as he sat, nodded. “Do I have time for another?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Brown hauled him to his feet and shoved him toward the door.

  CHAPTER 31

  Until the moment Kendrick arrived, spouting claims that the reporter had gone missing and was probably dead, Lyndy had been enjoying himself. It had been a close one with Papa, and Lyndy was glad for the distraction. And what a distraction. A society event without the eyes of Philippa on him, several glasses of excellent champagne, and clandestine kisses in the library.

  Although dragged away by the baroness, he’d followed Stella with his eyes as she smiled and chatted while everyone enjoyed their predinner drinks. She’d put everyone at ease. Despite her misgivings about playing hostess, she was a natural. Small talk was never his forte, nor did he much care for it. But after months of teas, balls, and dinner parties, he was yet to tire of watching Stella practice the art of it. Of course, other women exchanged pleasantries with their guests; it was something every fine lady was taught to do. But Stella, curious and engaged, showed genuine interest. And those she spoke to instinctually, if not consciously, felt the difference, endearing her to everyone.

  Well, almost everyone.

  When the plant hunter had cornered Lyndy earlier, insisting on describing a violent rash he once suffered after tripping over a line of leaf-cutting ants and stumbling into a poisonous vine, Stella had rescued him. Throughout the Season, she’d done it time and time again. She’d done it tonight with that patronizing vicar. Would he ever get used to the eagerness in her eyes as she so
ught him out? The way her hips swayed as she strolled purposefully across a room? How Stella’s unabashed smile and the natural shine on her rosy lips stopped his heart? For all his lusting after Philippa, he’d never felt this way about her. And he’d almost spoiled the lot by not telling Stella about Philippa. Happily, Stella had more patience and perseverance than he did.

  And then Stella had ushered him from the drawing room to the library. Mother had scowled while the others had craned their curious necks, twittering and gossiping as they passed. Let everyone wonder where they had stolen off to, he’d mused in gratification. It was their engagement party, was it not? Lyndy had suffered Mother’s society friends’ judgmental stares his whole life. To see them experience jealousy and regret that they never ached to be alone with their betrothed had filled him with such self-satisfaction, such affection for this lovely woman that had come into his life. When the library doors had closed behind them, he could’ve as easily stopped the rain from falling as not taken Stella in his arms and smothered her with kisses.

  And then Kendrick returned.

  “Let that be the end of it, Mr. Kendrick,” Mother was scolding, as if Kendrick were a child complaining about not getting a second piece of cake. Lyndy, recollecting the salty taste of Stella’s earlobe, the heady scent of her perfume, hadn’t heard everything Mother had said.

  “I agree,” Stella said. “Let the police find Miss Cosslett. I’m sure she’ll turn up, safe and sound.”

  “Silly thing probably realized she wasn’t the right sort for such an occasion,” Mother said. “You should be thanking your stars she’s left and leave it at that.”

  Lyndy, surprisingly, agreed with his mother. Jane Cosslett’s presence would’ve only added tension to the evening.

  “Everyone has been asking after you, Daddy,” Stella said.

  “Of course, they have, girl,” Kendrick said, seeming to come back to himself. “Do you think you’re the one they’re here to visit?”

  As Kendrick took a step toward the drawing room, Mother said, “I’d like to speak with you, Mr. Kendrick, before we are all called to dinner.”