Murder at Blackwater Bend

by Clara McKenna

  Jane hadn’t paused to admire the earl’s extensive collection, his expensive equipment, or other evidence of his undeniable passion for the science; there were too many distracting noises in the hall. Instead, she snatched up every horselike fossil she could conceal down the front of her blouse and snuck out the way she’d come in, the unlocked door to the attached woodshed. When she’d laid out her prizes and examined them, she’d sat on the edge of her bed gaping in awe. Professor Gridley’s stolen hoard was more significant than even Dr. Hale had expected. Her years of instructions under Dr. Hale’s patient eye cumulated in this moment. Several bones of an undescribed Miohippus. Where had they been found? Who had Professor Gridley stolen them from? Would Dr. Hale consider naming it Miohippus cossletti, in her honor? Goose bumps rose on the back of Jane’s neck. What a blissful thought. And oh, there was a cheek tooth of Equus spelaeus. Could it be the first ever found in England? Astonishing. To think they’d been rattling between her blouse and corset as she ran.

  Jane reached out and caressed the smooth white bones with reverence. Yes, her efforts, her sacrifice, her suffering at the hand of that crass American had all been worth it. And Dr. Hale would think so too.

  But oh, to have seen Professor Gridley’s face.

  Dr. Hale hadn’t prepared her to meet the bespectacled Professor Gridley in person. Yes, Dr. Hale had spent the past several years regaling the underhandedness of the American scientist, even spouting hatred for the professor during his and Jane’s most intimate moments together. For that alone, she hated Professor Gridley. But then she’d met him at the pony competition. He’d seemed so inconsequential. Curious, yes, intelligent, perhaps, but paleontology’s most unscrupulous scientist, stealing, manipulating, discrediting anyone he must to be the first to assemble a complete unnamed Miohippus skeleton? It was hard to believe. But Dr. Hale, once the professor’s prize pupil, and the first victim of his deceit, thought so, and that was enough for Jane.

  With a whoosh of steam and air, the train pulled up alongside the narrow, wooden platform. As Jane advanced toward the carriage steps, a hand seized her arm from behind.

  “I say, let go of me!” The handsome, broad-shouldered man she’d admired stood like a rooted tree behind her, his middle thicker, his hands more calloused than she’d assumed. She yanked her arm but couldn’t free herself from his firm grip.

  “Beg your pardon, Miss Cosslett, but it’ll be my job if I do. We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Say, what have you got in your bag?”

  She struggled, slapping him about the head, kicking his shins, yelling for help, but the other passengers did nothing but gawk at her in dismay. What was wrong with them? This man was trying to steal her bag. The offender, stoically taking the beating, tightened his grip, pinching her arm until it hurt, and pried open her satchel with his free hand.

  “Lord Atherly’s missing fossils!” His deep, baritone voice reminded her of Dr. Hale. “You’re the thief? Did you steal the photograph and dagger from Outwick House too?” he said, genuinely surprised. She’d never been to Outwick House. What was he talking about? “Miss Cosslett, my name is Constable Waterman, and I’m placing you under arrest.”

  Arrested? Oh, Dr. Hale. Will you ever propose to me now?

  The constable roughly steered her away from the train, past the hovering onlookers, and off the platform, all the while shaking his head in disbelief. “And to think we all thought you were dead.”

  Knowing how she’d failed Dr. Hale, Jane wished she was.

  CHAPTER 32

  Daddy grunted something unintelligible from the library doorway. With his hands on his hips, his elbows touched the doorframe. Stella, though no longer seeing the words on the page, kept her eyes on her book.

  “Did you hear me, girl?”

  Stella kicked off her slippers, tucked her legs up under her skirt, and ignored him. After last night, Daddy could stomp and shout and throw books at her before she’d give him the satisfaction of a reply. How tired she was with putting up with him; he was such a bully. If only Lady Atherly would give up her disruptive plans, Stella could marry Lyndy and be rid of him.

  Inspector Brown’s courtesy call during dinner last night was a case in point. It should’ve been but a hiccup in an otherwise successful evening. Considerate of her father’s worry, the inspector had stopped by on his way home to say Miss Cosslett had been spotted, alive and well, leaving the White Hart Inn. Afterward, Daddy, instead of being relieved the reporter wasn’t dead, fumed and fussed, muttering curses, slamming down his cutlery and barking orders at the staff. The moment the servants cleared the table, Stella, along with the other women, gratefully hurried to the peace of the drawing room.

  But Daddy wasn’t done. He hadn’t sabotaged the evening enough. When Constable Waterman, quick on the heels of arresting Miss Cosslett, arrived and reported the strange turn of events, Daddy’s face had turned the color of overripe tomatoes. He then barged into the drawing room, where everyone was lounging and chatting over their coffee, and demanded everyone leave. At once! As the appalled and flabbergasted guests stumbled toward the door, he yanked their shawls and hats from the hall stand and flung them around with wild abandon. Stella mumbled apologies that no one heard. The others, muttering their dismay, were too preoccupied with dashing about trying to catch the hats, loosened feathers, and fallen silk flower embellishments sailing haphazardly around the hall. Lady Atherly’s eyes widened in horror to see hers land at the foot of the stairs. Tims, taken unaware, appeared in time to be smacked in the face with the upturned brim of Lady Alice’s new hat. Mrs. Robertson, who’d come to see about the commotion, ducked back behind the safety of the kitchen door just as a gentleman’s top hat smacked against it.

  “How I loathe you Americans,” Lady Atherly seethed before marching out the door with nothing on her head. Tims, snatching up Lady Atherly’s hat and retrieving her scarf from where it had landed on the corner edge of a picture frame, scurried out after her.

  The others hurriedly followed Lady Atherly’s lead after Daddy snatched up another gentleman’s top hat and flung it out the door after her, yelling, “But not our money, you don’t!” The black hat sailed past her and settled on the gravel walk.

  Numb with humiliation and fury, Stella urged Lyndy to follow his mother when he’d offered to stay behind. When her father slammed the door behind Lyndy, the last to leave, shouting something about “ungrateful leeches,” she’d stepped around Mr. Barlow’s Stetson on the floor and positioned herself, hands on her hips, in the middle of the hall.

  “Daddy, how dare you!” she’d said. “Miss Cosslett didn’t need to make a fool of you. You’re quite capable of doing that all by yourself.”

  She’d steeled herself for his response, rooting herself to the floor. She wasn’t going to back down this time. He had stomped toward her, as she knew he would, like a bull in the ring. He’d reeked of bourbon as he smashed his shoulder into hers. The pain of it had radiated through her back and side.

  “Never talk to me that way again,” he’d yelled as his feet pounded up the stairs.

  Stella was more than happy to concede to his newest demand. She hadn’t talked to him that way, or any way, since. And wouldn’t until he apologized, which could turn out to be never.

  And that would be fine by me. Stella silently turned the page in her book.

  Her father stepped into the library. “I said, get rid of this stuff.”

  He pointed to the pile of newspapers, wedding announcements, and notes still spread out on the far side of the carpet. Until Miss Cosslett had written all her columns for the Daily Mail, Daddy had ordered no one touch it. But now, it was evidence of his gullibility. He kicked the pile, spreading the papers haphazardly into a broader mess. But his foot slipped on the slick newsprint and he wobbled backward, frantically waving his arms as he tried to keep his balance. He looked the fool Miss Cosslett proved him to be. He fell back against the wall, and puffing in effort and anger, righted himself again. Stella unconsciousl
y rubbed her shoulder as she pretended to read.

  “Just do as you’re told,” he grunted before storming away. Stella hadn’t uttered a word of objection, but he’d sensed that she had no intention of complying.

  A swirl of color in the jumble on the ground caught her eye. She put her book down, flopped her feet back on the floor, and padded across the room. There, beneath the black and white newsprint, was one of Lady Alice’s glossy magazines. Stella bent over and picked up McClure’s Magazine: For July, dated 1898. And on the cover was a color portrait of a much younger Cecil Barlow surrounded by illustrated orchids. Lady Alice must’ve left it by accident when she came to tea last week.

  Stella held the fold of the magazine in one hand and flipped through it until she came across a photograph of the plant hunter. He was one of several men, in tall boots, dirt-creased suits, and unshaven whiskers standing beside a wagon laden with wooden crates and saplings with roots bundled in burlap. Two mongrel dogs lay on the ground at his feet. His left hand rested on the wagon wheel while the right clutched his cane. As usual, he’d left his collar unbuttoned, and he wasn’t wearing a tie, bandana, or neck scarf. But it didn’t capture his likeness. Stella had a photograph of her mother that Aunt Rachel insisted didn’t do her justice. But in this case, the camera had created the opposite effect, capturing a man Stella had never met. Intense, pensive, yet benign, almost kind. A man she would like.

  When had he changed? Why had he changed?

  Stella lifted the magazine closer and studied the photograph, wishing she had Lord Atherly’s magnifying glass. And then it struck her. What if it wasn’t Cecil Barlow who had changed? What if she’d gotten it wrong all along? Stella curled the magazine under her arm, slid hastily into her slippers, then barged down the hall and into the kitchen. The servants were all still at breakfast.

  “Miss Kendrick!” They set down their teacups with a clatter, and Ethel dropped a piece of toast marmalade-side down on her plate as all four rushed to rise to their feet.

  Stella slapped the magazine down on the table. “Keep this safe,” she pleaded. “The police may need to see it.” Before any of them could question her, Stella ran from the kitchen and down the hall.

  * * *

  Stella had to get to Morrington Hall. She couldn’t risk waiting until Lyndy finished his breakfast. Her skirt swished along the gravel drive, her slippers little protection from the hard pebbles. In her rush, she’d forgotten to change. No time for that now. She leaped over to the softer lawn, the scent of newly cut grass wafting up beneath her feet, and ran. She reached the iron gate, still closed at this hour, and pushed at one side. With a squeaky creak, it swung open. At the telltale clip-clop of an approaching horse, Stella hurried along close to the wall that surrounded the estate, avoiding the traffic in the street. A milk wagon, its cans clinking, rattled by. When she reached the end of the wall, only a few cottages stood between her and the open heath. How she wished she had Tully to ride.

  She rounded the corner and collided into the brown tweed vest of Mr. Barlow, the hollow of his neck inches from her nose. She stumbled back and bumped up against the sharp edge of the wall’s corner bricks.

  “Why, Miss Kendrick, you startled me.” The plant hunter’s hand reached out to steady her, and she flinched at his touch. She tugged her arm out of his hold, and using the motion to hide her dismay at meeting him, alone, brushed off her skirt. “Isn’t it a bit early to be out for a stroll?” he said.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “Having been chased out like a hare from its hole last night, I thought I’d pop over in the quiet of the morning to retrieve my hat.” Stella cringed at his knowing smirk. Would she ever escape the shame of her father’s diatribe? Would anyone ever attend her parties after last night’s debacle? She surprised herself that she cared. But if she was going to be Lady Lyndhurst, it was her duty to care. Wasn’t it?

  “On the way over the horse threw a shoe. I had to leave it at the livery and walk from there.” He pointed to Stella’s slippered feet. “What’s your excuse?”

  Stella bristled at Mr. Barlow’s smug, entitled tone. As if he had a right to question her. Just because her father acted like a child didn’t make her one. Barlow’s attitude reminded her of Lyndy when they’d first met. She hadn’t appreciated it then either.

  “You’ve wasted your time. It’s already on its way to Outwick House.”

  Before she’d gone to bed, she’d asked Tims to have all the hats and scarfs left behind returned to their owners. Tims had sent a local boy around first thing this morning. She only wished she could’ve compelled Daddy to deliver them, along with an apology. But that was too much to hope for.

  “Unlike Lady Atherly,” he said as if he hadn’t heard her, “I adore all things American. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my Stetson.” Goose bumps tingled along the length of her arms, reminding her of the need for caution. He wasn’t to be trusted.

  As they spoke, Stella had slipped slowly along the wall back toward the safety of the house, the rough brick catching now and then on the delicate fabric of her shirtwaist. She reached the iron gate and headed down the long drive. The plant hunter had matched her step for step, the crunch of his footsteps measuring the interminable distance to the front door.

  “Besides, the journey wasn’t wasted. I encountered you. And what better way to get to know you than to stroll in your lovely garden.” He indicated the bench against the far wall, the one that reminded her of Lyndy. She wasn’t going to sit there with him. She kept walking.

  “Speaking of getting to know each other, Mr. Barlow, or whatever your real name is—”

  When Stella had studied the photograph of Cecil Barlow in Lady Alice’s magazine, she’d been struck by the differences in the man in the picture and the one who had entertained everyone at dinner last night. She’d at first chalked it up to his harrowing experiences. Facing death would change anyone. But it wouldn’t change which hand gripped a cane. The real Cecil Barlow held his in his right hand, not his left. The man beside her wasn’t the real Cecil Barlow.

  Whack!

  The jolt stopped her in midstride as his cane cracked across her middle. Gasping for breath, she clutched her arms against the burn and doubled over. If not for her corset, he might’ve broken a rib. He brought it down again, like an unforgiving whip, against her back. A hot sting of pain seared up through her neck to her head, tears instantly flooding her vision.

  “Help!” she screamed, stumbling on the gravel, desperate to put any distance between them.

  “Shut up, shut up.” He shoved her from behind, and she tripped on the hem of her skirt. She flew forward, her arms outstretched to catch her fall, and landed on her hands and knees. With dirty pebbles still embedded in her palms, she scrambled to get up, her feet slipping in the gravel and tangling in her skirt.

  “Tell me,” he demanded, easily overcoming her. He gripped her shoulder, forcing her back onto her heels and squeezing until her bones hurt. “Tell me!”

  Panting from the pain and the shock, Stella glanced up at the house, barely fifty yards away. The red front door looked like a gaping wound on the face of the manor. It stayed motionless and shut. No one heard her screams. No one was coming to her rescue.

  Stella looked over at her attacker, staring straight into his eyes. His face, blotched with red, was twisted into a grimace, like Daddy’s had been last night. Defiance mingled with anger surged through her. She glanced at the cane, calculating how much more damage it could do. Not enough to make her talk.

  “I’m not telling you anything.”

  “Tell me!” He shook her by the shoulder. She clenched her teeth to the pain. “I burned the photograph. I searched everywhere, but there wasn’t anything else to connect us. So how did you know?” With each unanswered question, he lifted his cane higher and higher above her head, until it stretched into the bright blue sky above. Like a sword raised in battle. “Did Fairbrother rat me out after all?”

  “Lo
rd Fairbrother?” Stella said, the ground vibrating with the pounding of racing hooves. “You killed Lord Fairbrother? Then you killed Harvey too?” The cane sliced through the air, aimed directly at her head. Stella threw up her hands, hoping to grasp it, if she could, or shield herself better if she couldn’t.

  “NO!” The scream hadn’t come from her.

  The wind kicked up by a galloping horse blew bits of dust and gravel into her face as its rider hurdled himself off its back and onto Stella’s attacker. As Beau stopped a few yards away, two men collapsed into a heap on the ground. As the cloud of dust settled, Stella saw Lyndy and Cecil Barlow tangled together on the ground, Lyndy punching wildly, Cecil Barlow flailing his cane. After a loud crack of the cane landed on his shoulders, Lyndy slammed the plant hunter’s hand into the gravel. The cane clattered from Cecil Barlow’s grip and rolled down the slight slope in the drive, well out of anyone’s reach. Lyndy, his jaws tight, his cheeks red, and his eyes seething with intensity, squeezed the plant hunter between his knees. Despite the other’s attempts to throw him off like a bucking horse, Lyndy pummeled the plant hunter in the chest, neck, and face until Stella had to scream for Lyndy to stop. Lyndy was going to kill him.