Murder at Morrington Hall

by Clara McKenna

  “But who would want to murder Reverend Bullmore?” Hugh said, picking up and examining a sheet of paper bearing Professor Gridley’s signature that had fallen to the floor. Hugh spoke for everyone. It was inconceivable why anyone would want to kill a man of God.

  “That is what I hoped you’d be able to tell me,” Inspector Brown said.

  “I won’t be much help, I’m afraid, Inspector,” Papa said, plucking the paper from Hugh’s fingers. “Reverend Bullmore was a friend of a friend, I admit, but we knew him more by reputation until he moved into the vicarage a fortnight ago.”

  Papa yanked open a drawer that was a bit stuck and dropped the papers from his desk in it. Lyndy had had no idea Papa had any connection, however distant, to the dead vicar. Who was this friend of a friend? Papa shut the drawer with a bang.

  “You know of no enemies, no altercations, no recent arguments with anyone?” the inspector said.

  “No, not that I know of,” Papa said.

  Lyndy’s breath caught in his throat. He glanced at Hugh. Like everyone else, Hugh shook his head. But Lyndy had overheard Hugh and the vicar involved in a heated discussion. Why was Hugh lying?

  “Right,” Inspector Brown said. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you, my lord, but I’d be obliged if I could have a small space to set up as an interview room.” The inspector looked about him with a sour expression. “Not anywhere that will inconvenience you, of course.” He undoubtably didn’t want to have to be cooped up in this hovel any more than Lyndy did. “I will have to speak to the servants, your guests. I will have to ask for your assistance, as well, Lord Lyndhurst.”

  Lyndy nodded. He’d expected as much. Papa had not.

  “No one in this house would do such a thing,” Papa said.

  “Be it as it may, my lord, I would be most grateful,” the inspector said.

  “If it will help, speak to Fulton, our butler, about it. I’m sure he can accommodate you.” Papa was not about to offer up his study, to the inspector’s obvious relief.

  The inspector tipped his hat. “Thank you, my lord, for your cooperation. We’ll speak again soon.”

  “It’s all such a damn inconvenience,” Mr. Kendrick muttered as he bent to peer into Papa’s microscope. “Never would be too soon.”

  * * *

  “What now?” Silas Gates, the stable manager and head coachman, looked up from his accounts.

  He’d been interrupted twice already today, and he had a long night ahead of him. The provender bill was due by morning. Gates had expected the first interruption; the Americans had arrived with the new horses. He’d welcomed the break. Not every day did a man add champion thoroughbred racehorses to his fold. The second time had been shocking; a stable lad had run about yelling something about the vicar dying up at the house. Gates had met the vicar only this past Sunday. After a single sermon, he hadn’t had time to form an opinion. This time someone lingered outside the harness-room door.

  Who could it be at this hour? The others were having their dinner. No one should be about. If any of his lads were where they shouldn’t be, he’d find out right quick.

  “Hello?” Gates called.

  No answer. He didn’t give much credence to the rumor that someone had murdered the vicar, but just the same, he didn’t relish someone lingering silently outside his door.

  Gates slid back from the workbench. Firelight gleamed off the harnesses hanging in neat rows along the walls. Although Lord Atherly had provided him with a small office of his own, Gates preferred to do his accounting in here. An organized room for an organized brain, he’d reasoned. But, in fact, it was the nicest room in the stables: wood-paneled walls, parquet-tiled floor, and the immense two-sided stone fireplace that guaranteed the horses’ comfort year-round, which was more than he could say for his office or the bedrooms upstairs. Lying in his bed at night, he often suspected the hayloft would be warmer.

  Gates stepped out of the harness room. “Hello?” No one was about.

  But someone had been.

  He walked past the empty standing stalls, making a note to have the brass ball finials on the stable posts polished. The scent of nothing but fresh hay assured him the lads had done their work before heading to their dinner. He passed the loose boxes, which were occupied for the first time since Lord Atherly’s late father died years ago, their mahogany walls newly scrubbed. The horses followed him with their gaze but showed no other sign of interest. Only the new thoroughbred stallion, Orson, stomped and snorted as Gates passed. He’s going to be a handful, that one.

  Gates continued past the wash stall, the sick box, and the coal room. All appeared in hand. All was quiet. He entered the coach house. The vast room was filled with Lord Atherly’s family carriages, cleaned, polished, and ready to go at a moment’s notice. The Americans’ motorcar was parked in the far corner. Gates had looked the contraption over while the lads were cleaning it. If the American expected him to service the machine, he’d have to request help. What did he know of motorcars?

  A shadow darted between the victoria and the dog cart.

  “Hello? Who’s there?”

  A man’s figure skirted around the carriages and dashed toward the door. Lamplight briefly illuminated the side of his round face. Blond stubble dotted his chin. Gates didn’t recognize him. It wasn’t one of his lads. It wasn’t Roy, the Kendricks’ groom, either. Then who could it be? Who would be poking around the coach house, uninvited and unannounced? The appearance of Lord Lyndhurst’s fiancée earlier had taken him by surprise; the family never visited the stables. Perhaps this was someone from her party he didn’t know of. Everyone knew the Americans did things differently. After his groom’s mistake, Gates had to tread lightly.

  “Sir?” Gates’s call went unheeded. The stranger shoved the door open and disappeared.

  No gentleman would act so, not even an American one. Must be a local lad, then, who’d heard about the motorcar and wanted a peek. Two years ago, the miller from Rosehurst’s youngest boy had been discovered sleeping in the hayloft after a fight with his brother. A local lad. That had to be it.

  “Oi!” I’ll teach him to creep about my coach house.

  Gates weaved his way through the carriages, in pursuit. By the time he reached the washing yard, the lad was gone. As Gates debated which direction to take, Herbert rounded the corner.

  “Herbert! Did you see a village lad come by here?”

  “No, I haven’t seen anyone. Everyone’s at dinner. Why? Do you think it was the vicar’s killer? Everyone’s saying he was murdered, you know.”

  Dragons in Burley Beacon, kingly ghosts in Hurst Castle, and now vicar-slaying murderers. What will these lads think up next? Gates was not going to dignify Herbert’s speculation with an answer.

  “Why aren’t you at dinner?” Gates asked.

  “Leonard’s still sick, so I came to check on the thoroughbreds. The stallion wasn’t eating earlier.”

  “Then off you go.”

  Gates stood a moment or two after Herbert left, his palm against his forehead and his eyes closed. His head was pounding. It was no small feat preparing for the new horses with one of his grooms sick in bed, and what with news of the vicar’s death . . . The strain of the past few days had caught up with him. Now this. Either way, the lad was long gone by now.

  Gates retraced his steps, reassuring himself that the intruder, whoever he was, had caused no mischief. Tomorrow he’d inform Lord Atherly about the incident, just the same. But back in the harness room, odd Americans, mischievous village lads, and rumors about murderers slipped from his mind as he sat back down to finish his infernal accounts.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Saddle up the new filly,” Lyndy said to the first stable hand he encountered. Frustrated and restless, he’d headed for the stables instead of waiting for a horse to be brought to him.

  Lyndy had intended to ride the new stallion this morning. He’d been in a foul mood. What better time to pit his skills against the feisty horse? But when he’d appro
ached the stallion’s loose box, the horse was stomping inside, sending bits of straw flying. The ornery animal had already chewed a chunk of wood off a corner of his box’s door post. Until the angry horse had adjusted, why risk getting bitten or worse?

  “Which filly, sir?” the groom asked. “Tupper or Tully, the one Miss Kendrick is with?”

  Miss Kendrick? His mood brightened. So, this was where she was. He’d waited for Miss Kendrick to appear at breakfast until the servants came to clear everything away. She’d never come. Who would’ve guessed she’d be here? He couldn’t help but smile.

  “Tupper.”

  Lyndy strode behind the groom, passing empty loose box after empty loose box. It had been too long since the stables were at even half capacity. There were the carriage mares, Sugar and Spice; and Lister, Papa’s horse, a gift from the board of Rosehurst Cottage Hospital when Papa inherited his title; and Lyndy’s horse, Beau, a striking chestnut Irish Hunter. But now his family would have thoroughbreds again, racehorses to ride, to race, to breed.

  As it should be.

  Grandfather, the seventh Earl of Atherly, had owned Augustine, a champion thoroughbred filly, among others. He’d cultivated a love for the Turf in Lyndy, as his own son cared more about discovering fossils of ancient horses than about the racehorses in his own stables. As a small boy, Lyndy had wanted nothing more than to follow in Grandfather’s footsteps. But soon after Grandfather died, Papa had discovered the estate no longer paid for itself. Unwilling to give up his fossil-hunting expeditions, Papa had sold Augustine and the other racehorses, as well as let go of several of the staff, to fund his hobby. Lyndy hadn’t forgiven him. Until now.

  Lyndy stopped short of Tully’s loose box. Miss Kendrick was inside it, with her back to him, checking the balance strap on the horse’s sidesaddle. She was stunning, the tailored lines of her black riding jacket clinging to her curves, the top hat accentuating her long, pale neck.

  “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” she said.

  Who was she talking to? The groom was over in Tupper’s loose box. She couldn’t have seen or heard Lyndy approach. He leaned against the wooden wall, waiting for her to say more. He brushed aside the shame of spying on her, not once but twice in so many days.

  “I can’t think of anything else to do,” she said. With one hand on the horse’s back and the other one over her eyes, she began to weep, and not, Lyndy suspected, for the vicar.

  A surge of unexpected emotions flowed through Lyndy: confusion, misery, compassion, empathy, guilt. Their engagement had come as a bit of a shock to her, yes, but marriages between the better families were always arranged like a business transaction, each getting something from the alliance. In their case, Mr. Kendrick got a title in the family, Papa got Mr. Kendrick’s money, Lyndy got champion thoroughbred racehorses, and Miss Kendrick gained an eminently charming husband. Why was she so upset?

  “At least I have you, Tully,” she whispered.

  She was talking to the horse! With a sudden urge for her to talk to him instead, Lyndy pushed away from the wall and stepped into Tully’s loose box.

  “Lord Lyndhurst,” she said, swiveling around at the sound of crunching straw beneath his boots.

  “Miss Kendrick. I’m surprised to see you here.”

  She brushed away tears from her cheeks with the back of her gloved hand. “Why would that be? Because you don’t expect a woman in the stables or because you already pay good money to a stable hand to do this?”

  “Well, yes to both, but mostly because we expected you were in your room, recovering from yesterday’s shock. You didn’t come down to breakfast.”

  She turned away from him and began tugging at the balance strap again. “I don’t always do what’s expected.” She needn’t tell him that.

  “No, in fact, you haven’t done a single thing since you’ve been here that was as we expected.” She stopped her adjustments of the saddle. Lyndy expected her to deny it or to protest, but as he should have predicted, she did neither.

  “I can imagine. You and your family aren’t what I expected either.”

  What had she expected? Warmth, humor, kindness, acceptance, perhaps? Instead, she had gotten barely veiled disapproval, feigned interest, and obligatory civility. If the former was what she’d imagined of her reception, then, yes, he could understand her disappointment.

  “More’s the pity, since we might be stuck with each other,” she added.

  Might? This wasn’t going the way he’d planned. And she still wouldn’t call him Lyndy. After yesterday, they should be on less formal terms.

  “I’m so sorry about the vicar.” She faced him and laid a hand on his arm. The gesture was so like another, it made him flinch. But nothing but sincere sympathy shone from her eyes. “Your family must feel horrible about his accident.”

  She didn’t know. Lyndy dreaded being the one to tell her.

  “It’s worse than you know. Reverend Bullmore was the victim of more than fatal clumsiness. He was murdered, bludgeoned to death.”

  Lyndy held her gaze, brushing his hand methodically down the filly’s neck. How would this unpredictable woman respond to such a pronouncement? She didn’t faint. She didn’t swoon. She didn’t burst into a fit of tears.

  She did that only when she contemplated spending eternity with him.

  “Besides me, perhaps, who would benefit from the vicar’s demise?” she asked.

  Lyndy sputtered as he stifled an undignified guffaw. Her words were, yet again, completely unexpected.

  “Do you find the poor man’s death funny, Lord Lyndhurst?”

  “Certainly not. But I am taken aback by your confession that you had motive to kill him.”

  “I do have a motive, and everyone knows it. You do, too, if you’re entering into this marriage against your will.”

  How did he answer that? This marriage was to save Morrington Hall from Papa’s folly, to acquire the thoroughbreds, and bring pride back to his family. It was his duty. But how did he tell her that now that he’d met her, he had no objections to wedding, and bedding, her at all?

  “I don’t fancy myself a murderer, Miss Kendrick,” was all he could say in his defense.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “Neither do I.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  She studied his face. Wondering whether he was teasing her, no doubt. He willed his expression not to give him away.

  “But someone did kill him,” she said in earnest, “and they must’ve had a reason, presumably one far more compelling than trying to stop a wedding.”

  “Presumably.”

  “She’s ready for you, my lord,” the groom called, walking Tupper toward them. Lyndy strolled back into the aisle and took the horse’s reins from the groom.

  Miss Kendrick led her horse out of its loose box and mounted it in the aisle with the aid of the groom as Lyndy flung his leg across Tupper’s back. He’d decided to join her, whether she wanted his company or not. A quizzical expression crossed her face as he and Tupper fell in beside her. Maybe he was as unpredictable to her as she was to him. What an intriguing notion.

  “By the way, where are we going?” he asked as they walked the horses through the stable doors.

  “To the vicarage,” she called over her shoulder as she and her horse trotted across the yard.

  * * *

  “I wouldn’t know. That was the last time I saw him.”

  Inspector Archibald Brown nodded curtly to his constable in disgust. He rested his elbow on the edge of the small oval oak center table serving as a makeshift desk and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Hours of interviewing maid after footman after housekeeper and . . . nothing. No one had noticed anything, heard anything, would admit to anything. No one knew the vicar well, but all had heard his sermon about the faith of the centurion on Sunday and had agreed it was uplifting. No one knew of any enemies he might have had, any disagreements he might have had, or any reason why anyone would have want
ed to do him harm. Yet someone had gone into the library and bashed the poor bugger’s head in.

  “Thank you,” Constable Waterman said. “We’ll let you know if we need to speak to you again.”

  The footman—a tall, fair-haired fellow, indistinguishable from all the other tall, fair-haired footmen on these country estates—in his morning livery of a black double-breasted coat, striped waistcoat, black trousers, and small black tie, got up without a word and left.

  From his interviews of the staff, all Brown could confirm was that the vicar was alive and well in the library at about quarter past two, when a maid brought him tea and lemon biscuits. From his examination of the crime scene, all Brown could conclude was that the murder weapon was most likely the fire iron. They hadn’t found it, yet. They had found the vicar’s pocket watch; the glass had been smashed beneath him. It had stopped at 2:47 pm. Was that when the vicar fell on it and died? Or had it stopped before he fell? Brown didn’t know. What he did know was that by teatime, the vicar was dead and not a single bloody servant had seen or heard a thing.

  “Who is next on our list, Waterman?” Brown grumbled.

  It didn’t do taking his frustrations out on his constable, but someone had to take it. If their luck didn’t change soon, they were finished. Lord Atherly was most cooperative, giving up his rarely used—according to the butler—smoking room for them, but even the most reasonable aristocrat had his limits. Brown had already put most of the household staff through the paces. He wouldn’t be able to do it again, not without just cause. Interviews with the family, beyond the two who had found the body, were hardly guaranteed. Brown peered around at the large antlers of roe, fallow, and red deer mounted above him on the dark wood-paneled walls. His head might be mounted up there if he didn’t come up with something soon.

  “Miss Ethel Eakins, chambermaid,” the constable said, skimming down the list. They were almost out of names.

  A small, big-eyed, freckled woman in her midtwenties, wearing a plain gray dress and starched white apron, entered the smoking room. A white cap covered her tidy ginger hair. She kept her eyes cast down as she covered the distance between them.