Murder at Morrington Hall

by Clara McKenna

  “Thank you for helping us with our investigations, miss,” Brown said, indicating for her to sit in the seat across from his constable.

  Was she like the others, who had refused to sit in their master’s chair, or could this one be different? The girl looked at the dark leather-covered captain’s chair.

  “I’d rather stand.”

  Constable Waterman shrugged. “As you may know, Miss Eakins, Reverend Bullmore was found dead yesterday in the library,” the constable said.

  The maid cast a brief glance at the inspector before shifting her gaze back to the swirling green, brown, and black leaf pattern of the carpet. Her hands were clasped tightly at her waist, with her pinkie fingers oddly intertwined on top.

  “Yes . . . I heard.”

  Brown, slouched against the back of his chair, sat up. His seventeen years in the Hampshire Constabulary might not end in disgrace, after all. This maid knew something.

  “Could you tell us where you were between half past two and four yesterday afternoon?” the constable asked. The maid twisted her pinkie fingers again.

  “I saw a stranger running away from the library,” the maid blurted.

  Brown was on his feet. Within half a second, he loomed over the girl. Despite his exhilaration, Brown hadn’t failed to notice that she didn’t answer the constable’s question.

  “When was this?” the inspector asked.

  The maid, her large green eyes wide open, cowered under Brown’s scrutiny. “I . . . I don’t remember.” She sunk down onto the edge of the chair behind her, despite her previous inhibitions, and stared at her lap.

  Brown strode back to his seat in silence, not wanting to intimidate the maid further. He nodded to his constable to continue.

  “Can you tell us what the stranger looked like?” Constable Waterman said.

  “I caught but a glimpse of him as he turned the corner of the grand saloon,” she said, looking up.

  “What type of build did he have? How tall was he?”

  “Average build, I think, and taller than me, maybe.” That wasn’t saying much. Brown was starting to lose his enthusiasm.

  “What color was his hair?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Can you think of any identifying characteristics of the fellow?”

  The maid bit her lip as she considered the question. She cast a furtive glance at Brown. “His boots and his trousers were black.”

  A man of average height and build, wearing black boots and trousers. That could be any number of men: Lord Atherly, his guests, visiting tradesmen, the butler, the footmen, even the vicar. It all seemed a bit too vague, a bit too convenient, this barely seen “stranger.” Was the maid making it all up to avoid telling the truth? Or had she honestly not gotten a good look at the fellow? Brown studied every twitch of the maid’s face and had the sneaking suspicion she wasn’t telling them everything.

  “If you caught only a glimpse, how do you know this wasn’t someone you’ve seen before?” his constable asked.

  “I don’t, I suppose. But at the time that’s what I thought. None of the family would be running in the house.”

  “But it could be a footman, perhaps?” Brown asked. Didn’t footmen wear black shoes and trousers? Could she be wrong about the height?

  The maid blanched, and her lip trembled before she stared into her lap again.

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “Or a guest visiting for Lord Lyndhurst’s wedding?”

  “Yes, one of the Americans, maybe,” she said, latching on to Brown’s suggested alternative.

  “Did you speak to this stranger or hear him say anything?” Constable Waterman said.

  “No. But I did wonder about the vicar.”

  “You did?” The surprise in Constable Waterman’s voice reflected Brown’s own.

  “We were specifically told not to disturb him,” the maid explained. “But the library door was ajar.”

  “You feared this stranger might have disturbed the vicar?” the constable said.

  The maid nodded. “That’s why I peeked into the library.”

  “You went into the library after the stranger left?” Brown demanded, unable to contain himself.

  The maid’s shoulders bowed, and she shrank into herself, clutching part of her apron in her lap.

  “You did nothing wrong, Miss Eakins,” Brown said, commanding the softest tone his rough voice would allow. “But we want to learn the truth.”

  The maid looked at the constable and then at the inspector again, both of whom nodded encouragingly.

  “I didn’t go into the room. But I did push the door open a bit more and peek in.”

  “What did you see?” Brown said, cooing to the frightened maid.

  “Nothing. The room was empty.”

  Brown remembered the position of the body, hidden from view, at the foot of the chesterfield sofa. She wouldn’t have seen the dead man. So that much of her story was true.

  She went on. “So, I didn’t worry about it again, until I heard what happened. You won’t tell Mrs. Nelson I peeked into the library, will you?”

  Could this be her cause for alarm? Why she appeared so nervous?

  “But you never did, did you?” Brown said.

  The woman looked blankly at him for a moment before her eyes lit up with understanding. “No, I didn’t.”

  “What time was this?” Brown asked again.

  “About the time the Americans arrived.”

  Brown nodded and smiled. “Thank you, Miss Eakins. You have been most helpful. You may go.”

  The maid scurried away like a scared rabbit. She knew exactly when she’d entered the library. The clock ruled life in these country houses. So why not say so? Because she was still holding something back. Had she seen a man running through the saloon? It was worth checking into. The inspector sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers together. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

  CHAPTER 8

  Tully snorted, impatient to run. Stella filled her lungs with the fresh, cool breeze. Its scent of damp earth and a slight fragrance of coconut wafted up from the flowering gorse. She wanted to run as much as the horse did, to sweep over the grassy heath, to leap over puddles, to startle the free-ranging ponies and the deer as she and Tully galloped toward the sea. After yesterday, the chilling oppression of the stonemanor house, the murder of the vicar, and Daddy’s pronouncement that threatened to turn her life upside down, she was prepared to fly on Tully toward the clouds and never look back.

  But she did look back. As they passed the last of the exercise paddocks, Lord Lyndhurst overtook her, encouraging his racehorse to run. Tupper bolted. Her speed, taking him by surprise, violently thrust him backward. His derby hat flew off and landed yards away, on a cluster of prickly gorse bushes. Clamping his legs as tight as he could, he leaned forward, trying to stay in his seat. He shouted and pulled on her reins, but Tupper wouldn’t have it. She’d been idle for too long. Lord Lyndhurst gave up trying to slow the horse and simply held on. His whooping and hollering and laughter rang across the heath.

  So, the stuffed shirt can have fun, after all.

  Stella made chase, following him across the heath, toward a small cluster of trees on the far hill, the spire of a church rising above them. With a brisk wind in her face, Stella concentrated on keeping her sights on the pair far ahead as they navigated the unfamiliar landscape. Tully was no match for Tupper. When Tupper slowed down to a canter, Stella and Tully caught up. They reached a gravel lane and trotted side by side past a cottage with a thatched roof. Stella marveled at how what looked like tightly bound dark brown hay could keep the rain out.

  “Was the filly more difficult to handle than you expected?” she asked as they halted in front of a redbrick building.

  He combed his fingers through his windswept hair and brushed the front of his jacket. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” the viscount said, looking meaningfully at Stella.

  She laughed. After that ride, she couldn’t help
feeling better. She slipped down unaided from Tully’s saddle. She flipped the reins around the hitching post as Lord Lyndhurst did the same. “Don’t worry. Tupper will trust you eventually. She just has to get to know you first.”

  “I hope that goes for the other filly as well.”

  “Don’t worry, girl,” Stella said, patting Tully’s neck. “I won’t let the Englishman ride you.” Stella slipped Tully a piece of peppermint, which she always kept in her pocket.

  “I wasn’t talking about the horse.”

  Stella’s eyes widened, and she laughed again. “We’ll see about that.”

  Lord Lyndhurst’s smirk widened into a smile as he checked the girth and billets of Tupper’s saddle and adjusted them after his wild ride. He whispered something to the filly while patting her neck. Stella smiled at the gentle gesture. Seemingly unaware of her scrutiny, he gestured toward the vicarage.

  “Shall we?” he said.

  Stella studied the cozy two-story redbrick building with thick white crosses decorating the windowpanes. A gravel path lined with vibrant blooms of delphinium, iris, and peonies led to the whitewashed door. Shiny green ivy thickly covered the walls, and smoke curled from one of two chimneys. Only in England would a fire need to be lit in June.

  I wish they’d light more back at Morrington Hall.

  A chill ran up Stella’s spine, and her lighthearted mood evaporated as quickly as the smoke. Why had she come here? After finding the vicar yesterday, she had to do something. But what? Give her comfort and condolences to those he had left behind? Of course. To learn about Reverend Bullmore, whose life and death were so intimately and suddenly thrust upon her? Yes. But now, on the threshold of the vicarage, her determination wavered. She realized what she’d really come for. Answers. But what answers did she expect to find? Why anyone would want to harm a vicar? Or how his death might affect her fate?

  Stella joined Lord Lyndhurst at the door and, before her courage failed, lifted the brass knocker, then rapped it twice. She stared straight ahead, willing the door to open. Lord Lyndhurst’s gaze was fixed on her, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  The door creaked open. A woman well past middle age, with a long face and a lace cap on her thick, curly gray hair, peered out at them with squinting green eyes, red and swollen from crying. Her dress was black crepe.

  “Yes?” she said before noticing Stella’s companion. She swung the door open. “My lord!”

  “Good morning, my dear, Miss Judd,” he said.

  Miss Judd bowed, her head quivering slightly. She held her left arm tight against her side, her hand twitching uncontrollably.

  “Now, now, I’ll have none of that.”

  Lord Lyndhurst took the old woman’s trembling hand, bent down, and gently kissed the woman’s cheek. Miss Judd’s face lit up, her toothless grin stretching across her face. Stella regarded the pair with fascination. Who was this woman that evoked such tenderness?

  Miss Judd patted him on his cheek. “Do you remember the last time you were here?”

  Lord Lyndhurst nodded.

  “Did Lady Atherly ever find out about it?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “No, she didn’t. Thanks to you.”

  Stella would have to ask him to tell her that story.

  “Do come in. Come in,” Miss Judd said, backing up and moving aside to allow them passage into the narrow hall.

  When the old lady closed the door behind her, stifling hot air akin to that in Kentucky in July enveloped Stella. After the drafty manor house, Stella should’ve appreciated the warmth, but she could barely breathe. Thankfully, Lord Lyndhurst cracked the door open again as Miss Judd shuffled down the hall.

  “Please do make yourselves comfortable,” she said.

  They followed her into a small drawing room, the one without the roaring fire, filled with lush ferns and multiple wooden crosses mounted on the wall. Stella sat on the chintz-covered couch, leaving the overstuffed armchair for the old woman. But she refused to sit.

  “Can I get you anything, my lord? A cup of tea, perhaps? I baked a loganberry tart yesterday for the vicar’s supper, but . . .” She stopped and stifled a sob.

  “No, nothing. Please put yourself at ease, Miss Judd,” the viscount said, indicating the armchair.

  The old woman nodded and, with the aid of his arm, hobbled over to it.

  “Miss Judd, our lovely hostess here,” Lord Lyndhurst said, “served at Morrington Hall during my grandfather’s day, before she became the vicar of Rosehurst’s housekeeper. No one was kinder to this awkward young lord than her. She’s been terribly missed.”

  The old woman waved off the comment with a hand, but she was grinning again. Lord Lyndhurst snatched a green hand-knitted blanket from the back of the chair and tucked it around the woman’s lap, like a baby. Then he moved one of two wooden ladder-back chairs positioned on either side of the fireplace and set it beside her.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked.

  “I’ve been better, my dear boy.”

  Stella watched the viscount. So haughty, pretentious, and smug back at the house, so gentle and considerate here. Who was this man?

  “And who is this, my lord?” Miss Judd said, blatantly scrutinizing Stella.

  “How foolish of me. Miss Judd, this is Miss Stella Kendrick.”

  The old woman’s eyes widened. “The American.”

  Stella struggled to keep the smile on her face. She was American and proud of it, but why did she feel every time anyone said it that the speaker was surprised she didn’t have two heads?

  “Yes. I’m from Kentucky,” Stella said. “I’m pleased to meet you, ma’am. Though I wish it could’ve been under happier circumstances.”

  The old woman openly stared at Stella. “You’re . . . Reverend Bullmore was to marry you and my lord on Saturday.” It wasn’t a question, but her words were spoken with such obvious disbelief, Stella cringed. She wasn’t the only one not reconciled to the idea. “It must be postponed now, though, won’t it? Until a new vicar arrives.” Tears welled in the housekeeper’s eyes again. “That poor, poor man.”

  She lifted a plain white threadbare handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. The viscount pulled a crisp new one from his waistcoat pocket. It had an L embroidered on it in navy blue. He handed it to the old housekeeper.

  “I told him not to wear that belt.”

  Lord Lyndhurst and Stella shared a look.

  “What belt would that be, ma’am?” Stella said.

  “The vicar’s money belt,” the housekeeper said, shaking her head. “He called it his ‘price of penance,’ whatever that meant. He insisted on wearing it everywhere. Wearing it under his trouser leg, no less. I knew it would cause nothing but trouble.”

  “You think someone killed him for his money?” Stella asked.

  “Why else? He was a man of the cloth. He had no enemies. What else could it be?” The housekeeper pulled the hand-knitted blanket tighter across her lap. “His prayer book had gone missing, but no one is going to kill for that.”

  “But surely no one would kill the vicar for a pittance?”

  “Ah, but, my lord, I didn’t say a pittance,” Miss Judd said. “I said a penance.”

  “How much money was in the belt, Miss Judd?” Stella said.

  Lord Lyndhurst pursed his lips, as if he’d bitten into a lemon. She’d seen his mother do that whenever Stella made a faux pas. Was it her persistent questions or the mention of money that was so off-putting? With her luck, it was both.

  “We mustn’t speak of such things,” he said, confirming that any discussion of money offended him.

  “That’s all right. The dead have no secrets,” the housekeeper said. “If the reverend died because of that money, it’s right that someone should know.”

  “It must’ve been a great deal of money, then,” Stella said, ignoring the viscount’s frown. “But was it enough to die for?”

  “Enough to die for, no,” Miss Judd said, staring at Stella again. Stella shivere
d despite the oppressive heat. “Enough to kill for? Oh, aye, indeed.”

  * * *

  Millie fluffed the pillows and smoothed the ivory lace bedcover. With Miss Kendrick’s bed finished, the housemaid straightened the stack of books on the nightstand. She couldn’t read the titles, but the top book had snow and dogs on the cover.

  What a curious one Miss Kendrick is.

  In the servants’ hall, the talk was of two things: the vicar’s death and Miss Kendrick, her lovely new clothes, her kind face, her horrible father, her appetite, her need to learn the house’s rules, her gruesome discovery. Millie wasn’t put off by Miss Kendrick’s familiarity, like some downstairs. Millie liked her.

  Millie retrieved the carpet sweeper and pulled and pushed it in rhythm across the floor as she sang.

  “’Twas on a Tuesday morning,

  When I beheld my darling.

  She looked so neat and charming,

  In ev’ry high degree.

  She looked so neat and nimble, O,

  A-hanging out her linen, O,

  Dashing away with the smoothing iron,

  Dashing away with the smoothing iron,

  Dashing away with the smoothing iron,

  She stole my heart away.”

  On her knees, sweeping under the bed, Millie heard voices in the hallway. She hushed. It wouldn’t do to be caught singing. She needed this job, especially now that her mum was bedridden with a cough. Someday she and Mum would visit the seaside, maybe take the ferry to the Isle of Wight. Millie pushed up off the floor and listened for the voices to fade before taking up her song again.

  “’Twas on a Wednesday morning, when I beheld my darling . . .”

  Millie lifted the thick ivory window curtain to sweep along the baseboard. A motion outside cut off her song again. She’d caught a glimpse of a man lurking in the back garden. Could it be the killer? She leaned the handle of the carpet sweeper against the wall and peered down. No, it couldn’t be; the man was wearing posh tweeds. But she’d never seen him before.

  He wore his tweed cap pulled down low over his brow. He skittered across the lawn and hid behind the tall hedgerow. He peered around the hedgerow and, seeing no one about, skittered across the open lawn again. Millie followed his progress until he disappeared beneath the window’s eave. He seemed to be heading for the trade entrance door.