Murder at Morrington Hall

by Clara McKenna

  Now, why would a gentleman do that?

  She shrugged. Must be one of the Americans. One never knew with them. After retrieving the carpet sweeper, Millie resumed her cleaning and her song.

  CHAPTER 9

  “It’s Harry Finn, isn’t it?” Constable Waterman said, indicating the chair in front of him to the newest arrival.

  According to the butler, Harry Finn was the first footman and also served as Lord Lyndhurst’s valet. He’d also been assigned to Mr. Kendrick during his stay. The fellow must be busy. But too busy to murder the vicar? Brown would have to see about that.

  Staring at a point on the opposite wall, the footman said, “I prefer to stand.”

  Brown studied the footman—tall; slim; hooded blue eyes; dark hair carefully combed with pomade; dressed in dark gray trousers, a high-buttoned black waistcoat, a short black coat without tails, and a black tie. Not a hair or a thread out of place. Brown subconsciously brushed his hand across his forehead and receding hairline and then brushed the front of his dark blue uniform tunic. He’d never get used to the myriad tall, handsome men in service that were crawling about a place like Morrington Hall. He wasn’t a short man, but his bulbous nose and the twenty years he had on all the lads set him apart. Brown looked at Constable Waterman, a man, like him, who had spent his youth hiking the heath and wrangling with pigs and ponies. But Brown came off the better in comparison. Since getting married last year, Constable Waterman had put on more than two stones. Mrs. Brown was a good enough cook, but Mrs. Waterman was rumored to have won more than thirty ribbons for her steak and pork pies.

  “Where were you between half past two and four yesterday afternoon, Mr. Finn?” the constable asked.

  “I was in my lord’s dressing room.”

  “Doing what exactly?”

  “Lord Lyndhurst had instructed me that he wanted to go riding. In addition to putting away his morning attire, setting out his evening attire, and attending to his fishing equipment, I needed to brush and press his riding clothes.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “Who would be with me? Lord Lyndhurst didn’t dress for dinner until Mr. Fulton sounded the gong.”

  The footman’s tone had an edge to it. Was he offended by some perceived slight, as these lads who moved up in the world too fast often were, or was he hiding something? Brown wasn’t a betting man, as many around here were, but if pressed, he’d bet the latter. Brown hadn’t moved up in his world without a sense of when someone was lying.

  “Can anyone verify that you were in Lord Lyndhurst’s dressing room at that time?” Constable Waterman asked.

  “No. No one else saw me.”

  “Isn’t it usual to have maids coming in and out, doing this and that?” Brown added.

  The footman’s eyes flickered toward the inspector before focusing in front again. “Yes, but yesterday the Americans arrived. Most of the staff was consumed with settling them in.”

  “Constable, read back what the housemaid Millie said when we asked where she was from half past two until four yesterday.” Brown studied the footman as Constable Waterman flipped through his notebook. Staring straight ahead, the footman blinked a bit too much.

  “I was out on the drive when the Americans arrived,” Constable Waterman read. “Then, since it was Monday, I cleaned the glass lamp and chandelier globes in all the rooms upstairs.” Constable Waterman flipped the notebook closed with a flick of his wrist.

  “We’ve checked all the rooms upstairs, Mr. Finn,” Brown said. “If I remember correctly, there is a glass globe in Lord Lyndhurst’s dressing room. So how is it that the maid didn’t see you there?”

  Brown waited. He counted to the ticking of the mantel clock for the footman’s reply. One, two, three, four—

  “Perhaps that’s when I stepped out to retrieve Mr. Kendrick’s trunk.”

  Got him! Brown silently congratulated himself. He was right. The footman was lying. But the footman was also clever. Four seconds was all he had needed to come up with the reasonable lie. But why? Was Harry Finn the “stranger” Ethel, the housemaid, saw? If she was to be believed. Or was Harry guarding another secret? Brown would have to bide his time and be patient if he wanted to learn the truth. Pushing the footman further would only stimulate more lies. Brown nodded to his constable to continue.

  “Had you ever met Reverend Bullmore before yesterday?” the constable continued.

  “Yes, once. After his sermon on Sunday.”

  “Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to kill the vicar?”

  Harry Finn looked over at the constable and frowned. “No, I can’t.”

  Did Brown believe him? The footman had stopped his blinking, and his reaction seemed genuine enough, but then again, he was on to them now. Brown would be extra cautious not to give himself away again.

  “And before you ask, I wasn’t anywhere near the library. I didn’t have an idle chat with the vicar or pick up a book to read in my spare time. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear anything,” the footman said, looking Brown in the eyes. The words, poured out of him in a quiet but clipped voice. He clenched his jaw and stared again at the wall, but Brown knew the footman was losing his patience or his nerve. Brown just didn’t know which.

  Brown scrutinized the calluses on the palm of his hand. Constable Waterman tapped his pencil in counterpoint to the clock ticking on the mantel. If Brown hoped the silence or the constable’s insistent tapping would unnerve the footman, he was disappointed. Harry Finn matched his silence, staring ahead as before. It was time to try another tactic.

  “Did you kill Reverend Bullmore?”

  Harry Finn’s steely exterior cracked, and he flinched.

  “Absolutely not!” he declared. Harry Finn’s brow glistened with perspiration. “If that’s all?”

  It wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

  * * *

  “Where have you been all afternoon, Augustus?” Mrs. Westwoode said. “We could’ve been killed, and you were nowhere to be found.”

  “Now, now, Caroline,” Augustus Westwoode said, blandly chiding his wife. He took a sip of his sherry. He didn’t answer his wife’s question.

  Stella regarded Mr. Westwoode. She had been introduced to him and Lord Hugh when she arrived downstairs for dinner. Two men couldn’t look less alike. Lord Hugh, with a tall, muscular build and thick blond hair, had a boyish face, even with his mustache. Gray peppered Mr. Westwoode’s bushy brown mustache, and he lacked most of the hair on the top of his head. He stood several inches shorter than his wife, the tops of his ears protruded outward, his grayish-green eyes were dull, and he had a habit of chewing on his upper lip. He was doing it now.

  “The police still don’t know the identity of the killer, then, Lord Atherly?” he asked.

  Stella’s and Lord Lyndhurst’s eyes met. They’d been interviewed by Inspector Brown earlier in the afternoon, recollecting everything again and again: why they were in the library the day of the murder, what time it was when they entered the library, exactly what they saw in the library and when and where, what they heard while in the library. It was the least they could do. But they hadn’t been able to recall anything new. Stella had been disappointed when the inspector stifled a yawn; she’d wanted to help. So, she’d mentioned their visit to Miss Judd, the vicar’s housekeeper. The inspector had sat up straight at the mention of the money belt and had immediately dispatched his constable to interview Miss Judd. But despite Stella’s cooperation and her persistence, Inspector Brown had evaded answering a single question. She didn’t know any more than anyone else about the police’s progress. Perhaps he’d been more forthcoming to Lord Atherly.

  “I’m afraid I have no news,” Lord Atherly said. “But they seemed confident they would apprehend the fellow in due course.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Daddy said. “I trust the wedding won’t be postponed?”

  Stella, with a surge of anger at her father rising, pictured the pathetic face of Miss Judd grieving the vicar
’s death. She pictured Reverend Bullmore lying in a pool of blood. She couldn’t hold her tongue. But the viscount beat her to it.

  “Mr. Kendrick, a man has died,” he said, as if reading her mind. “Don’t you think that’s more important than marrying your daughter off as fast as possible?”

  Mrs. Westwoode gasped. Lord Hugh sputtered, attempting to hold in a laugh. Lady Alice looked up from her magazine.

  “Lyndy, that is quite enough,” Lady Atherly said. No one appreciated Stella’s forthrightness, but coming from the heir of the house, it was clearly unexpected and intolerable.

  Lord Lyndhurst watched Stella, his expression unreadable. This morning he’d surprised her, treating Miss Judd with such obvious affection. And that look of exhilaration on his face while riding was encouraging. And now this. She offered him a faint smile.

  Perhaps he isn’t like Daddy. That oaf leaned back in his green crushed-velvet armchair and swirled the sherry in his glass. He put the glass to his nose to appreciate the wine’s aroma before gulping down its entire contents. He snapped his fingers and held up the glass for more.

  No, no one was like Daddy.

  “Yes, the vicar has died. That’s why I asked about the wedding,” Daddy said, unfazed by Lord Lyndhurst’s admonishment. “It’s what’s best for everyone.”

  “A postponement is inevitable, I’m afraid,” Lord Atherly said.

  “That is too bad. Isn’t Professor Gridley expecting funding for his next expedition, Lord Atherly? Is it true what my valet says, Lady Atherly? That you are short on staff and can’t afford to hire more?” Daddy brushed lint from his pant leg. “Your garden would certainly benefit from some regular weeding.”

  Shock and shame froze on Lady Atherly’s face, flaring blotches of red on her pale cheeks; her eyes widened in horror. Everyone else averted their eyes.

  “I say that was—” Lord Lyndhurst, his teeth clenched, stepped forward, knocking against an end table. His mother’s book, a biography of the Duke of Wellington, slipped from the top of a stack and fell with a thud to the floor.

  “Dinner is served, my lady,” Fulton’s voice rang from the front of the room.

  “Oh, good,” Aunt Rachel said, as if she hadn’t noticed the tension in the room. “I’m as hungry as a bear coming out of hibernation.”

  * * *

  “As everyone knows, my bet’s on Cicero.”

  “I can’t say as I blame you, Mr. Kendrick,” Mr. Westwoode said, “but I’m going to put my money on Golden Measure.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Westwoode,” Hugh said, helping himself to the platter of asparagus in hollandaise sauce held out to him by the footman. “I’ve had a hot tip about Jardy, the French colt.”

  “Yes, but Jardy has a cough, which might affect his form,” Lyndy countered. Despite the earlier tension, Lyndy couldn’t resist when the discussion turned to the Derby.

  The meal had begun in silence, but Mother, whatever her faults, and there were many, was nothing if not an exemplary hostess. She’d led the way by asking Mr. Kendrick if President Lincoln hadn’t been born in Kentucky. To her dismay, the conversation about Mr. Lincoln had led to bourbon and horses.

  “What is the difference between the horses?” Miss Westwoode asked. “I’ve never been one to follow the races.”

  Lyndy pitied Hugh. Woe to the gent whose wife knew nothing about horses. He resisted the urge to glance at his bride-to-be across the dining table.

  “Lady Yardley attended the opening-night performance of Pagliacci at the new Waldorf Theatre in Aldwych last week,” Mother said, attempting to redirect the conversation.

  Despite its popularity with polite society, not to mention that it was a favorite pastime of His Majesty King Edward, Mother preferred all talk of racing to be confined to the stables. Mother didn’t like anything about horses. She never rode, preferred taking the train or walking to riding in a carriage, and might embrace the idea of a motorcar. Lyndy could only hope. Papa’s obsession with finding a complete horse fossil, and the excessive funds that that task required, were much to blame for it.

  Mother went on. “I read that it is managed by your fellow countrymen, Mr. Kendrick, the Messrs. Shubert of New York. Yet Lady Yardley had a lovely time. She couldn’t say enough in praise of it.”

  Lyndy knew Lady Yardley. She could never say enough about anything, good or bad. The woman talked incessantly.

  Mr. Kendrick ignored Mother. “The difference, Miss Westwoode,” he said, reaching over and pushing the silver candelabra against the floral centerpiece greenery to see her better, “is that Cicero has an outstanding pedigree, not least of all his sire, my stallion, Orson. Pretty good for a son of a coachman, eh?”

  “Hear, hear,” Miss Luckett, the aunt, agreed.

  “Don’t you mean my stallion?” Lyndy said.

  “Orson’s mine until my daughter holds the title of Lady Lyndhurst,” Mr. Kendrick said, never taking his eyes off Elizabeth Westwoode. “Like I said, I’m thinking of everyone when I push for this wedding.”

  Mother’s eyes widened at the American’s audacity in bringing up the subject again. Poor Mother, having to entertain this barbarian at her dining table. But it was her own fault. She’d agreed with Papa to tie their fate to this “son of a coachman.” The man was boorish and had been nothing but dastardly toward Miss Kendrick since they’d arrived, something that angered Lyndy in a way he couldn’t describe. But had it been the poorest choice? Mr. Kendrick was an exceptional horse breeder and was worth millions, after all. Besides, Lyndy wasn’t marrying the father, was he?

  Lyndy stole a quick glance over the centerpiece, a dense cluster of pink hydrangeas. Miss Kendrick was seated next to Papa. Papa was retelling his famous story of killing the roseate spoonbill when he was a boy. The bird, not a native of the area and presumed to have escaped from a passing ship, had frequented the neighboring Solent for over a week, with many a gunman stalking it. Papa, out in the punt, had come across the bird at the entrance of the Beaulieu River and had bagged it for himself. It was the last bird he’d collected. Two weeks later he’d found his first fossil.

  And that was that.

  The candlelight flickered across Miss Kendrick’s porcelain skin, the diamond combs tucked into her silky light brown hair, and in her attentive, attractive blue eyes as she listened to Papa’s story.

  If only Lyndy could get her to look at him like that.

  “If Cicero wins the Derby, that will make Orson the sire of all three winners of the English Triple Crown races,” Mr. Kendrick boasted. “He’ll be the most sought-after stud in England. The King will be demanding Orson cover his mares.”

  “Getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you, Mr. Kendrick?” Hugh said. “Cicero has to win tomorrow at Epsom Downs first.”

  Mr. Kendrick laughed before emptying his glass of claret. “What a shame to have to miss the race this year,” Miss. Westwoode said.

  Mrs. Westwoode nodded solemnly in agreement. Lyndy didn’t believe for a moment that the matron was sincere.

  “Don’t be foolish, Elizabeth!” Mr. Westwoode said, holding his fork in midair, spears of asparagus dangling from its tines. “Why would we do that? I always attend the Derby.”

  “There is the delicate matter of the vicar, my dear,” his wife reminded him. “Have you finished already, Miss Kendrick?” Mrs. Westwoode said, noticing that the American woman’s plate was empty, again. “I think you misunderstood the lesson of ‘eat like a bird.’ They meant like a sparrow, not a vulture.”

  Miss Kendrick set down her fork, dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin, and allowed the footman to clear away her plate. Without a word, she turned her attention back to Papa.

  Did all American women have such hearty appetites? He’d admired her slim, subtle curves on more than one occasion. Where did she put it all? But leave it to Mrs. Westwoode to remark upon it—despite Miss Kendrick’s dining etiquette otherwise being beyond reproach—hoping to change the subject at the young woman’s expense. The tips o
f her ears burned red while everyone else ignored Mrs. Westwoode. Miss Kendrick would be wise to follow their lead.

  “Lord Atherly? Is this true?” Mr. Westwoode said. “Are we expected to abstain from this year’s Derby because of the vicar’s murder?”

  Papa, who had been smiling, having found an earnest listener in Miss Kendrick, frowned. “What’s this? I say. We aren’t talking about the vicar’s . . . at the table, are we?”

  “The discussion about our new thoroughbred stallion has led to whether we were abandoning our plans to attend the Derby or not,” Lyndy said, as eager as Mr. Westwoode to know his father’s decision on this matter. He had never dreamt the vicar’s death would impact tomorrow’s trip to Epsom.

  “Why not go?” Lord Hugh said flippantly. “Reverend Bullmore would’ve postponed my funeral to go to Epsom Downs and not have thought a thing of it.” Lyndy shot a glance at his friend. It wasn’t like Hugh to be callous. But then again, it wasn’t like Hugh to argue with anyone.

  The night before the murder, Lyndy, approaching the pond to go fishing, had heard two raised voices, carried across the water from the folly on the other side. He’d recognized one immediately. But Hugh never lost his temper. Even after Hugh returned from South Africa and everyone expected him to show signs of battle fatigue, he’d smiled and laughed, as if he’d never left. Yet there he’d been, red in the face, fists clenched, mere inches from the vicar, shouting, “Either give it to me or leave me alone!”

  Lyndy tried not to think of it now. But how could he not, with Hugh’s tone of voice, his heartless attitude? What did Hugh have against Reverend Bullmore? How well did he know the man?

  Others noticed it too. Mrs. Westwoode held her ring-covered fingers over her mouth like a bejeweled fan. Miss Westwoode stared at the gloves in her lap. Mother puckered her lips. Hugh was such a congenial chap. It was why Lyndy liked him so much. Even when Hugh was in his darkest mood, Lyndy found his friend to be excellent company. So why the sudden rancor?