“Bloody hell!” Hugh shouted. Hugh flung the mallet to the ground at their feet. Lyndy flinched. “Why can’t I leave this behind me?” Hugh muttered a few curses under his breath as he ran his fingers through his hair. Hugh bent down and retrieved the mallet. “Will you trust me that it had nothing to do with the vicar’s death?”
“If you say it doesn’t,” Lyndy said.
“It doesn’t.”
A cheer rose from beyond the maze. Both men turned toward the ruckus but could see nothing. The hedge was too tall.
“Who won? Your fiancée or mine? I wonder,” Hugh said.
Lyndy was confident Stella had won, but at that moment he couldn’t care less.
“Do you have debts?”
“Why do you say that?” Hugh’s voice had an edge to it again.
“Steady on. I supposed you might, having to live on your reduced allowance while entertaining the Westwoodes.”
Lyndy resisted mentioning the promissory note found in Hugh’s fire grate. They both kept Clyde Harris’s card handy. Every well-bred punter did. When they were younger, nothing could keep the two of them from the Turf, and if they placed a bet or two, so much more the fun. At any given house party, put the two of them at the same table for whist, and no one had a chance. But Hugh had abandoned cards, as well as the Turf, not even attending the Rosehurst Races, since he’d returned from the war. No, that wasn’t quite right. Not since the war, but since the incident at Carcroft House. Lyndy had heard the rumors, the accusations, about someone caught cheating at cards while His Majesty King Edward was at the table. Had Hugh been there, as some rumors suggested? Had he been the one cheating?
And why the sudden change? Why attend this year’s Derby? Two days after the death of the vicar. Can it be a coincidence? Lyndy wanted to think so. But he doubted it.
“Oh, that.” Hugh shrugged. “I can handle it.”
“Glad to hear it.” Lyndy didn’t believe him. He knew too much, about Hugh’s argument with the vicar, his argument with his father on the telephone, the note from the moneylender. Hugh was in trouble, but how?
“Shall we?” Hugh raised the mallet to indicate the path leading back to the entrance of the maze. “Elizabeth already accuses me of neglect.”
“Not having second thoughts, are you?” Lyndy said, leading the way back.
“Too late for that, I’m afraid. Elizabeth’s a good enough sort, mind you, but the mother I could do without. I imagine you can relate.”
Lyndy nodded. His soon-to-be father-in-law was a scoundrel, but unlike Mrs. Westwoode, he’d be returning to America after the wedding.
“Yes, but I won’t have to put up with him much longer.”
Hugh nodded. “There’s a blessing. Though you still have to put up with the daughter.”
“Yes, but at least she’s a damn sight more attractive than the alternatives.”
Hugh laughed at Lyndy’s jest. “She is that. Now, if she’d only keep her bloody mouth shut.”
Lyndy opened his mouth to agree and then stopped. Lyndy had said something in jest; Hugh was in earnest. How dare Hugh? Lyndy’s defense of Stella, his explanation about how he admired her bluntness and her curiosity, died on his tongue. Instead, he said, a bit spitefully, “So, how is the old duke?”
Hugh stopped as they took a corner. He shot Lyndy an angry glance.
“You were heard, Hugh. Morrington is a big place, but there are many, many ears about.”
“What did you hear?” Hugh demanded.
“That you accused your father of being ‘as bad as the vicar’ when he refused you something. That you slammed the telephone down on your own father’s ear.”
“That was between The Duke and me.” Hugh’s indignation put an end to the discussion.
“Very well.”
Why had Lyndy said that? Nothing was at all well. He’d known Hugh for years; they’d met their first year at Eton. Yet Hugh was hiding a secret, one he wouldn’t trust Lyndy with. Until Lyndy knew what Hugh was hiding, nothing would be well between them. Hugh misread regret for doubt on Lyndy’s face.
“I promise you, Lyndy. I had absolutely nothing to do with the vicar’s death.” Hugh smiled and swung the mallet onto his shoulder. “Now, shall we rejoin the game?”
CHAPTER 25
“Who called it in?” Inspector Brown said, pulling his Wellingtons on. The morning’s rain had left this patch of ground soft and muddy.
“The local agister, Neil Gerald,” Constable Waterman said. The inspector nodded. He’d met Mr. Gerald before. He was as dedicated an agister as they came. “He’d noticed a set of tracks down that lane that doesn’t match any horseshoe he’s ever seen before. Thought it might be worth checking.”
Brown stepped down from the wagon into a puddle in the gravel path. He checked the sky. The clouds were gray but were thinning. No rain again soon, then.
“Lead the way, Constable.”
Constable Waterman headed down a narrow path, more a footpath than a lane, fenced off on both sides and thick with brambles. Footprints and horseshoe tracks appeared in the low, muddy spots. A hundred yards in, a wide puddle blocked the path. Constable Waterman and Brown strode single file across an old board someone had thrown over it. After a quarter of a mile or so, the brambles thinned, and tall oaks, planted there once long ago, lined the path. The constable stopped at the first gate in the fence. On the other side was an old brick barn. The roof needed retiling.
“Is the owner of this paddock at home?” Brown asked.
The constable shook his head. “No. I called in at the cottage before you arrived.” Constable Waterman pointed back the way they had come. A well-maintained brick cottage with a brick barn and a vegetable patch stood not far from the lane. “But there was no answer. He is a registered commoner, but Mr. Gerald has no record of taking any of his stock off the Forest for any reason.”
A confident neigh, with a bugle-like ring, sounded from the old barn on the other side of the gate.
“No legitimate reason he should have a pony or horse in the paddock, then?”
“Not that Mr. Gerald could think of.”
“Let’s have a look, shall we?”
The inspector swung open the iron gate and headed for the barn. A second neigh warned him to use caution as he rounded the dilapidated building. With his ears pricked forward, his tail lifted, the missing racehorse boldly looked Brown in the eye. He was a magnificent creature, his slick black coat shiny and clean. Despite his misadventure, Orson looked none the worse for wear as he chomped the hay piled up at his feet, never taking his eyes off Brown. He was tethered to a post, thank God. But would the tether hold if the horse had a mind to bolt? Brown didn’t want to find out.
“What is the name of the commoner, Constable?”
Constable Waterman pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. “The property belongs to a Frank Dobbs.”
A smile threaded its way across the inspector’s face. “It does, does it?”
“Sir? Do you know Mr. Dobbs?”
“No, never met the fellow.”
“Then you’ve lost me, sir.”
“But I have met his brother-in-law, a certain groom at Morrington Hall.”
As if on cue, a few rays of sun broke through the gloom. Brown couldn’t have been happier.
* * *
“Tea is served, my lady,” the butler announced.
“How ever did she learn to play like that?” Lord Hugh said, handing his mallet to the footman.
“All those garden parties in Newport, I expect,” Daddy said, lumbering out of his white wrought-iron lawn chair.
Stella said nothing as the two talked about her as if she wasn’t there. She didn’t remind Daddy that she’d learned to play by spending hours alone on the lawn of their Kentucky home, striking each ball herself. When she had played at the sole garden party she attended in Newport, she had unequivocally defeated the other players and had been shunned by the other girls for the rest of the afternoon. She had retreat
ed to the stables after that and hadn’t played croquet since. Until today.
“I hope there’s enough of those tiny sandwiches, Lady Atherly,” Daddy continued. “I do love those.”
Lady Atherly rose from her chair as if she had a wooden board sewn into her corset. “I suspect so, Mr. Kendrick. Mrs. Cole is not unaware of your . . . appetite.”
“Has anyone seen Augustus lately?” Mrs. Westwoode asked for the third time since they’d returned from their drive. She glanced around, as if her husband might step from behind a hedge at any moment. Stella wasn’t about to tell Mrs. Westwoode he’d been in the pub.
Had it been him? Had he heard her call his name? Was that where he spent all his time? Except at those times when Mrs. Westwoode asked after him, Stella rarely gave Mr. Westwoode’s whereabouts a second thought. Until now. But why? What did she suspect him of: killing the vicar, stealing Orson, attacking his own wife? Simply because she’d seen him dashing out the back door of a pub? Or because, despite the police’s best efforts, none of these crimes had been resolved? He’d always given Stella a sympathetic smile. Could it have been a façade?
“Where’s Lyndy?” Lady Atherly said. “He knows I expect him at tea.”
“I spied him heading toward the house earlier,” Mrs. Westwoode said, “but I haven’t seen him since.”
“He had some business to take care of,” Stella said. Lyndy had been somber when he and Lord Hugh rejoined the others. He had pulled her aside as Lady Alice made a particularly good shot, knocking Miss Westwoode’s ball yards away from the wicket, and had whispered something about unfinished business. It concerned Lord Hugh. “He said he wouldn’t be back until late.”
“So, you’re his confidante now,” Lord Hugh said. It wasn’t a question. Hugh was smiling, but he sounded bitter. He’d been a bit cool to her since their encounter outside the cloakroom. But what did he mean? What had Lyndy told him?
“Why shouldn’t she be?” Lady Alice said. “They are to be married soon.”
“Not soon enough,” Daddy grumbled. “The girl’s going to change her mind if they put it off for too long.”
“As if you’ve ever given me a choice,” Stella muttered. Unlike a few days ago, the truth of it left her more thoughtful than bitter. She was changing her mind, but not in the way her father proposed.
“But what about the horse, Mr. Kendrick? Wasn’t the marriage contingent on its return?” Mrs. Westwoode said.
“They’ll find it, or there’ll be hell to pay,” was Daddy’s reply as the door to the hall opened and Daddy plodded through it, following the lady of the house.
Who would have to pay for it this time? Not Daddy. He’d make certain of that.
“I do hope they find him,” Mrs. Westwoode said, putting her hand on Stella’s arm. The woman’s sudden compassion touched Stella.
“Thank you, Mrs. Westwoode. So do I.”
“As you presumably know, Mr. Westwoode is quite respected and quite successful on the Turf. Indeed, he won considerably at Epsom. He so hoped to give our darling Elizabeth the first foal from that stud as a wedding present.”
Stella’s misjudgment of Westwoode’s concern aside, Mrs. Westwoode’s words were disturbing; Mr. Westwoode had blatantly lied to his wife. He hadn’t won at the Derby. He had lost three hundred pounds on a long shot and had bet against Cicero. Who knew how much he had lost on that race?
“Ah, there you are, Augustus.”
Mr. Westwoode was waiting at the door. He cast a quick glance at Stella before offering his arm to his wife.
“Where have you been?” Mrs. Westwoode demanded.
And what else have you been lying about?
CHAPTER 26
“Now, this is a surprise,” Clyde Harris said, running his thumb and forefinger across his glossy black mustache. He pushed back from his deep wooden desk, a greasy newspaper with a half-eaten order of fish and chips spread out on top, and stood. He pulled out his handkerchief and, after wiping his fingers, indicated a curved, leather-covered tub chair across from him. “Please do have a seat, my lord.”
“I’d rather not.” Lyndy walked over to the window and looked down on Cork Street. Three stories below, two men carrying something covered with a cloth between them struggled to enter the five-story whitewashed town house across the street, their burden too wide to fit through the narrow door. London had long lost its appeal, owing to the loud parties, the shallow women, the dirt and the smell. He couldn’t wait to get back to the New Forest. “This won’t take long.”
Lyndy crossed the room when he spied a photograph of Clyde Harris with Sir John Bremond and Lord Ramshaw in the winner’s circle at Ascot. He wanted to blame the train ride up for his restlessness, but he knew better.
“What is it I can do for you, my lord?”
Lyndy pulled the charred remains of the promissory note from his waistcoat pocket. He held it out toward Harris. “I assume this is one of yours?”
The moneylender glanced at it. There wasn’t much to go on, but Lyndy had recognized the signature paper and lettering Harris was known to use.
“It is.”
Lyndy had never doubted it, but the man’s confirmation steeled him to carry out the rest of his plan.
“Before we go further, you must promise me your utmost discretion. No one can know about this. No one.” If the police found out, it would be regrettable. If Hugh knew he was making inquiries, it would be devastating. After Stella’s overhearing of Hugh’s conversation, Lyndy had recognized the risks of using the telephone. Why else would he have come up to London on such short notice? “With this murder business, it’s important I discover the truth before the police do.”
To his credit, the moneylender didn’t flinch at the mention of the police. “I understand completely, Lord Lyndhurst.”
Satisfied, Lyndy walked over to Harris’s desk and took the seat previously offered him. He set the remains of the promissory note on the desk.
“I need to know who this belongs to.”
Settling back in his desk chair, Clyde Harris pushed the newspaper and food to the side. He clasped a pair of spectacles to the bridge of his nose and pulled the charred paper fragment toward him, then inspected it closely.
“If I may ask, where did you find it?”
“As you might suspect, in a fire grate at my family’s estate in Hampshire.” Lyndy didn’t want to say more, couldn’t say more. Admitting that much diminished his hopes of it belonging to someone besides Hugh. Who else at Morrington would have borrowed from Harris?
“Then I will have to check my books.” The moneylender swiveled his chair around, pulled a ledger from a file cabinet against the wall, swiveled back, and flipped it open on his desk. “This may take a few moments.”
Lyndy hopped to his feet again and moved about the room, studying several pictures of well-known racehorses tacked up on the walls, looking out the window again—the movers were no longer there, having solved their problem—and admiring a glass vase filled halfway with the cream, tan, and white shells of cowries.
“Well, that narrows it down a bit,” the moneylender muttered.
Lyndy stepped back toward the desk, leaned over it, and tried to read the ledger upside down.
“There are only two possibilities, as only two men at Morrington Hall have accounts with me, in addition to you.”
Two? Lyndy’s heart jumped. Who else could it be?
“Lord Hugh Drakeford and Mr. Augustus Westwoode.”
Westwoode? Lyndy knew little about the man. He rarely spoke when he happened to be around, which was not often. Lyndy had never suspected. But why not? The old boy was a punter, like the rest of them. He had a daughter about to marry and a bothersome wife. Why wouldn’t he borrow the odd bit of cash here and there?
“Is it Westwoode’s or Lord Hugh’s note?”
“Let me look.” The moneylender retrieved two file folders from the cabinet. Each labeled with a particular man’s name. Mr. Westwoode’s folder was an inch thick. Lord Hugh�
��s looked empty. Harris opened Mr. Westwoode’s file first. “I don’t see anything from that date.”
The note had to be Hugh’s. It was the truth Lyndy had suspected, the fact he’d come all this way to confirm. Then why did he feel like he’d eaten a spoiled oyster?
“How much does he owe?”
Misunderstanding Lyndy, who cared only about Hugh, Harris said, “Mr. Westwoode’s account has been paid in full. Right after the Derby. There’s a first time for everything.”
“Lucky for him. A good tip can go a long way.” Lyndy made no attempt to hide his sarcasm.
“Yes, and a bad one can land a man in my office.” The moneylender chuckled at his jest. Lyndy wasn’t in the mood.
“And Lord Hugh?” he asked.
Harris opened Hugh’s file. A copy of the burnt promissory note was on top. Harris looked up at Lyndy. He didn’t need to say more.
“How much does Hugh owe?”
“I’m afraid Lord Hugh is in arrears for a thousand pounds.”
“What about other debts?” Lyndy pointed to the few sheets of paper beneath the promissory note
“That is the total debt. These”—Harris lifted up the edge of the other papers with his index finger—“were all paid years ago by His Grace, Lord Hugh’s father.”
“But not this one.” It would explain the conversation Hugh had had with his father. “Thank you, Harris,” Lyndy said, retrieving the charred promissory note from the desk.
He’d learned what he came to learn, and he’d confirmed what he suspected. Hugh was in debt, and his father wasn’t helping him. It would explain Hugh’s argument with the vicar as well. Hence, Hugh’s comment that his father was as bad as the vicar. They had both refused to help him. But had Hugh then killed the vicar, determined to get the money, anyway?
“You’re most welcome, my lord. Though I have to say, two surprise visits in a week is unusual.”
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