“Tully?” she said faintly.
Lyndy glanced back. Tully had sidled up to Beau as he grazed.
“Your horse is fine. I can’t say the same for you.”
“Owww,” she groaned, rolling onto her side again. He expected her to curl up in pain, but she surprised him as she pushed up onto her elbow. She raised her hand to be helped up.
“Should you be getting up?”
“Unless you plan on carrying me all the way back . . .”
He grabbed hold of her offered hand and helped her to her feet. “Are you certain you’re all right?”
“I’ll heal,” she said, brushing herself off and making a vain attempt to smooth her tangled hair. “Ow. I think I bruised a rib or two. Not my best fall.”
“You’ve fallen before?”
“Many times. Haven’t you?”
Of course he had. To be a good rider, one had to know how to fall.
“I’m more embarrassed than anything,” she added.
Embarrassed? He’d never seen any woman, not even Lady Letitia Bentley-Sudder, who was the best female rider he knew, get up so quickly from a fall.
“Good thing I’m wearing trousers, huh? Can you get my skirt?”
“Of course,” Lyndy said, admiring her legs, which, freed of the bulky skirt, were long and graceful in the tight riding trousers, and on view for all to see. He jogged over to where her skirt had fallen and brought it back to her. He turned his back as she slipped it around her waist.
“All done,” she said. When he turned back around, she’d covered herself. “It seems ridiculous to wear both skirt and trousers.”
“But you can’t mean to ride only in trousers, like a man?” Lyndy said. How ridiculous. Next, she’d be suggesting she ride astride instead of sidesaddle.
“Why not? It would be safer and easier.” She leaned on him as she limped back toward Tully. “Help me up.” She grabbed hold of Tully’s reins as the horse stood compliantly still.
“You don’t mean to ride back, in your state?”
“Isn’t there a saying?” She looked at him expectantly.
How could he argue with that?
CHAPTER 29
Lyndy lifted Stella off her horse, brushing aside the startled groom, and insisted she lean on him as they entered the house.
“Ring for Miss Kendrick’s maid, will you, Fulton? She’s taken a bit of a tumble,” he said the moment the butler opened the door.
Stella, never having such fuss made about her falls before, wasn’t sure she cared for it. She pulled away from him.
“As I told you already, I can walk by myself.”
Her knees were scraped, but it was nothing cold, clean water wouldn’t soothe. Her shoulder, on the other hand . . . That was going to smart for days.
“Obviously, I need to—” Stella’s breath caught in her throat. She was going to say, “Wash and dress for afternoon tea,” but she’d seen Mr. Westwoode striding down the hall at the end of the grand saloon. He hadn’t been at church this morning. “We need to confront him,” Stella said before rushing off in the direction in which she’d seen him go.
“Stella!” Lyndy called, in pursuit.
Stella had reached the edge of the grand saloon when a loud gasp startled her. Ethel, emerging from the servants’ doorway, gaped at her, one hand covering her mouth, Stella’s pale blue beaded satin evening gown draped in the crook of the maid’s arm. Ethel pointed at Stella with her other hand. Stella looked down at herself. Her white blouse was untied and dirty; her jacket and skirt needed a good brushing; patches of mud clung to the skirt hem. Strands of tangled hair fell loose about her face and neck. Yes, she looked frightful, but did her maid have to react like that? Perhaps Ethel had heard the fuss Lyndy made about her fall.
“That sound, miss, on the carpet. Those boots.” Stella lifted her skirt and stared down at her feet. “That’s what the killer wore. I’d swear on my mother’s grave.” Ethel covered her ears with her hands. “I’ll never forget that sound. That sound of those boots running on this carpet.”
“The killer was wearing riding boots?” Lyndy said, coming to Stella’s side.
The maid nodded. Her face was as white as a sheet.
“Ethel, you didn’t say before that the man you saw was dressed for riding,” Stella said.
The maid shook her head. “I didn’t realize it until now, when I heard you, miss. With the black boots, the black trousers, it was all a blur.”
“But who could that have been?” Lyndy said.
“Good afternoon.” A man’s voice carried from the entrance hall, cutting off any speculation on Lyndy’s rhetorical question. They turned to see Inspector Brown handing his hat to the butler. “I’d like to have a word with Mr. Augustus Westwoode, if you please.”
* * *
“In here, if you don’t mind, Mr. Westwoode,” Inspector Brown said, pointing toward Lord Atherly’s smoking room.
As lovely as it was, Brown hoped this was the last time he’d ever have to see this room again. As he stepped in behind Mr. Westwoode, Lord Lyndhurst, accompanied by his American fiancée, followed behind him. From the way Miss Kendrick grimaced at the animal heads on the walls, she agreed with him.
“My lord? Can I help you?” Brown asked.
“We were just about to telephone you, Inspector Brown,” Miss Kendrick said.
Were they now?
Before Brown could ask why, Lord Lyndhurst said, “I, we, would like to be present when you interview Mr. Westwoode.”
Brown weighed the reasons to object. Lord Atherly, and Brown’s superiors, would not take it kindly if he offended the viscount needlessly. But Brown still wondered why. “If Mr. Westwoode has no objections?”
That gentleman had already taken a seat. Westwoode shook his head. He began chewing on his upper lip. “What is this about, Inspector?”
Brown waited for the others to be seated. Lord Lyndhurst strolled the room, looking out the window, examining the gun cases, and studying the mounted animal heads, as if he’d never been in the room before. When Brown indicated a seat, the viscount waved it off and bid him to begin. Brown tried to dismiss the young lord’s restlessness but kept the viscount always in the corner of his eye.
“When I interviewed you on a previous occasion, Mr. Westwoode, I asked for your whereabouts during the time of the vicar’s death.”
Mr. Westwoode stole a quick glance at Miss Kendrick. Now, why would he look at the young lady? Was she his alibi? Had she been lying to Brown as well? That would be a shame. Despite all the rumors and gossip surrounding her “unusual” behavior, he’d taken a liking to the young woman. Brown always prided himself on being a good judge of character. Had he been mistaken?
“If you recall, Mr. Westwoode, you told me you’d taken a walk. I took you at your word.”
Mr. Westwoode said nothing but waited expectantly.
“Do you know what a grockle is, Mr. Westwoode?”
The fellow frowned. Brown’s change in the subject had the desired effect. Confuse the bugger.
“No, I have no idea.”
“It means ‘stranger’ or ‘outsider,’ someone from outside the New Forest.”
“Then I must be a grockle, Inspector.” Mr. Westwoode shrugged. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Grockles get noticed, Mr. Westwoode, particularly in a man’s local pub.”
Mr. Westwoode’s jaw dropped open, but it was Miss Kendrick who blurted, “How did you know?”
How did she know anything about this? What else hadn’t she told him? Was that why the pair of them insisted on sitting in? Perhaps, he was wrong about her, after all. Shame.
“I’m the one that should be asking that question, Miss Kendrick,” Brown chided.
“You saw me, didn’t you?” Mr. Westwoode said to Miss Kendrick. “I was hoping I’d left in time.”
“In time for what?” Brown didn’t appreciate losing control of his own interview. “Explain yourself, Miss Kendrick.”
> Miss Kendrick confessed to following the groom Herbert to the door of the Knightwood Oak pub. Upon peeking inside, she observed Mr. Westwoode dashing for the rear entrance.
The rumors about this girl are true, then? Brown kept the astonishment from showing on his face. She is an odd one.
“How did you find out, Inspector?” Miss Kendrick asked. Mr. Heppenstall had told him, but he wasn’t going to reward her with an answer. “I will be the one asking the questions, Miss Kendrick.”
Seemingly properly abashed, she nodded.
“Now, Mr. Westwoode, would you like to tell me where you were when the vicar was killed?”
“What? Now, hold on.” He lowered his voice. “I didn’t kill the vicar!”
“But his money would solve your problems, wouldn’t it?” Lord Lyndhurst said.
A box of cigars labeled Por Larrañaga held the viscount’s attention. Brown smelled them the moment Lord Lyndhurst opened the box. If things went as Brown hoped, perhaps the young lord would be kind enough to offer him one. But first things first. He waited for Mr. Westwoode to answer the question.
“I admit I have debts,” Mr. Westwoode said. “But I didn’t kill the vicar.”
“But you knew about his money?” Lord Lyndhurst said.
Westwoode nodded.
It was happening again. Brown had to regain control. “You told my constable that you didn’t know about the vicar’s money, Mr. Westwoode.”
“Well, I didn’t know until luncheon that day. My wife overheard Lord Hugh mention it to the vicar. She later told me.”
Brown sputtered curses under his breath. Could he believe a word out of anyone’s mouth? Not only had Westwoode lied about knowing about the money, but his wife and his future son-in-law had too. Brown would have to reinterview Lord Hugh and Mrs. Westwoode. Nothing they had told him could be trusted. He’d arrest the lot of them if it wouldn’t cost him his job.
“What about the Derby?” Miss Kendrick said.
“What about it?” Brown snapped.
Miss Kendrick recounted her conversation with Mrs. Westwoode about how the matron’s husband won at the races. “I know that you lost, Mr. Westwoode. I saw you tear up your ticket.”
“I did lose. I never claimed otherwise. But I never told Caroline either way. We never discuss it.”
“Then how did you manage to pay back all that you owed to Clyde Harris?” Lord Lyndhurst said.
Clyde Harris? When had he gotten involved?
“Clyde Harris was the moneylender?” Miss Kendrick asked, her brows knitted in surprise.
Lord Lyndhurst nodded.
Brown sat down. A good policeman knew when to question and when to listen. He’d lost control of this interview the moment he allowed Lord Lyndhurst and Miss Kendrick into the room. He’d have a few choice words for the two young people about withholding evidence from him, but now was not the time; Westwoode was admitting to everything.
“I didn’t pay Harris a farthing.”
“I spoke to Clyde Harris,” Lord Lyndhurst said. “I examined your accounts. You were in great debt, on the verge of bankruptcy even, and then you paid it all off at the Derby, two days after someone killed the vicar and robbed him of ten thousand pounds.”
“I never!” Mr. Westwoode declared, leaping to his feet. “If you take the word of a money-grubber over a gentleman, then you, sir, are not one either!”
“Now, now, Mr. Westwoode,” Brown said, indicating for the fellow to take his seat.
Did wonders never cease? In all his years, Brown had never seen someone insulted by an accusation of paying off a debt. Was he telling the truth or trying to cloud the issue with his dramatic denial? Brown honestly couldn’t tell.
“Then explain why Harris would say you paid your debt,” Lord Lyndhurst said.
“I can’t possibly. The fellow must be mistaken.”
“Right.” Brown wasn’t getting anywhere with this. “Which brings us back to your whereabouts when the vicar was killed, and when your wife was attacked.”
“Are you implying that I attacked my wife?”
“It isn’t as absurd as it sounds, Mr. Westwoode. Many a crime is between husband and wife.”
Miss Kendrick shot a quick look at her betrothed. Was she having second thoughts?
“It is one way to get her jewels,” the inspector added.
“For what purpose?”
“To pay your debts. It’s one way to avoid having to tell the missus you’re bankrupt.”
Westwoode laughed. Brown couldn’t fathom why.
“Are you saying you didn’t use your wife’s jewels to pay off your debt?”
“Don’t you see, I couldn’t have, because I’ve used them already, to pay off past debts.”
“How’s that?” Brown asked.
“All of her jewels are glass paste. Not a single true gem among them.” Westwoode composed himself. “Caroline doesn’t know, and I’d rather she didn’t find out.”
Lord Lyndhurst, a slight curl to his lip, turned away and strode back to the window. What was so compelling outside? Nothing, Brown suspected. Lord Lyndhurst, the true gentleman in the room, had accepted the honest debt but couldn’t abide the deception. Maybe Brown had been too rash to judge these two young ones.
“Then, where were you, Mr. Westwoode?” Miss Kendrick said before Brown could.
“Ask the inspector. If the publican told him about me, he knows where I’ve been.”
Miss Kendrick and Lord Lyndhurst looked expectantly at Brown.
“You tell them, Mr. Westwoode,” Brown said.
Mr. Heppenstall had confirmed Westwoode’s presence in the pub that afternoon, but the publican hadn’t noticed the precise time when Westwoode arrived or left. Brown hoped he’d be able to trick Westwoode into telling him.
“I was in the pub.”
“When the vicar was killed?” Lord Lyndhurst said.
Mr. Westwoode nodded. “When the vicar was killed, when my wife was attacked, when Miss Kendrick appeared on the doorstep. I escaped to the pub every chance I could.”
Brown pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He’d needed Westwoode to be the killer. But, God help him, he believed the fellow. That left only Lord Hugh and members of the family; and without absolute proof, not just the word of the publican’s lad, who thought he had witnessed the vicar and Lord Hugh arguing, Brown was never going to be able to accuse any of them.
“But why?” Miss Kendrick said.
“It’s not what you think. I rarely drink more than two pints at any given time.”
Brown could guess. He’d seen more than one married man crying in his cups. After meeting Mrs. Westwoode, Brown couldn’t blame him.
“I can’t imagine the men of Rosehurst would appreciate your presence,” Lord Lyndhurst said. “They go to their local to relax, not to be judged by their betters.”
“I go for that same reason,” Mr. Westwoode said. “I don’t have to be Mrs. Westwoode’s husband or Miss Westwoode’s father or Lord Hugh Drakeford’s future father-in-law. All I am to them there is a . . . What did you call it, Inspector? A grockle?”
Miss Kendrick reached over and put her hand on Mr. Westwoode’s arm. There was one who could empathize. Who would want to be the American horse breeder’s daughter? Rumors said he was a brute.
“But you lied about it,” she said.
“If Caroline found out, she’d put an end to it. ‘We can’t have Lord Hugh’s future father-in-law patronizing a pub, can we?’ ” he said, mimicking his wife. The bitterness in his tone was palpable.
“How do you get away with it?” Lord Lyndhurst said. Was he curious or envious? “Simply because you were wearing tweeds and not your morning coat? Who did they think you were? Our new gamekeeper?”
Brown had heard rumors that funds were tight at Morrington Hall and staff were being let go.
Mr. Westwoode shrugged and nodded.
Brown didn’t want to disillusion Mr. Westwoode, but no one at the Knightwood Oak had mistaken
him for anything but a gentleman.
“I should try that,” Miss Kendrick muttered.
“Try what?” Brown asked.
“Dressing like a gamekeeper,” Miss Kendrick said. “Think of the freedom it would give me.”
“Don’t get any ideas, Miss Kendrick,” Lord Lyndhurst warned. Miss Kendrick stared at a blank point on the wainscot that ran along the wall. “I can’t have . . .” Lord Lyndhurst continued admonishing her, but she was no longer listening.
“Please excuse me.” Miss Kendrick abruptly stood. “I apologize, Mr. Westwoode, for ever doubting you,” she said, her otherwise lively countenance a blank.
“Stella?” Lord Lyndhurst said, laying his hand lightly on her shoulder, his concern overriding his manners. “Are you in pain?”
She nodded her head. “Yes, that’s it. I’d like to lie down now.”
In answer to Brown’s questioning stare, Lord Lyndhurst said, “She was thrown from her horse earlier.”
“Then by all means,” Brown said.
Relief washed over her face as she nearly fled the room. Lord Lyndhurst might believe his fiancée was in pain, but Brown hadn’t spent years studying liars not to know one. What was that young woman up to now?
CHAPTER 30
“Is it going to rain today, do you suppose?” Papa said. “It has been threatening all day but hasn’t produced a drop.”
Lyndy silently groaned. He loathed talking about the weather. He took a sip of his tea, already growing cold, as he glanced over again at the drawing-room door. Where was Stella?
“Where is the girl?” Mr. Kendrick said, as if reading Lyndy’s mind. The prospect was unnerving. Mr. Kendrick looked at Lyndy.
Why did the brute want to know? Had he learned of Stella’s fall? Would he care?
“She never misses a meal,” Mr. Kendrick said.
That was true enough; Stella’s “healthy” appetite was part of her charm.
When she’d rushed off, complaining of pain, Lyndy had offered to escort her back. She’d refused him, insisting she simply needed to rest. But when she didn’t arrive for afternoon tea, he suspected she’d injured herself more than she’d let on. He glanced at the door again. If she didn’t send word or arrive soon, he intended to check on her, whether she wanted him to or not.
Murder at Morrington Hall Page 24