Murder at Morrington Hall. Clara McKenna
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from the chair. As he led her toward the door, she questioned her passive acquiescence. She had the use of her own two feet, as Daddy liked to say, didn’t she? She had a mind of her own and had been determined to use it, hadn’t she? She remembered how it had been between them when they entered the library. Why did it feel like something had changed?
Stella had a sudden urge to see the vicar again. She took a step toward the couch that hid the body from her. Lord Lyndhurst wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her back.
“Let’s remove ourselves from the ugliness, shall we?”
Wretched tears, which she’d fought off since she’d learned of her father’s betrayal, welled in her eyes as Stella let Lord Lyndhurst guide her from the room. His hold was firm but warm. When was the last time someone had touched her without mal-intent? Her hand still ached from her father’s cruel squeeze.
As she crossed the threshold, Inspector Brown said, “What do you think, Waterman? Did he crack his skull open on the side table?”
* * *
“Fulton said the vicar had an accident,” Mother said. “Has someone called the doctor?” Lyndy nodded.
How extraordinary. Everything was as it had been when he and Miss Kendrick left the drawing room, except now Mother and the other ladies held cups of partially sipped tea in their hands. As if nothing had happened. Lyndy led Miss Kendrick toward the needlepoint chair next to his sister.
“The vicar is dead,” Lyndy said, rubbing his hands together.
Someone gasped.
“Why is it so bloody cold in here?” he asked. Miss Kendrick was shaking. “Shall we have a fire lit?”
Mother nodded to the footman, who disappeared to inform Fulton.
“Oh dear! What happened?” Mrs. Westwoode asked.
“The vicar was in the library. He’d hit his head. Dr. Johnstone has already left for Epsom, so Papa called in the police.”
Another gasp.
“Where is your father?” Mother asked. “He rushed off and hasn’t come back.”
“How should I know?”
The moment he’d noticed the blood—on the carpet, on the vicar’s head and clothes, next to the teacup on the side table—Lyndy had rung for Fulton. He and Miss Kendrick had waited in silent vigil over the vicar, Miss Kendrick seated on the sofa next to the body, Lyndy pacing the room. Minutes, which had seemed like hours, had elapsed before Papa finally arrived. When Fulton announced the doctor was unavailable, Papa had insisted Fulton contact the police. But unable to persuade Miss Kendrick to withdraw, Papa had remained in the libary only long enough to speak with the detective in charge. Lyndy had assumed Papa had returned to the drawing room.
“Are you all right, Miss Kendrick?” Alice asked, offering her a cup of tea.
Miss Kendrick declined the tea with a slight shake of her head and rubbed her sore hand as she stared at a point on the wall. Alice put the teacup on the table in front of Miss Kendrick, just in case. Mother offered Lyndy a cup. He took it, noticing his hands were shaking, and gulped the tea down. It was sweet. He held out his cup for more.
“I say Miss Kendrick should be commended for her composure,” Lyndy said.
“She’s a Kendrick,” her father said. “We’re all tough when we need to be.”
Miss Kendrick’s eyes remained focused on the wall. She didn’t look so tough right now. Could Lyndy draw her out? Could he rally her? Her silence was unnerving.
“You should’ve seen her. She insisted on staying until the police arrived. And through it all, not one tear or shriek of despair.”
He didn’t mention the tears that had streaked down her cheeks as they’d left the library. Were they for the vicar or herself? Lyndy didn’t care; the tears had been his excuse to caress her fine features with his handkerchief. Lyndy studied her expressionless countenance now. Did she even remember him doing it?
“You must drink your tea, Miss Kendrick,” Mother said, not unkindly, “and eat something, if you can manage it.” Mother indicated a plate laden with smoked salmon sandwiches, scones, and an iced Dundee fruitcake.
“I dare say she was more composed with a dead body than with a group of women talking about weddings,” Mrs. Westwoode whispered behind her hand to her daughter but loud enough for all to hear.
Splotches of red bloomed on the tips of Miss Kendrick’s ears. She stirred and focused her gaze on her disparager. Then, without a word, she bolted from her seat, dashing past Papa as he returned to the drawing room.
“What did I say?” Mrs. Westwoode asked, looking around the room.
“Wedding,” Lyndy said, masking the relief that washed over him. He much preferred Miss Kendrick angry than sullen or in shock.
“Speaking of weddings,” Kendrick said, “who do we get to do it now that your vicar’s dead? The bishop?”
Another gasp. Had that one come from Mother?
“I’ve seen to it that the bishop knows of Reverend Bullmore’s passing,” Papa said. “It will be up to him who will officiate the wedding.” Mother, her lips white from holding her tongue, handed Papa a cup of tea.
“What about the police? Are they still here?” Mr. Kendrick asked, lacking the tact to stay silent.
“Police? What’s this about the police?” A man had appeared in the doorway.
“Lord Hugh!” Mrs. Westwoode and Miss Westwoode chorused. Several other voices rose in delight and relief.
Lyndy strode over to greet the newcomer. Dimples on the rascal’s cheeks deepened as Hugh smoothed his thick blond mustache and grinned.
“Mr. Kendrick,” Papa said, “may I introduce Lord Hugh Drakeford, who is engaged to be married to Miss Westwoode? Lord Hugh, Mr. Kendrick is our American guest.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lord Hugh,” Mr. Kendrick said.
“And I you,” Hugh said, raking his fingers through his windswept hair. “I hear you come bearing gifts, Mr. Kendrick. Some of the finest thoroughbreds ever to cross the pond, if the rumors are true.”
Mr. Kendrick laughed. “If I do say so myself.”
“Where have you been, old chap?” Lyndy slapped his best friend on the shoulder. He was relieved that his hands had stopped shaking.
“Didn’t Elizabeth tell you? I went into Rosehurst this morning. Why?”
“Brace yourself, Lord Hugh,” Mrs. Westwoode said, fluttering across the room and taking Hugh’s arm. “The local vicar is dead. Died right in Lord Atherly’s library.”
“The reverend from this morning? He seemed fit enough when I met him.”
“Lord Hugh, dear,” Mrs. Westwoode said, pouting, “he met with a terrible accident, and Lord Lyndhurst and Miss Kendrick found him.”
Mrs. Westwoode stared at Lyndy, as if a glare could command him to explain. But Lyndy had never liked Mrs. Westwoode. She fussed and fluttered and spoke to her husband like he was a child. For Hugh’s sake, he hoped her daughter was made of more sympathetic stuff.
“Bloody hell. Pardon me, ladies. But that’s ghastly. Where is Miss Kendrick? I haven’t even met her yet.”
“She is in her room, recovering from the ordeal,” Mother said, offering Hugh a cup of tea.
Ordeal? Which one? Finding the vicar who was to officiate over her wedding dead or being forced to wed in the first place?
“What happened?” Hugh asked.
“He hit his head,” Lyndy said.
“As I said,