Murder at Morrington Hall. Clara McKenna
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death funny, Lord Lyndhurst?”
“Certainly not. But I am taken aback by your confession that you had motive to kill him.”
“I do have a motive, and everyone knows it. You do, too, if you’re entering into this marriage against your will.”
How did he answer that? This marriage was to save Morrington Hall from Papa’s folly, to acquire the thoroughbreds, and bring pride back to his family. It was his duty. But how did he tell her that now that he’d met her, he had no objections to wedding, and bedding, her at all?
“I don’t fancy myself a murderer, Miss Kendrick,” was all he could say in his defense.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “Neither do I.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
She studied his face. Wondering whether he was teasing her, no doubt. He willed his expression not to give him away.
“But someone did kill him,” she said in earnest, “and they must’ve had a reason, presumably one far more compelling than trying to stop a wedding.”
“Presumably.”
“She’s ready for you, my lord,” the groom called, walking Tupper toward them. Lyndy strolled back into the aisle and took the horse’s reins from the groom.
Miss Kendrick led her horse out of its loose box and mounted it in the aisle with the aid of the groom as Lyndy flung his leg across Tupper’s back. He’d decided to join her, whether she wanted his company or not. A quizzical expression crossed her face as he and Tupper fell in beside her. Maybe he was as unpredictable to her as she was to him. What an intriguing notion.
“By the way, where are we going?” he asked as they walked the horses through the stable doors.
“To the vicarage,” she called over her shoulder as she and her horse trotted across the yard.
* * *
“I wouldn’t know. That was the last time I saw him.”
Inspector Archibald Brown nodded curtly to his constable in disgust. He rested his elbow on the edge of the small oval oak center table serving as a makeshift desk and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Hours of interviewing maid after footman after housekeeper and . . . nothing. No one had noticed anything, heard anything, would admit to anything. No one knew the vicar well, but all had heard his sermon about the faith of the centurion on Sunday and had agreed it was uplifting. No one knew of any enemies he might have had, any disagreements he might have had, or any reason why anyone would have wanted to do him harm. Yet someone had gone into the library and bashed the poor bugger’s head in.
“Thank you,” Constable Waterman said. “We’ll let you know if we need to speak to you again.”
The footman—a tall, fair-haired fellow, indistinguishable from all the other tall, fair-haired footmen on these country estates—in his morning livery of a black double-breasted coat, striped waistcoat, black trousers, and small black tie, got up without a word and left.
From his interviews of the staff, all Brown could confirm was that the vicar was alive and well in the library at about quarter past two, when a maid brought him tea and lemon biscuits. From his examination of the crime scene, all Brown could conclude was that the murder weapon was most likely the fire iron. They hadn’t found it, yet. They had found the vicar’s pocket watch; the glass had been smashed beneath him. It had stopped at 2:47 pm. Was that when the vicar fell on it and died? Or had it stopped before he fell? Brown didn’t know. What he did know was that by teatime, the vicar was dead and not a single bloody servant had seen or heard a thing.
“Who is next on our list, Waterman?” Brown grumbled.
It didn’t do taking his frustrations out on his constable, but someone had to take it. If their luck didn’t change soon, they were finished. Lord Atherly was most cooperative, giving up his rarely used—according to the butler—smoking room for them, but even the most reasonable aristocrat had his limits. Brown had already put most of the household staff through the paces. He wouldn’t be able to do it again, not without just cause. Interviews with the family, beyond the two who had found the body, were hardly guaranteed. Brown peered around at the large antlers of roe, fallow, and red deer mounted above him on the dark wood-paneled walls. His head might be mounted up there if he didn’t come up with something soon.
“Miss Ethel Eakins, chambermaid,” the constable said, skimming down the list. They were almost out of names.
A small, big-eyed, freckled woman in her midtwenties, wearing a plain gray dress and starched white apron, entered the smoking room. A white cap covered her tidy ginger hair. She kept her eyes cast down as she covered the distance between them.
“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,