Murder at Glenloch Hill

Book 6: Stella and Lyndy Mystery

by Clara McKenna

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Private Investigators

Synopsis

On a weekend trip to the Scottish countryside, American transplant Stella, and British aristocrat, Viscount “Lyndy” Lyndhurst, learn how sinister bad sportsmanship can be when a prestigious golf tournament becomes a deadly game of murder . . .

Along with cheering on her soon-to-be brother-in-law, Freddie Kentfield, at The British Open in Scotland, Stella embraces the chance to connect with her distant cousins, the McEwens, at their grand estate, Glenloch Hill. But she and Lyndy don’t receive the warm welcome they expect when their arrival is marred by missing luggage, evasive hosts, and the perceived mistreatment of a young laundry maid. Adding to the tense atmosphere, Freddie's roguish father, Sir Edwin, appears at the manor uninvited, his presence casting a shadow over the events—and stirring up more unanswered questions . . .

As golf clubs swing on the green, so do Lyndy’s fists in an uncharacteristic outburst. Chaotic circumstances take a dark turn when Sir Edwin is found bludgeoned outside the laundry house—the maid waiting beside the body, no murder weapon in sight—and all eyes on Lyndy . . .

Suddenly caught in a whirlwind of kilts, elite golfers, and deadly rumors, Stella rushes to protect Lyndy's innocence and save herself from real danger. But can she both navigate the unspoken rules at Glenloch Hill and survive a cutthroat competition against a killer who will stop at nothing to win?

Release date: November 26, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Aggie Neely lingered in the doorway, the fresh breeze welcome on her flushed cheeks, and watched him go. Dappled light catching the metal cast-off on his suspenders, he disappeared around the bend, swallowed by the thick brush. They’d parted as the commotion up at the manor house grew in volume. Another guest had arrived, with more to come. Reluctantly, she stepped back inside, closed the door, and leaned against it, oblivious to the beaded condensation soaking through the thin cotton of her blue shirtwaist. A smile lingered on her lips as she brushed them with her fingers, tracing where his had been, where her freckled skin burned from the patch of whiskers he’d missed shaving this morning. She could still smell his shaving soap.

“Dinnae worry,” he’d reassured her, making promises she knew she could trust. “It won’t be long now.”

Aggie couldn’t wait, but she’d have to. The money she’d saved wasn’t enough. Yet. She’d counted it under the dimmed light of the oil lamp in her bedchamber before coming to work this morning. It was the only time she could do it, and even then, she risked waking Orla. But he’d assured her he’d almost got enough, and with the upcoming golf tournament, he would be getting more soon.

The boiler rumbled, emitting a loud clang, calling Aggie back to her tasks. She adjusted its temperature and added another log to the fire in the drying cupboard before tackling the mound of unsorted dirty clothes. She was setting aside one of Mr. Stevenson’s shirts with ink spots on the cuff when the clattering of golf clubs alerted her that someone was passing nearby. Aggie peeked out the window. The path in front of the laundry house led to the stables and the golf course and many an interesting guest and golfer frequently came this way.

Not spotting anyone, Aggie straightened her cap and went back to work, sorting the clothes by color and fabric, checking each item for wine stains, fruit stains, ink spots, or blood. The doorknob suddenly rattled vigorously, and Aggie dropped one of Mrs. McEwen’s lacy petticoats into the wrong basket.

Who could that be?

She bent to correct her mistake, but whoever it was began pounding on the door. But it wasn’t locked. The humidity often made the door stick, and any staff who frequented the laundry house would know to give it a little shove.

Aggie dropped the petticoat again as the door burst open, and a man strode through. Distracted, he slipped a cloth into his trouser pocket but missed as he closed the door behind him. It fluttered to the floor. He didn’t notice, busy as he was sizing up Aggie as if she were a prize cow, his eyes lingering on her curves, evident even beneath her corset and apron.

“Can I help ye, sir?” she whimpered, backing up as he drew closer until she met with the hard, damp wall.

He said nothing, but the glint in his eye spoke volumes. Aggie searched the room for a way to escape, but she knew better than anyone she had nowhere to go.

Stella swatted the plumes of ostrich feathers that tickled her temple every time a gust of wind blew through the open carriage window.

“Quite the distance to travel to visit strangers, wouldn’t you say?” Lyndy, his casual straw boater a contrast to his impatient posture, shifted in his seat beside her, tugging on the sleeve of his light-gray linen jacket.

They rumbled through a verdant, bucolic landscape of rolling checkerboard farmland dotted with grazing sheep. The sheep reminded Stella of the fluffy white cottonwood seeds that peppered the paddocks in Kentucky this time of the year. Nowhere were the wild, dramatic peaks of the Scottish Highlands she’d read about. But even from here, she could smell the sea.

“Hamish and Virginia McEwen aren’t strangers. They’re my grandmother’s cousins. They’re family.”

“On your father’s side.”

Lyndy had a point. If these Scottish cousins were anything like her father . . .

Hitting a rock in the road, the carriage jolted, and Stella’s muscles clenched in protest. She’d been so eager to meet them, embarking on this journey with unwavering enthusiasm. But now? Stella was tired and plagued by trepidation and nervous anticipation. Was it the nearly two days of traveling by train? Or was she having second thoughts? Until recently, she didn’t even know the McEwens existed. She’d been thrilled to learn of Scottish kin, immediately forming an ideal vision of them in her head. But Lyndy was right. What would these new family members really be like? Friendly? Curious? Snobbish? Opportunistic? Moneygrubbing?

Was that what had been nagging at her? It was no secret Stella had come to her marriage, not even a year old, with a vast fortune. But surely the McEwens wouldn’t invite her all the way here just to ask for money? She said as much.

“It’s something your father would’ve done,” Lyndy said, slumped despondently against the carriage wall as Stella braced for another jolt. “So why not his cousins? Why else would they have invited us?”

Lyndy was always skeptical about others’ intentions, having been raised to do his duty but with little love, praise, or attention. Stella, on the other hand, had grown up surrounded by kind, hardworking servants and stable hands—and horses—who, despite her father’s negligence and abuse, instilled in her the opinion that most people were well-meaning.

Then why was her mind filled with doubt?

“As I assured you before, Lyndy, I know something of the McEwens.” Perched on the edge of the seat across from them, Freddy Kentfield tossed and caught the golf ball in his palm as he had done dozens of times since they left the train station. He held the ball briefly to smooth his tidy blond mustache before beginning again. “Hamish McEwen is a very wealthy man and has no need of your money.”

Lyndy’s sister, Alice, laced her arm with Freddy’s between ball tosses, careful not to disturb his game. Animation colored her cherub cheeks as she spoke, the pink blush of her skin complementing the well-tailored gray traveling suit that fit her like a glove. Stella had never seen Alice this excited.

“Freddy says they have quite the reputation as a sporting family, Lyndy. They adore all things related to sport and games. You, of all people, should love it here.”

“And wasn’t it your mother who suggested we needed a change of climate?” Stella reminded him.

Lyndy bolted upright, pressing a finger to his dimpled chin. A hint of a smile spread along his lips and across his chiseled features to shine from his eyes. They both knew what a change of climate meant—freedom from the new, oppressive rules reigning at Morrington Hall.

Though that was not how Lady Atherly had intended it.

They’d been trying for a baby for months, yet Stella was still not pregnant. She’d been put on rigid dietary restrictions—no fatty foods, sweetmeats, or nuts—told what to wear, and forced to curtail her riding to once a week. The latter because Lady Atherly, with Dr. Hale’s concurring medical opinion to support her, felt it too jarring. At least Stella was allowed to visit her beloved Thoroughbred, Tully, every day until that, too, was frowned upon. As if visiting the stables was the cause of Stella’s infertility. Yet, worse than that, the doctor insisted she and Lyndy refrain from intimacy, as too much was detrimental, Stella’s organs needing time to recover. Stella hated it. Lyndy hated it. But it was for their own good. Or so Lady Atherly and Dr. Hale said.

But so far, nothing had worked.

Needless to say, when Dr. Hale mentioned that many women found themselves pregnant after a change of climate, Lady Atherly more than encouraged this trip to Scotland. She insisted.

“What quality of stable does McEwen keep?” Lyndy leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

“I don’t know,” Freddy said, “but after he made his money in textiles, Hamish McEwen bought Glenloch Hill to transform it into a pastoral playground. He has lawn tennis courts and a cricket pitch. He even owns a nine-hole golf course.”

“Which is why he invited us,” Alice said, squeezing Freddy’s arm as she drank in his boyish, handsome features, unmarred, if not enhanced, by the scar through his left eyebrow. One couldn’t slide a piece of paper between them. “Not only will they get acquainted with Stella but they’ll be able to boast they hosted this year’s Open Champion at Glenloch Hill.”

The McEwens had reached out when they’d read of Alice’s upcoming wedding to Freddy, a renowned golfer. In the announcement, Stella had been described as the Right Honorable Viscountess Lyndhurst, Stella Searlwyn née Kendrick, formerly of Kentucky. Hamish McEwen had written Great-Aunt Rachel, Daddy’s maternal aunt whom Hamish had known as a child. Confirming Stella was indeed Elijah Kendrick’s daughter, Hamish McEwen had invited Stella and Lyndy, Alice, and Freddy to stay at Glenloch Hill for the long weekend while Freddy played in the famous golf tournament in nearby St. Andrews.

Freddy chuckled, smiling lopsided at Alice. “I’d certainly win if your faith in me was enough.” He kissed Alice’s cheek.

Alice shied away, her cornflower-blue eyes flickering from Stella to Lyndy to size up their disapproval. When it didn’t arise, a sheepish smile hovered on her lips. How good it was to see Alice this happy. So why were she and Lyndy out of sorts?

“It’s a bloody good thing you carry those clubs around with you,” Lyndy said, “or this blasted mix-up with the luggage could’ve jeopardized the whole thing even before you teed off on the first hole.”

“You aren’t wrong there.” Freddy patted the well-worn leather caddie bag leaning against the seat beside him. “Why do you think I do it?” The wooden club heads clattered against one another as the hired carriage hit another bump.

They’d discovered at the train station that not all their luggage had arrived with them. Stella loved her pink traveling suit, with its pink lace collar and pink ribbon trim, but she hadn’t planned to wear it all day, every day. And this hat is driving me crazy. She swatted the feathers away again. She hoped the missing luggage would arrive soon or she’d have to send Ethel back to St. Andrews on a shopping spree soon after her lady’s maid arrived.

“At least the weather’s nice.”

Stella stuck her head out the window, hitting the brim of her hat on the frame, the sun’s glare forcing her to squint. She’d heard tales of Scotland’s famously finicky weather, and after two days of traveling in the rain, she was relieved to see blue skies. But as they rounded the last bend of the hill that gave the McEwens’ estate its name and the carriage made its way up the long drive, they entered a deep shadow. Decades ago, someone had planted a row of Scots elm on either side, and the tall, mature trees now obscured both the sky and the view of what was waiting for them.

Stella’s stomach clenched as she craned her neck, hoping to catch sight of the house, the grounds, and her distant Scottish kin. Had she been reckless in coming here?

The sudden thought surprised her. Yes, they were desperate to get away and could’ve easily found a change of climate closer to home. And yes, she’d traveled hundreds of miles, dragging Lyndy away with his Thoroughbred Knockan Crag’s debut at Ascot a few weeks away. But why not? What had she to lose? Wasn’t she always one to indulge in her sense of adventure? At Glenloch Hill she’d meet people who shared a common ancestor, who might help her understand her father and welcome her as one of their own. As a child with a missing mother, a distant father, and no siblings, she couldn’t have imagined the extended family she could now lay claim to, let alone all the kin she’d been reacquainted with back in the States. But how could it be greedy to want more? Especially when loved ones had a habit of leaving her or dying.

But that wouldn’t ever happen again. Not now that she had Lyndy. Or would it?

And there it was.

How easy it had been to blame her apprehension on the upcoming meeting and the unknown nature of the McEwens. But Stella now knew better. Rumbling up the drive toward the obscured manor house had brought to mind the day she’d roared toward Morrington Hall to meet Lyndy and his family and an unknown fate. She wasn’t that naïve girl anymore but faced an unknown future again. Lady Atherly wasn’t the only one anxious about Stella’s health. Stella refused to confront or talk about the concern, not even to Lyndy. Coming to Scotland, she’d hoped to outpace it.

But what if she couldn’t give Lyndy an heir? What then?

With the edge of the open window biting into her gloved palms, Stella pressed harder as if banishing the unspoken fear to the sill and the dust lodged along its cracks. During her fretting, the manor house came into view.

Wrapped in a white, stuccolike exterior and fashioned with more windows than wall, the two-story square stone building flanked on the back with three-story wings gleamed in the sunshine. Nestled between terraced gardens, the hillside, and sunken gardens that followed the slope on the other side, the house was a sturdy beacon among the meticulously landscaped parkland. Pink and white roses climbed two-story trellises on either side of its entranceway. Stella’s natural optimism rose with them.

“Isn’t it lovely?”

“I’d say,” Freddy said.

“It’s quite charming,” Alice agreed.

“It does have a welcoming aspect about it, doesn’t it?” Lyndy conceded, not looking at the house but at what appeared to be the stable block peeking through the trees down the hill.

Stella was the first to leap from the carriage without waiting for the coachman or attending footman to help. She landed with a satisfied crunch on the gravel drive, her eyes still riveted on the house and the expansive gardens and grounds stretching up the hill and down the slope. Lyndy joined her, looping his arm around hers, gently brushing a knuckle across her cheek. His skin was cool to the touch.

“Ready to meet your Scottish cousins?” he whispered as the wide entrance door swung open, the shaded interior revealing nothing of the person lingering on the threshold.

Stella took a deep breath in anticipation, willing the trepidation about meeting her Scottish family and her fear of losing her English one to not show on her face. She forced a smile, stepped forward to greet her cousin, and all other concerns fled from her mind.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Lyndy seethed. Stella had been wondering the same thing.

Instead of a stranger whose features, in the right light and at a certain angle, might regrettably recall Stella’s dead father, the very familiar Sir Edwin Kentfield greeted them with the theatricality of a ringleader at a circus, arms stretched out as if he were their host and not the usurper he was.

As if it were all the answer that was needed, he crowed with a lopsided grin, “Welcome to Glenloch Hill, my boy!”

“You didn’t answer Lyndy’s question, Father,” Freddy said, shoving the golf ball deep into his jacket pocket before helping Alice from the carriage.

“I met your caddie, my boy,” Sir Edwin said. “Birdwell, isn’t it? He arrived on the same train.”

“That’s all well and good, but what are you doing here?”

Stella looked past the baronet toward the still-open doorway. Of course she was curious why Sir Edwin was here but cared more about the missing McEwens. Hints of the warmly stained mahogany wall paneling of the inner hall outlined the manor’s formidable butler, in a black suit and tie, who blocked the entrance with his demeanor as well as his size. A soldier whose sole weapon was his stony stare, he guarded his master’s keep like a brick wall. But where was the master of the house, and why wasn’t he here?

Stella voiced her questions as Freddy fervently repeated, “What are you doing here, Father?”

Whisking the fedora from his head to rake fingers through his full head of hair, Sir Edwin chose to answer Freddy’s question instead. “I’m here to see you win the Open Golf Championship, of course.” With the artistry of a magician, he deflected Freddy’s attention and any further inquiries by slapping his hat back on and paternally cupping Alice’s cheek. “Delighted to see you again, my dear.”

He took Alice’s offered hand and kissed it. She smiled shyly at her future father-in-law, a graying, bearded, but equally handsome copy of his son. Even standing still, Sir Edwin exuded an electric vitality that put his juniors to shame. He’d changed little in the time since Stella had seen him last.

“You too, Lyndy, my boy,” he added, shoving out his hand, a lopsided grin on his face.

“Sir Edwin.” Lyndy returned the gesture reservedly. “Is your wife with you?” Lyndy had mixed feelings about the man who, this past Christmas, was revealed to be his mother’s former lover, but he had no ambiguity about his feelings for Lady Isabella Kentfield, Sir Edwin’s wife. He loathed her.

“But you never attend my golf matches,” Freddy said, his face scrunched up in confusion. Sir Edwin ignored him.

“Alas, my wife did not accompany me,” he said with mock regret. “As Freddy well knows, Isabella is spending the Season in London with our daughter, Maude.” He sounded almost giddy at his wife’s distant preoccupation. Everyone knew there was no love lost between them. “She will indeed miss seeing you again, Lady Lyndhurst.” And horses have wings. “As always, it’s a great pleasure, my girl.”

“Nice to see you, too, Sir Edwin.” Growing impatient to meet her new relatives, Stella sidestepped Sir Edwin. “Are the McEwens—?” As she passed, Sir Edwin, the dusty scent of the road still on him, reached down and snatched up her hand. Her throat tightened, cutting her question short.

Sir Edwin had kissed her hand before without asking and she hadn’t resisted. As he put her hand to his lips this time, she tugged it back, the whiskers of his silver-streaked beard scratching against her glove. Lyndy took a step forward protectively. Surprised, Sir Edwin let go.

“Still touchy about that incident at Christmas, are you, my boy?”

Stella had tried to forget the incident at Christmas, when someone mistook her friendliness for affection and forced a kiss upon her. But like Lyndy, she was now averse to any unwanted physical attention toward her, well-intended or not. Thinking about the missing McEwens had caught her off guard. She should’ve expected Sir Edwin to be so bold.

“As you would be if someone attacked your wife,” was Lyndy’s retort.

Knowing Sir Edwin’s dislike for his wife, Stella couldn’t stomach hearing his inevitable, thinly veiled denial. Instead, she asked again, “What’s going on, Sir Edwin? Where are Hamish and Virginia McEwen? They knew we were coming. Why aren’t they here to greet us?”

Sir Edwin shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea. They were out when I arrived as well. Stevenson,” he pointed to the butler, who stood twisting the tip of his handlebar mustache, “says they’re somewhere on the property but couldn’t be more precise. I went out looking for them earlier and was about to have another go at it when you arrived. Would anyone care to join me?”

“Have the sporting papers arrived yet, Stevenson?” Lyndy asked the butler, who had stepped forward.

“Aye, they have, my lord. They are at yer disposal as Mr. McEwen has finished with them.”

Lyndy loosened his tie in anticipation. “Then no, Sir Edwin. I’ve got some catching up to do.”

“Oh, dear, I am sorry, Sir Edwin,” Alice said, “but if our rooms are ready,” she looked for confirmation from the butler, who nodded slightly, “I really could do with a lie down. It’s been quite the journey.”

Freddy agreed with Alice. “And I need to rest up for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Sir Edwin said.

“The Open Championship?” Freddy said, raising his scarred eyebrow. Alice had told Stella that the scar had resulted from a childhood fall and that Freddy hadn’t climbed a tree since. “Have you forgotten already? It is the reason you came, after all. Isn’t it? To see me play?”

“Yes, of course. The golf match.” Sir Edwin recovered from his slip in memory and slapped his thigh.

Stella caught Lyndy’s eye and silently mouthed, What’s that about? Casting a suspicious eye over at Sir Edwin, Lyndy shook his head slowly.

“No need for me to rest, though,” Sir Edwin was saying. “Just the opposite, I’d say. My legs could do with a bit of a stretch.”

Stella silently agreed. With the McEwens inexplicably elsewhere and having sat for two days, Stella was restless and needed to get some energy out. But not with Sir Edwin as a companion.

“What say you, my girl? Are you game?”

Stella bit her tongue. She wanted to remind him in no uncertain terms she wasn’t his girl but instead replied, “No, thank you.”

She had no intention of wandering the grounds in search of the missing McEwens with Sir Edwin.

Sir Edwin shrugged nonchalantly. “Until later, then.”

As Sir Edwin ambled away, Stella took in the sweeping landscape that was spread out before her: the terraced lawns, the sunken walled rose garden, the tree-lined drive, and the golf course on the other side of a gently sloping valley. On the closest hole she could see, a single golfer, his back to her and a bag of clubs on the ground by his feet, was taking a swing. Could that be Hamish McEwen? Then he turned, and the light caught on the man’s beard. It was the color of Mrs. Downie’s copper pots. It couldn’t be her cousin. From Aunt Rachel’s description, Hamish McEwen’s hair was a shade darker brown than Stella’s.

Stella slowly circled around. Behind the manor house, the forested hillside swept steeply to its obscured summit. Winding away and down from the house, a flagstone path disappeared into the wooded, brushy area surrounding what they’d assumed were the stables.

The McEwens could be anywhere.

The clip-clop of horseshoes on gravel and the creak of a heavily laden carriage announced the arrival of Ethel Eakins, her lady’s maid; Harry Finn, Lyndy’s valet; and what luggage hadn’t been misrouted. As it emerged from the shadowy drive and rumbled up beside them, Stella made her decision.

Brushing away her hat feathers again, Stella kissed Lyndy on the cheek. “You go on without me. I’m going to look for the McEwens.” When concern clouded his countenance, she added, “In the opposite direction from Sir Edwin.”

Lyndy returned the kiss. “May you find them soon enough. It is quite odd of them not to be here. It makes me a bit uneasy.”

Stella couldn’t have said it better. But Lyndy was calling out to his valet when she turned her back on the commotion in the drive as the luggage was unloaded. From the timbre of his voice, he’d already put his concern out of his mind. Then he cursed. A travel trunk was still missing.

Stella increased her pace.

Stella chose the flagstone path that snaked around to the side of the house, past a kitchen garden alive with buzzing bees and smelling strongly of lavender, rosemary, and chives, down a series of broad steps. . .