Murder at Keyhaven Castle

Book 3: Stella and Lyndy Mystery

by Clara McKenna

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Private Investigators; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Between ornate bridal gown fittings and meetings with Lyndy's distant relatives, Stella finally feels less like an out-of-place American and more like a respected aristocrat. Everything changes as the arrival of an anonymous gift and return of her overbearing father cast a dark shadow over the festivities, conjuring difficult memories and new fears . . .



Tensions intensify when a daytrip to Southampton ends with a suspicious stranger getting trampled by a horse-drawn cab. Before anyone can explain why the victim possessed a newspaper clipping about the upcoming ceremony at Morrington Hall, tragedy strikes again, this time resulting in a murder that turns Stella's world completely upside down while implicating one of Lyndy's well-regarded family members . . .



Facing loss, postponed nuptials, and uncertain threats, Stella and Lyndy rush to connect two very different crimes and identify the guilty culprit hiding among elite wedding guests. But as the couple blows the lid off of scandalous secrets, they realize that catching this killer—and living to tell the tale—may prove as impossible as closing the class divide.

Release date: June 29, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Unable to bear the stench of bananas, horse dung, smoke, and salty air, Jesse James Prescott pulled the red bandanna up over his nose. He stretched his shoulder blades, sore from leaning so long against the clapboards, and shot a glare up at the bunches of yellow fruit dangling above his head. Nasty things. Made him choke the one time he’d tried one. What had he been thinking, suggesting Snook’s as the rendezvous point? Sure, in the chaos and bustle of the ship’s arrival, the fruit merchant nearest the wharf, with its flashy displays of exotic produce enveloping the entire storefront, was an eye-catching landmark no one could mistake. But the god-awful smell . . .

Jesse raised the flap of the bandanna and spit into the street. Wagons rumbled by, and Jesse barely missed the polished hoof of a nice-looking sorrel Belgian draft. He’d seen some fine horses since he’d been here, enough to make him think about staying. But that would complicate everything. Best stick to the plan.

Jesse stretched his back again as a wagon driver spurred his team safely across the path of a passing tram only to collide into a stack of weathered rum barrels. Jesse snorted in laughter.

“Excuse me, son, got a light?”

Jesse’s head whipped around, his hand reaching for the thirty-eight tucked into his coat’s inside pocket. The fella was a few feet away, on the curb. Jesse never saw him coming.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle ya,” the bearded stranger said in an accent that made Jesse homesick. With a crooked grin, the middle-aged man raised his five-cent cigar. “Just needing a light.”

Jesse eased his hand away from the hidden revolver, chuckling nervously. How could he have been so stupid? He could’ve given himself away.

“Sure, I got me some matches hereabouts.”

He patted his pants pockets and retrieved the matchbox with a lion on it he’d picked up somewhere. As he handed it over, he noticed a boy of about ten, with dirty blond hair partly crossing one eye, tug the hand of a freckle-faced girl half his age through the crowd. The girl, her wide eyes darting from the stacks of cargo and luggage to her fellow passengers scattered along the wharf, stumbled along behind. The fella lit his cigar and took a couple of quick puffs, letting the smoke stream out from between his lips.

“Thank ya, cowboy.” The fella’s broad smile revealed a small chip in his front tooth. He dropped the canvas knapsack he’d had flung over his shoulder and handed Jesse back the matchbox. Jesse, who usually didn’t mind being compared to his namesake, suddenly felt foolish and self-consciously yanked the bandanna off his face.

“It’s the bananas, you know. The god-awful smell.” Jesse pointed above their heads.

“Never seen so many in one place, that’s for sure,” the fella commented before shouting and waving to the children above the heads of passersby. “Over here!”

“You from the States?” Jesse asked.

“Kentucky. We just arrived. These here are my children.” The children huddled around him. The man put his arm around the little girl, inspecting a smear on the worn, frilly yoke of the girl’s dress, and then ruffled the boy’s uncovered head. “Lost your cap again, Sammy?”

The boy glanced at his feet and muttered something. Jesse, embarrassed for the boy, whose tousled, unevenly cut hair probably hadn’t been covered for days, scoured the sea of hats for the man he was waiting for.

“You sound like a Kentucky man too. Am I right?”

“I might’ve said so once,” Jesse muttered, scratching an itch on the back of his neck. He wished these folks would move on. Feeling cornered, he stepped away from the wall.

“Now, now.” Jesse cringed when the fella slapped him friendly-like on the sore muscle in his shoulder. “Once a Kentuckian, always a Kentuckian, I say.”

Jesse didn’t agree but said nothing. It wasn’t that he couldn’t give this fella a piece of his mind on the subject, but any argument on his part would only invite the stranger and his kids to stick around. And he needed to get rid of them and fast.

“Fixin’ to catch a train?” Jesse said.

“Sure are, but seeing you’re not from these parts, you probably can’t tell me which one takes us closest to Morrington Hall, can you?”

Morrington Hall? A flash of anger exploded through Jesse’s chest.

“I sure in hell can!” Jesse spit out the words and instinctively reached for his gun again. The stranger squinted sideways at him, smoothing down his long mustache.

Before the fella started asking questions, Jesse added, “Trains are over there,” and pointed up the street toward the train depot. “You’ll be wanting the Rosehurst station. The big mansion is just outside town.”

“You know it? What luck,” the fella said, squeezing his arm around his little girl.

“I know it all right,” Jesse muttered, his anger seething beneath the surface.

Why’d the fella have to mention Morrington Hall? Couldn’t he have just lit his cigar and moved on? Why’d the boss have to make me wait so long? The usual alarms rang in Jesse’s head, warning him he was about to do something stupid. And as usual, he ignored them.

“Who knows. Might be seeing you there myself.”

“You going to Stella’s big wedding too?” the boy asked.

“No, boy. I don’t care nothing about that wedding. I’ve got me a score to settle.”

It slipped out before Jesse grasped what he’d said. Damn it all to tarnation. Why did he have to go and say that for?

Jesse stared at the fella’s face, gauging his reaction, his hand drifting slowly toward his hidden revolver. The fella lifted an eyebrow, the straggly graying brown hairs on the ends curling around, almost poking the man in the eye. But instead of saying or doing something they’d both regret, the fella held out his hand.

“Well, thank ya, kindly,” he said. Jesse, relieved to be rid of him, shook it.

The fella snatched his knapsack up from the ground and touched the brim of his hat. When he moved off, he shooed his children ahead of him. They dashed away. Jesse watched the fella go.

What else could he do, shoot the fella right here? Now that would be really stupid. He seemed like a smart fella. Maybe he’d keep his mouth shut. But would it make a difference if he didn’t? No, sir. Jesse hadn’t crossed an ocean just to get cold feet.

Brushing aside the encounter, Jesse reached over into the nearest fruit bin and, with the grocer’s back turned, plucked out a crisp green apple. Propping himself against the wall with his foot, he crunched into the apple. Now this here is a real fruit. Jesse wiped the juice from his chin with the bandanna around his neck and turned his attention back to the steady stream of passengers spilling down the pier, hoping he didn’t have to wait much longer.

Three more days.

Perched on a tapestry-covered footstool in the middle of the drawing room, Stella Kendrick could hardly believe it. She twisted one way and then another, examining herself in the free-standing full-length mirror. Miss Naplock sighed in frustration, attempting to pin the hem. The loose topknot on the seamstress’s head bobbed as she worked.

“If you would stay still for one moment, miss.”

But Stella couldn’t help herself. Caught in the bright morning sun streaming through the French windows, the bursts of orange blossoms of pearl embellishing the bodice and train of her dress shimmered when she moved. The sweeping gown of white silk muslin overlaid with cascades of silky, delicate Chantilly lace caressed her figure like a glove. It was the most beautiful dress Stella had ever seen.

What a stark contrast to the man who spared no expense in acquiring it for her.

It wasn’t that Stella wasn’t grateful. She was, despite his lack of affection, his finding fault with all she did, his occasional burst of temper. Truly. He’d given her everything: this dress, a lovely home, a beloved horse, a vast fortune, and a secure future. He was her father, after all. She owed him her very existence. Yet as her wedding day approached, and with it a promise of a new start, Stella was counting the days her father went back to Kentucky.

Was it possible to love someone and still wish they would go away?

As if in answer, the door flew open, and the strong scent of his aftershave proceeded Stella’s father before he stomped into the room. “Why aren’t you upstairs getting ready?”

Startled, Miss Naplock shoved a pin through the hem, piercing Stella’s ankle. Stella yelped at the sting and jerked her leg away. The seamstress, her cheeks red with embarrassment, muttered a horrified apology. With a dismissive wave, Stella reassured Miss Naplock and encouraged her to go back to what she was doing.

“Come on, girl. Don’t want to be late,” Daddy said. Stella still didn’t know why she had to go with him. He could meet the boat without her or bring Aunt Rachel instead. “And what are you doing wearing the dress again? You might ruin it.”

Stella instinctually glanced down. Miss Naplock had raised the silk muslin underskirt, examining it for bloodstains from the pinprick. Had they damaged it? After a brief pause, the seamstress released the underskirt and returned her attention to the hem. Stella blew out her pent-up breath.

“It’s the final fitting,” Stella explained, swishing her hips to show him the seamstress’s handiwork. The light danced off every pearl. “When we’re done, it will be perfect.”

“For what it cost me, it darn well should’ve been perfect in the first place,” he said, drifting toward the long, narrow oak table set up to receive wedding gifts.

With his back turned to them, Miss Naplock offered Stella a sympathetic frown. Conscious of the pins running down the length of her sleeves, Stella added an exaggerated eye roll to her modified shrug, to convey her meaning of, “See what I have to put up with?”

But she couldn’t stay exasperated for long. How could she with such a gorgeous gown on? Besides, the gesture had made her chuckle. How often had Lady Atherly done the same? Usually aimed at her. Too many to count. At least Stella could laugh about it.

“What are you looking for, Daddy?” Stella asked, absorbed in watching the seamstress deftly pluck pin after pin from between her pinched lips and slip it into place.

“Tims said a new package had arrived,” he said, picking up one box after another. “I want to know what it was and who sent it.”

He sorted through all the presents, some still in their boxes, others set out for display. Stella could barely find a hint of the white damask tablecloth beneath them; there were so many spread out across the table. Like the pearls on her dress, the silver trays and tea sets, the porcelain dishes, the crystal bowls, the necklaces and earrings of diamonds and jewels, all sparkled like a dragon’s treasure in the morning sunshine.

And like a hoarding dragon, her father hovered over it. The arrival of a new package was a highlight of his day. Either the gift was one of extravagance, like a jewel-encrusted tiara, which gave him cause to brag, or it was one of inconsequence, which gave him the excuse to deride the gift-giver to whoever would listen. Stella had stopped listening weeks ago. She’d also stopped looking forward to their arrival. The well-meaning presents brought out the worst in her father.

“Is this it?” He held up a long rectangular package that fit neatly in his hand. “It’s addressed to you.” That was unusual. Most were addressed in care of him.

His face lit up. “The return address is from a jeweler in London.” Without further hesitation, he ripped off the brown packing paper and lifted the lid.

Miss Naplock, pins still poking out between her lips, held the dress’s hem absentmindedly, her attention on Daddy and the package. What did the seamstress imagine was in the box: a string of pearls, an engraved silver cake knife, a diamond-encrusted pair of scissors? Stella had received one of each.

“No card inside,” he grumbled, replacing the lid and chucking the gold-colored box onto the table. Its contents clattered when the box caught the edge and dropped upside down on the floor.

“What did you do that for?” Stella asked.

“If you ever think to give such a good-for-nothing wedding gift,” he advised the wide-eyed seamstress, “you should have the decency to own up to it.” He was annoyed. The anonymous sender had robbed him of the pleasure of poking fun at them.

“Who sends such a worthless trinket, anyway?” He didn’t wait for an answer before adding, “Like I said, we leave on the hour. Go get ready.”

The door closed behind him before Stella tried to hop off the stool. She had one stocking foot on the swirl of lacy train puddling on the carpet when Miss Naplock tugged at the hem.

“Please, miss. I’m not finished.”

“Would you mind getting the box, then?”

The seamstress nodded, plucked the last two pins from her mouth, and tossed them into the shallow glass dish on the floor beside her. Crouching over, she picked the crushed box up off the floor.

“What is it?” Stella asked. “Is it broken?”

The woman lifted the bent painted cardboard lid. Even before she held it out toward Stella, a glitter of reflecting light hinted at its contents. Laying secured by two tiny pieces of wire against the green velvet cushion was a spoon. A souvenir spoon like the ones Stella had collected her whole life, the collection gathering dust back home in Kentucky. She had one from every place she’d visited and many from places she’d never seen. She had gold-plated ones, sterling silver ones, ones made from nickel, steel, and even wood. Some had portraits of famous people, like George Washington, in the bowl, others were carved into the shapes of plants or animals. She had several from two different World’s Fairs. But by her bedside upstairs was the only spoon she had in her possession, the one she bought in a little shop near the Southampton port the day they arrived in England. The day she met Lyndy.

Stella’s breath caught when Miss Naplock placed the box in her outreached hand.

This spoon was one of the finest she’d ever held. Surely her father should’ve recognized its monetary worth, even if he had no appreciation for the thoughtfulness behind the gift. But then again, compared to a tiara, it was a modest present. To Stella, it was priceless.

Its handle, of two interwoven vines, was topped by a carving of two connected hearts framing the likenesses of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert set on a bouquet of ribbons and flowers topped by a crown. Its meaning wasn’t lost on Stella. Theirs was a great love story. The sender of this spoon wished the same for Stella and Lyndy. But who had sent it? Who knew of her fondness for souvenir spoons? Certainly, no one in England.

“Isn’t it beautiful,” Stella said.

Miss Naplock nodded, kneeling back down to finish her work. “I hope it wasn’t damaged.”

“Me too.” Stella lifted the spoon (luckily, without a scratch on it) and its attached cushion from the box and found a piece of unadorned white stationery folded beneath it. The handwritten message inside read:

May this complete your collection. May you find love that completes you.

A quiver shot through Stella’s shoulders and back, and she involuntarily shook. The seamstress peered up from her work. “Are you all right, miss?”

Stella nodded, cradling the spoon in her palm. The tender sentiment, such a rarity in Stella’s life, brought a wistful smile to her lips. But there was no signature on the note. Like her father, though for different reasons, Stella felt robbed of the pleasure of knowing who gave her the spoon.

But then why send it?

Viscount Lyndhurst, or “Lyndy,” led the others confidently down the long aisle of the stables. All was as it should be. Every brass finial reflected the morning sunshine. The mahogany stalls had been freshly stained, not a stray piece of straw or clump of horse dung littered the recently scrubbed cobblestone floor. A half dozen horses whinnied and snorted in greeting when he passed. And soon, there would be more.

“This is Tully,” Lyndy said, stopping in front of the horse’s box stall.

The dappled gray mare approached the door and nudged Lyndy’s hand with her muzzle, knowing what was hiding in his fist. She eagerly snapped off the end of the peppermint stick he held out to her. She was a sweet, magnificent creature, much like her owner. His thoughts straying to her owner, Lyndy scratched the white blaze on the animal’s forehead.

In three days, Stella would finally be his. Three interminably long days.

After offering the last of the peppermint stick to Tully, Lyndy reached into his pocket for more peppermint and moved on to Tupper’s stall. The sleek chestnut filly wasn’t as friendly as her neighbor and had to be coaxed to approach. But what was that to him? The horse could demand an orchard of apples or her weight in peppermint candy for all he cared.

“Tupper, as you know, won the Princess of Wales’s Stakes this year,” Lyndy said, patting her soundly on the neck. “And placed in the St. Leger Stakes last week.”

Such a welcomed triumph for the family, though the filly technically belonged to Stella’s father until after the wedding. The Searlwyns hadn’t had a champion since Grandpapa retired Augustine years ago. Lyndy hoped, with Tupper, they would do so again. Even Mother recognized the filly’s potential. Had they owned Tupper already, their share of the purse would’ve allowed his mother to hire a proper second footman (giving Lyndy back his valet), and a live-in gardener (instead of relying on the unpredictable local man she had to suffer with). Lyndy already had plans to enter the filly in the Trial Stakes at Ascot next year.

“Yes, yes. These are all lovely, Lyndy, but where’s the stallion?”

Lyndy glanced over his shoulder at his companions: Sir Alfred Goodkin, his round-faced, bespectacled old chum from Eton, and Sir Owen Rountree, Lyndy’s younger, but much taller, cousin. They were but two of the cadre of his family’s friends and relatives hovering about Morrington Hall in anticipation of the wedding. Some, like Owen, were guests up at the house, while others, like Alfred, lived close enough to pop around unannounced to join in the festivities. Lyndy had little use for most of the visitors, but these two, like him, were enthusiasts of the turf. And they were keen to see the champion thoroughbreds.

It was Owen’s impatient voice that drew Lyndy’s attention. Owen, having arrived too late last night for a trip to the stables, had insisted Lyndy show him Orson, the Kendricks’ world-famous champion stud, right after breakfast. Owen had no patience with fillies and mares. Alfred, fortuitously having dropped by for a chat, decided to tag along.

“He’s over here.” Lyndy pointed across the aisle to the box stall marred by a gnawed and splintered wood casing. Gates, the stablemaster, still struggled to find an exercise regimen or a daily routine that would keep the ornery stallion from chewing on the door.

Owen stepped across the aisle and peered in. “He must be black as pitch.” Owen shielded his eyes from the light streaming through the stable windows with his hands. “It’s too dark in there. All I see is his outline.”

The horse peered out from the darkness. Without warning, the stallion poked his head through the door’s opening, seized the brim of Owen’s fedora between his teeth, and flung it. The hat sailed down the aisle before dropping through the open doorway of an empty stall. Orson, peeling back his lips as if in laughter, nibbled at the door frame.

“Bloody hell.” Owen touched the crown of his head where his hat once sat.

Alfred burst out laughing. Lyndy riffled his younger cousin’s hair, remarking on its similarity in color to Tupper’s coat, before motioning for the stable boy to fetch Owen’s hat.

“I say. That stallion better be first-rate, for he’s as irascible as his reputation says.” Owen brushed the front of his tweed jacket. When the boy offered Owen back his fedora, Owen waved it away, laughing. “Be a good lad and burn it.” Shimmering with horse saliva, it smelled foul.

Lyndy had forgotten what a good sport Owen could be. Before he’d been sent off to Eton, Lyndy had relished the carefree weeks spent every summer at Hubberholme Park, Owen’s family estate in Yorkshire. Free of all restraints, the pair would venture out into the countryside, fencing with sticks atop stone walls, fishing ankle-deep in the clear bracing streams, racing their ponies across the moors. And when inevitably Owen would trip on a raised root or stumble on a stone allowing Lyndy to win a foot race, Owen would laugh it off and be ready to race again.

“Oh, he’s first-rate, all right,” Lyndy said. “Perhaps the most valuable stud in the country.”

“That’s what I heard said about Challacombe when he won at Doncaster,” Owen said.

Bam! The feisty stallion slammed his hoof against the door in a kick, sending all three men scuttling to a safe distance.

“I think he disagrees,” Alfred chuckled as Leonard, the head groom, came running to calm the stallion down.

“As do I,” Lyndy said. “May I remind you Orson won half of all his starts, still holds the American record for seven furlongs and has already produced a Derby winner?”

“Hear, hear!” Alfred cheered in appreciation. “Besides, Baron Branson-Hill isn’t known for breeding his horses, now is he? Challacombe might languish from too many oats before he ever covers a mare.”

“Baron Branson-Hill?” Owen asked when the men retreated toward the stable yard. “Did Singer sell him Challacombe?”

“Supposedly, the baron purchased the stallion yesterday, or the day before. Not long.”

“How did we not hear of this?” Lyndy said.

“What I can’t fathom is why?” Owen asked. “Singer seemed too enamored with his winner to sell so quickly.”

Alfred shrugged. “I hadn’t heard a hint of it either, until this morning. Lady Atherly was discussing it with someone while I waited for you two.”

His mother, talking about a racehorse? Lyndy wished he’d witnessed such an extraordinary conversation. Clearly, staying out of Mother’s way came with a downside. What could she possibly be up to now?

“Seems the baron plans to bring Challacombe to Morrington tonight,” Alfred was saying.

Owen scrunched his nose. “From the Island? Whatever for? I’d be willing to hop the ferry to see that horse.”

Alfred stopped to pet the stray pup that had turned up in the stable yard one day a few weeks ago, brown, scruffy, and friendly. Gates had made the case it was a good watchdog. No one had dissuaded him from keeping the new mongrel; after the events of last May, the stables required a cani. . .