Murder at Morrington Hall

Book 1: Stella and Lyndy Mystery

by Clara McKenna

Genres: Historical Mysteries; General Fiction; Mystery

Synopsis

Spring, 1905: Free-spirited like the Thoroughbreds she rides across the Kentucky countryside, Stella takes adventure by the reins when she's asked to attend a mysterious wedding in rural England. But once she arrives at the lush Morrington Hall estate, her cold and ambitious father confesses that he won't only give away his best racehorses as gifts — he has also arranged to give away his daughter as bride to the Earl of Atherly's financially strapped son...

Stella refuses to be sold off like a prized pony. Yet despite a rough start, there's something intriguing about her groom-to-be, the roguish Viscount "Lyndy" Lyndhurst. The unlikely pair could actually be on the right track with each other...until they find the vicar who was to marry them dead in the library.

With culture clashes mounting between families, a scandalous murder case hangs over Morrington Hall. Now, Stella and Lyndy must go from future spouses to amateur sleuths as they team up to search for the truth-and prevent an unbridled criminal from destroying their new life together right out of the gate . . .

Release date: May 28, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 321

Sample

“Americans are different, Mother.”

Lyndy pulled on the lapels of his morning coat and paced the room, studying the portraits lining the walls, as he had since childhood. The pale faces stared down at him with disapproval, or so he always thought. Some wore lace ruffs; others, long curly wigs; two were in full dress uniform; and one countess clutched a silver, pearl-encrusted cross. All his ancestors, God forbid, dour and boring to the last. Not unlike the many prospects his parents had paraded past him during the Season in London over the years. Was different too much to hope for?

“Not this one. I have your father’s assurances.”

Papa looked up from the map he’d spread out on the small satinwood inlaid table between the French windows, the vase of pink peonies he’d displaced near his feet on the floor. Lyndy glanced over his father’s shoulder at the map, a partial sketch of a region in the American West called Wyoming.

“Yes, Frances. She’s quite the young lady, or so I’ve been told.” Lord of the manor he may be, but Papa was far too willing to give Mother her assurances.

“Perhaps Miss Kendrick will be one of these radical Americans we’ve all heard of,” Lyndy said, peering out the window. A pair of ponies emerged from the woodland and drank from the grassy edge of the pond. “Maybe she’ll drink Irish whiskey instead of coffee after dinner.” That would be a bit much even for Lyndy, but Mother needn’t know that.

Papa, bent over, studying his map again, laughed.

“I don’t know how you can find any of this humorous, William. If it were not for your . . . hobbies”—Mother waved an accusing finger at Papa’s map—“we might not be in this predicament.”

“The boy was only joking.”

“Was I?”

Mother raised her eyes, appealing to a higher power for forbearance.

What would be so wrong with a woman taking a sip of whiskey now and then? Like so many of society’s rules, it seemed archaic. Like the one not allowing them to sell any land. It was their land, wasn’t it? Or the one enabling his parents to determine his fate. It was his life, wasn’t it?

“Lyndy, why must you always—” Mother began.

“My lord, the guests have arrived.” Another quarrel averted. Fulton always did have impeccable timing.

“Move over,” Daddy grumbled. “You’re too far to the left.”

Stella ignored him. She was having too much fun. Digging her heel in, she lifted as far out of her seat as she could. The chimneys of Morrington Hall, reflecting in the first rays of sun in days, jutted up in the distance, above the ancient trees, and she wanted to see more.

But Stella wasn’t used to driving from the right side of the car. Feeling the wheels pull toward the middle of the road again, she steered sharply to the right, instead of the left. The vehicle swerved to the right, crossed the lane, and headed straight for the open heathland, a rolling patchwork of ferns, heather, bright green grazing lawns, and yellow flowering gorse bushes, before she corrected the wheel.

“For God’s sake, sit down!”

Stella plopped back down into the black leather seat of the brand-new 22 hp Daimler automobile and stole a glance at Daddy. He stared straight ahead, nose in the air, gray hairs protruding out of his ears. With his bottom waistcoat button undone to accommodate his considerable girth, he clutched his leather bag tighter to his chest. Too bad she wasn’t leaving him at Morrington Hall instead of Tully. She sighed.

Oh, Tully.

Pushing aside the pale pink motoring veil billowing around her face, she pictured the parade of wagons following her. Daddy had spared no expense in assuring the comfort and safety of his prize thoroughbreds: fresh air and fresh hay on the ship; a refitted first-class carriage on the train; the customized ambulance wagons for the trip from Southampton; and a groom, Roy, to tend to them personally. She’d enjoyed every minute of the ten-day trip from Bronson Ridge Farm, their home in Kentucky. It was her first trip to England. It was her first trip anywhere besides New York and Newport. But the adventure was bittersweet. Even now, with Morrington Hall within sight, she couldn’t reconcile losing her best friend. When she returned home, she’d be leaving her horse behind.

“Watch out for that buggy up ahead,” Daddy warned.

Orson, the stallion inside the lead wagon, snorted and stomped as the skittish bay mare pulled the buggy past. Stella waved, but the buggy’s driver scowled at the strange conveyance.

“Tell me again why you’re giving Orson, Tupper, and Tully to this viscount, Lord Lyndhurst?” Stella asked.

“If Cicero wins the Derby at Epsom this week, Orson, being his sire, will be the most valuable stud in England.”

“Then why give him away? And why give up Tupper? You expected her to win the Belmont Stakes this year.” Daddy might breed some of the best racehorses in the world, but even so, prospects like Tupper were rare.

“Because it suits me.”

“But why Tully, Daddy?” He knew she was Stella’s favorite.

Silence.

Stella gripped the steering wheel as tightly as she could. The automobile glided down the wooded lane, its blue metallic fenders gleaming in the sunlight that filtered through the leaves. Gnarled oak, redwood, ancient beech, yew, and holly towered above them. Silence. Having lost all feeling in her fingers, Stella loosened her grip and inhaled. The air smelled fresh, earthy, and sweet after the morning’s rain. How could she be upset on a day like this?

“Don’t you want to ride Tully while you’re here?” Daddy said.

“You know I do.” Could Daddy have brought the horse to please her? “You’re not giving Tully to the viscount?”

“Why would I do that?”

Truly? The kind gesture was so unlike him. But then, so was inviting her to accompany him on this trip. What brought about this change? Whatever it was, she couldn’t be more grateful for it.

“I haven’t thanked you for bringing me along on this trip, Daddy.”

“No need. Just drive,” Daddy said as Stella smiled at him. Daddy had never been one for any demonstration of affection.

“Like this?” Stella, biting her lip, pushed down on the accelerator. How fast could this car go?

Stella laughed as she caught a glimpse in her side-view mirror of Great-Aunt Rachel in the backseat. The old lady, wrinkles deep around her puckered mouth, clutched her hat, the plume of black ostrich feathers flapping in the breeze. Her squinting eyes—dark blue, like Stella’s own—popped open.

“Whoa, girlie!” Aunt Rachel shouted.

Stella snapped her attention forward. A cluster of ponies, a mix of chestnut and bay, with powerful hindquarters, stood rooted to the middle of the road a few yards away. As one, they bolted, scattering in every direction. Stella yanked hard on the steering wheel and veered around the slowest of the bunch. The wheels bumped up over a small boulder, sending everyone bouncing out of their seats. The car plunked down, brush and twigs crunching beneath the tires.

Whack! Daddy yelled something inaudible as the side of the Daimler connected with a long, sharp branch of a tree. As Stella struggled to control the steering wheel and keep them from careening off the road, the ponies trotted out of harm’s way. With a final swerve and swish of the back wheels, the car straightened in the lane again.

Stella laughed with relief.

“What the hell was that?” Daddy said.

“New Forest ponies,” Roy said from the backseat. Leave it to the groom to know about every breed of horse and pony in the world.

Like a creature from a mythical land: unicorn, centaur, New Forest pony. Stella looked at the groom in the side-view mirror. He’d pushed his goggles onto his high forehead, exposing two clean rings around his eyes, where the dust hadn’t settled. Although gripping the edge of his seat, he studied the ponies as they passed.

“The New Forest region is famous for them,” he said.

Stella smiled at the term the New Forest. On the ship, Roy had told her all about it and its mythical ponies. An odd name for a place created as a royal hunting ground by King William the Conqueror over eight hundred years ago.

“The Ancient Forest is more appropriate, don’t you think?” Stella said.

“Wild ponies?” Daddy said. “Shouldn’t they be rounded up? They look hardy enough to be good workhorses. Left to wander, they’re a nuisance.”

Stella waited for Roy to say more—to tell Daddy that New Forest ponies weren’t wild at all and were rounded up on occasion, or to explain why the region was called “new” when it was ancient or “forest” when it was mostly heathland. Stella had even overheard the locals say ‘on the forest’ like they would say ‘on the range’ back home. But the groom had fallen silent again.

“Actually, Daddy,” Stella began, “the ponies—”

“Finally,” Daddy grumbled. Stella gazed up at the arch as she passed through the wrought-iron gates. “I thought we’d never get here.”

“Me neither.” Stella eagerly glanced around her.

As she drove the mile-long gravel drive, passing more ponies grazing out on the lawns, Morrington Hall came into full view. Stella was used to luxurious homes. The Kendricks had a townhome on Fifth Avenue in New York, a summer cottage in Newport, and a three-story white-pillared “farmhouse” in Kentucky. But nothing rivaled Morrington Hall, which was more reminiscent of Grand Central Station in New York City than any home Stella had ever seen, in opulence and grandeur. The large bricks of gray and yellow stone that made up the house, if one could call it that, spoke of its unquestionable permanency. With a half a dozen gables and four turrets, the building rose four stories, like a castle. Chimneys, haphazardly placed and too numerous to count, climbed at least a dozen feet more. Stella guessed it would take her several minutes, walking swiftly, to cross from one end of the house to the other. Surrounding the colossal home were sculptured gardens, a large pond, wooded parklands, rolling pastures, extensive grazing lawns, fenced paddocks, and heathland as far as she could see. The stables, tucked away on the edge of the woodland and made of the same stone as the house, were almost as large as her house in Kentucky. She couldn’t wait to explore.

“Slow down,” Daddy said.

Stella let the car coast as they approached the house. Waiting for them on the front steps and in the gravel drive were the Searlwyns, owners of this grand estate, and their household staff.

The Earl of Atherly, in contrast to Daddy, fit his morning coat impeccably, with his lean, athletic build. Only the silver threading through his dark brown hair attested to his being Daddy’s peer. Beside him stood his wife. Lady Atherly’s high-necked collar, the lace brushing the bottom of her chin, her curled hair mounded on the crown of her head, and her Roman nose tilted up created the impression that the countess nearly matched her husband in strength and height. Standing beside them, clutching the lapels of his morning coat, was a man in his midtwenties. With the addition of a dimpled chin and high cheekbones, he was a younger and more dashing version of Lord Atherly. Viscount Lyndhurst, no doubt. Unlike his father, who stood as erect as a rooted tree, Lord Lyndhurst exuded barely contained energy, like a cat ready to pounce. Beside Lord Lyndhurst stood a wisp of a girl a few years younger than Stella. With a sweet face and rounded shoulders, she withered in the shadow of the others around her. She had to be the viscount’s fiancée. Stella didn’t envy her.

Lined up in single file off to the side on the gravel drive were members of the household staff, or at least some of them—the butler, his nose rivaling his mistress’s in heightened angle; the housekeeper, her eyes darting about, noticing everything; a lady’s maid perhaps, with a tidy, stylish coiffure; a handsome footman in full livery; and two housemaids in black dresses and crisp white aprons. With a house this big, there had to be an army of servants out of sight.

Without exception, every face wore a stern or, at best, blank expression. Stella couldn’t understand it. Wasn’t there to be a wedding in a few days? Weren’t they receiving two champion racehorses from Daddy as gifts? Not to mention the excitement of the upcoming Derby at Epsom Downs. She’d heard about the race all her life. Why weren’t they all giddy with excitement?

As Stella untied the motoring veil from her chin, a slight breeze caught it, and it floated in front of her face. It turned the world—the clouds, the sky, the gravel drive, the close-cut lawn, the towering stone mansion, Lord Atherly and family, even Daddy—into a pale pink haze. How lovely it all was.

And then Daddy smiled. Nothing good ever came when Daddy smiled.

Reverend John Bullmore came to a decision. He set his empty teacup on the square oak inlaid side table and stuffed the last lemon biscuit in his mouth.

It will be awkward once the Americans have arrived, but needs must.

He pulled out his pocket watch; he still had a few minutes. He snapped it closed and approached the glass-paneled mahogany display case set against the one wall of the library not lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He’d been staring at the birds in the display case while he sipped his tea, while he considered what to do next. Each bird specimen had a label. Each had been collected on or near the grounds of Morrington Hall by the current Earl of Atherly and his father: honey buzzard, sparrow hawk, curlew, lapwing, hawfinch, stonechat, even a tiny, rare Dartford warbler. Unable to decide which was more reminiscent of himself, the scrawny purple heron or the gray-feathered shrike, Reverend Bullmore bent over to look at the magpie in the case. Its glass eyes stared back. He’d always been fascinated by the black-and-white bird. A crick in his back forced him upright.

If only life were black and white.

The vicar hobbled to the fire. Warming the spasms out of his back, he licked the glistening butter off his fingers, the scent of lamb and roast chicken mingling with the tea on his breath. It would be sinful to let even a taste of such a lovely meal go to waste. He appreciatively patted his slightly bulging stomach. A rare treat indeed.

When was the last time he’d committed the sin of gluttony? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember the last opportunity. Three years at Everton Abbey had seen to that. Had it been worth it? After yesterday, he had his doubts. Either way, he hadn’t been this satiated or this comfortable in years, thanks be to God.

And thanks be to Lord Atherly for allowing him to officiate at his son’s approaching nuptials. Reverend Bullmore eagerly anticipated the invitations to many more sumptuous meals. He’d been unpacking down at the vicarage when he received his first summons here. Was he worthy of such a sacred task? Lady Atherly had asked as he bit into an exquisite slice of Victoria sponge. He’d faltered a moment. Did she know about the trouble? No, if she did, the bishop would’ve been sipping Lord Atherly’s port last night, and not he. Yes, Lord and Lady Atherly would be remembered in his prayers this night.

Sufficiently warmed by the fire, he settled into a well-worn leather club chair to wait. Shunning the thousands of books surrounding him, he picked up the crumpled copy of the Sporting Life, left behind on the table. The Derby was two days away, and he was woefully uninformed. He flipped through the pages but saw nothing. Had he made the right decision? He still had time to change his mind.

Reverend Bullmore raised his head when the door creaked open. Who could that be? Surely, it wasn’t time to meet with the marrying couple. The Americans hadn’t even arrived yet. Sucking the last of his lunch from his thumb, he set down his racing paper to greet the new arrival. With a smile and butter on his lips, he never saw the blow coming.

“Is that a woman driving?” Lyndy said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

His Majesty the King rode in a Daimler like that at the Newmarket races a few weeks ago. Lyndy was envious. Several of his friends were driving about London in the new conveyances. Due to the financial straits his family found themselves in, he hadn’t been allowed to get a motorcar, yet.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lyndy,” Mother said. Without looking at him, she added, “Calm yourself and stand still. Don’t act so nervous.”

Lyndy stopped shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His mother was wrong, though. He wasn’t nervous. He was thrilled, the wedding notwithstanding. The champion thoroughbreds in those wagons were soon to be his, all his. A childhood dream come true.

Mother expected him to act like a gentleman. Now he could ride like one. He was already composing his excuse for missing afternoon tea. Better still, he’d no longer be just a punter, wagering on other people’s horses; he’d have a chance at the winner’s circle himself. Grandfather would be proud.

Was he going to get to keep the Daimler as well?

“Look again, Mother.”

She squinted at the procession slowly making its way up the drive, strange ambulance wagons led by the blue Daimler motorcar. The driver sported a wide-brimmed motoring hat and veil.

“It is a woman,” Mother said in disbelief. “William, you don’t think . . .”

“That it is Miss Kendrick?” Papa said, finishing her sentence. He pulled out the lorgnette he used at the opera from his breast pocket, held the eyepieces up to his face, and peered through. “I’m afraid I do, my dear.”

“No, it cannot be. That woman is driving. Americans are strange beasts. They must have hired a woman chauffeur.”

Mother abhorred any deviation from her rigid expectations. Hence, her displeasure at retreating down to the country with the Season in full swing. Quite the boon in Lyndy’s opinion, who preferred riding or fishing to listening to prattle in a ballroom. Hence, his mother’s perpetual disappointment in Lyndy.

“There are no women chauffeurs, Frances,” Papa said, folding his lorgnette and slipping it back into his pocket. Papa didn’t like strangers to know he had a weakness; he couldn’t see beyond a few yards.

“What about the other woman, the one in the backseat? That must be Miss Kendrick.”

“Now who’s ridiculous, Mother?” Lyndy said, tugging on his lapels to keep his feet from moving. Despite the distance, even Papa should be able to tell the woman in the back was not in the bloom of youth.

“But . . . ?” Mother was stunned into silence.

Lyndy took a step forward in anticipation. This might be more fun than I thought.

As the car pulled up and stopped, he couldn’t decide which was more compelling—the Daimler or its driver.

“I suppose we must do this, mustn’t we?” Mother sighed, smoothing the lace-embellished brown silk of her tea gown. She always wore such dreary colors. Must his mother always dress to match her mood?

“Yes, dear,” Papa said. “It was inevitable.”

“No, William. If you’d—”

“Mother, they’re here,” Lyndy whispered, cutting off any further bickering.

Mother pinched her lips as the young woman alighted from the car. Her figure obscured by the tan duster coat, the American swept the veil away from her face.

“She’s lovely,” Lyndy’s sister, standing transfixed beside him, whispered. “Like a Gibson girl.”

“A gibbon?” Mother said. “How ungenerous of you, Alice. The young woman looks nothing like a monkey.”

“No, a Gibson girl, Mummy, not a gibbon. You know, like in the American magazines?”

With a long neck, flawless alabaster skin, red bow-shaped lips, and a flash of mischief in her blue eyes, the young woman was indeed striking. But was she the American heiress? His mother’s scowl confirmed it.

Miss Kendrick’s eyes sought out Lyndy and she smiled. For a moment Lyndy forgot who and where he was. He forgot his manners; he forgot to breathe.

“Someone get the door!” barked the rotund man in the Daimler.

The young woman, not waiting for the footman, stepped around the front of the motorcar, her large coat swishing about her slender figure, and opened the door for the grumbling graying man in the passenger’s seat. He waved away her offer to help him and, clutching a dark leather bag with both arms, clambered awkwardly out of the car. With a considerable paunch and bowed legs, he stood a few inches shorter than the young woman. He stomped toward Lyndy and his waiting family.

“Welcome, Mr. Kendrick. It is good of you to come all this way,” Papa said.

“Good to be here, Atherly. Quite the journey over, but you know, I had to make sure everything was in proper order.” Mr. Kendrick tapped the leather bag. “By the way, Professor Gridley sends his regards.”

Mother scowled at the name.

“Yes, jolly good,” Papa said. “I received word from him yesterday. Everything is going according to plan.”

“Speaking of plans . . .” Mr. Kendrick glanced at the greeting party. “Where’s the vicar?”

“Yes, ummm . . . well,” Papa said, “I don’t believe you met my wife, Lady Atherly. My dear, this is . . .”

“Elijah Kendrick. At your service, ma’am.” He shoved out his hand.

Mother grimaced but offered up her fingers. Mr. Kendrick grabbed Mother’s hand and pumped it heartily. Mother wrenched it back, as if she’d been bitten by a viper. Mr. Kendrick then approached Lyndy, stopping within inches of his face. The man smelled of peppermint and tobacco. It was not a pleasant combination. Lyndy would’ve shoved the American away, but for what was at stake. Tugging harder on his lapels, Lyndy held his ground.

“So, this must be the viscount.” Mr. Kendrick examined him with such scrutiny, Lyndy half expected the man to pull back his lips and examine his teeth.

“I am not one of your horses, sir,” Lyndy said, brushing his hand through his hair.

Mr. Kendrick laughed. “No, you aren’t. But you’ll do just the same.”

“Well, I never . . . ,” Mother muttered.

Miss Kendrick thrust herself in front of her father. Her scent, a heady mix of floral and woody tones, like a walk in the forest in spring, wafted in the air. With a flourish, she curtsied, as if being presented at court.

“I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” the young woman said to Papa, not waiting to be introduced. “I’m Stella Kendrick, the daughter.”

Papa smiled at Miss Kendrick’s attempt and utter failure at acceptable manners. Mother rolled her eyes and sighed. Lyndy chuckled. To think he’d worried about Mother making a fuss when he chose to go riding instead of taking tea.

The second man in the motorcar, a servant, judging by his dress and demeanor, clambered out and joined Gates, the head coachman, who had arrived to take charge of the horse wagons. Lyndy could barely contain his excitement. The sun, like a lantern in the dark, highlighted a horse inside the lead wagon as it turned toward the stables. The horse’s silky coat was the color of night, and its intelligent eyes stared back at him.

Just you wait, you beauty. Then we’ll see what you can do.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss. . .