Page 11

A fter dinner the gentlemen went to the billiard and smoking rooms, while the ladies retreated to the hotel’s private sitting room. It felt like an age before the men joined us. Although I’d hoped it would be the perfect opportunity to learn more from my female suspects, I found it difficult to weave my questions into conversation. The only thing I managed to discover was that Lady Kershaw didn’t know why her husband had closed the bridleway path to the public. When I mentioned admiring the pair of silver candlesticks on her dining room mantelpiece, she pretended Lady Elizabeth had summoned her and went to join her.

I sat with Flossy and Janet. We discussed the wedding, the house where Janet would live with her new husband, and eligible gentlemen for Flossy, before there was a suitable lull in which I could ask Janet a question relevant to my investigation.

“And how are you and your family holding up after the dreadful event at Hambledon Hall last week?” At her blank look, I clarified. “The death of the gamekeeper.”

“Oh. That.” Janet sighed. “It did put a dampener on the end of our visit to Hambledon, but then I quite forgot about it. I simply have so much on my mind of late.” She frowned. “Although, now that I think about it, it may have affected my mother somewhat. It’s understandable, really. She’d known the gamekeeper since she was a girl.”

Mrs. Browning had seemed untouched by Shepherd’s death when she spoke to me, but I’d wondered at the time if that had been an act. “How has it affected her?” I asked Janet.

“She seems sad. More than usual, I mean. She’s taking laudanum to help her sleep, which she only started to do after we left Hambledon.” She suddenly clutched my hand. “I probably shouldn’t have said all that. She wouldn’t want others to know.”

Mrs. Browning was attempting to converse with Aunt Lilian, but my aunt appeared to be sinking into a low mood after the effects of her tonic wore off. She would be suffering through a raging headache by now, and perhaps feeling ill. Flossy and I exchanged glances, both of us knowing she needed rescuing, yet neither of us wanting to be the one to suggest she retire. She was so unpredictable that she could very well snap at us in full view of our guests.

The arrival of the gentlemen was a blessing. Uncle Ronald went to my aunt’s side and asked if she required anything. She took the opportunity to say she was tired, and Lady Elizabeth followed suit. Both bade us goodnight and allowed Uncle Ronald to escort them from the sitting room.

“Tea?” I asked our guests.

Floyd made a scoffing sound. “Or something stronger?”

My offer was declined, but Lord Kershaw and Mr. Browning wanted port, and Mrs. Browning agreed to a sherry. Mr. Browning plucked his watch out of his waistcoat pocket, but instead of opening the case, he simply raised his brows in question at Floyd.

“It’s too early,” Floyd told him.

I joined Floyd at the drinks trolley one of the footmen had wheeled in when the men arrived so we could serve ourselves. I assembled five glasses. “What was that about?” I whispered.

“I mentioned I was going out later to my club, and now Browning wants to come with me.”

“You don’t sound pleased about it.”

“He’s in his fifties!”

“Are you implying he’s too old to keep up with you young bucks?” I teased.

He removed the stopper from a crystal decanter. “I just think it’s pathetic when someone his age wants to go out carousing with fellows my age.” He poured port into one of the glasses. “Also, he’s a boorish prig.”

“And your friends are refined and cultured?”

“At least we treat women respectfully, even the courtesans. Browning was just telling me in the billiard room that he’s looking for a replacement, since his last one became too fat. If I had a wife, at least I wouldn’t dishonor her by taking a mistress.”

“That’s very mature of you, Floyd. I have a newfound respect for you.”

He finished filling three glasses with port and replaced the stopper in the decanter. “I’ll have my amusement now, while I’m young and unfettered. Once I get a wife, I’ll settle down and be dull like the rest of the married men.”

“There goes my respect again.”

“What did I say?”

“Just pour the sherry. I’ll have one, too.” I moved two empty glasses closer to him. “Did you manage to find out anything useful for my investigation?”

“No, sorry. I tried, but Kershaw always steered the conversation in another direction without answering. Most of the time he simply avoided me.”

“Deliberately?”

“I suspect so.” He glanced toward our guests. “He’s watching us now. He suspects we’re investigating him.”

“ I’m investigating. You’re assisting me. Although I think I’ve gleaned as much as I can, for now. Hopefully, you’ll have some luck later with Browning.” I indicated the port glasses. “Fill his up a little more.”

Floyd obliged.

I patted his arm. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“I’ll try.” He turned his back to the room, downed one of the glasses of port then refilled it. “That ought to help.”

The handwriting on the piece of paper slipped under my door was difficult to decipher. With Harmony’s help, I managed to work out that it was from Floyd and that Mr. Browning had told him the antique rifle was still missing from its position on the armory wall. Over a simple breakfast of poached eggs, toast and coffee, Harmony and I discussed its possible whereabouts in light of what we’d learned from our suspects, but we didn’t come up with any new ideas.

I met Harry at the train station as arranged. On the journey to Morcombe, we discussed what to do once we arrived, but couldn’t come to an agreement. I wanted to confront Faine about his criminal history, but Harry didn’t think that would get results. Faine, he thought, would lie.

Harry suggested we look through his belongings for stolen goods instead.

D.I. Hobart had given Faine’s address as the Red Lion Inn, but we doubted he actually lived there. We were wrong. The innkeeper informed us that Faine had use of a room in the old coach house in exchange for performing work at the inn from time to time. Part of the coach house had been converted into accommodation years ago, when the railway came to Morcombe and the number of coaches passing through diminished significantly. There were four rooms, but Faine’s was the only one in use. The innkeeper also informed us that we wouldn’t find Faine there. He was currently working at a building site at the edge of the village.

Perfect.

We told the innkeeper that we merely had more questions for Mr. Faine about the bridleway, then we pretended to leave the vicinity of the inn altogether, only to return via a side gate attached to the courtyard. It was quiet. If any horses were in the stables, they made no noise. The courtyard and outbuildings would have once bustled with grooms, and coachmen stopping on their journey to or from London, but the railway had ended the inn’s glory days. Now, locals enjoyed a drink after work, and ramblers stopped for a pie before returning to the city on the train, but it was nothing like it must have been in its heyday.

We skirted the central well and an old trough with a puddle of water pooled at the slimy bottom and approached the large coach house with three enormous arched entrances. Through one, I could see an old cart and some rusting equipment. The second led through to an empty space, and the third marked the entry to the four flats; two on the ground floor and two above. Harry picked the lock on the only door that was locked.

Faine may live in a converted coach house, but his flat resembled a pigsty. The smell struck me first. It was a mix of unwashed man and rotting food. There were dirty clothes strewn about the floor, and dirty dishes piled on the table. I didn’t dare look into the bucket placed beside the unmade bed. I used a broken tennis racket to move the clothes and test for loose floorboards, while Harry looked inside and above the narrow wardrobe.

The squeak of a floorboard as I pressed on it with my foot drew his attention as he closed the wardrobe door. Our gazes connected. He dropped to his knees and pried the floorboard up. He reached into the cavity to his elbow and felt around. When he withdrew his hand, I thought at first he’d found nothing, but he opened his palm to reveal a silver teaspoon.

I picked it up. It was solid silver, going by its weight. The bowl was shaped like an acorn and the letter K was engraved into the stem. I’d used teaspoons identical to it at Hambledon Hall.

I tucked the spoon into my bag. “Is this the only thing in there?”

Harry nodded. “The space is a good size. A number of items could be hidden in it. How large were the candlesticks?”

“About the length of my arm. They were very impressive.”

“They wouldn’t have fit in there. Wherever he stored them, I suspect they’ve already been sold or melted down, along with the rest of the spoons. That one got left behind.”

It was unlikely we’d find anything further, but I was keen to continue looking. The sound of voices in the courtyard changed my mind. We were too exposed. We’d found the evidence we needed, so there was no point continuing to look for stolen goods when they would have been moved on.

We waited for the men to disappear into the stables then we slipped out of Faine’s flat. We didn’t speak until we’d left the Red Lion well behind us.

“I should probably give this spoon to Lord Kershaw when I see him at the hotel,” I said. “He can decide whether to press charges or not.”

“Hold on to it, for now. It proves our theory about thieving from the Hall, and we don’t want the thieves to know we’re aware of their operation. Until we discover if the thefts are related to the murder, we won’t say a word. Besides, we’re not sure if Kershaw himself is the third thief.”

“I don’t believe he orchestrated the burglary to collect the insurance money,” I said. “But I agree that we shouldn’t tell anyone. I want to see if the thefts continue now that Shepherd is dead, and I want to find out for certain who the third man is, the gentleman, as Crippen called him.”

“In a village the size of Morcombe, there wouldn’t be many who sound cultured. The mayor, perhaps, or a doctor.”

“Or the vicar.” I nodded toward the church and its neighboring vicarage.

We passed the window of the teashop where we’d listened to the gossip about the Wentworth family from the four women. It was busier today, and the proprietress was occupied behind the counter and didn’t see us. Two of the other women sat at a table in the window, though, and recognized us. They smiled and waved. We went inside and greeted them.

“You must have enjoyed your previous visit to Morcombe to be returning here so soon,” said Mrs. Smith, the elder of the two. “The weather isn’t as nice today, but at least it isn’t raining.”

“Won’t you join us?” asked her companion, Mrs. Clayborn.

“Not today,” I said. “We were curious about the bridleway, and Mr. Faine’s attempts at encouraging Lord Kershaw to reopen it. Was anyone else equally vehement in their desire to have it reopened? Someone with influence in the village, perhaps?” Without specifying ‘a gentleman’, I wasn’t sure how to describe the man we were searching for.

The two women looked at one another. “Not that I can think of,” Mrs. Smith said. “Mr. Faine was the driving force behind the campaign. Most who agreed with him were local traders and shopkeepers. I suppose you could say they have influence.”

It wasn’t the sort of influence I meant. Drat .

“The campaign may fall apart now, anyway,” Mrs. Clayborn added.

“Why is that?” Harry asked.

“Some of the zeal seems to have gone out of Mr. Faine’s efforts. There was supposed to be a village meeting last night, but he didn’t even bother to go. He was drunk at the Red Lion.” The women exchanged looks again, this time full of disdain for the inebriated Faine.

We thanked them and left the teashop.

“Why would Faine no longer be interested in campaigning against the closure of the bridleway?” I asked, trying to think it through. “It was a fake campaign, as far as he was concerned. He didn’t want it reopened. He wanted it closed so they could move their stolen goods through the woods with ease. Could it be it no longer matters, now that Shepherd is gone? Has the thieving enterprise fallen apart without him?”

“Faine and the third man could try to continue it.”

While Faine’s sudden disinterest in his campaign was a mystery, I was growing more convinced of Reverend Pritchard’s involvement as the third man, the one Mr. Crippen had overheard arguing with Shepherd. He sounded like a cultured gentleman, and he’d been in the vicinity of the woods at the time. He also had a murky past that he was trying to keep obscured. A thieving past, perhaps?

If I had to make a wager on the third man, I’d put all my money on him. The problem was, how to find out for certain?

Harry suggested we speak to him again. As a seasoned criminal with no reputation to lose, Faine would be a difficult nut to crack, but Reverend Pritchard might be more easily manipulated into admitting guilt.

His housekeeper refused to let him know we wanted to speak to him, however. “Unless it’s an emergency, he doesn’t want to be disturbed. He needs peace and quiet to write tomorrow’s sermon. He pours his heart and soul into it, he does. Very devout is our Reverend Pritchard.”

Out of curiosity, I asked, “What qualifies as an emergency for a vicar?”

She looked uncertain for a moment before declaring, “A crisis of faith.”

“We’ll come back later,” Harry said.

“He’ll be preparing for the service all day.”

“Then he’s very devout indeed.”

As we walked away from the vicarage, I muttered words of frustration under my breath. I felt sure we could make him talk.

Harry wasn’t as disappointed as me. Indeed, he had another suspect in mind, someone with far greater access to the house than the vicar. “Butlers put on cultured accents. Some sound more upper class than their employers.”

I gazed along the road that led to Hambledon Hall. “That’s true. The Kershaws’ butler is one such fellow, and he also has easy access to the silverware.” I set off in the direction of the house. “We’ll question him now. It shouldn’t be too difficult without the family at home.”

“Unless he’s napping,” Harry said, matching my strides. “Or drunk.”

The butler was neither drunk nor napping. He was in his office in the service area, going through paperwork. The footman who escorted us closed the door as he left, giving us privacy.

Renton gave me a quizzical look. “Miss Fox, this is a surprise. The family are in London, staying at your hotel, as I’m sure you are aware.”

“We’re here to speak to you. This is my friend, Mr. Armitage. He’s a private detective.”

Renton’s bushy eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Is this regarding the death of Mr. Shepherd?”

“It is. We’ve been tasked with proving the murderer is the missing poacher.”

“The poacher! Yes, of course.” The eyebrows settled as Renton relaxed. “Lord Kershaw hasn’t said anything to me about hiring a detective.”

“He isn’t the one who hired us.”

Renton frowned. “Who did?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Why are you involved, Miss Fox? I don’t understand why you are here when he is the private detective.”

“Miss Fox is assisting me,” Harry said before I could answer. “Considering her unique situation as a witness, I thought she’d be helpful.”

Renton turned back to me. “Do Sir Ronald and Lady Bainbridge know you are here?”

I smiled through my clenched jaw. “I’m a grown woman and can do as I please.” I softened my snippy response by adding, “In any case, my uncle approves.”

“Very well, I’ll answer your questions.”

I could well imagine this imperious fellow being the third man that Crippen overheard in the woods arguing with Esmond Shepherd. He sounded cultured and gentlemanly and was far bossier than I remembered him being while I stayed at Hambledon Hall last weekend.

“You mentioned that a thief murdered Mr. Shepherd,” Renton went on. He addressed Harry, even though I’d been the one to mention the thief.

“It’s a possibility,” Harry said. “What do you know about the thefts from the house?”

Renton’s gaze flicked between us, perhaps wondering how much we knew. “Some candlesticks went missing, as well as some cutlery and a few other valuable items.”

“Who do you think took them?”

Renton shook his head. “I don’t know. The house is usually locked up at night, so I doubt anyone broke in. It’s easier to enter the house during the day when the servants are busy and the doors unlocked.”

“Even so, wouldn’t a stranger be noticed?”

“One would assume so.”

Harry waited, but Renton didn’t expand on the theory. “Then wouldn’t it be logical to assume the thief was someone known to the household?” Harry prompted. “Someone who could freely walk in and out without raising suspicions?”

Renton’s jaw stiffened. “It’s possible one of the staff may be involved, but I cannot confront anyone without proof. Lady Kershaw has asked me to wait until we have it.”

“Isn’t the silverware under lock and key?” I asked. “In my experience, the butler is the only member of staff who has access to it.”

His jaw stiffened even more. “Are you accusing me of theft, Miss Fox?”

“It would be remiss of us not to consider you. Indeed, given what we know, you should be at the top of our list.”

The jaw slackened with his gasp. “Not all of the items stolen were locked away in the silverware cupboard! And any number of people could have come in here and taken the key!”

“That isn’t what I meant,” I said.

“Then what do you mean? What do you know? Or think you do?”

I ignored his questions and asked my own. “Where were you when you heard the gunshot that killed Esmond Shepherd?”

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “I was napping.”

“Your room is on the top floor, yet you arrived very quickly at the scene.”

“I wasn’t in my room. I was here, in this chair. Sometimes I nod off. It’s old age.”

“It’s his lordship’s brandy, but let’s not quibble about it.”

For a moment, I thought Renton would explode with rage as his face flushed scarlet. But the color soon vanished, and his cheeks turned quite pale. I suspected he’d remembered I was related to a friend of his employer and was therefore not someone he could scold like a maid.

“I won’t tell Lord Kershaw about the brandy, if you tell me who you think stole the silverware.”

Renton’s gaze searched the office, perhaps searching for a way out of the dilemma he found himself in. Finding none, he finally looked at me. “I don’t know, but I can assure you, it wasn’t me. I have worked here for more than thirty years. I’m loyal to Lord Kershaw and he has promised to be loyal to me. I’ll be given a cottage in the village and a good pension when I can no longer perform my duties here. Why would I jeopardize that by stealing from him when I’ve had ample opportunity over three decades?”

I had to admit it seemed unlikely. That didn’t mean he wasn’t a murderer, just probably not a thief. “What are your thoughts on Esmond Shepherd?”

He blew out a measured breath and sat back. “I didn’t like him. He was too sure of himself and was a seducer of young women. He behaved appallingly toward them at times.”

“Then why didn’t Lord Kershaw dismiss him?”

“You would have to ask his lordship.”

“There are rumors that he was treated well because Shepherd’s sister, Susannah, was the daughter of the fourth earl, and the family connection added a measure of permanency to Esmond Shepherd’s tenure as gamekeeper, and that of his father before him. Were you working here then?”

“I am not that old, Miss Fox. I’ve been here thirty-three years. Miss Susannah Shepherd was deceased by that point, and the fourth earl was in his dotage. As to the truth of the gossip, I cannot comment. It’s undignified.”

I didn’t press him. He was too loyal to Lord Kershaw to spread rumors about the family. “Did you have any run-ins with Esmond Shepherd?”

“No. We had little to do with one another. He belonged outside, I worked inside. Our paths crossed most days, but we didn’t stop for idle chatter. We were both busy.”

I rose to leave, but Harry had one more question. “You mentioned the house is locked up at night. Did Esmond Shepherd have a key?”

“No.” Renton stood and indicated we should walk ahead of him to the door. “Would you like a carriage to take you into Morcombe, Miss Fox?”

“No, thank you, we’ll walk. Renton,” I added, “I’ve promised not to mention the brandy to Lord Kershaw, and I will keep that promise. But you have to promise something to me in return.”

“If it is within my power to do so then I will.”

“Don’t tell any of the Wentworth family that I was asking about the stolen property.”

“And why not?”

“You don’t need to know why, just like I don’t need to know why you take a nip of brandy during the day.”

Renton acknowledged my blackmail with a stiff nod. He bade us a curt goodbye then made sure we were escorted out of the house by a footman.

“What do you think?” I asked Harry as we walked along the gravel drive.

“I don’t think he’s involved in the thefts.”

“Agreed. My money is firmly on Reverend Pritchard now. It's a shame we can't speak to him.”

“Perhaps we don’t have to. There may be another way to get answers. Those candlesticks wouldn’t have fit in the cavity below Faine’s floor. So where were they hidden?”

I smiled as I followed his train of thought. “Perhaps they’re still in their hiding place.”

While the vicarage was off-limits with both the housekeeper and Reverend Pritchard inside, the church was most likely empty.

It wasn’t, but the parishioner there left soon after our arrival when she’d finished praying. Once she was out of sight, Harry closed the door. We would hear it opening again if someone arrived.

We then set about looking for hiding spots for items the size of the candlesticks. There weren’t many places in the nave or altar. Harry headed into the sacristy, but I had another thought. Finding the candlesticks would be a very important piece of evidence, but we both suspected they’d already been sold on or melted down, along with the rest of the silver spoons. But there was another piece of evidence that could prove Reverend Pritchard was a thief, and we were in the right place to find it.

I entered the parish office while Harry checked the sacristy and vestry. Low bookshelves weighed down by thick volumes of registers didn’t interest me as much as the filing cabinet crammed with correspondence and other paperwork.

It took a few minutes, but I eventually found a letter in a slim folder dedicated entirely to Reverend Pritchard. It was addressed to Pritchard from the bishop of the London diocese, stating that he was being moved to a different one. A second letter from the bishop of the Diocese of Oxford welcomed Pritchard. While neither letter stated the specific reason he was moved to Morcombe, the second one did express the need for urgency due to what the bishop called Pritchard’s ‘problem’ at his former parish.

The parish church where he was located before Morcombe was mentioned as St. Michael’s in Marylebone. I knew of it. Indeed, I’d walked past it more than once the day before. It was located near the guesthouse where Esmond Shepherd had stayed a few days before his death.