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I showed the letters to Harry before we left the church. He’d not had any luck finding the stolen candlesticks, but my discovery meant we hadn’t wasted our time. The letters provided a possible connection between Shepherd and the vicar that we’d not previously known.

I said as much as we walked through the churchyard. “I think we’re wrong about the reason Shepherd went to Marylebone. He didn’t go to speak to Miss Crippen, the former nanny. I think he went to St. Michael’s to find out more about Reverend Pritchard, his partner in crime. Perhaps he wanted something to use against the vicar if he tried to extricate himself from their thieving enterprise.”

It made sense that the vicar was a necessary third member of the scheme. If Shepherd was the brains behind it, and Faine was the fence, they needed a third man whose presence in the dining and drawing rooms wouldn’t raise suspicions, someone who could slip in and out with silverware hidden inside his coat. Someone trusted in the community, who could be blackmailed because of his problematic past.

“What did Pritchard say when you originally questioned him about Shepherd?” Harry asked.

I thought back to my earlier conversation with the vicar, shortly after we’d met over the dead body. “He said Shepherd wasn’t a churchgoer, and that he’d only met him once.”

Harry lifted a hand to wave. I turned to see Reverend Pritchard watching us through the vicarage window. I waved, too. The vicar didn’t wave back.

“There’s one more question the letters from the two bishops raise,” I said as we continued toward the railway station. “Reverend Pritchard came from St. Michael’s church in Marylebone. Miss Crippen, the former nanny, is from the same area. It’s possible she knew the vicar. What if she knew the reason he left?”

“And informed her lover, Esmond Shepherd?” Harry finished. “Shepherd blackmails Pritchard, so Pritchard kills him to avoid paying.” Harry’s bright eyes told me what he thought of the theory. He liked it a great deal.

As did I. We needed to confirm our theory with Miss Crippen.

“It’s Saturday,” I pointed out. “Mr. Crippen won’t be at work today, and he only goes to the chophouse after work. We’ll have to wait until Monday afternoon to follow him home.”

“You’re forgetting something,” Harry said.

“What am I forgetting?”

“That you have an assistant who plans ahead. I thought knowing where Crippen lived might prove useful, so after I escorted you home yesterday, I returned to the chophouse. When Crippen left, I followed. He lives in a flat above a bookshop on Marylebone High Street.”

“Excellent! But I do have one quibble.”

“Oh?”

“You’re not my assistant. We’re equal partners.”

Harry’s gaze softened. “I like the sound of that.”

“Just as long as you don’t expect a raise with the promotion. I’m afraid you get nothing out of it this time.”

“On the contrary. I get a lot of pleasure out of this arrangement.” He took my hand, stopping me. “Cleo?—”

The distant whistle of a locomotive interrupted him. I let go of his hand and picked up my skirts. “Come on, Harry! If we miss this train we’ll have to wait an hour for the next one.”

The walk to Mr. Crippens’ flat took us past the very church where Reverend Pritchard had worked up until six months ago. We decided to enter and see what we could glean from the new vicar. Unlike Pritchard, he was not out of sight in the vicarage writing his sermon for the following day.

He greeted us amiably. “I haven’t seen you here before, but that is of no consequence. I consider it an honor to marry a young couple of my parish, even those who are not regular churchgoers.”

“We’re not getting married,” I said. “We’re private detectives. This is Mr. Armitage and my name is Cleopatra Fox. We’re trying to determine the final movements of a man by the name of Esmond Shepherd. Did he come in here and ask you some questions?” At the vicar’s befuddled look, I added, “Middle-aged, quite handsome. He would have come in about ten days ago.”

“I’m afraid we get a lot of people looking through registers. Their faces blend together.”

“Mr. Shepherd wasn’t looking at parish records. He would have been asking after the former vicar, Reverend Pritchard.”

The vicar’s friendly demeanor vanished. “What is the meaning of this?”

“We simply want to know if you recall a man asking about Reverend Pritchard.”

He shook a finger at me. “I will not answer you, young lady. Take yourself off these premises immediately!” He pointed at the door. “Go!”

“I thought everyone was welcome here,” Harry said, a thread of steel in his tone.

“Only those with good in their hearts, not troublemakers and muckrakers.”

“We’re trying to solve a man’s murder. It may be linked to the reason why Reverend Pritchard left this parish.”

The vicar’s face turned thunderous. “Get out of my church!”

“Harry,” I said sharply, before he could respond. “We won’t learn anything here.”

I led the way outside and down the steps to the pavement. Harry’s long strides meant he soon streaked ahead. He was seething. Fortunately, it didn’t take long before he’d worked the anger out of his system and his strides returned to normal. I was going to run out of breath if he let it consume him much longer.

“Sorry, Cleo, but I can’t abide hypocrites. He talks of people with good in their hearts and yet he protects Reverend Pritchard, a man who did something the bishop called a ‘problem’ in his letter.”

I glanced over my shoulder to the church, expecting to see the vicar still spouting his fire and brimstone rhetoric at us from the steps. He was not. “At least we can be sure Pritchard did something terrible, otherwise his replacement wouldn’t be so insistent on keeping it private.”

Harry followed my gaze, frowning. “Yet he didn’t seem to recall Esmond Shepherd. If Shepherd had asked the same question as us, the vicar would certainly remember, given his reaction to our inquiry.”

“Unless he lied, and he did remember him.”

There was no answer to our knock on Mr. Crippen’s door, so Harry and I decided to begin our inquiries at the bookshop below their flat. Still bruised from our encounter at St. Michael’s, I prepared myself for a nasty tirade telling us to mind our own business. I was pleasantly surprised when the bookshop owner was keen to talk about Miss Crippen when I mentioned her.

“I’m worried about her,” he said, leaning over the counter, his voice low. “She used to come in every day after she moved back in with her brother, but about six weeks ago, she stopped. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Perhaps she moved out,” I said.

He shook his head emphatically, causing his spectacles to slide down his long, straight nose. “Her brother comes in and buys books from time to time. They’re the sort of books a young woman would enjoy, so I’m quite sure she’s still up there. Sometimes I hear two sets of footsteps, a heavier one and lighter one.” He looked at the ceiling. “I think he’s keeping her prisoner in the flat.”

“Why would he do that?”

He leaned forward even further. “I can’t be certain, but usually when a female is kept prisoner by her family, it’s because she fell in love with a wrong ‘un, and the family are stopping her from running away with him.”

Esmond Shepherd certainly fit the description of a wrong ‘un.

“Has anyone come here looking for her?” Harry asked.

“Just you two, as far as I am aware. Someone could have come when the shop is closed, and I wouldn’t know.”

“In your opinion, is Crippen a violent man?”

“No. He seems quite ordinary. But you never can tell, can you?”

His answer eased my mind somewhat, but a kernel of concern remained. “May we wait in here for Mr. Crippen’s return?”

“Of course. There’s an excellent display of poetry books in the front window. You can pretend to browse while you watch the street.”

Harry and I waited at the window, each of us holding a book of poems. Mine was rather good and I became distracted by a poem about fairies. Fortunately, Harry was more alert.

“There he is,” he said, keeping his head bowed as if reading. “He’s entering the building now.”

We set down the books and raced out of the shop. I waved my thanks to the bookshop owner and followed Harry through the door that led to the flat above the shop. Taking the stairs three at a time, he reached Mr. Crippen well before me.

“Where’s your sister?” Harry demanded.

Mr. Crippen paled. He swallowed heavily. “Y-you again. Wh-what is the meaning of this?”

“It’s a simple question. Is your sister inside? Are you holding her against her will?”

“No!” Mr. Crippen eyed Harry carefully. “I presume you’ve been talking to the bookshop owner below. You shouldn’t listen to a word he says. He reads too many horror novels.”

Before Harry could grab Mr. Crippen by the lapels and shake the answer loose, I stepped between them. I had an inkling about the reason for Miss Crippen’s confinement. In fact, confinement was the best word for it.

“She’s pregnant, isn’t she?” I asked.

Harry’s release of breath came out as an audible sigh of realization. “She’s not your prisoner?”

With Harry no longer looking so threatening, Mr. Crippen took on an air of indignation. “She is staying indoors of her own volition now that she’s showing. We don’t want anyone to know about the baby. Phyllida isn’t married.”

“Is Esmond Shepherd the father?” I asked.

The muscles in Mr. Crippen’s jaw bunched and his lips pinched.

“We won’t tell anyone,” I assured him.

He gave in with a grunt. “Yes, he is.”

“May we speak to her about him?”

Mr. Crippen agreed, on the condition that we treat her gently. “She’s been very upset since learning of his death.”

We found Phyllida Crippen preparing tea in the small kitchen. She was unprepared for visitors, going by the unwashed hair hanging past her shoulders and loose-fitting housecoat over her dress. She quickly drew the housecoat closed over her swollen belly.

I introduced us. “We’re private detectives, looking into the death of Esmond Shepherd.”

Tears welled in her eyes and she touched her lips as she composed herself.

“We believe you can give us some answers we’ve been seeking,” I went on.

She placed two more cups and saucers on the tea tray. “Come into the parlor where it’s more comfortable.” She spoke softly, but her voice was steady and her gaze met mine.

She handed the tray to her brother, then led the way into the parlor. She removed a pile of romantic novels from the sofa and placed them on a side table. I studied her as she served the tea. She was quite young, probably no more than twenty, with the milky complexion of a girl not used to the outdoors. There was a gentleness about the way she moved and a great deal of shyness, particularly in regard to Harry. She hardly looked at him.

It would probably be best if I asked the questions. “You left Hambledon Hall three months ago, is that right?”

“Yes. When I became sure that I was…” She settled her hand over her belly.

“Did you tell Mr. Shepherd about the baby?”

She glanced at her brother. He encouraged her with a nod. “I did, as soon as I realized. I presumed we would marry, but…” She swallowed heavily. “That’s when he told me there was someone else. He wanted nothing more to do with me. He urged me to leave Hambledon while I still had my good reputation intact and could get a reference from Lady Kershaw.”

Mr. Crippen’s face twisted with his sneer. “Shepherd was a cad.”

Miss Crippen looked as though she would like to protest, but thought better of it. She sipped her tea.

“We want to establish Shepherd’s movements in the days leading up to his death,” I went on. “Three days before he died, he came to London. He stayed at the Marylebone Guesthouse, not far from here. Did he come to London to see you?”

“No. I don’t know why he was here. It was a shock to see him on our regular evening walk.”

“It was the surprise on Phyllida’s face that made me realize he meant something to her,” Mr. Crippen added. “She’d refused to tell me the name of the father, but after seeing her reaction that day, I assumed it was him.”

“You must have suspected it was someone from Hambledon Hall,” Harry said.

“I presumed it was Lord Kershaw. It’s often the way, with a young female servant taken advantage of by the lord of the manor.” He shrugged, as if it was so common as to be ordinary, accepted even.

“Did either of you approach Shepherd when you saw him here?” I asked.

“No,” Miss Crippen said. “I wouldn’t let my brother go after him. I’d made up my mind about the baby’s future, you see, and it didn’t involve Esmond.” She rubbed her belly again. “He’d already showed his lack of interest. A confrontation wouldn’t change his mind.”

According to the landlady at the guesthouse, Shepherd had left the building twice during his stay, once in the evening after his arrival and again the following morning before his departure. “Did you see where he was heading?”

“He walked along Wimpole Street, then turned into Queen Anne Street.”

Queen Anne Street connected to the street where St. Michael’s was located. “Do you go to church?”

My question took them both by surprise.

“I used to, before I was showing,” she said.

“Which church?”

“All Saints on Margaret Street. Why?”

Instead of answering, I asked another question. “How well did you know Reverend Pritchard?”

She blinked in surprise. “Not very well. I went to his services on Sundays, as did most of the staff. He seemed like a good man, very pious, but he’d only been there a short while before I left.” She gasped. “Do you think he killed Esmond?”

“It’s a line of inquiry we’re following. So, you didn’t know that Reverend Pritchard was based at St. Michael’s here in Marylebone before he went to Morcombe?”

“You’re mistaken, Miss Fox. He was from Cornwall.”

“He lied about being from Cornwall, because he didn’t want anyone investigating his past. He left his previous post under a cloud.”

“Oh! I wonder what happened.”

Mr. Crippen lowered his teacup. “Do you know, I think I’ve heard something about this. Our neighbor attends St. Michael’s, and happened to tell me several months ago about the vicar being caught out in some scandal or other. No names were mentioned, and he didn’t know the particulars of the scandal, only that it necessitated the vicar’s swift move out of the parish. Our neighbor wondered where he’d gone. It was all very hush-hush, he said.”

“Are you saying Morcombe’s Reverend Pritchard is that same vicar?” Miss Crippen asked me. “Oh, dear. Poor Lady Kershaw. She’d be mortified if she knew. She dislikes scandal.”

“Don’t we all,” Mr. Crippen muttered into his teacup.

Miss Crippen lowered her gaze.

“Did Lady Kershaw know about your condition?” I asked.

“No. She knew about my liaison with Esmond, but not the outcome.”

“Her ladyship must have guessed,” Mr. Crippen said with a sneer. “She just didn’t want to know for certain, because then she’d have to acknowledge they employed a snake.”

“She knew what he was like, by all accounts,” I said. “As did Lord Kershaw. Why do you think they put up with a gamekeeper who seduced their female staff? Why not dismiss him?”

Miss Crippen shrugged. “He was a good gamekeeper, I suppose. He’d been employed for a very long time, and his father before him, I believe. Tradition counts for much.”

“It’s everything for some,” her brother added in another mutter.

Miss Crippen cradled her belly with one arm. “Now that I think about it, it is strange that they kept Esmond on. They didn’t seem to like him very much.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“They both went out of their way to avoid him. If they saw him approaching, they changed direction and disappeared. Lord Kershaw must have had meetings with him, of course, to arrange shoots and so forth. Even so, he always looked as though it was a chore. I thought it was odd. Esmond was so charming.”

Her brother grunted. “Until he got what he wanted. Then he changed his tune and the man’s real character was revealed.”

Miss Crippen pressed her lips together in an effort to stop them trembling. She failed.

Harry handed her his handkerchief. “What about other members of the family? For example, Lady Elizabeth. Did she dislike Shepherd, too?”

Miss Crippen accepted the handkerchief with a light blush infusing her cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Armitage.” She dabbed the corner of her eye. “I’m not sure what Lady Elizabeth thought of him.” She suddenly lowered the handkerchief to her lap. “But Mrs. Browning loathed him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I overheard them arguing once, her and Esmond, in his cottage. I was meeting him there, but didn’t enter when I heard their voices. I could hear them clear as a bell. They probably thought they couldn’t be overheard there.”

“What were they arguing about?”

She frowned in thought. “At the time, I assumed it was me. But now, in light of his…wandering eye, it makes more sense that they were arguing about Miss Browning.”

“Janet!” I had a terrible feeling about this.

Miss Crippen nodded. “I heard Esmond say something like, ‘You’re jealous of her?’ Since I believed I was the only one in his affections, I thought he meant me. I presumed Mrs. Browning was infatuated with him and became upset to discover his feelings were engaged elsewhere. I think they were lovers, once, a long time ago.”

It seemed logical to me. To have confronted him so boldly meant Mrs. Browning had more than feelings for him. It meant her feelings had been returned at some point, otherwise she would have suffered in silence, too embarrassed to admit she liked him.

“Esmond called her pathetic,” Miss Crippen went on. “She retaliated by telling him he was awful, that she was too young.”

“Too young?” Harry echoed.

“Again, I thought she was referring to me. To someone of Mrs. Browning’s age, I am young, but I’m twenty. Old enough. Janet Browning is just nineteen. She’s also old enough, but a mother must worry about her daughter’s heart being lost to a man much older than her.”

“Her heart and her reputation,” Mr. Crippen added. “The Brownings would want a good marriage for their daughter, and no man of good breeding will—” He cut himself off with a cough.

Miss Crippen lowered her head again and sniffed.

I agreed with her that it made more sense for Mrs. Browning to be worried about Janet, not the nanny who’d been there less than a year, nor any other servant. It made even more sense for her to worry if she knew Esmond Shepherd was the sort of man who would take advantage of Janet then set her aside when he tired of her.

“What did Shepherd say in response to Mrs. Browning?” Harry asked.

“He said she revolted him now.”

“Now? Are you sure that’s the word he used?”

“Quite sure. That’s why I presumed they were lovers once, when they were both younger. Also, he called her Cicely.”

For a gamekeeper to call the sister of his employer by her first name implied they were very close indeed. I was inclined to agree with Miss Crippen. Mrs. Browning and Shepherd had been lovers. She discovered he was pursuing Janet and confronted him. Instead of agreeing to stop his pursuit, he accused her of jealousy. That must have been galling for Mrs. Browning, a mother worried about her daughter.

It meant she had a strong motive to murder him.

I was still considering the implications, but Harry had moved on. “Did you notice anything in the house go missing?” he asked.

Miss Crippen looked taken aback. “No.”

We rose to leave, but Harry hadn’t quite finished. He directed his question to Mr. Crippen, however, not Phyllida. “You discovered Shepherd was the father of the baby three days before you traveled to Morcombe to confront him. Why the delay?”

“Phyllida didn’t want me to talk to him. She begged me not to, and I agreed to let sleeping dogs lie. But I couldn’t. After three days of stewing in my anger, I decided to go. That was Monday. I made a reservation for two nights at the inn, as I wanted to stay long enough to make plans with him for the baby’s future, but then I heard about his death.”

“Why not stay and see if your sister could make a claim for an inheritance?”

Mr. Crippen bristled. “Because I wasn’t thinking about money at that point. I wanted the man to marry her, not pay her. I admit that I panicked when I heard he was murdered. I thought it best not to get involved, so I left. I didn’t kill him, Mr. Armitage, and I resent the implication that I did.” He jerked open the door and lifted his chin. “Good day to you both.”

“Thank you for your time,” I said.

“And apologies for the difficult questions,” Harry added. “At this juncture, they are necessary.” He placed his hat on his head and offered a shallow bow to Phyllida Crippen.

She blushed profusely and lowered her head. Realizing she still clutched Harry’s handkerchief, she held it out for him to take.

“Keep it,” he said with a smile.

Mr. Crippen snatched it off her and pressed it into Harry’s hand. “I’d like to remind you about your promise to be discreet.”

“Her secret is safe with us,” Harry assured him.

I fully intended to keep our promise. However, it may not be possible if Mr. Crippen or his sister turned out to be a murderer. I said as much to Harry as we walked back to the hotel. It was growing late, and prematurely dark, thanks to the clouds blanketing the city. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t over yet. I was due to dine with my family and the extended Wentworth clan again. Hopefully I’d have an opportunity to ask them some more questions.

Despite the prospect of getting answers, I wasn’t looking forward to it. How was I supposed to ask Mrs. Browning about her former lover’s interest in her daughter without offending her?