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H arry was keen to return to Morcombe with me. I’d not wanted to search Faine’s property alone and he agreed it was necessary to go immediately. But first, he suggested he telephone his father and find out what he could about the bullet that shot Esmond Shepherd.

I had an even better idea, however. “I’ll contact D.S. Forrester at Scotland Yard. I think it’s time to involve an active member of the police force, not a retired one.”

“Or a corrupt one,” Harry added. “The local man, Honeyman, is entirely under Kershaw’s thumb.”

Harry listened with a frown as I told Monty Forrester about the investigation over the telephone, and what information I needed from him. The frown only appeared when I called the detective sergeant by his first name.

An hour and a half later, we once again ventured into the courtyard of the Red Lion Inn, being careful not to be seen. It was Sunday morning, and the inn was quiet. Indeed, the village seemed quiet. Shops were closed, and an overcast day kept the ramblers away. We hid behind some beer barrels in the courtyard, watching the converted coach house for any sign of Faine. After twenty minutes, however, no one emerged from his room and I grew impatient.

“I’ll draw him out if he’s in there,” I said. “I’ll suggest we have a drink together. Then you go in and search.”

“That’s a terrible idea. He’ll know you’re up to something.”

“I’ll be convincing.”

Harry shook his head. “We should look in the stables or the other coach house, somewhere we haven’t already searched.”

It was a point we’d discussed on the train journey. Harry was convinced the rifle wasn’t in Faine’s room or we would have found it last time. I thought a second, more thorough, inspection was required before reaching that conclusion.

Five minutes later, when Faine still hadn’t emerged, I decided to go ahead with my plan to draw him out so Harry could search. I got up, only to be jerked back down by the hand.

Harry put a finger to his lips then pointed at the stables. Faine appeared in the doorway, scratching at his scraggly beard as he strode across the courtyard. He passed us without looking our way and left the courtyard altogether.

Harry signaled to go, and together we cautiously approached the stables. He entered first, setting down the small case he’d brought with him near the entrance, and looked inside. Moments later, he signaled for me to follow. “It’s empty except for one horse.”

The horse was contentedly munching oats in its stall and paid us no attention as we set about our search. I expected to find the rifle in a cavity under the floor, just as we’d found the teaspoon under the floor in Faine’s room. I pushed aside straw and stamped my feet on the cobblestones in search of a loose section that could indicate there was a hiding space underneath.

I hadn’t got very far when Harry joined me, carrying a long bundle wrapped in a blanket. “Found it hidden in the rafters.” He unwrapped the bundle to show me a rifle bearing an elaborate engraving on the silver escutcheon. “It’s an antique Purdey.”

“Just as Mr. Browning claimed.”

If the bullet that killed Esmond Shepherd matched one fired from the rifle, then this was the murder weapon. It was time to telephone Monty to see what he’d learned.

Harry tucked the bundled-up rifle inside his coat and picked up the case. We went in search of a telephone, only to find that the village’s public silence cabinet was located in the post office and it was closed. We had no choice but to got to the police station.

I was surprised to find Sergeant Honeyman there, considering it was Sunday. He was chatting to the constable manning the front desk. It seemed to be just the two of them on duty. I suspected very little happened in Morcombe most days, let alone on a Sunday. The murder of Esmond Shepherd would have been a unique incident.

“I remember you from Hambledon Hall,” Sergeant Honeyman said to me. “You’re Lady Kershaw’s friend.”

“I’m Cleopatra Fox.” I was surprised he remembered me, since he hardly spoke to me on the day of the murder, despite me being one of the first at the scene. I didn’t tell him that, however. We needed his help and I didn’t want to offend him. “Mr. Armitage and I are private detectives. We’ve been investigating the murder of Esmond Shepherd and have something for you. We discovered this in the stables of the Red Lion Inn where Mr. Faine lives.”

Harry unveiled the weapon and set it down on the desk in front of the sergeant.

The constable whistled and bent to inspect the rifle closely.

Honeyman, however, narrowed his gaze at me. “I had a telephone call from Scotland Yard earlier. I was ordered to give you my full cooperation. Why are you chasing my tail?”

“Because there was no poacher.”

“There was.”

“No, there wasn’t, as you are well aware.”

Honeyman opened his mouth to argue, but Harry cut him off. “Sergeant, remind me what the consequences would be if you disregard Scotland Yard’s orders?”

The constable melted into the background, eager to distance himself from his superior’s corruption.

The sergeant glared at Harry for a moment before giving in with a grunt. He picked up the rifle. “It’s a fine piece. Faine had it, you say? He’s a bad apple that one. It wouldn’t surprise me if he stole this and shot Shepherd with it when Shepherd saw him.” He seemed satisfied with his theory, perhaps because it meant Faine got the blame, not a member of Lord Kershaw’s family.

“We’re not sure if it’s the murder weapon,” I said. “We need to undertake a scientific experiment to compare a bullet shot from this gun with the one recovered from Shepherd’s body.”

“It won’t work.”

“Bullets shot from old rifles like this will have unique markings visible under a microscope, unlike modern machine-made weapons that appear to be all the same. If there’s a match to the recovered bullet, then we’ll know this is the murder weapon.”

“I know about the science, Miss Fox,” Honeyman bit off. “The problem is, we don’t have a microscope here to inspect the bullets.”

Harry set his case on the desk. “I brought mine.” He looked pleased that he was going to put one of his favorite instruments to good use.

Honeyman snatched up the rifle. “Constable, fetch the evidence box for the Shepherd case. You two, come out the back.”

He retrieved a bullet from a locked cabinet and led the way through the station to a courtyard. We watched as he fired a bullet from the rifle into a sack packed with fabric scraps that had clearly been used as target practice before, going by the dozens of holes. Sergeant Honeyman retrieved the bullet and handed it to Harry.

Back inside, Harry set up his microscope and inspected the bullet. He then invited Honeyman and me to look, while the constable handed him the bullet retrieved from the victim. He swapped the bullets and inspected the second one under the microscope.

“They’re different,” he said, straightening. “That rifle isn’t the murder weapon.”

I peered through the microscope’s eyepiece. “Are you sure?” Even as I said it, I could see the difference to the first bullet. The pattern of grooves on the Purdey were clear, but were barely visible on the bullet retrieved from the body. I stepped aside to allow the sergeant to look.

“I missed church because of this,” Honeyman said with a shake of his head. “You be sure to tell your friends at the Yard that I don’t appreciate being ordered to go on wild goose chases based on the imaginings of a private detective who should be sipping tea instead of interfering with police investigations.”

“I wouldn’t have to interfere if you did your job properly in the first place,” I said.

“Are you suggesting we’re inept here at Morcombe?”

“No, Sergeant. That’s not what I’m suggesting at all.”

If he realized I was calling him corrupt, he showed no sign. He took the rifle and both bullets. “Amateurs.”

I marched out of the station, forgetting that Harry had to pack up his microscope. He joined me moments later.

“I can’t believe it’s not the murder weapon,” I said as we walked off.

“It could have been another from the armory, a more modern rifle.”

“None were missing when Harmony and I checked after the murder, and there was no time for one to be returned before Harmony arrived. The murder weapon must still be in the woods or elsewhere in the house, depending on where the killer was standing at the time.”

“If that rifle was stolen by Browning and passed on to Faine to sell, and it’s not the murder weapon, then it’s likely that neither Browning nor Faine are the murderer.”

“I’m not ruling either out yet. Both have motive and opportunity.”

We continued to walk through the village and found ourselves near the church as parishioners spilled out after the service. Reverend Pritchard stood at the door to see them off. He didn’t smile. He was a serious, pious man, as many had pointed out to us. Now that I knew why he’d left London under a cloud, I saw him in a different light. He didn’t seem quite so sinister or scheming. He seemed like an ordinary man whose life had fallen apart and he was struggling to pick up the pieces.

My sympathy for him could be a mistake. I mustn’t forget that his secret meant he had a motive for murder.

Yet Shepherd hadn’t gone to St. Michael’s in Marylebone to investigate Pritchard . I was quite sure of that. Harmony would look through the parish records after her shift finished today, to see if she could find a connection to Morcombe, but as I watched the vicar, I was reminded of something he’d told me some time ago.

Esmond Shepherd wasn’t a churchgoer. Indeed, he’d only gone once, and that wasn’t to hear a service. It made sense that it was to look through the parish records. Had he searched here first and not found what he wanted, so went to London instead? And why St. Michael’s in Marylebone? Why that particular church?

I discussed it with Harry while we waited for the parishioners to disperse and the vicar to return inside. We followed him and found him gathering his sermon notes at the pulpit.

He sighed heavily upon seeing us. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for your questions. Sundays are my busiest days.”

“Our questions are brief,” I said. “You once told me that you met Mr. Shepherd here in the church. I presume he wanted to look through the parish records. Can you tell us which ones?”

He seemed relieved that my question wasn’t about him and his past. “He looked at several, but I don’t know whether it was the baptisms or marriages.”

“What about the year?” Harry asked.

“I wasn’t peering over his shoulder.” The vicar tucked the notes under his arm and strode off in the direction of the sacristy and office, his gown billowing behind him.

I followed. “May we take a look at them?”

“Just for a few minutes. I have to pay calls to parishioners too ill or infirm to attend the service today, and I’ll be locking the office. One can’t be too careful these days.”

“We only need a few minutes.” With a specific year in mind, it wouldn’t take long.

I found the register for 1834, the year Susannah Shepherd was born. Morcombe was a small village so there were few baptisms each year, and we found hers quickly. That was both a surprise and a disappointment. I’d expected to find no record at all. Its absence would explain why Esmond Shepherd went to London to look through the records of a different parish. But its presence in Morcombe meant Susannah was baptized here. There was no need to look elsewhere.

Harry pointed to each of Susannah’s parents. Mabel Shepherd was recorded as her mother and William Shepherd as the father. His occupation was noted as gamekeeper. The fourth Lord Kershaw was either not Susannah’s father, or Mabel lied to protect herself and her family from scandal.

Drat . If the record of Susannah’s baptism was in this parish register, why did Esmond Shepherd go to London at all? Was he looking for something else?

As Harry slotted the register back into the bookshelf, I approached the vicar, seated at the desk where he was writing notes about the service in a leather-bound notebook. “You were the vicar at St. Michael’s in Marylebone before coming here.”

The tip of his pencil snapped off as he pressed too hard on the page. “No! No, I wasn’t! I came from Cornwall.”

“We know the truth. We know why you left there in a hurry.”

The hand holding the pencil started to shake.

“It doesn’t matter to us,” Harry assured him. “We won’t divulge your secret unless it’s pertinent to the murder.”

“It’s not!” Pritchard removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with his handkerchief. The ordinary activity seemed to calm him, or perhaps it was simply a way of giving himself a moment to think. He placed the glasses back on his face and pocketed the handkerchief. “You’re right. I was based there before I came here. I’ll swear on a thousand bibles that I had nothing to do with Shepherd’s murder. As far as I’m aware, he knew nothing about my…” He cleared his throat. “…about my past.”

“We don’t care about that,” Harry said again. “But Miss Fox has learned that the victim went to St. Michael’s a few days before he died. We want to know why.”

“I don’t know! I haven’t corresponded with anyone from that parish since I left. Please, don’t dig up my past. I can’t go through that again. If Shepherd’s visit to St. Michael’s was to do with me, he never mentioned it, and I’m quite sure the new vicar wouldn’t say anything to him.” He closed his notebook and stood with such force, the chair tilted on its hind legs before settling back again. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do.”

“Shepherd wasn’t asking about you at St. Michael’s,” I said. “He was looking through the parish records.”

“Oh. I see. I’m sorry, but I can’t help.” He took a step, only to stop again. He frowned. “It might have something to do with Lord Kershaw.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps not. I don’t want to stir things up for him. He and Lady Kershaw have been kind to me.”

“She knows your secret, too,” I said. “She promised to keep it. Is that in exchange for you keeping a secret of hers?”

“No. Nothing like that. You’re right. She does know about my past, and that I came from St. Michael’s. It was when I informed her that she told me about her husband’s connection to the Marylebone parish. It was just an offhand comment, a curious coincidence. I’m sure it means nothing.”

“What kind of family connection?”

“The earls of Kershaw kept a townhouse in the St. Michael’s parish for a hundred years or more. It was sold by the previous earl when the railway came to Morcombe. The train journey to London was so much shorter than travel by horse and carriage, and they could be there and back in the same day. For the few times they wanted to stay longer, they could just take a suite at a hotel.”

Many of the landed gentry kept townhouses in London, and some had sold them off in recent times as keeping them was costly, particularly when they were hardly used. It was why luxury hotels like the Mayfair had become popular with that set.

Reverend Pritchard glanced from Harry to me. “Telling you that doesn’t place Lord and Lady Kershaw in trouble, does it?”

“Our investigation is ongoing,” I said. “Thank you for the information.”

He dogged our steps as we headed out of the office. “I doubt they’re involved in their gamekeeper’s demise. They’re good people. They’ve been kind to me.”

“And to me,” I said. Not only did I like the Kershaws, but they were dear friends of my aunt and uncle. If they were guilty, I would have a very difficult choice.

“You only have to look at the fact his lordship overturned the decision to close the bridleway,” Reverend Pritchard added.

Harry and I stopped. “When?” I asked.

“The mayor received the letter from his lordship’s solicitor yesterday. The bridleway’s reopening is effective immediately. Apparently he discovered some paperwork that proved the public were granted access centuries ago, and he wanted to do the right thing without delay. As I said, he’s a good man.”

Harry and I didn’t speak until we’d left the church and Reverend Pritchard behind. I walked quickly in the direction of the railway station, outstripping Harry at first.

When he caught up to me, he touched my elbow. “Cleo, what’s wrong?”

“Lord Kershaw has only reopened the bridleway because Shepherd is dead. That means he closed it because that’s what Shepherd wanted. Why would he do something his gamekeeper wanted if it went against his own wishes? Because Shepherd was blackmailing him, just as Mr. Browning stated,” I finished, answering myself.

“It doesn’t necessarily mean Kershaw killed him. We don’t have proof.”

“The evidence is mounting.” I sighed. “I don’t want Lord Kershaw to be guilty, Harry.”

“Because you like him? You think he’s a good man, as Pritchard said?”

“Because pointing the finger at him will upset my aunt and uncle. Uncle Ronald will rant and rage at me, and Aunt Lilian will…” A sudden rush of tears clogged my throat and filled my eyes, blurring my vision. I lowered my gaze and drew in some steadying breaths until I’d regained my composure. “Her addiction is making her say things she usually wouldn’t. I’m worried what she’ll say if I have Lord Kershaw arrested for murder.”

He took my hand and squeezed. “I can be with you if it becomes necessary to tell them.”

I was about to tell him it was a task I had to do my own, but changed my mind. The thought of having his support was very appealing. “Thank you, Harry. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

The hotel staff were in a grim mood. I detected it the moment I entered the foyer. Frank wasn’t at his usual position at the door, and his replacement said he was taking a short break in the staff parlor. I went there directly and discovered Frank along with Goliath, Peter and Harmony. They sat in morose silence, cradling cups of tea.

“What’s happened?” I asked. “Has someone died?”

“Mary and her beau, one of the footmen, were dismissed today,” Peter said. “Mrs. Short caught him passing a note to Mary when she was supposed to be working.”

I flopped down onto one of the chairs, suddenly exhausted. The last two days had felt inordinately long. “I warned her to be careful.”

“We all did,” Harmony said, sounding annoyed. “She only has herself to blame.”

“It’s not their fault,” Frank said. “When were they supposed to meet? They can’t be seen talking at the residence hall because the men can’t go into the women’s area, or vice versa. They can’t talk here because they’re supposed to be working. So tell me, when?”

“Some people manage,” she shot back.

“Not everyone has Victor’s skill with secrecy.”

She bristled. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” he muttered.

Peter pointed at each of them in turn. “That’s enough, both of you.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Frank growled.

“I am your superior.”

Frank rolled his eyes.

Goliath leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Is there anything you can do, Miss Fox?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “But I’ll try to speak to Mrs. Short.”

Goliath gave me a flat smile of thanks then stood. “I have to get back to work.”

Peter and Frank followed him out of the parlor, while I remained with Harmony. I poured myself a cup of tea from the kettle and sat beside her.

“How did your visit to St. Michael’s go?” I asked.

She shook her head. “It was a waste of time. There was no record of Susannah Shepherd’s baptism in 1834.”

“We found it in the register at Morcombe. I’m sorry, Harmony. It seems I sent you on a wild goose chase. Although something did send Esmond Shepherd to St. Michael’s after he’d been to the Morcombe church.” I sipped my tea, trying to think what it could be.

“I checked other years either side of 1834,” she said. “Just in case. There were a large number of entries but I managed to cover seven years’ worth.”

“Did you see any references to the Wentworth family at all, or the Kershaw title? It was their local parish when they came to London, until the previous earl sold their townhouse.”

“No. Nothing.”

We both sighed into our cups of tea. We’d been so sure the registers would yield results. They might still, but without narrowing down a year, we were searching in the dark.

Mrs. Short’s reaction upon seeing me enter her office was similar to that of every suspect I’d interrogated in the past week, except her groan was audible. “I know what this is about, and no, I will not change my mind, Miss Fox. Mary and her beau broke not one rule, but two. Their fraternizing broke my new rule, and they also did it when she was supposed to be working. That rule has been long-standing here at the hotel, I believe, and it has nothing to do with me.”

“They only broke that rule because the new one made it so difficult for them to even talk at home.” I sat down, not prepared to give up without seeing where digging in got me. “They are young and in love, Mrs. Short. Can you not overlook it this one time?”

“I overlooked it the last time, at your request.” She pointed her pen at me. “In fact, if you’d let me dismiss Mary then, we wouldn’t be in this predicament now where I had to dismiss both. The footman could have been saved if you didn’t interfere.”

Her accusation stung. Not because it was hurtful, but because it was true. I was partly to blame. It meant I had even more reason to try and help the hapless couple now. “What harm is there in passing a note?”

“What harm?” she bellowed. “What harm, Miss Fox? A great deal, that’s what.” She jabbed the pen in my direction again. “A note leads to a liaison, and a liaison can lead to a girl getting herself into trouble. Unwed girls need to be careful.”

“That’s quite a leap to make, Mrs. Short.”

“Not in my experience. I’ve been in service many years, Miss Fox. I have seen girls give their virtue to a boy they thought loved them. More often than not, the boy disappears the moment she tells him he’s going to be a father. As housekeeper, all the maids are under my care. Their well-being and reputation are my responsibility, and if a girl is too silly to know what’s good for her, then I must make the difficult decisions for her.”

I was so stunned by her tirade that I didn’t know how to answer. While she was right in general, she was still treating the maids as though they were na?ve children who were unaware of the consequences. Perhaps that was true for some, but not all.

She must have thought my silence meant I agreed with her. She softened her tone but did not end the lecture there. “If the worst happened, and the footman abandoned her, Mary would be in a terrible predicament. Either she’d have to give the baby up, or she’d plunge it and herself into a lifetime of poverty and misery.” Mrs. Short had leaned forward an inch or two with each sentence in her attempt to get her point across. Now she sat back and concentrated on her paperwork. “If you don’t mind, Miss Fox, I have work to do before I leave for the day.”

As I closed the office door behind me, I had the vague sensation that I could have said more—that I should have said more. But I couldn’t quite grasp why. All I could think about was unwed mothers giving birth to illegitimate children. That led me to think about Miss Crippen, which led me to think about Esmond Shepherd, the father of her unborn child. Then I couldn’t stop thinking about Esmond Shepherd’s life. Not just his death, but his birth, too.

Pieces of the mystery became clearer—Esmond’s search through the Morcombe church records, the moved photograph in his cottage, the niggling feeling this entire case hinged on the past.

I was now sure that it did. I just had to make a telephone call to prove it.