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B efore dining with Uncle Ronald and my cousins in the hotel restaurant, Harmony joined me in my suite to help me dress and arrange my hair. She brought some exciting news with her.

“I’ve been assigned to work with Mr. Hobart tomorrow.”

I swiveled in the chair to look at her. “On your day off?”

“I’ll be given Friday off instead. Turn around so I can fix this.”

She pulled a face as she plucked out one of the tortoiseshell combs. I’d arranged my hair myself that morning. Most ladies had their maids redo their hair before each social engagement, but I only bothered for formal occasions. Usually I just did it once a day and left it.

“What will you be doing for Mr. Hobart?” I asked her reflection in the dressing table mirror.

“Going through his old notes and files and archiving anything that’s no longer relevant and updating those that are.”

I pulled a face. “Sounds tedious.”

“Not at all. I discovered while assisting Mr. Bainbridge to organize the wedding reception that I enjoy making processes more efficient. Besides, cleaning out old files will be better than cleaning out guests’ rooms.”

I couldn’t argue with that. I also knew she should take on extra administrative tasks when offered. It would show her willingness to step into a more permanent role. “I’ll miss your company tomorrow, but I’ll manage alone.”

She dragged the brush through my hair, stroking it vigorously all the way through to the end at the middle of my back. “You won’t be alone. I told Mr. Hobart I was supposed to help you, so he suggested Harry go in my stead. He telephoned him then and there, and Harry agreed. He’ll meet you at the station.”

I blinked at her in the mirror, but she was focused on my hair, not my face. I couldn’t tell if there was a conspiracy or not, let alone if she was one of the conspirators.

“I think you should take a man with you, anyway,” she went on. “As much as it galls me to admit, you’ll probably get answers more easily from male witnesses if you do. I discovered the hard way that country men don’t have much respect for women.”

I swiveled in my chair to face her, earning a scowl as my hair slipped through her fingers. “Which man treated you disrespectfully?”

“The butler, for one. He didn’t deign to even address me. The other maids said it wasn’t personal. He didn’t talk to any of them unless he absolutely had to. They said he even spoke down to the housekeeper. Apparently, Mr. Browning is disrespectful to them, too. I had nothing to do with him, but the maids said he can be rude and revolting, particularly when he’s drunk. They loathe it when he stays at Hambledon. Poor Mrs. Browning, forced into a marriage with an oaf.” She shook her head as she signaled for me to face the mirror again. “She’s such an elegant, noble lady.”

“Don’t pity her too much,” I said. “I found her to be rude and condescending.”

“Most toffs are. Present company excepted.”

I frowned at her reflection.

“I don’t think of you as a toff, Cleo, but others do. You’re related to toffs, so you sometimes get lumped in with them around here.” When she saw that I didn’t like what she’d said, she gave my shoulders an affectionate squeeze. “Don’t pout. It’ll create lines on your face. Besides, those of us who know you, know you’re modest and fair. Now, how would you like me to do your hair?”

It was mid-morning by the time Harry and I called at the Red Lion Inn in Morcombe. With its bricks painted white and a red-tiled roof, the inn exemplified the quaintness of the village itself. Ivy-leaved geraniums spilled over the edge of the two hanging baskets flanking the door, while the leaves of the Virginia creeper growing up the facade were already turning a vibrant crimson.

Inside wasn’t as light and bright as the outside, but it felt cozy with the large fireplace and well-worn leather seats. Harry removed his hat at the door so that he wouldn’t have to duck beneath the low wooden beams. He set it down on the counter and ordered us a half-pint of ale each.

The publican gave me a look down his bulbous nose as if to say I shouldn’t be in the area where the men drank, but he’d allow it this time. Perhaps I was overly sensitive, having been told to move to the women’s room in pubs before, but that was how it came across to me.

Harry paid for the ales and added a generous tip, which didn’t go unnoticed.

The publican’s frown deepened as he waited for Harry to speak. The frown turned to wide-eyed curiosity when I spoke up instead.

“A man stayed in one of your rooms recently. He was tallish, but not as tall as my friend here, and wore a gray cap.”

The publican straightened, a sign that he knew the man, despite my vague description. “He bolted on the afternoon of the incident at Hambledon. Collected his things and cleared off without so much as a farewell.”

“That’s unfortunate for you. I hope the police find him and make him pay you what he owes.”

“He paid up front for two nights and left after just one. He also left what he owed for lunch on the dresser.”

That was intriguing, and somewhat unexpected. If the man was a poacher or ne’er-do-well traveler, as Lord Kershaw and the police suggested, he wouldn’t bother with payment. “Can you describe him more fully?”

He leaned his elbows on the counter. “About thirty, curly brown hair, slim build. My wife delivered a tray to his room at lunch. She said he was polite, spoke like a Londoner, and was neat.” He straightened. “You reckon the lodger killed the gamekeeper over at Hambledon and you want to find him.”

I saluted him with my tankard before taking a sip.

“You’re wasting your time. The man’s well and truly gone.”

“We’d still like to try. Is there anything else you can tell us about him? Did he mention where he’d come from or where he was going? Or what his business was here in Morcombe?”

The publican picked up a cloth and wiped down the counter. “No. He kept to himself. Why would he go blurting out his business if he came here to poach on Kershaw land?”

“That’s if he was a poacher.”

The publican’s hand stilled. He glanced at me then past me, at a patron drinking alone in a booth. Harry followed his gaze, then angled himself so he could keep an eye on the patron. He leaned one elbow on the counter and nodded a greeting at the man.

The man nodded back. It was difficult to determine his age. He had few lines on his face, but the black beard obscured most of it, and a gray cap covered his head so I couldn’t tell if his hair was thinning or graying. “Sergeant says he was a poacher,” he said. “Lord Kershaw says he was, too. Are you saying something different, Miss…?”

“I’m keeping an open mind.”

I didn’t want to give him my name. Even though I’d not visited the village during my stay at Hambledon Hall, there was a chance my name had been bandied about in Morcombe as a guest of the Kershaws. I’d worn a simple outfit of navy blue skirt and jacket for today’s outing in the hope of fitting in.

“You’re wasting your time,” the man said, repeating the publican’s words.

“Even so, I’d like to at least try to find him,” I said.

“I mean, if you’re hoping his lordship will pay you for the time you spend investigating, he won’t. He won’t even thank you.”

Before I made an amateurish mistake and told him we didn’t expect payment, Harry cut in. “Why do you say that?”

The patron shrugged broad shoulders. “Blame the man no one can find and that’s the end of it. But don’t blame him, and the investigation will have to continue. That means Kershaw’s family and guests will suffer the indignity of having their business aired in public. Kershaw won’t want the attention.”

It was interesting that we weren’t the only ones to come to that conclusion already.

Harry took his tankard and approached the booth. “My name is Harry Armitage. May we?”

The man indicated we could sit opposite. “Martin Faine.”

Harry invited me to slide onto the bench seat first then he sat beside me. “Do you work nearby?”

Mr. Faine hesitated. “I work here and there, laboring, farm work, fixing things. Sometimes I’m a beater at the larger shooting parties up at Hambledon, but I wasn’t helping out on the weekend.”

“Have you lived in Morcombe a while?”

“All my life.”

“So you know the family up at Hambledon Hall well.”

Mr. Faine nodded in the direction of the publican. “I’m not the only one. Anyone who has lived here their whole life knows all about the Wentworth family.”

Harry signaled for the publican to pour another drink for Mr. Faine. “Is Kershaw a good man?”

“I used to think so, until he blocked the bridleway.” He tapped his finger on the table beside his empty tankard. “He’s got no right. Folk from ‘round here have been using it for centuries. Ask anyone. The deliverymen need it, the mailman…”

The publican deposited another tankard on the table. “The ramblers who come here from London for the day, too. I reckon that’s why Kershaw put a fence across it, to deter strangers, but he won’t admit it. I need those tourists in here, having a pie and a pint after their ramble. Lucky for us, Faine here is leading the fight to reopen it.”

Mr. Faine picked up the tankard. “Just protecting our rights. It’s the law that if a road or path has been used for years then it can’t be taken away by the landowner.” He tapped his finger on the table again. “That bridleway has been used since the day King Henry the Eighth came here to hunt.”

The publican scoffed as he walked back to the counter. “That’s just a story.”

Mr. Faine became indignant. “A true story.” He addressed Harry and me, once again tapping his finger on the table. “When King Henry stayed at the old Hall, he fell in love with one of the maids. She was a local Morcombe girl, and a real beauty. You may think a lowly maid should be pleased to attract the attention of a king, but this girl was in love with a groom from the neighboring estate, and the king was old and fat by that time. That didn’t slow him down. He was relentless in his pursuit of her. When the groom found out, he decided to whisk her away to safety in the middle of the night and hide her until after the king left. He used an old poacher’s track through the woods that crosses both properties. It was hard going on account of the track wasn’t used anymore after the Hambledon gamekeeper’s cottage was built close to it. The groom forged on, though, until he finally reached the house. He went into the servants’ quarters, where he saw the king entering his betrothed’s room. He knew if he laid a finger on the king, he’d be killed instantly if he was caught. So, he caused a commotion in the dark which startled the king. Old Henry abandoned his plan to seduce the maid. The groom then rescued his betrothed and together they fled back along the same track. The groom hid her in the stables of the neighboring estate for a night and a day until the king left. The lady of Hambledon Hall at that time—Kershaw’s ancestor—was so happy the honor of her maid was saved, she asked her husband to allow the locals to use the path whenever they wanted. So you see, the bridleway has significance to the area. It’s not just a path used for convenience. It represents the triumph of a lowly groom over a king. It's importance to the good folk of Morcombe can’t be overstated.”

The publican snorted. “Don’t listen to Faine. The story is bollocks.”

“It ain’t!”

“The king wouldn’t go to a maid’s room for a start. He’d have her brought to his own chambers. And if he was old and fat, as the story goes, he won’t be hunting beasts or maids. And are you trying to say no one looked for the maid after she disappeared? The groom’s the first person they’d turn to.”

Mr. Faine sniffed. “The staff at both houses and the villagers protected him. They weren’t going to turn over one of their own.” He swiped up his tankard, all the while glaring at the publican. “That’s what we do in Morcombe. You wouldn’t know. You’re a newcomer.”

“I’ve lived here forty-three years!”

“Is there any documentation stating the public was granted the right to use it?” Harry asked.

“If there is, it’s probably in the house and his lordship won’t give it up.”

“What reason does Lord Kershaw give for blocking the bridleway now?” I asked.

Mr. Faine shrugged. “He doesn’t give one. He doesn’t have to discuss his plans with us. He’s the important man in the big house and we’re just lowly folk from the village. One thing I do know is, his father would never have blocked the bridleway. Now, he was a good man.”

The publican nodded agreement. “Maybe now Shepherd’s gone it will be reopened.”

Mr. Faine had been about to take a sip of his ale but lowered it again and glared at the publican. “What’s it to do with him? It was his lordship’s decision to block it, not the gamekeeper’s. Shepherd may have worked for him, but he was on our side in here.” Mr. Faine tapped his chest.

The publican rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but Shepherd wasn’t liked by some.”

“Who?” I asked.

The publican must have realized he could cause a great deal of trouble to friends, neighbors, and customers, so he turned his back to us, pretending not to have heard my question.

Mr. Faine answered for him. “He had a reputation as a womanizer. Some husbands didn’t like him because their wives swooned in his presence.”

I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard the publican grunt. “If he had a reputation, why didn’t Lord Kershaw stop him?” I asked. “The actions of his staff reflect on him. He should have threatened to dismiss Mr. Shepherd if he didn’t mend his ways.”

Grunts came from both Mr. Faine and the publican this time.

Harry and I exchanged glances. “Are you suggesting Kershaw wouldn’t try to curtail his gamekeeper’s behavior?” Harry asked. “Why not?”

“Don’t know,” Mr. Faine said. “Lord Kershaw has always overlooked Shepherd’s indiscretions. So did the previous lord.”

“He died five years ago, didn’t he?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

“That he did, and his wife a few years before him.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The old folk around here have a theory that Lord Kershaw’s grandfather had a liaison with Esmond Shepherd’s mother, Mabel, and Esmond’s sister Susannah was the result.” He winked at Harry.

“What happened to Susannah?” I asked.

“Died of a fever back in the fifties. She being the fourth Lord Kershaw’s daughter explains why the fifth and now the sixth have always treated the Shepherds well. There’s a strong connection between the two families.”

“What about the rest of the Wentworth family?” I asked. “How well do you know them, Mr. Faine?”

“I’ve never met the current Lady Kershaw, but I haven’t heard a bad word about her. Same with the aunt, Lady Elizabeth. She’s respected around here. She used to come into the village a lot, until old age made her unsteady. Real lively and friendly she was in her younger days. She got involved in village life, helping at the annual fair and delivering care baskets to the needy. She didn’t come into Morcombe as much when she had to take care of her elderly parents, but after they died, she resumed her duties in the village with good cheer. Shame she can’t get out much anymore,” he added wistfully.

“What about the Brownings? You must have known Mrs. Browning from before she married. Was she as respected as her brother, his lordship?”

“I never had anything to do with her. None of us did. When she was a girl, she was always accompanied by her mother or aunt. They never let her out of their sight. Then she married young and moved away. Not far, mind, but she only ever comes back to Hambledon occasionally and rarely into Morcombe. None of us really knows her, or her husband and daughter.”

Harry and I thanked Mr. Faine and the publican and rose to leave. I stopped before exiting the inn, however, and approached Mr. Faine’s booth again. “Do you know if the women of the family ever participate in the shooting parties?”

He blinked in surprise. “No, I—” He cut himself off and scratched his beard. “I remember now. I used to help out on the estate sometimes when I was younger. Mrs. Browning was allowed to join in the shooting parties. She was a good shot, even as a girl. I hear her husband doesn’t think women should participate in shooting or hunting, so he forbids her to join in now. He’s probably worried she’ll bag more birds than him.” He chuckled.

I expected Mr. Faine to connect my question to the shooting of the gamekeeper, but if he did, he didn’t point out that Mrs. Browning should be considered a suspect because of her skill.

“What do you think?” Harry asked as we walked along Morcombe’s High Street.

“I think we haven’t narrowed down our list of suspects. In fact, we’ve added one. Mr. Faine wears a gray cap. He could have been the man I saw arguing with Shepherd near the gamekeeper’s cottage. I never saw that person’s face.”

“Gray caps are common. Besides, the publican confirmed that a man wearing a gray cap left the inn in a hurry after the murder. That’s suspicious behavior.”

“A poacher settling his account when he could have just left without leaving a trace? It doesn’t fit, Harry.”

“Perhaps he’s not a poacher. His quick departure is suspicious, you have to admit.”

I did admit it. I also doubted he was a poacher. The question was, why had he come to Morcombe? And was he the man I saw arguing with Shepherd in the woods? There was only one thing I knew for certain after speaking to the publican and Mr. Faine.

“Sergeant Honeyman is placing the blame on a man he has no intention of finding,” I said. “And it’s more than likely that Lord Kershaw is encouraging him.”

My uncle’s wish that I would exonerate his lordship once and for all looked more and more unlikely to come to fruition. If it didn’t, I had a difficult decision to make.