Page 7

W e didn’t need to ask directions to the church. Its bell tower rose higher than all the buildings in the village. It looked interesting, with its arches and buttresses, and I thought Harry might start talking about Medieval architecture, but he simply suggested we search for Reverend Pritchard in the vicarage first. The housekeeper there told us he wasn’t at home, however, and to look for him in the church.

“He’ll be praying, most like,” she said with a heavy dose of pride in her voice. “Always praying, is our Reverend Pritchard. Very devout, he is.”

I rather thought that was the point of vicars. “I’ve heard the same thing from a number of sources. It’s why we’ve come to speak to him. We’d like his blessing for…” I cleared my throat, in an attempt to give myself time in which to think of something. Something else , that is. But I couldn’t, so I continued with the only explanation that had come to mind. “…for our marriage.”

“Oh, how wonderful! Congratulations to you both.” She pressed a hand to her bosom and gave us a wistful look. “What a lovely couple you make, and if I may say so, Miss, you’ll be a lovely bride.”

“She will indeed,” Harry said smoothly. “I feel very blessed already, but divine approval can’t hurt. My fiancée remembers Reverend Pritchard from when she lived in Cornwall, and we decided to seek him out. It was a surprise to find him here in Berkshire, wasn’t it, my love?”

I wasn’t sure whether it was him calling me his love, or the softening of his gaze as he looked at me, or both, but I suddenly flushed. I touched my cheek with the back of my hand. “Goodness, the sun is warm today.”

The housekeeper chuckled. “Would you like to come in for refreshments?”

Harry and I declined.

“It’ll be cooler in the church,” she went on. “I’m sure Reverend Pritchard will be happy to bless you on the spot, particularly as you knew him from his last position. Where did you say that was again?”

“Cornwall,” I said.

“Yes, but where exactly in Cornwall?” Her interest in the precise location renewed my own interest. I could understand the vicar not wanting to tell me, a stranger he met over a dead body, but I’d expected him to mention where he’d come from to his housekeeper.

“It’s a small village,” I said, repeating what Reverend Pritchard had said. “A mere speck on the map. Thank you for your?—”

“It’s just that you don’t have a Cornish accent.” The housekeeper leaned closer, turning her ear to me as if that would help her hear the nuances of my speech pattern.

“I was there only briefly.”

“Yes, of course, of course. Reverend Pritchard mustn’t have been there very long either, as he also doesn’t have a Cornish accent. Is he originally from London, do you know?”

“I’m not sure.” I’d not really detected any specific accent when the vicar spoke. That in itself was intriguing. But I’d not talked to him for long. The housekeeper, however, would have had many conversations with him. “What do you think?” I asked.

She twisted her mouth to the side as she thought. “Sometimes, I think I detect a London one. We get a lot of city folk coming here, so I’ve heard a variety of accents, and I’m quite sure I’ve heard a hint or two in his, but when I asked him, he said he has never lived there. Well. Never mind. He doesn’t have to tell the likes of us where he’s from, does he? That’s between him and God, as is the reason for him leaving his former parish.” She leaned forward a little, unable to hide her interest in my reaction.

“You don’t know why he left?” I asked, innocently.

“No. Do you?”

“No.”

“I’m sure there isn’t a particular reason.” Her cheerful smile returned. “God sent him to Morcombe knowing we needed him after our last vicar passed away suddenly.”

That was one answer for the vicar’s expedited transfer. A less spiritual one was that he’d been quickly moved out of his former parish because of something he’d done. We needed to know where he moved from so we could learn the answer and decide whether it was related to the murder.

The housekeeper hadn’t exaggerated when she said the vicar was a devout man. We found him alone in the church, prostrated on the cold stone floor in front of the altar. We couldn’t hear his whispers, but he must have been in deep prayer to have not heard our footsteps.

I was reluctant to disturb him, but Harry cleared his throat. “Excuse us, Reverend.”

The vicar stood so quickly that his glasses fell off. He caught them and replaced them. He blinked at Harry. “Oh. Hello. I’m sorry, I was just…” He indicated the floor without taking his gaze off Harry.

“Do you remember me, Reverend?” I asked. “Miss Fox. I was a guest at Hambledon Hall over the weekend.”

“Of course, I remember. Miss Fox, what a pleasure to see you again. Are you on your way to the Hall with your friend?”

“This is Mr. Harry Armitage,” I said, ignoring his question for the moment. “He’s a private detective.”

Reverend Pritchard’s face fell. “Private detective?”

Harry shook the vicar’s hand. “I’m trying to locate the man suspected of murdering the gamekeeper from Hambledon Hall.”

“Ohhh. I’m not sure how I can help. I know nothing about him.”

I was grateful Harry followed my lead and didn’t tell him I was also a private detective. Uncle Ronald wanted me to investigate discreetly. It was also a good idea to let everyone think Harry was looking for the missing poacher and not an alternative suspect. It would put people at ease, and hopefully that would lead them to lower their guard and divulge a clue.

“You were first to reach the body,” Harry said. “Did you see anyone in the vicinity just before the gunshot? Anyone at all, even if it wasn’t the missing poacher?”

The vicar pressed a finger to the bridge of his glasses. “How will that help you find him?”

“It helps me picture the scene. It’s simply a part of my process. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.”

Reverend Pritchard seemed to believe him and relaxed a little. “The first person I saw was the already deceased Mr. Shepherd, then Miss Fox arrived. She emerged from the woods. If anyone saw someone, it would be her. The shot came from that direction.”

“Are you sure?”

“It must have. The poacher would hardly be in the house.”

“Did you see the moment Mr. Shepherd was struck by the bullet?”

“No. He was already on the ground when I came upon him.”

“Did you hear anything? Voices, rustling leaves, footsteps perhaps?”

The vicar shook his head. “I didn’t even hear Miss Fox approach. I’m afraid I’m a dreadful witness, Mr. Armitage. I am sorry.”

Harry rushed to reassure him. “It’s quite common not to notice the small details. It must have been traumatic for you to see one of your parishioners moments after he died.”

“Mr. Shepherd wasn’t a parishioner, as such. He never came to church. Actually, that’s not entirely true. He came once, but not for the Sunday service. But yes, it was a shock seeing him lying there. I haven’t been able to get the image of his face out of my mind since.”

“You look pale, Reverend. Would you like to sit down?” Harry indicated the nearest pew.

The vicar gave a self-conscious laugh. “I assure you, I’m stronger than I look.”

Harry seemed to have finished with his questions, but I felt as though we could learn more from the vicar. It would be a shame to take over from Harry, though. He had Reverend Pritchard’s full attention and seemed to have his trust, too. My intrusion might risk what he’d gained. But Harry asked no more questions, so it was up to me.

“What do you think of Lord Kershaw and his family?”

Reverend Pritchard looked from Harry to me and back again. When Harry gave an encouraging nod, he finally answered. “Both Lord and Lady Kershaw are very kind, and Lady Elizabeth, too. Indeed, I’ve had more to do with his lordship’s aunt than his wife. She never misses a parish council meeting.”

“And the Brownings? How well do you know them?”

Again, he glanced at Harry before answering. “I don’t, really. I’ve met them from time to time at the house, but they’ve never been to one of my services. I presume they attend church where they live.”

“Do you know the Hambledon Hall servants?”

He bristled. “I’m a little familiar with those who attend Sunday service. Some don’t, and I’m not sure why his lordship doesn’t force them. I wouldn’t want an ungodly person working for me, but that’s my opinion.” He looked as though he was going to say more, but stopped himself. “Miss Fox, why are you here?”

“I, uh…”

“I assume Lord Kershaw employed Mr. Armitage to find the poacher, but that doesn’t require your presence.”

While I was scrambling for a suitable answer, Harry offered one. “I asked her to join me. I thought having a friend of Lady Kershaw’s accompany me might give my inquiries more weight.”

Reverend Pritchard didn’t look like he believed him, but he made no comment.

“Just one more question,” Harry went on. “Your accent… I can’t quite place it. Miss Fox said you’re from Cornwall, but you don’t sound Cornish.”

“I’m from here and there, most recently from Cornwall. Now, if you don’t mind, my housekeeper will have my lunch ready and she loathes it when I’m late.” He indicated we should walk ahead of him.

Outside, the sky was clear and blue. The church grounds were lovely with large trees providing shade over the section of graveyard where the old headstones leaned in a southerly direction, like sunflowers seeking the sun. We parted ways with Reverend Pritchard in front of the vicarage and continued on into the heart of the village.

Harry’s long strides meant he quickly drew ahead of me. Realizing I’d been left behind, he turned to face me, and slowly walked backwards. His features softened as his gaze unashamedly admired me.

My face heated again. “What are you doing, Harry?”

His attention turned to the church behind me. “Admiring the view.” At my arch look, he added, “The buttresses and so forth.”

“Buttresses?”

“And so forth.”

He turned around again as I drew alongside him. We stopped at the window of an establishment with a sign out the front advertising homemade lemonade and scones, claiming they were ‘perfect after a ramble in the Berkshire countryside.’ Through the window we could see four ladies seated at two tables covered with yellow-and-white-checkered tablecloths. There were no gentlemen, but it looked respectable enough for an unwed couple to enjoy a light lunch together.

“Shall we go in?” Harry opened the door for me.

Based on the sign, I’d expected the four ladies enjoying refreshments to be ramblers, but none wore sturdy walking boots. Indeed, I suspected they were local women as they seemed to know one another. Even though they sat at two tables, they’d been having one conversation amongst themselves. It was somewhat heated, going by the stern looks on their faces and the way they fell silent upon our entry.

The one wearing a white apron stood and invited us to choose a table. “Lovely day for it.”

I presumed ‘it’ was walking in the countryside. “A very pleasant day. What a beautiful village you have here, and so close to London.”

The woman took our order then set to work behind the counter preparing our sandwiches. She was the youngest of the four. I guessed her age to be about fifty, while two others must be at least sixty, and the fourth at least seventy. They were perfect for our needs.

While the proprietress made our lunch, Harry introduced himself as a private investigator searching for the man the police claimed murdered Esmond Shepherd. After some initial fluttering of fans and exchange of glances, they all wanted to give their opinion. I suspected they’d been discussing the very topic moments before we arrived and were keen to pass on their thoughts to someone who wanted to actually solve the crime.

A woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Clayborn was the first to openly question Sergeant Honeyman’s conclusion. “Hopeless Honeyman, that’s what we call him. He always chooses the easier path, if he can. Usually, Lord Kershaw tells him to smarten up if the sergeant’s laziness becomes too obvious, but this time, his lordship is letting him get away it.”

“For the sake of appearances,” Mrs. Smith, the eldest of the quartet added. Unlike the other three, she wore black from neck to toe, with a white lace cap covering her white hair. She reminded me of a picture I’d seen in the newspaper of the aging queen, who sported a similarly authoritative air about her, even in a black-and-white photograph. “Make no mistake, Lord Kershaw is a good man. He’s simply trying to avoid scandal. The London papers would love nothing more than to come here and pester the folk up at the Hall.” She shook a finger at Harry. “It’s a good thing you and your assistant are taking on this investigation, but you need to widen your net. Don’t just search for the missing man.”

Neither Harry nor I corrected her assumption that I was his assistant. As with the witnesses at the Red Lion, I’d not given my name. I didn’t want them associating me with the guests who'd stayed for the weekend. It might curb their enthusiasm for gossip if they knew I had a personal connection.

“You don’t think the poacher did it?” Harry asked.

Two of the women scoffed, Mrs. Smith rolled her eyes, but it was Mrs. Clayborn who answered. “Is he even a poacher? Why would a poacher, who isn’t from around here, come to this village, and stay at the inn? It doesn’t make sense. We think Sergeant Honeyman is using him as an escape goat.”

“Scapegoat,” the proprietress corrected her as she set down a plate of sandwiches in front of Harry and me. “We all think it’s too neat, and if Mr. Conan Doyle has taught us anything, it’s that murder is never neat.”

I hid my smile by biting into a sandwich. As a lover of detective novels myself, I understood why these ladies were so keen to share their thoughts with us.

“Pointing the finger at the poacher raises a number of other questions,” Mrs. Clayborn went on. “Why does Lord Kershaw want him blamed? Is he covering up for a member of his family?”

Mrs. Smith didn’t like that idea. She shook her head vehemently. “They’re good people. They’re not murderers.”

I suspected this was the point they’d reached in their heated conversation when we’d walked in.

Mrs. Clayborn picked up her teacup. “I’m just saying that no one should be ruled out. Not until all doubts are banished. Hopefully, Mr. Armitage can do that. I’m a good judge of character, and I can tell he’s got the right stuff to see this through to the end, even if some in this village want the so-called poacher blamed.” She gave Harry a firm nod, and it felt as though he’d just been given a stamp of approval by the queen herself.

He regarded the women with an earnest expression, his bright eyes clearly revealing his interest in what each of them had to say. He wanted them to know he was taking them seriously and valued their opinions. According to my grandmother, women were often ignored once they lost their youthful looks, something which had galled her. Having a young, handsome man like Harry giving these ladies his full attention was the best way to loosen their tongues. Harmony and I would have had to work harder to achieve the same result, but he was doing it without having to say much at all. The thing was, I knew Harry well enough to know he wasn’t feigning interest. He genuinely thought they could offer valuable insights.

“Do you have a theory, Mrs. Clayborn?” he asked.

“Unfortunately not. Without knowing who was where at the time the shot was fired, there are simply too many suspects.”

Fortunately, that was one thing I’d managed to achieve while I was staying at Hambledon Hall.

“Do you know of any grudges against Esmond Shepherd?” Harry prompted. “Anyone who had a disagreement with him?”

Mrs. Clayborn leaned forward. “He did upset a number of men. A lot of women liked him, you see. He could be charming to the young, pretty ones.” She rolled her eyes. “Silly flibbertigibbets, the lot of them, but that’s young maids for you.”

The other women nodded, so I doubted any of them was the recipient of the gamekeeper’s attentions.

“It didn’t upset any husbands,” the proprietress clarified. “He chased after unmarried girls, and mostly only Hambledon housemaids.”

“And the nannies,” Mrs. Clayborn added. “I never understood why his lordship didn’t put a stop to it. They must have gone through dozens of girls over the years, all leaving in tears because Mr. Shepherd lost interest in them.”

“You know why his lordship didn’t,” the proprietress chided, hand on hip. “Don’t pretend innocence, Mrs. Clayborn.”

Mrs. Clayborn’s lips pinched before she relented with a sigh. “I suppose Mr. Armitage should know, even if it’s not relevant. It will help him get a better picture of the victim.”

Mrs. Smith scoffed. “That old rumor? It’s not true.”

“It might be true,” Mrs. Clayborn said snippily.

“I think it’s true,” said the proprietress.

“So do I,” added the fourth woman, speaking up for the first time.

“What rumor?” Harry asked. “Why do you think Lord Kershaw never dismissed Esmond Shepherd for his behavior toward the female staff?”

Mrs. Clayborn’s lips pinched again. “The rumor is that Lord Kershaw’s grandfather got Esmond Shepherd’s mother pregnant. Apparently, Susannah Shepherd was the fourth earl’s daughter. That close tie between the families meant the current Lord Kershaw didn’t want to dismiss Esmond Shepherd, Susannah’s younger brother. She died years ago, aged just twenty-one, poor thing.”

It was the same rumor Mr. Faine had told us. Mrs. Clayborn clearly also believed it, as did the proprietress of the teashop and the fourth woman, who both nodded along as if it were a certainty.

The oldest woman, Mrs. Smith, shook her head vehemently. “No. I don’t believe it for a moment, and I never have. I think it’s time to put that nasty rumor to bed, once and for all.”

“Why don’t you believe it?” Mrs. Clayborn asked with genuine curiosity. She and the other women seemed to respect the older woman’s opinion.

Mrs. Smith settled her bulk in the chair, pleased she had everyone’s attention. “For one thing, I’m the only one here who remembers the fourth Lord Kershaw well, and he was a stiff, upright man. An affair of the heart wasn’t in his nature. He was also quite a bit older than Mabel Shepherd, who was happily married at the time, may I point out. That’s not all,” she added crisply. “I clearly remember seeing them in the same vicinity from time to time, and there was no spark between them. Lovers are easy to spot. They share certain signals without knowing it. But I saw no sign they’d shared even a moment of intimacy.”

“They could have been good actors,” Mrs. Clayborn said.

Mrs. Smith barreled on, undeterred. “Do you remember how upset William Shepherd was when Susannah died?”

“It was over forty years ago!” the proprietress cried. “I was just a girl then.”

“I remember how devastated he and Mabel were. Inconsolable. If Susannah wasn’t his daughter, he wouldn’t have been as upset as that.”

“He raised her,” Mrs. Clayborn pointed out. “That must account for something.”

Harry and I had both been raised by people who were not our parents, albeit only for a few years, not our entire lives. But it meant we’d witnessed firsthand that it was possible to feel all the deep emotions that went along with parenthood despite not being the natural parent. I found myself nodding along to Mrs. Clayborn’s response for that very reason.

“Mabel Shepherd died recently, didn’t she?” I asked.

“A month ago,” Mrs. Smith said. “It’s a good thing she wasn’t alive to see her youngest die before his time. She’d already buried Susannah, and she doted on Esmond. It would have been a tragedy.”

Once again, I tried to think how the rumors surrounding Susannah’s father’s identity could have a bearing on the murder of her brother, but I couldn’t see a connection. The scandal was hardly news. Everyone in the village seemed to have heard it. Besides, it happened years ago. All the parties involved were deceased. Indeed, there was only one person alive who could know the truth.

“Lady Elizabeth Wentworth and Mabel Shepherd were a similar age, is that right?” I asked.

The three younger women turned to Mrs. Smith. “Mabel was the older by a few years,” she said. “Perhaps five or so.”

“Did they get along?”

She frowned at my question. “As well as the wife of the gamekeeper and daughter of the earl could. I never heard them exchange cross words, or even glares. They appeared friendly enough.”

“Both were kind, good women,” Mrs. Clayborn added. “Lady Elizabeth still is, although she doesn’t get into the village much lately.”

“She comes to parish council meetings,” the fourth woman noted.

“She took tea here a few weeks ago,” the proprietress said with a healthy dose of pride in her voice. “She used to come in more, but not lately. If you want to find out about her family’s past, Mr. Armitage, you should talk to her.”

Mrs. Smith gasped in horror. “They can’t ask Lady Elizabeth if her father was also Susannah Shepherd’s father!”

The proprietress planted her hand on her hip again. “I wasn’t suggesting they should. I just think that if anyone here remembers anything from back then, it’s her. Her mind’s still sharp. She’s a kind soul, too. She won’t turn such a nice young man as Mr. Armitage away from the Hall, as long as he’s respectful.” This she said to Harry with an arch of her brows, as if it were a question.

“Of course, we would be respectful,” he assured her. “Lady Elizabeth sounds like someone I’d like to meet, anyway. She seems interesting.”

“Oh, she is. Spirited, too. Or she used to be.”

“Why did she never marry?” I asked.

The women all looked at one another, but no one had an answer.

“It was fortunate she didn’t,” Mrs. Smith said. “She was needed at the Hall to take care of her parents in their dotage. Her brother, the next heir and father of the current Lord Kershaw, was back and forth to London a lot at that time, so she was all they had.”

I would have liked to call at Hambledon Hall next to speak to Lady Elizabeth about her recollections of the past, but dismissed the idea. Uncle Ronald wouldn’t want me interrogating Lord Kershaw’s family. Besides, as Mrs. Smith said, we couldn’t simply ask the difficult questions that needed to be asked.

Harry finished the last sandwich finger and wiped his hands on the napkin. “You mentioned Lord Kershaw is a good man.”

“He is,” Mrs. Clayborn said.

“We’ve heard he blocked the bridleway that runs through his property, so the public can’t use it.”

Three of the women regarded one another with varying degrees of frustration and annoyance, while Mrs. Smith puffed out her chest and huffed, her matronly authority on full display.

“Don’t get all het up about it,” she told them. “None of you have walked that path in years.”

The proprietress snatched up our empty plate, all the while glaring at Mrs. Smith. “That’s not the point. Others use it and should be allowed to continue to use it. We need the ramblers coming through Morcombe. They’re good for business.”

“I don’t disagree with you, but don’t go telling Mr. Armitage that Lord Kershaw is a monster for blocking it. I’m sure it was an oversight, and it will be reopened to the public soon. Mr. Faine is making it all much worse than it needs to be by carrying on. He’s a troublemaker, that one.”

The proprietress huffed as she strode to the counter. “Ordinarily, I would agree with you about Martin Faine. He is a troublemaker. But this time he has a point. If his lordship planned for the bridleway to be closed temporarily, why not let us know? He didn’t. He put a fence across it. My George takes twice as long to do his deliveries now.”

Mrs. Smith sighed. “I just don’t want Mr. Armitage thinking Lord Kershaw is an overbearing, greedy landlord. He isn’t. He’s a good man.”

“I’m sure he is,” Harry quickly cut in. “Everyone I’ve spoken to in the village only has kind words about him and his family. Or I should say, they have kind words about his wife and aunt. His sister and brother-in-law seem less well-liked.”

The proprietress placed the plate down hard on the counter. “That’s right! They were there when the gamekeeper died. Perhaps one of them did it.”

“I wouldn’t put it past that Mr. Browning,” Mrs. Clayborn said. “Such a horrid man. I’ve never liked him. What kind of grown man wants to marry a fourteen-year-old girl?”

“Fourteen!” I blurted out.

Mrs. Smith cast a frosty look at her friend. “Mrs. Browning wasn’t fourteen when they married. They waited until she was seventeen.”

“And he was twenty-seven. Make of that what you will, Mr. Armitage.” Mrs. Clayborn returned Mrs. Smith’s frosty glare with an even frostier one of her own.

Mrs. Smith ignored her and addressed Harry and me. “Lady Cicely Wentworth, as Mrs. Browning was called then, was rather quiet as a child. Shy girls can often become attached to older men. They offer a sense of security.”

The proprietress and Mrs. Clayborn spoke over the top of each other in their eagerness to disagree with Mrs. Smith. “Mr. Browning was as horrid then as he is now,” the proprietress declared with a wrinkle of her nose, while Mrs. Clayborn pointed out that Cicely had a secure older man in her life already—her father.

Mrs. Smith didn’t have a response to that.

“If Mr. Browning is so horrid,” I said, “why did Cicely’s parents consent to the marriage, particularly when he’s a commoner?”

Mrs. Smith shrugged. “Perhaps they allowed her to choose her own husband. Some of their ilk do. Or perhaps she urged them to agree to it. What you’re all forgetting is that some young girls simply want to get married. They have idealized notions of what marriage will be like and don’t care overmuch about the man as long as he is offering to take them away from a dreary life. If a young Lady Cicely found living at Hambledon Hall stifling, then she may very well have seen Mr. Browning as a way out. They’ve led quite interesting married lives, living overseas and in London, throwing parties for important people… Being married to him brought little Cicely out of her shell. She has blossomed.”

She wasn’t describing the woman I’d met at Hambledon Hall a few days earlier. Mrs. Browning had been condescending to me when she deigned to talk to me, not a blossom in any sense of the word. I suspected these women didn’t know Cicely Browning very well and were simply idealizing the life she’d gone on to lead after her marriage.

Harry paid the proprietress more than we owed for lunch. The women had been very helpful, their insights into the two families and village life invaluable. I left the teashop worrying we’d forgotten to ask something and said as much to Harry as we walked back to the station.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We can always come back.”

We might need to seek out Mrs. Smith and her friends again, because I couldn’t help thinking that knowing the past would help us solve the murder. Or perhaps I was getting caught up in the salacious nature of the rumors and scandals. Either way, I wanted to unravel the mysteries of the Wentworth family, despite my uncle’s wishes.

There was one other thing I knew for certain—I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I wanted to make one more stop before we caught the train back to London.