Page 32 of Murder at Hambledon Hall
“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 tothisvillage, 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 ifsomein 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.
