Page 35 of Murder at Hambledon Hall
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 simplywantto 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.
Chapter8
Getting to Esmond Shepherd’s cottage without being seen wasn’t as easy as I had thought it would be. Avoiding the house, driveway and lawn wasn’t the most difficult part. It was climbing over fences and fallen logs in the woods that proved to be awkward in long skirts and a corset. I wouldn’t have been able to maintain my dignity without Harry’s assistance, but I still tore my hem and muddied my boots.
Although he’d let me go the moment my feet touched the earth, I could still feel his hands on my waist. I fussed with my skirts to give my nerves a few moments to settle. “Next time, I’m wearing men’s trousers.”
He was silent. I expected he was also trying to regain a semblance of balance after being close to me, but when I looked up, I realized his attention was on the gate’s heavy lock.
“I think this is the bridleway Lord Kershaw recently blocked.” He looked around and spotted something through the trees. “Is that the gamekeeper’s cottage?”
We headed toward it, but it wasn’t until we drew closer that I realized it was in fact the gamekeeper’s cottage, only we’d approached it from the rear instead of the front. “It is very close to the bridleway. No wonder the poachers abandoned it when the cottage was built here all those years ago.”
Dappled light filtered through the trees. Although it hadn’t rained for a few days, the ground was damp. Soon, the leaves would fall, laying a carpet of autumnal colors. I breathed deeply, drawing in the scent of earth, trees and fresh air.
“You like the outdoors,” Harry said. It was a statement rather than a question. “I noticed in Brighton that you enjoyed the sand and the sea, and I know you enjoy walks in London’s parks, too.”
“I suppose I do, but I’ve been a city girl my entire life.”
He tried opening the cottage door only to find it locked. “Do you miss Cambridge?”
“Sometimes. I miss my friends. We correspond regularly, but it’s not the same. But I like my life in London, too. Living in a luxury hotel does make the chaos of the city more bearable.”
He flashed me one of his dimpled grins. “I’m sure it does.”
He set to work opening the lock, then entered the cottage first. Once he was satisfied it was empty, he signaled for me to enter, only to find I was already inside.
Something was amiss. Indeed, several things weren’t right. The rug was rumpled, the cushions were piled up together, and the pictures had been removed from their frames and not replaced. “Someone has been here since Harmony and I came.” I picked up the photograph of Mr. Shepherd with his parents. “Either they were in too much of a hurry to put everything back exactly the way it was, or they didn’t care.”
Harry inspected the bookshelves. “The place is hardly ransacked. They were respectful. These books have been removed from the shelves then replaced, going by the patterns in the dust.”
I joined him and immediately noticed the difference to last time. “They were dustier. The intruder has definitely looked through them then put them back. I wonder what they were looking for.”
“And whether they found it.”
Harry entered the kitchen while I went to inspect the bedrooms. There were signs of further disturbance in each of them. After a thorough inspection, I joined Harry in the kitchen.
“They searched in here, too,” I said. “What have you found?”
He handed me a card with Marylebone GuestHouse printed in bold lettering above a London address.
“Esmond Shepherd must have stayed there at some point,” I said. “It might be relevant, but he could have stayed there some time ago. There’s no indication of how old this is.”
