Page 51 of Murder at Hambledon Hall
“He’s in his fifties!”
“Are you implying he’s too old to keep up with you young bucks?” I teased.
He removed the stopper from a crystal decanter. “I just think it’s pathetic when someone his age wants to go out carousing with fellows my age.” He poured port into one of the glasses. “Also, he’s a boorish prig.”
“And your friends are refined and cultured?”
“At least we treat women respectfully, even the courtesans. Browning was just telling me in the billiard room that he’s looking for a replacement, since his last one became too fat. If I had a wife, at least I wouldn’t dishonor her by taking a mistress.”
“That’s very mature of you, Floyd. I have a newfound respect for you.”
He finished filling three glasses with port and replaced the stopper in the decanter. “I’ll have my amusement now, while I’m young and unfettered. Once I get a wife, I’ll settle down and be dull like the rest of the married men.”
“There goes my respect again.”
“What did I say?”
“Just pour the sherry. I’ll have one, too.” I moved two empty glasses closer to him. “Did you manage to find out anything useful for my investigation?”
“No, sorry. I tried, but Kershaw always steered the conversation in another direction without answering. Most of the time he simply avoided me.”
“Deliberately?”
“I suspect so.” He glanced toward our guests. “He’s watching us now. He suspects we’re investigating him.”
“I’minvestigating.You’reassisting me. Although I think I’ve gleaned as much as I can, for now. Hopefully, you’ll have some luck later with Browning.” I indicated the port glasses. “Fill his up a little more.”
Floyd obliged.
I patted his arm. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”
“I’ll try.” He turned his back to the room, downed one of the glasses of port then refilled it. “That ought to help.”
The handwritingon the piece of paper slipped under my door was difficult to decipher. With Harmony’s help, I managed to work out that it was from Floyd and that Mr. Browning had told him the antique rifle was still missing from its position on the armory wall. Over a simple breakfast of poached eggs, toast and coffee, Harmony and I discussed its possible whereabouts in light of what we’d learned from our suspects, but we didn’t come up with any new ideas.
I met Harry at the train station as arranged. On the journey to Morcombe, we discussed what to do once we arrived, but couldn’t come to an agreement. I wanted to confront Faine about his criminal history, but Harry didn’t think that would get results. Faine, he thought, would lie.
Harry suggested we look through his belongings for stolen goods instead.
D.I. Hobart had given Faine’s address as the Red Lion Inn, but we doubted he actually lived there. We were wrong. The innkeeper informed us that Faine had use of a room in the old coach house in exchange for performing work at the inn from time to time. Part of the coach house had been converted into accommodation years ago, when the railway came to Morcombe and the number of coaches passing through diminished significantly. There were four rooms, but Faine’s was the only one in use. The innkeeper also informed us that we wouldn’t find Faine there. He was currently working at a building site at the edge of the village.
Perfect.
We told the innkeeper that we merely had more questions for Mr. Faine about the bridleway, then we pretended to leave the vicinity of the inn altogether, only to return via a side gate attached to the courtyard. It was quiet. If any horses were in the stables, they made no noise. The courtyard and outbuildings would have once bustled with grooms, and coachmen stopping on their journey to or from London, but the railway had ended the inn’s glory days. Now, locals enjoyed a drink after work, and ramblers stopped for a pie before returning to the city on the train, but it was nothing like it must have been in its heyday.
We skirted the central well and an old trough with a puddle of water pooled at the slimy bottom and approached the large coach house with three enormous arched entrances. Through one, I could see an old cart and some rusting equipment. The second led through to an empty space, and the third marked the entry to the four flats; two on the ground floor and two above. Harry picked the lock on the only door that was locked.
Faine may live in a converted coach house, but his flat resembled a pigsty. The smell struck me first. It was a mix of unwashed man and rotting food. There were dirty clothes strewn about the floor, and dirty dishes piled on the table. I didn’t dare look into the bucket placed beside the unmade bed. I used a broken tennis racket to move the clothes and test for loose floorboards, while Harry looked inside and above the narrow wardrobe.
The squeak of a floorboard as I pressed on it with my foot drew his attention as he closed the wardrobe door. Our gazes connected. He dropped to his knees and pried the floorboard up. He reached into the cavity to his elbow and felt around. When he withdrew his hand, I thought at first he’d found nothing, but he opened his palm to reveal a silver teaspoon.
I picked it up. It was solid silver, going by its weight. The bowl was shaped like an acorn and the letter K was engraved into the stem. I’d used teaspoons identical to it at Hambledon Hall.
I tucked the spoon into my bag. “Is this the only thing in there?”
Harry nodded. “The space is a good size. A number of items could be hidden in it. How large were the candlesticks?”
“About the length of my arm. They were very impressive.”
