Page 73 of Murder at Hambledon Hall
As Harry slotted the register back into the bookshelf, I approached the vicar, seated at the desk where he was writing notes about the service in a leather-bound notebook. “You were the vicar at St. Michael’s in Marylebone before coming here.”
The tip of his pencil snapped off as he pressed too hard on the page. “No! No, I wasn’t! I came from Cornwall.”
“We know the truth. We know why you left there in a hurry.”
The hand holding the pencil started to shake.
“It doesn’t matter to us,” Harry assured him. “We won’t divulge your secret unless it’s pertinent to the murder.”
“It’s not!” Pritchard removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with his handkerchief. The ordinary activity seemed to calm him, or perhaps it was simply a way of giving himself a moment to think. He placed the glasses back on his face and pocketed the handkerchief. “You’re right. I was based there before I came here. I’ll swear on a thousand bibles that I had nothing to do with Shepherd’s murder. As far as I’m aware, he knew nothing about my…” He cleared his throat. “…about my past.”
“We don’t care about that,” Harry said again. “But Miss Fox has learned that the victim went to St. Michael’s a few days before he died. We want to know why.”
“I don’t know! I haven’t corresponded with anyone from that parish since I left. Please, don’t dig up my past. I can’t go through that again. If Shepherd’s visit to St. Michael’s was to do with me, he never mentioned it, and I’m quite sure the new vicar wouldn’t say anything to him.” He closed his notebook and stood with such force, the chair tilted on its hind legs before settling back again. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do.”
“Shepherd wasn’t asking aboutyouat St. Michael’s,” I said. “He was looking through the parish records.”
“Oh. I see. I’m sorry, but I can’t help.” He took a step, only to stop again. He frowned. “It might have something to do with Lord Kershaw.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps not. I don’t want to stir things up for him. He and Lady Kershaw have been kind to me.”
“She knows your secret, too,” I said. “She promised to keep it. Is that in exchange for you keeping a secret of hers?”
“No. Nothing like that. You’re right. She does know about my past, and that I came from St. Michael’s. It was when I informed her that she told me about her husband’s connection to the Marylebone parish. It was just an offhand comment, a curious coincidence. I’m sure it means nothing.”
“What kind of family connection?”
“The earls of Kershaw kept a townhouse in the St. Michael’s parish for a hundred years or more. It was sold by the previous earl when the railway came to Morcombe. The train journey to London was so much shorter than travel by horse and carriage, and they could be there and back in the same day. For the few times they wanted to stay longer, they could just take a suite at a hotel.”
Many of the landed gentry kept townhouses in London, and some had sold them off in recent times as keeping them was costly, particularly when they were hardly used. It was why luxury hotels like the Mayfair had become popular with that set.
Reverend Pritchard glanced from Harry to me. “Telling you that doesn’t place Lord and Lady Kershaw in trouble, does it?”
“Our investigation is ongoing,” I said. “Thank you for the information.”
He dogged our steps as we headed out of the office. “I doubt they’re involved in their gamekeeper’s demise. They’re good people. They’ve been kind to me.”
“And to me,” I said. Not only did I like the Kershaws, but they were dear friends of my aunt and uncle. If they were guilty, I would have a very difficult choice.
“You only have to look at the fact his lordship overturned the decision to close the bridleway,” Reverend Pritchard added.
Harry and I stopped. “When?” I asked.
“The mayor received the letter from his lordship’s solicitor yesterday. The bridleway’s reopening is effective immediately. Apparently he discovered some paperwork that proved the public were granted access centuries ago, and he wanted to do the right thing without delay. As I said, he’s a good man.”
Harry and I didn’t speak until we’d left the church and Reverend Pritchard behind. I walked quickly in the direction of the railway station, outstripping Harry at first.
When he caught up to me, he touched my elbow. “Cleo, what’s wrong?”
“Lord Kershaw has only reopened the bridleway because Shepherd is dead. That means he closed it because that’s what Shepherd wanted. Why would he do something his gamekeeper wanted if it went against his own wishes? Because Shepherd was blackmailing him, just as Mr. Browning stated,” I finished, answering myself.
“It doesn’t necessarily mean Kershaw killed him. We don’t have proof.”
“The evidence is mounting.” I sighed. “I don’t want Lord Kershaw to be guilty, Harry.”
“Because you like him? You think he’s a good man, as Pritchard said?”
“Because pointing the finger at him will upset my aunt and uncle. Uncle Ronald will rant and rage at me, and Aunt Lilian will…” A sudden rush of tears clogged my throat and filled my eyes, blurring my vision. I lowered my gaze and drew in some steadying breaths until I’d regained my composure. “Her addiction is making her say things she usually wouldn’t. I’m worried what she’ll say if I have Lord Kershaw arrested for murder.”
He took my hand and squeezed. “I can be with you if it becomes necessary to tell them.”
