Page 23 of Murder at Hambledon Hall
“That’s different, naturally. I’ve decided that Mrs. Short’s rule may be a good idea. Relationships between young people often come to nothing, and when they do, it leads to tension. I don’t want that here. I want a harmonious environment for all employees.”
“It’s good of you to care for your staff.”
“A harmonious workplace leads to better efficiency,” he clarified.
I should have known that was where his priorities lay. “And the couples already in relationships?”
“You’re right, Cleopatra. That must be addressed. I’ll let Mrs. Short sort it out.”
“Are you sure she’s the right person to do that, Uncle?” I was afraid the housekeeper would ruffle more feathers, not smooth them.
“She can be rather heavy-handed, but there’s no one else. Hobart is busy with more important tasks, and Leyland doesn’t yet have the respect of the staff who’ve been here longer than him.”
He was right about Peter. He’d been employed at the front desk for a few years before becoming assistant manager, but his promotion to that role was relatively recent, and he was still considered more of an equal by the staff, not their superior.
“The task would have been handled by Armitage.” My uncle’s lips flattened, not in anger but disappointment. It seemed his opinion of Harry was softening as more time passed since he dismissed him. Given the angry words exchanged at the time, it was pleasing—albeit unexpected—to see my uncle’s change of heart. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Cleopatra. Now, if you don’t mind…”
There was a knock at the door, and my uncle’s assistant arrived, armed with more ledgers.
I saw myself out and headed back to my suite. Somehow, I’d made the situation with the staff worse.
There wasone other person I could ask for an opinion about the residents of Hambledon Hall, past and present, but avoiding Aunt Lilian had become necessary of late. Her addiction to the cocaine in her tonic made her unbearable. She was snappy and irritable, and sometimes even cruel. I’d seen her maid leave the suite in tears, and waiters hurriedly close the door after delivering food from the kitchen. Her husband and children kept their distance, when possible, and tiptoed around her when not.
I felt guilty for avoiding her. She needed help, particularly from those who loved her and wanted the kindhearted woman she used to be to return. The problem was, until she admitted she needed help, she wouldn’t seek it out, or accept it when it was offered.
Before he left for the day, Mr. Hobart sent a note to my suite to say that Harry had telephoned and invited me to afternoon tea the following day at his parents’ house. The message didn’t ask for me to return the call. Harry assumed I’d go.
He knew me well.
Over breakfast the following morning, Harmony and I drew up a list of suspects and planned our trip to Morcombe, the village near Hambledon Hall. I then spent the morning at the British Library, reading as much as I could find on the history of the Kershaw family and the estate. The story of King Henry the Eighth hunting there appeared to be true, although the title of Kershaw hadn’t been created then. Indeed, the Wentworth family at the time were minor lords and quite insignificant, but the king coveted their woods for hunting. It wasn’t until the mid-eighteenth century that the first earl of Kershaw was created, but he and his descendants continued to live in the drafty old building, as Lady Elizabeth called it, until her father replaced the small manor with the current grand Gothic revival one.
I wished the old Hall still stood, so I could imagine what it would have been like to tread the same floorboards as one of the most famous monarchs. The newer house didn’t have the history behind it, but it had certainly been comfortable with its modern layout and amenities.
I also learned how the estate had changed over the centuries. The woods used to cover three-quarters of it but many stands of trees had been cut down to allow more space for the farming of sheep. When wool prices plummeted, crops were planted instead. I suspected a path at the estate’s northern edge that was marked as a bridleway in a seventeenth century map was the contentious one my uncle mentioned. It was located nearer the village and provided access between Hambledon Hall and the neighboring estate to the north. It was the fastest route between the two grand houses on the estates without making it necessary to return to the village. If a shopkeeper from Morcombe had to deliver goods to both estates, he could make one delivery after the other in short order. However, without access to that path, he had to return to the village in between, adding a considerable amount of time to the journey. From what I could find or, rather,couldn’tfind, the bridleway was never legally made a public right of way. Did that mean Lord Kershaw was within his rights to stop the villagers using it? Or did the centuries of use by the villagers give them some legal standing to keep accessing it?
I skipped luncheon altogether, then took the train to Ealing in the mid-afternoon. Harry had lived in the semi-detached house with the Hobarts, the couple who adopted him aged thirteen, until he moved into the Mayfair Hotel when he became assistant manager several years later. He briefly moved in with his parents again after his dismissal from that job, until he got back on his feet. He lived in a flat in Soho now, but still visited them often.
Both of Harry’s parents welcomed me, although Mrs. Hobart’s reception was a little stiffer than her husband’s. At least she wasn’t as outwardly rude as she had been in our early encounters, after she’d learned of my role in Harry’s dismissal.
This time, they weren’t alone in the parlor. Harry introduced me to his aunt, Mrs. Ann Hobart. Married to Alfred Hobart, the hotel manager, she lived next door to her brother-in-law and his wife.
She greeted me with eyes that twinkled with her smile and patted the seat beside her on the sofa. “Come sit with me, Miss Fox. I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time. My Alfred mentions you quite often.”
“Oh dear,” I said, smiling back. “Should I be worried?”
She giggled like a schoolgirl. “Not at all. He says you’re great company for Miss Bainbridge, and have been a good influence on Mr. Bainbridge. Apparently, he was quite wild last year, but seems to have settled down lately.”
My gaze flicked to Harry as he sat opposite. He’d been a better influence on Floyd than I had. He’d extracted Floyd from a sticky situation some months back. Floyd’s behavior had improved since then, although he would never be an angel.
The two Mrs. Hobarts excused themselves to make the tea. I offered to help, but Harry’s aunt said I should stay in the parlor. She said it with a light tone then followed it with a speaking glance at Harry.
His cheeks pinked ever so slightly. “Ballistics,” he blurted out.
I cleared my throat as I felt a blush coming on. “Yes. The science of matching bullets to guns. Obviously you know what it is, Inspector, but perhaps you could enlighten me.”
Detective Inspector Hobart—as I still called him, despite his retirement from Scotland Yard—waited until the two sisters-in-law had left before telling me about the advancements in ballistics since the advent of machine-made guns. After he waded through the science, he concluded that although small differences in bullet markings probably existed, not even the most powerful microscopes could detect them.
“No expert is prepared to swear in court that a particular bullet came from a particular gun,” he said. “They used to, when bullets and gun barrels were handmade, but it’s an area of manufacturing that has actually set the science back.”
