Page 34 of Murder at Hambledon Hall
The three younger women turned to Mrs. Smith. “Mabel was the older by a few years,” she said. “Perhaps five or so.”
“Did they get along?”
She frowned at my question. “As well as the wife of the gamekeeper and daughter of the earl could. I never heard them exchange cross words, or even glares. They appeared friendly enough.”
“Both were kind, good women,” Mrs. Clayborn added. “Lady Elizabeth still is, although she doesn’t get into the village much lately.”
“She comes to parish council meetings,” the fourth woman noted.
“She took tea here a few weeks ago,” the proprietress said with a healthy dose of pride in her voice. “She used to come in more, but not lately. If you want to find out about her family’s past, Mr. Armitage, you should talk to her.”
Mrs. Smith gasped in horror. “They can’t ask Lady Elizabeth if her father was also Susannah Shepherd’s father!”
The proprietress planted her hand on her hip again. “I wasn’t suggesting they should. I just think that if anyone here remembers anything from back then, it’s her. Her mind’s still sharp. She’s a kind soul, too. She won’t turn such a nice young man as Mr. Armitage away from the Hall, as long as he’s respectful.” This she said to Harry with an arch of her brows, as if it were a question.
“Of course, we would be respectful,” he assured her. “Lady Elizabeth sounds like someone I’d like to meet, anyway. She seems interesting.”
“Oh, she is. Spirited, too. Or she used to be.”
“Why did she never marry?” I asked.
The women all looked at one another, but no one had an answer.
“It was fortunate she didn’t,” Mrs. Smith said. “She was needed at the Hall to take care of her parents in their dotage. Her brother, the next heir and father of the current Lord Kershaw, was back and forth to London a lot at that time, so she was all they had.”
I would have liked to call at Hambledon Hall next to speak to Lady Elizabeth about her recollections of the past, but dismissed the idea. Uncle Ronald wouldn’t want me interrogating Lord Kershaw’s family. Besides, as Mrs. Smith said, we couldn’t simply ask the difficult questions that needed to be asked.
Harry finished the last sandwich finger and wiped his hands on the napkin. “You mentioned Lord Kershaw is a good man.”
“He is,” Mrs. Clayborn said.
“We’ve heard he blocked the bridleway that runs through his property, so the public can’t use it.”
Three of the women regarded one another with varying degrees of frustration and annoyance, while Mrs. Smith puffed out her chest and huffed, her matronly authority on full display.
“Don’t get all het up about it,” she told them. “None of you have walked that path in years.”
The proprietress snatched up our empty plate, all the while glaring at Mrs. Smith. “That’s not the point. Others use it and should be allowed to continue to use it. We need the ramblers coming through Morcombe. They’re good for business.”
“I don’t disagree with you, but don’t go telling Mr. Armitage that Lord Kershaw is a monster for blocking it. I’m sure it was an oversight, and it will be reopened to the public soon. Mr. Faine is making it all much worse than it needs to be by carrying on. He’s a troublemaker, that one.”
The proprietress huffed as she strode to the counter. “Ordinarily, I would agree with you about Martin Faine. Heisa troublemaker. But this time he has a point. If his lordship planned for the bridleway to be closed temporarily, why not let us know? He didn’t. He put a fence across it. My George takes twice as long to do his deliveries now.”
Mrs. Smith sighed. “I just don’t want Mr. Armitage thinking Lord Kershaw is an overbearing, greedy landlord. He isn’t. He’s a good man.”
“I’m sure he is,” Harry quickly cut in. “Everyone I’ve spoken to in the village only has kind words about him and his family. Or I should say, they have kind words about his wife and aunt. His sister and brother-in-law seem less well-liked.”
The proprietress placed the plate down hard on the counter. “That’s right! They were there when the gamekeeper died. Perhaps one of them did it.”
“I wouldn’t put it past that Mr. Browning,” Mrs. Clayborn said. “Such a horrid man. I’ve never liked him. What kind of grown man wants to marry a fourteen-year-old girl?”
“Fourteen!” I blurted out.
Mrs. Smith cast a frosty look at her friend. “Mrs. Browning wasn’t fourteen when they married. They waited until she was seventeen.”
“And he was twenty-seven. Make of that what you will, Mr. Armitage.” Mrs. Clayborn returned Mrs. Smith’s frosty glare with an even frostier one of her own.
Mrs. Smith ignored her and addressed Harry and me. “Lady Cicely Wentworth, as Mrs. Browning was called then, was rather quiet as a child. Shy girls can often become attached to older men. They offer a sense of security.”
