Page 41 of Murder at Hambledon Hall
“The Shepherds worked for us. That is—was—the extent of the relationship.”
“That’s my point.” When she didn’t respond, I continued. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. One of the hotel maids was recently caught in the men’s area at the residence hall. She was dismissed instantly. Now, you could argue that the male staff member should have been dismissed, too, but while management don’t know his identity, he is safe. By all accounts, Esmond Shepherd visited the rooms of the Hambledon Hall female members of staff quite a bit over the years and everyone knew, yet he wasn’t dismissed.”
Mrs. Browning folded the letter in half and pinched the fold between her thumb and fingernail. “I should have known you liked to wallow in gossip, Miss Fox.”
Despite the temptation to ask why she should have known, I stayed silent. I probably wouldn’t like the answer, and besides, silence often forced the other person to fill it.
Mrs. Browning didn’t disappoint. “You shouldn’t believe every rumor you hear. Mr. Shepherd wasn’t as bad as they make him out to be. While he could be charming, and the maids did like him, it never went beyond a little flirtation here and there.”
“The maids and nannies left your family’s employ because of him.”
“Again, just gossip. It’s true the previous nanny did leave after their relationship ended, but not because of Mr. Shepherd. Her brother needed her to keep house for him. I think his wife just died.”
“If they were in a relationship, it didn’t need to end because of her move. Unless she moved far away?” I posed it as a question, to prompt her to offer an answer.
It worked. “She returned to London. Somewhere near Marylebone, I believe.”
Marylebone! Well, well.
“Let me assure you, Miss Fox, that Miss Crippen was the only Hambledon employee of interest to Mr. Shepherd, and there was nothing sordid about their relationship. I believe they were in love, at some point. They must have been.” A defensive note crept into the aloofness. There was a hint of something else in her tone, too: jealousy.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Hemusthave been in love.” She whipped her thumb and fingernail along the letter’s fold again, repeating the move twice more before realizing she was doing it. She set the letter down on her lap. “So, there you have it. The gossipers were right about the former nanny, but wrong about the housemaids. Mr. Shepherd would never stoopthatlow.”
“Because he didn’t need to,” I added.
Her lack of a response was telling. It meant she agreed with the statement. If I were to guess, I’d say Mrs. Browning had held some affection for Esmond Shepherd. Yet, while her tone was both defensive and jealous, there was no sorrow in it. She hadn’t been upset by his death.
Had her affection been reciprocated? If so, how far had they taken it?
As if she sensed she’d given away too much, she suddenly stiffened. “The reason I’m telling you this is because gossip isn’t always correct.”
“I most certainly agree, Mrs. Browning. Thank you for putting that particular rumor to bed. I feel so much better now.” I cleared my throat. “There is another, however. Indeed, I’m a little hesitant to even bring it up.”
“Then don’t.”
“It might help explain the close connection between the Shepherds and Wentworths.”
She sighed. “You’re talking about the rumor that my grandfather was Susannah Shepherd’s father.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lady Elizabeth’s head turn sharply toward us. There was nothing wrong with the elderly woman’s hearing.
“Sorry for my impertinence, butisthat rumor true?” I asked.
“How should I know? My grandfather didn’t confide in me. I was a little girl when he died. Susannah Shepherd died before I was even born. Whether the rumor is true or not, it no longer matters. It happened so long ago. Susannah Shepherd is nothing more than a name on a headstone now.”
She was also a face in a photograph in Esmond Shepherd’s cottage. A photograph that someone had picked up to study.
“Now it’s my turn,” Mrs. Browning said.
I blinked at her. “Your turn for what?”
“Clarifying gossip I’ve heard.” She nodded at Aunt Lilian, staring blankly at the platter of sandwiches that a footman had brought in a few moments earlier. As hostess, she ought to invite us to enjoy them, but she’d not said a word. “She’s dying, isn’t she?”
“No! She’s ill, but she’ll be better soon.”
Mrs. Browning didn’t look like she believed me. “She and your mother were estranged for a number of years, were they not?”
