Page 44 of Murder at Hambledon Hall
“I do enjoy a good meal with my interrogation,” I joked. “Although I’m not sure if I’ll be able to ask too many questions at dinner. It will depend on who I’m seated next to.” I pulled a face. “I hope it’s neither Mr. nor Mrs. Browning.”
He clasped his hands on the desk and twiddled his thumbs. “So…that’s the business side. Now for the personal.”
“Pardon?”
“You said this was also a social call.”
“Did I?” I murmured.
Harry got up and rounded the desk then sat on the edge near me. “Something’s the matter. What is it?”
“Nothing.”
He tilted his head to the side and regarded me with an earnest, unwavering gaze that disarmed me altogether. He didn’t need to speak another word.
“I can’t explain it,” I said. “I feel…odd.”
“Are you ill?”
“Nothing like that. Aunt Lilian was a little terse with me earlier, but I was feeling this way before that, so I can’t blame her. I suppose the best way to describe it is that I feel unbalanced.”
“I see. Is there something I can do to help balance you?”
“I doubt it. It must just be this case. That’s the only explanation for it.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Well then. We should solve it as quickly as possible so you can return to normal.” He pushed off from the desk and indicated the door. “Shall we make our way to the chophouse?”
I watched as he plucked his hat and jacket off the stand then opened the door. He indicated I should go first. I frowned as I passed him. There was something about him, something…curious. He didn’t smile or frown. He didn’t even watch me. Yet, like my emotional state, I couldn’t put my finger on what had changed.
But somethinghadchanged.
The chophouse was packedwith men dressed in business suits who must work in the nearby offices or perhaps even at Whitehall, enjoying beers and meals at the end of the working week. The only women there were waiting on tables, so I felt a little out of place. The waitress I’d spoken to earlier recognized me and pointed out Mr. Crippen, sitting alone in a booth by the window, enjoying an ale and reading a newspaper while he waited for his meal to arrive.
I slipped onto the seat opposite. “Mr. Crippen?”
He lowered the newspaper. “Yes?” He was a young man, no older than late twenties, with a thick crop of brown wavy hair and a clean-shaven jaw. His hazel eyes were wide, but that could have been because he was surprised to be addressed by a stranger, and a woman at that.
“Forgive the intrusion. My name is Cleopatra Fox, and this is my associate, Mr. Armitage. We’re private detectives investigating the murder of Esmond Shepherd, the gamekeeper at?—”
“It wasn’t me! I didn’t do it!” His panicked gaze flicked between Harry and me.
For a moment, I thought he’d try to run off. Harry must have thought so, too, because I felt him tense beside me, ready to take up the chase if necessary.
“Nobody is accusing you of anything,” I assured Mr. Crippen. “We just want to talk.” I shelved my question about his sister and followed my instincts instead. His response piqued my curiosity in a slightly different direction. “Why do you think we’re here to accuse you of murder?”
Mr. Crippen swallowed heavily. “No reason.”
“You were arguing with him in the woods before his death, weren’t you?” When he didn’t respond, I lied. “I saw you.”
My gamble paid off. He gave in. “We did argue. But that’s all. I said my piece and left him alive and well.”
“Did you stay at the Red Lion in Morcombe?”
He nodded. “I decided not to stay the extra night. It was pointless. So I caught the next train back to London.”
This was the man the Morcombe police were accusing of murdering Esmond Shepherd. Except he wasn’t a poacher. He was a solicitor’s clerk. As I suspected, the poacher never existed.
Sergeant Honeyman may have been wrong about many things, but Mr. Crippenwasa suspect. Not only was he in the vicinity at the time of the murder, but his sister had been in a relationship with the victim. He’d also been angry enough to argue with Shepherd.
