Page 27 of Murder at Hambledon Hall
I swiveled in the chair to look at her. “On your day off?”
“I’ll be given Friday off instead. Turn around so I can fix this.”
She pulled a face as she plucked out one of the tortoiseshell combs. I’d arranged my hair myself that morning. Most ladies had their maids redo their hair before each social engagement, but I only bothered for formal occasions. Usually I just did it once a day and left it.
“What will you be doing for Mr. Hobart?” I asked her reflection in the dressing table mirror.
“Going through his old notes and files and archiving anything that’s no longer relevant and updating those that are.”
I pulled a face. “Sounds tedious.”
“Not at all. I discovered while assisting Mr. Bainbridge to organize the wedding reception that I enjoy making processes more efficient. Besides, cleaning out old files will be better than cleaning out guests’ rooms.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I also knew she should take on extra administrative tasks when offered. It would show her willingness to step into a more permanent role. “I’ll miss your company tomorrow, but I’ll manage alone.”
She dragged the brush through my hair, stroking it vigorously all the way through to the end at the middle of my back. “You won’t be alone. I told Mr. Hobart I was supposed to help you, so he suggested Harry go in my stead. He telephoned him then and there, and Harry agreed. He’ll meet you at the station.”
I blinked at her in the mirror, but she was focused on my hair, not my face. I couldn’t tell if there was a conspiracy or not, let alone if she was one of the conspirators.
“I think you should take a man with you, anyway,” she went on. “As much as it galls me to admit, you’ll probably get answers more easily from male witnesses if you do. I discovered the hard way that country men don’t have much respect for women.”
I swiveled in my chair to face her, earning a scowl as my hair slipped through her fingers. “Which man treated you disrespectfully?”
“The butler, for one. He didn’t deign to even address me. The other maids said it wasn’t personal. He didn’t talk to any of them unless he absolutely had to. They said he even spoke down to the housekeeper. Apparently, Mr. Browning is disrespectful to them, too. I had nothing to do with him, but the maids said he can be rude and revolting, particularly when he’s drunk. They loathe it when he stays at Hambledon. Poor Mrs. Browning, forced into a marriage with an oaf.” She shook her head as she signaled for me to face the mirror again. “She’s such an elegant, noble lady.”
“Don’t pity her too much,” I said. “I found her to be rude and condescending.”
“Most toffs are. Present company excepted.”
I frowned at her reflection.
“I don’t think of you as a toff, Cleo, but others do. You’re related to toffs, so you sometimes get lumped in with them around here.” When she saw that I didn’t like what she’d said, she gave my shoulders an affectionate squeeze. “Don’t pout. It’ll create lines on your face. Besides, those of us who know you, know you’re modest and fair. Now, how would you like me to do your hair?”
It wasmid-morning by the time Harry and I called at the Red Lion Inn in Morcombe. With its bricks painted white and a red-tiled roof, the inn exemplified the quaintness of the village itself. Ivy-leaved geraniums spilled over the edge of the two hanging baskets flanking the door, while the leaves of the Virginia creeper growing up the facade were already turning a vibrant crimson.
Inside wasn’t as light and bright as the outside, but it felt cozy with the large fireplace and well-worn leather seats. Harry removed his hat at the door so that he wouldn’t have to duck beneath the low wooden beams. He set it down on the counter and ordered us a half-pint of ale each.
The publican gave me a look down his bulbous nose as if to say I shouldn’t be in the area where the men drank, but he’d allow it this time. Perhaps I was overly sensitive, having been told to move to the women’s room in pubs before, but that was how it came across to me.
Harry paid for the ales and added a generous tip, which didn’t go unnoticed.
The publican’s frown deepened as he waited for Harry to speak. The frown turned to wide-eyed curiosity when I spoke up instead.
“A man stayed in one of your rooms recently. He was tallish, but not as tall as my friend here, and wore a gray cap.”
The publican straightened, a sign that he knew the man, despite my vague description. “He bolted on the afternoon of the incident at Hambledon. Collected his things and cleared off without so much as a farewell.”
“That’s unfortunate for you. I hope the police find him and make him pay you what he owes.”
“He paid up front for two nights and left after just one. He also left what he owed for lunch on the dresser.”
That was intriguing, and somewhat unexpected. If the man was a poacher or ne’er-do-well traveler, as Lord Kershaw and the police suggested, he wouldn’t bother with payment. “Can you describe him more fully?”
He leaned his elbows on the counter. “About thirty, curly brown hair, slim build. My wife delivered a tray to his room at lunch. She said he was polite, spoke like a Londoner, and was neat.” He straightened. “You reckon the lodger killed the gamekeeper over at Hambledon and you want to find him.”
I saluted him with my tankard before taking a sip.
“You’re wasting your time. The man’s well and truly gone.”
