Page 40 of Murder at Hambledon Hall
I thought Peter was approaching me to speak about that incident, but another matter was on his mind. “The Kershaw party arrived early, and their rooms aren’t ready. They aren’t supposed to check in until two.”
“Have they all arrived? Even the Brownings?”
He nodded. “The ladies are waiting in the small sitting room and the men have gone out. Mr. Hobart is overseeing the preparations of the rooms himself. He didn’t want the maids doing a poor job in their haste to finish. You know how he likes everything to be perfect.”
I did indeed. The manager kept a file on each guest that listed their preferences, dislikes, and other information about them, including personal details. Not only did he want their room to be perfect, but he wanted them to have an enjoyable experience. That was why he went out of his way to greet them by name, inquire about family members, home renovations, recent holidays and even their pets. His notes were thorough, particularly for a family like Lord Kershaw’s who had not only stayed often at the Mayfair but were personal friends of my aunt and uncle.
“Mrs. Short will be put out,” Peter went on. “She won’t want Mr. Hobart looking over her shoulder.”
“Indeed not.” I was a little surprised the manager found it necessary to intervene in the housekeeper’s domain. She was just as much a perfectionist as he was.
“You may want to join the guests, Miss Fox,” Peter said. “Lady Bainbridge and Miss Bainbridge are with them.”
I could tell from his face that he was concerned. He was right to be. I doubted my aunt was feeling up to playing hostess, unless she’d taken a dose of her tonic. “Where is Floyd?”
“According to the footman who is currently acting as Mr. Bainbridge’s valet, he is still asleep after a late night out.”
I asked Peter to send in sandwiches, then headed to the small sitting room. Despite its name, it was rather large, although not on the same scale as the main sitting room where the hotel served its famous afternoon teas every day. Used only by the family, the small sitting room was more personal. Family photographs were assembled on tables and Bainbridge heirlooms inherited by Uncle Ronald were housed there. My aunt and uncle’s suite had more items she’d inherited from her parents—my grandparents—but this sitting room was very much a Bainbridge room. It oozed old world nobility from the elaborately carved mahogany pedestal table to the Whistler painting hanging above the marble fireplace.
As I expected, Aunt Lilian appeared to be struggling to entertain her guests. She looked as frail as Lady Elizabeth, seated beside her on the sofa and attempting to make conversation. Aunt Lilian’s shaking hands and pained expression were a clear sign she hadn’t taken her tonic. That, at least, was a blessing. It meant she was at leasttryingto limit her consumption.
On my aunt’s other side sat Lady Kershaw. Flossy was engaged in conversation with Janet Browning, as far from the older women as they could get. They spoke quietly between themselves, occasionally giggling. Both looked up on my arrival and beckoned me to join them to discuss Janet’s wedding plans.
I declined and sat with Mrs. Browning instead, seated alone on the other sofa. Aunt Lilian gave me a small nod of gratitude. It was accompanied with a thin, tight smile that quickly vanished in a wince of pain. Her head must be pounding, poor thing.
As much as I wanted to claim I’d made my choice of companion because I wanted to be a dutiful niece and good hostess, it was purely because I wanted to ask Mrs. Browning some questions. It wasn’t that she was my preferred choice of all the ladies. It was simply that it would be easier to have a difficult conversation with the one on her own, far enough from the others that we wouldn’t be overheard.
And I had to ask some very difficult questions indeed.
Chapter9
According to Mrs. Browning, her husband and brother would join them at the hotel later. They had business in the city first. My suspicious mind immediately wondered about the nature of their business and whether it had anything to do with Esmond Shepherd’s demise. If it did, Mrs. Browning gave no indication.
Indeed, she gave little indication about anything except that she was politely tolerating my presence. She’d been reading a letter when I sat down, and I suspected she wished to continue to read it in peace. I wasn’t moving, however. Not while her solitude gave me the perfect opportunity to question her, subtly, of course.
Janet suddenly giggled at something Flossy said, reminding me of how immature she was. Too immature to marry, in my opinion. Her own mother had married young, too, after the man who was now her husband pursued her from the age of fourteen. It was difficult to imagine Mrs. Browning as a girl. She was aloof and serious. It wouldn’t be easy to extract answers from her.
“The gardens at Hambledon Hall will be lovely for the wedding,” I began.
“Autumn is too cold for an outdoor reception. It will be held in the ballroom.” Mrs. Browning returned to her letter.
I wasn’t going to be put off so easily. “Lady Kershaw must be as excited to host the wedding in her home as you are to see your daughter married.”
“I was born and raised there,” she said without looking up from the letter. “It’s only right that my daughter is married at Hambledon.”
This wasn’t going at all well. I continued with my breezy tone, despite my frustration. “If you require any assistance with the arrangements, you should speak to Miss Cotton while you’re here. She assisted Floyd with the planning of an elaborate wedding recently. I’m sure she’d be?—”
“Isn’t that your maid? The dark girl?”
I clasped my hands tightly on my lap in an effort to continue to keep my tone light. “Miss Cotton is my maid when she isn’t organizing major events for the hotel.”
Mrs. Browning looked down at her letter again. “We don’t need anyone’s help, particularly that of a maid.”
“I’m sure the staff at Hambledon are used to hosting grand events. Even though the wedding will be held inside, it must be a worry that the outdoors might not be up to its usual perfection, without a gamekeeper.”
Her jaw stiffened. “A gamekeeper doesn’t garden, Miss Fox. Gardeners do. You may not be a country girl, but I’m surprised you don’t know the difference. You doseemintelligent.”
I had to admit it was a terrible way to broach the topic of Esmond Shepherd’s murder, but broach it I had. I wouldn’t let the effort go to waste. “Speaking of Mr. Shepherd, his family and yours seemed to have a close relationship.”
