Page 57 of Murder at Hambledon Hall
Harry and I waited at the window, each of us holding a book of poems. Mine was rather good and I became distracted by a poem about fairies. Fortunately, Harry was more alert.
“There he is,” he said, keeping his head bowed as if reading. “He’s entering the building now.”
We set down the books and raced out of the shop. I waved my thanks to the bookshop owner and followed Harry through the door that led to the flat above the shop. Taking the stairs three at a time, he reached Mr. Crippen well before me.
“Where’s your sister?” Harry demanded.
Mr. Crippen paled. He swallowed heavily. “Y-you again. Wh-what is the meaning of this?”
“It’s a simple question. Is your sister inside? Are you holding her against her will?”
“No!” Mr. Crippen eyed Harry carefully. “I presume you’ve been talking to the bookshop owner below. You shouldn’t listen to a word he says. He reads too many horror novels.”
Before Harry could grab Mr. Crippen by the lapels and shake the answer loose, I stepped between them. I had an inkling about the reason for Miss Crippen’s confinement. In fact, confinement was the best word for it.
“She’s pregnant, isn’t she?” I asked.
Harry’s release of breath came out as an audible sigh of realization. “She’s not your prisoner?”
With Harry no longer looking so threatening, Mr. Crippen took on an air of indignation. “She is staying indoors of her own volition now that she’s showing. We don’t want anyone to know about the baby. Phyllida isn’t married.”
“Is Esmond Shepherd the father?” I asked.
The muscles in Mr. Crippen’s jaw bunched and his lips pinched.
“We won’t tell anyone,” I assured him.
He gave in with a grunt. “Yes, he is.”
“May we speak to her about him?”
Mr. Crippen agreed, on the condition that we treat her gently. “She’s been very upset since learning of his death.”
We found Phyllida Crippen preparing tea in the small kitchen. She was unprepared for visitors, going by the unwashed hair hanging past her shoulders and loose-fitting housecoat over her dress. She quickly drew the housecoat closed over her swollen belly.
I introduced us. “We’re private detectives, looking into the death of Esmond Shepherd.”
Tears welled in her eyes and she touched her lips as she composed herself.
“We believe you can give us some answers we’ve been seeking,” I went on.
She placed two more cups and saucers on the tea tray. “Come into the parlor where it’s more comfortable.” She spoke softly, but her voice was steady and her gaze met mine.
She handed the tray to her brother, then led the way into the parlor. She removed a pile of romantic novels from the sofa and placed them on a side table. I studied her as she served the tea. She was quite young, probably no more than twenty, with the milky complexion of a girl not used to the outdoors. There was a gentleness about the way she moved and a great deal of shyness, particularly in regard to Harry. She hardly looked at him.
It would probably be best if I asked the questions. “You left Hambledon Hall three months ago, is that right?”
“Yes. When I became sure that I was…” She settled her hand over her belly.
“Did you tell Mr. Shepherd about the baby?”
She glanced at her brother. He encouraged her with a nod. “I did, as soon as I realized. I presumed we would marry, but…” She swallowed heavily. “That’s when he told me there was someone else. He wanted nothing more to do with me. He urged me to leave Hambledon while I still had my good reputation intact and could get a reference from Lady Kershaw.”
Mr. Crippen’s face twisted with his sneer. “Shepherd was a cad.”
Miss Crippen looked as though she would like to protest, but thought better of it. She sipped her tea.
“We want to establish Shepherd’s movements in the days leading up to his death,” I went on. “Three days before he died, he came to London. He stayed at the Marylebone Guesthouse, not far from here. Did he come to London to see you?”
