Page 72 of Murder at Hambledon Hall
Back inside, Harry set up his microscope and inspected the bullet. He then invited Honeyman and me to look, while the constable handed him the bullet retrieved from the victim. He swapped the bullets and inspected the second one under the microscope.
“They’re different,” he said, straightening. “That rifle isn’t the murder weapon.”
I peered through the microscope’s eyepiece. “Are you sure?” Even as I said it, I could see the difference to the first bullet. The pattern of grooves on the Purdey were clear, but were barely visible on the bullet retrieved from the body. I stepped aside to allow the sergeant to look.
“I missed church because of this,” Honeyman said with a shake of his head. “You be sure to tell your friends at the Yard that I don’t appreciate being ordered to go on wild goose chases based on the imaginings of a private detective who should be sipping tea instead of interfering with police investigations.”
“I wouldn’t have to interfere if you did your job properly in the first place,” I said.
“Are you suggesting we’re inept here at Morcombe?”
“No, Sergeant. That’s not what I’m suggesting at all.”
If he realized I was calling him corrupt, he showed no sign. He took the rifle and both bullets. “Amateurs.”
I marched out of the station, forgetting that Harry had to pack up his microscope. He joined me moments later.
“I can’t believe it’s not the murder weapon,” I said as we walked off.
“It could have been another from the armory, a more modern rifle.”
“None were missing when Harmony and I checked after the murder, and there was no time for one to be returned before Harmony arrived. The murder weapon must still be in the woods or elsewhere in the house, depending on where the killer was standing at the time.”
“If that rifle was stolen by Browning and passed on to Faine to sell, and it’s not the murder weapon, then it’s likely that neither Browning nor Faine are the murderer.”
“I’m not ruling either out yet. Both have motive and opportunity.”
We continued to walk through the village and found ourselves near the church as parishioners spilled out after the service. Reverend Pritchard stood at the door to see them off. He didn’t smile. He was a serious, pious man, as many had pointed out to us. Now that I knew why he’d left London under a cloud, I saw him in a different light. He didn’t seem quite so sinister or scheming. He seemed like an ordinary man whose life had fallen apart and he was struggling to pick up the pieces.
My sympathy for him could be a mistake. I mustn’t forget that his secret meant he had a motive for murder.
Yet Shepherd hadn’t gone to St. Michael’s in Marylebone to investigatePritchard. I was quite sure of that. Harmony would look through the parish records after her shift finished today, to see if she could find a connection to Morcombe, but as I watched the vicar, I was reminded of something he’d told me some time ago.
Esmond Shepherd wasn’t a churchgoer. Indeed, he’d only gone once, and that wasn’t to hear a service. It made sense that it was to look through the parish records. Had he searched here first and not found what he wanted, so went to London instead? And why St. Michael’s in Marylebone? Why that particular church?
I discussed it with Harry while we waited for the parishioners to disperse and the vicar to return inside. We followed him and found him gathering his sermon notes at the pulpit.
He sighed heavily upon seeing us. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for your questions. Sundays are my busiest days.”
“Our questions are brief,” I said. “You once told me that you met Mr. Shepherd here in the church. I presume he wanted to look through the parish records. Can you tell us which ones?”
He seemed relieved that my question wasn’t about him and his past. “He looked at several, but I don’t know whether it was the baptisms or marriages.”
“What about the year?” Harry asked.
“I wasn’t peering over his shoulder.” The vicar tucked the notes under his arm and strode off in the direction of the sacristy and office, his gown billowing behind him.
I followed. “May we take a look at them?”
“Just for a few minutes. I have to pay calls to parishioners too ill or infirm to attend the service today, and I’ll be locking the office. One can’t be too careful these days.”
“We only need a few minutes.” With a specific year in mind, it wouldn’t take long.
I found the register for 1834, the year Susannah Shepherd was born. Morcombe was a small village so there were few baptisms each year, and we found hers quickly. That was both a surprise and a disappointment. I’d expected to find no record at all. Its absence would explain why Esmond Shepherd went to London to look through the records of a different parish. But its presence in Morcombe meant Susannah was baptized here. There was no need to look elsewhere.
Harry pointed to each of Susannah’s parents. Mabel Shepherd was recorded as her mother and William Shepherd as the father. His occupation was noted as gamekeeper. The fourth Lord Kershaw was either not Susannah’s father, or Mabel lied to protect herself and her family from scandal.
Drat. If the record of Susannah’s baptism was inthisparish register, why did Esmond Shepherd go to London at all? Was he looking for something else?
