Page 85 of Murder at Hambledon Hall
Chapter18
Renton the butler didn’t express his displeasure at seeing me at Hambledon Hall with words. He was polite as he took my coat and passed it to the footman, his tone pleasant as he welcomed me back, along with Lord and Lady Kershaw, and Lady Elizabeth. It was the way he followed me about the house that was the clue to his distrust.
As I moved from one reception room to the next, studying the portraits and landscapes in their ornate gilt frames, he pretended to have something to do in that same room. He ran a gloved finger along pristine tabletops and moved decanters before returning them to their original position. He adjusted hanging pictures that were perfectly straight and checked a doorknob, commenting to himself that it was loose.
All the while, I made notes in my notebook on the paintings I’d found. I appreciated art, so the ruse was easy and enjoyable. I’d resolved to wait all day if necessary, but a short while later, as I studied a Constable landscape in the drawing room, a footman whispered something in the butler’s ear. With an annoyed glance in my direction, Renton and the footman both left.
I peered around the door. No one was about. Tiptoeing across the entrance hall tiles, I made my way up the stairs to Lord Kershaw’s office. If he was inside, I would once again wait. As I knocked gently, I spied a suitable place to hide where I could watch the entire corridor, but it proved unnecessary. There was no answer.
The door was locked, but I had it open within a minute. Pocketing my lockpicking tool kit, I slipped inside. I wasted no time scanning the bookshelf. It was low and not particularly wide, but it was crammed with all manner of books. They covered a variety of topics, from farming to geography, philosophy to art. Lord Kershaw had a great many intellectual interests. Or perhaps they were just for show.
I hadn’t noticed what book Esmond Shepherd had been holding when I’d first met him in the office, but the leather cover had been green. I removed one leather-bound green book after another, opening them and fanning their pages, shaking them out so that loose pages would fall.
The fifth book spilled its secrets onto the carpet. There were two, each one a torn page from a parish register—Esmond’s baptism and the marriage of his parents, seven months earlier. Just as I’d thought, the baptism listed Susannah’s married name, Wentworth, not Shepherd. Esmond had hidden them here for safekeeping, perhaps intending to retrieve them later as proof, but not getting the chance before Lord Kershaw killed him. Lord Kershaw had desperately searched the gamekeeper’s cottage for them, when they’d been under his nose the entire time.
I folded the pages and placed them in my bag, then went to slot the book back on the bookshelf. I ran my hand over the leather cover. It was a different shade of green to the stain I’d seen on Lord Kershaw’s fingers. I still didn’t know where the stain had come from, but it no longer mattered. It wasn’t a clue after all.
I returned the book to the shelf and straightened. A document on the desk caught my eye, only because the stamped lettering across it was so bold in its finality: withdrawn.
The document was old, made from what I assumed to be parchment, not paper. Small weights held down the corners, keeping it flat. If I removed them, it would roll up into a scroll. The flourishing handwriting and old English spelling made it difficult to read, but I gathered the gist of it easily enough. It was a legal document that Lord Kershaw probably retrieved from his solicitor’s office when in London. The document granted the public the right to use the bridleway on the estate. It was dated 1538. The stamped word WITHDRAWN had the much later date accompanying it in smaller writing—1865 and the signature of the fourth Lord Kershaw. I wondered why he’d withdrawn the public’s right to use the bridleway. Not that it mattered now. What mattered was that the current Lord Kershaw had proof it should have beenclosedthese last thirty-five years, yet he’d opened it as soon as the threat of blackmail disappeared with the death of Esmond Shepherd. He’d wanted to return access to the villagers even though he didn’t legally have to.
He was a kind man, the murder notwithstanding.
I checked the corridor was empty before slipping out of the office. I closed the door and walked quickly, my mind reeling. I couldn’t decide what to do next. Inform Sergeant Honeyman? Scotland Yard? Or let Lord Kershaw remain a free man? Talking it over with Harry would help.
A door suddenly opened, wrenching me out of my thoughts. Lady Elizabeth stared at me, blinking in surprise at seeing me outside her bedchamber.
“Sorry if I startled you,” I said. “I was just passing.”
She glanced along the corridor, in the direction of her nephew’s office. “Heading to the morning room, Miss Fox? There’s a lovely Landseer in there for you to study.”
“Are you referring to the pretty watercolor of a cottage? I saw it when I was staying here, although I believe it’s by William Henry Hunt, not Edwin Landseer.”
I smiled. She smiled back. It was clear she didn’t trust me. She must suspect I wasn’t there to study the artwork, but her failure to trick me meant she couldn’t prove it and confront me. She had no power to stop me roaming the house.
“I’m going that way.” She used her walking stick to point in the direction from which I’d just come, as she emerged fully from her room. She closed the door behind her.
But not before I’d seen something inside that made my heart thud and my mind spin.
Lady Elizabeth and I parted, each heading in different directions. Once she was out of view, I doubled back and entered her bedchamber.
I was surrounded by walls painted in soft teal green. It was the same shade I’d noticed staining Lord Kershaw’s finger in the hours after the murder. I’d thought it came from a plant, but now realized it must have been paint that he couldn’t remove quickly with soap and water. There was only one reason Lord Kershaw, rather than a footman, would be painting Lady Elizabeth’s room when he was hosting guests—he was covering something up.
The room was located at the front of the house, overlooking the driveway, lawn and woods beyond. Anyone who glanced out of the window would have seen the body of Esmond Shepherd lying dead on the gravel.
Anyone who opened this window would have been in the perfect position to shoot him.
A frail killer would need to rest the rifle against the sill to steady her hands, as well as be experienced at using such a weapon to hit a moving target. Lady Elizabeth had told me herself that she’d been spirited when she was younger, and it wasn’t a great leap to assume that meant she was active, and that shooting was a sport she excelled at. I suspected the entire family enjoyed shooting parties. Just because Lady Elizabeth was too old to participate during our visit, didn’t mean she never had.
The paint on the windowsill did indeed seem fresher than the walls. Lady Elizabeth must have enlisted her nephew’s help to cover up some scuff marks she made while positioning the rifle, and possibly when it fired. He’d arrived at the body very quickly and seemed genuinely shocked to see Esmond Shepherd dead. It was likely his aunt hadn’t involved him until later, at which point he painted over the scuff marks and disposed of the rifle. It was a solid theory, but proving it to the satisfaction of the police would be difficult. The only evidence I had was the paint stain I’d seen on Lord Kershaw’s finger.
I scanned the room as I turned to leave and my gaze settled on the fireplace, reminding me of something Janet Browning said. Esmond Shepherd had watched her from his position in a cavity behind a wall panel beside the fireplace. Could this room have a similar hiding place?
Despite being a relatively modern house, it had been built with a Gothic aesthetic, complete with towers and battlements. Many original Gothic manors had secret passages or hiding places. Just how many of them had the architect of the new Hambledon Hall put in? As someone who’d lived through its construction, Lady Elizabeth would know every inch of the building.
I pressed on the wall panel beside the fireplace until it sprang open like a door, just as Janet described. The cavity beyond was large enough to fit a man, but the rifle didn’t need as much space.
I removed it, and the box of bullets.
