Chapter Four
JAMES’ LAST THOUGHT before falling asleep had been of Miss Flora Bridges, and when he awoke with her still on his mind, he began to suspect that she might be the theme of the day.
Unfortunately, as he arrived at Crabb Hall he soon learned that he was not the only person in Plumpton with Miss Bridges on their mind.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to call off the hunt,” Lord Crabb sighed, as James was led into the library by the butler. “One of the locals has been found dead and Dr Bates is adamant it’s murder.”
“Gemini,” James whistled in surprise. “Who was it?”
“Sir Ambrose,” the viscount answered with a grimace. “His housekeeper found him this morning, seated in his chair with an open bottle of brandy beside him. If she had cleared it away before the doctor arrived, then it would simply have been written off as an apoplectic fit of some kind.”
“What was in the bottle?” James questioned curiously.
“Aconite,” Lord Crabb frowned. “The doctor noted the acrid smell and the cloudy yellow tint to it.”
“What a diligent doctor to think to even search for something,” James said admiringly.
“No, he’s a thirsty one,” Lord Crabb snorted with amusement. “He must have poured himself a glass while the housekeeper’s back was turned and then realised something was amiss. Now, as magistrate, I’m forced to investigate the matter.”
His friend looked so glum at the prospect, that James could not help but ask; “But where’s the problem with that?”
“The problem is,” Lord Crabb answered as he massaged his temples, “That not five minutes after the constable, Mr Marrowbone, arrived to break the news, the village gossip Mrs Canards and her friend Mrs Wickling burst in to tell me that they had already solved the case.”
James stilled as he recalled that it was Mrs Wickling who had insisted on escorting him to Sir Ambrose’s cottage the day before. And, like he, she had witnessed Flora’s outburst.
“Miss Bridges is innocent,” James interjected, earning himself a confused glance from his friend, who had not yet shared that portion of his tale.
Before he could accuse him of omnipotence, James hastily explained his own visit to the curmudgeonly knight bachelor.
“Miss Bridges’ outburst was unfortunate but without any actual malicious intent,” he finished firmly.
“Flora wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Lord Crabb agreed.
James would have felt relief at the viscount’s certain support had he not suddenly felt an unsettling surge of jealousy at hearing him use Miss Bridges’ given name so casually.
“I’m afraid, however,” Crabb continued, oblivious to James’ inner tumult, “That unless the true murderer is found, that her reputation will forever be blackened. There are some who would relish seeing her fall from her newly elevated position in life.”
“I heard mention of a recent inheritance,” James said casually, hoping he did not sound too eager to learn the background of the young lady who had taken up residence in the forefront of his mind.
“Yes, it was the talk of the village,” Lord Crabb agreed, before obligingly shedding light on Miss Bridges’ history.
Her parents had fallen in love and eloped after Mr Gardiner—Flora’s paternal grandfather—had refused to permit the match.
Her father died not long after, lost in a skirmish against the French, shortly after enlisting in the navy.
In her grief, Flora’s mother succumbed to a wasting illness, leaving the child to be raised by her grandmother, Mrs Bridges.
Unbeknown to Flora, she had grown up right beside a grandfather who refused to acknowledge her.
She learned her new identity only when, on his deathbed, her grandfather repented, leaving his fortune to the girl he had ignored all her life.
“Poor Miss Bridges,” James said, quite sincerely, as the viscount finished the tale.
“Indeed,” Lord Crabb agreed, his expression troubled. “She is a sweet girl, I fear the gossips will do their best to try break her spirit.”
“She is made of sterner stuff,” James replied, recalling the determined tilt to Flora’s chin the night before. After a decade in the navy, James knew a fighter when he saw one.
Lord Crabb said nothing in reply, instead he broke into a smile that—to James’ eye, at least—looked a little smug.
“Is there something you’d like to share, my lord?” James enquired dryly.
“Only that in Plumpton it has been observed that murder can often lead to marriage,” the viscount answered cryptically, before returning to business. “I must call to Sir Ambrose’s cottage and speak with Dr Bates.”
“I’ll come with you,” James offered, keen to see the scene of the crime for himself.
His mind was already raking over every possible motive someone might have had to kill Sir Ambrose.
The first that sprang to mind, naturally, was money—especially that which had been acquired through means of deception.
“The duties of a magistrate are far less entertaining than a hunt,” Lord Crabb apologised.
“The pursuit of justice is never dull,” James assured his old friend, who smiled knowingly in return at his enthusiasm.
The two men traveled by horseback to the cottage, their journey keenly observed by the cluster of villagers gathered on the village green.
“News travels fast in Plumpton,” Lord Crabb sighed as he noted them.
“Murder is an unusual occurrence, especially in a small village,” James answered, which for some reason caused the viscount to turn somewhat red.
The exterior of Sir Ambrose’s cottage remained resolutely charming, despite the macabre scene that lay within.
The thatch roof gleamed gold in the autumn sun, while a late climbing rose added a touch of red around the door.
The only obvious difference of note, was the addition of an older gentleman seated on a stool outside the front door.
As they approached, James did a double-take, as he realised the man had a pint of what looked like ale clutched in his meaty paw.
“Marrowbone,” the viscount greeted the man tersely.
“My lord,” he replied, remaining resolutely in his seat. “Dr Bates is inside waiting for ya.”
“Are you joining us?” Lord Crabb arched a brow in question.
“I would but my back is still giving me bother since that morning at Long Acres,” Mr Marrowbone replied with a shrug. “I’ll stay here and guard the scene.”
He took a hearty sip of his pint, his expression one of stoic martyrdom—ruined only slightly by the foam clinging to his moustache.
Lord Crabb gave a sigh of annoyance and stalked inside. James followed him quickly, catching the end of a muttered tirade that concluded with; “I knew he’d milk that shot for years.”
Once inside the cottage, Lord Crabb made straight for the parlour room, with James following in his wake. The room looked much as James remembered except for the body in the armchair, mercifully covered by a bedlinen.
“Dr Bates,” Lord Crabb called a greeting to a small, bespectacled man standing by Sir Ambrose’s desk.
“My lord,” the doctor returned the greeting, his eyes averted from the body. “It’s a tragedy, an absolute waste…”
James shifted uncomfortably at the note of grief in his voice, though Lord Crabb was less sympathetic.
“Enough of that now, Dr Bates,” the viscount scolded, surprising James with his abruptness.
The doctor turned at last to face them, his eyes blinking owlishly at them from behind his spectacles.
“It’s just,” Dr Bates heaved a sigh and waved his hand at the desk, “It’s not just any brandy, my lord. It’s a 1776 Armagnac; you can’t buy spirits like this anymore, not since the French…”
He trailed off then, too despondent to even finish his sentence. James stole a glance at Lord Crabb, who was throwing his eyes to heaven at the doctor’s sorrow.
“Are you certain it’s poisoned Dr Bates?” James questioned quickly.
The doctor nodded glumly and poured a glass from the cursed bottle to demonstrate.
“Have a sniff,” he invited them, “And note the cloudiness and yellow tinge to the liquid. When you couple that evidence with the state of the corpse, I’m afraid that it’s quite certain Sir Ambrose was poisoned.”
The two men followed Dr Bates’ gaze to the linen-covered mass upon the armchair.
“His lips are blue, his limbs contorted, and there’s a look on his face I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy,” Dr Bates murmured, noting their curiosity. “Wolfsbane causes paralysis before death, Sir Ambrose would have been aware he was dying but unable to even call for help.”
“Someone must have really disliked him,” Lord Crabb commented wryly. “I wonder who?”
“I heard it was Miss Bridges,” the doctor answered cheerfully, as he began to pack his instruments into his bag. “Dreadfully pretty girl, such a shame.”
“Miss Bridges did not murder him,” James interjected hotly, surprised to find his hands had formed fists at his side.
Dr Bates blinked at him a moment, before his lips gave a quirk of amusement.
“By all means, sir,” the doctor smiled. “Feel free to prove me wrong.”
Having delivered that challenge, Dr Bates took his leave. As the door clicked shut behind him, James turned to face his friend.
“What do you make of it all?” he ventured, gesturing to the body and the bottle of brandy.
“It looks like murder,” Lord Crabb sighed, his expression troubled.
“It wasn’t Miss Bridges,” James said fiercely, earning himself a look of exasperation from his friend.
“I know that and you know that,” the viscount placated, though there was an impatient twinge to his tone.
“But Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling will make certain the whole village knows that Flora was wishing death upon Sir Ambrose the night before his murder. If only someone else had had the courtesy to threaten him publicly the night before…”
He trailed off wistfully, his gaze drifting back to Sir Ambrose’s covered corpse, as though hoping he might helpfully reanimate for a moment and give them a list of possible suspects.
“I didn’t tell you when I first arrived but I had a second motive for visiting Plumpton, outside of renewing our friendship,” James said on a rushed exhale.
Lord Crabb arched a brow and James quickly filled him in on the investment scheme his fellow officer had fallen victim to.
“It was called the West India Transport and Trade Company,” he explained.
“Supposedly, they were outfitting a fleet of merchant vessels to sail between Bristol and Jamaica—trading in rum, sugar, and cotton. Sir Ambrose lent his name to the venture, while a London gentleman acted as its face, charming investors with promises of guaranteed returns and backing from a Jamaican plantation owner.”
“I assume all papers presented turned out to be forged?” Lord Crabb deduced sagely.
“Of course,” James nodded. “And when my first lieutenant went to their offices after his first set of dividends failed to arrive, he found—”
“—That there were no offices at all,” Crabb finished for him, with a rueful shake of his head. “A tale as old as time, I’m afraid. You’re certain Sir Ambrose was involved? It’s not unusual for these tricksters to use the name of some obscure gentleman of standing to lend credence to a scheme.”
“That’s what I was trying to ascertain yesterday, when I called on him,” James sighed. “I suffered through an hour of talk about his paper on the Romans and when I finally managed to wheedle in a question about investing, he then declared himself too tired to discuss anything else.”
“That does sound suspicious,” Lord Crabb agreed thoughtfully.
“Well, I was half-asleep too at that point, so perhaps not,” James jested, before turning serious. “I wish I could be more certain he was involved, it would make the investigation much easier.”
“If I have learned anything about murder over the past few years, it’s that it is surprising how many people might have a motive to kill someone when you do a bit of digging,” the viscount consoled him. “We’ll need to start off by interviewing those closest to Sir Ambrose first.”
“His housekeeper?” James ventured, recalling the hard-faced woman who had served tea the day before. “She’d know who called on Sir Ambrose in the past few days.”
“And, as she lived with him for nearly a decade, I’m sure she had some cause to want to kill him herself,” Lord Crabb gave a wry chuckle.
The two men set off for the hall, in search of Mrs Fitzhenry, though they were shortly interrupted by a call from Mr Marrowbone.
“Herself took off in a state of distress toward her sister’s,” the constable called cheerfully from his stool. “I don’t think she’ll be in any state to speak with you today, my lord.”
“Was she dreadfully upset?” Lord Crabb queried, a note of sympathy in his voice for the poor housekeeper.
“That, and she was clutching a bottle of brandy,” he answered approvingly. “Nothing better for a bad shock.”
James and Lord Crabb glanced at each other with matching horror.
“In what direction does Mrs Fitzhenry’s sister live?” Lord Crabb pressed the constable urgently.
“She’s in a cottage in the village, beside the butcher’s,” the constable answered, nonplussed by his exigency. “If you’re passing that way, you might tell Mr Burke and Mr Hare that the body is ready for collecting. I’d go myself but I need to remain in my post.”
“There could be a third corpse for them to fetch, if Mrs Fitzhenry’s bottle was tampered with too,” Lord Crabb growled, as he beckoned for James to follow him from the garden.
They mounted up swiftly, the weight of real danger putting both men on edge.
“I’ll ride on to the sister’s cottage and speak to Mrs Fitzhenry myself,” Crabb said grimly, swinging into the saddle. “With luck, she’s only nursing shock and not poison.”
“Perhaps I should call on Miss Bridges?” James ventured, pierced by worry for the young lady who had so captured his imagination.
Between the village gossips and Dr Bates declaring her a murderess before the body was even cold, it was a wonder there wasn’t already a mob gathering on the green calling for her neck.
“A sound instinct,” Lord Crabb agreed, though he hesitated a moment before continuing. “Might I suggest you call to her grandmother’s cottage first? She’s most likely there and the last thing she needs is scandal added to rumour.”
James dipped his head in agreement, then wheeled his horse about and took off at a canter—though not before he noted, again, the knowing smile on Lord Crabb’s face.