Chapter Five
FLORA HAD SUFFERED the slings and arrows of outrageous rumour all her life—ever since childhood, when her young contemporaries had delighted in calling her a witch.
Even the wicked whispers flung by certain villagers—that she was baseborn—had failed to wound her as they’d intended. For Flora had always clung to one shining certainty:
Her mother had married a dashing naval officer, and their love had been so powerful, so absolute, that neither had been able to live without the other.
But this was different. This rumour felt heavier, more dangerous. What if it lingered? What if it was never disproved? There were worse things to be accused of than witchcraft or being born outside of wedlock.
Since inheriting her fortune, her whole world had tipped on its axis, and at that very moment, she felt as though she were in danger of spinning off altogether.
She longed for something to hold on to. Even her grandmother’s comforting presence in the kitchen, fussing over the kettle and offering well-worn platitudes, did little to soothe her.
She closed her eyes and took a breath. If only—
A knock at the door broke through her thoughts.
Mrs Bridges paused, head tilted toward the sound. A second knock came, sharper this time.
“If it’s an angry mob, pray tell them to wait until I’ve finished my tea,” Flora called glumly after her.
But it wasn’t the villagers come with pitchforks. Moments later, Mrs Bridges returned with Captain Thorne in tow—hat in hand, jaw set, eyes stormy with concern.
“Miss Bridges,” he said, without preamble. “I would like to offer my services to you.”
Flora avoided the sight of her grandmother’s face, which had broken into a grin of such proportions it could have lit the room.
“Thank you, Captain,” she replied lightly. “Although I must confess, salvaging my reputation might prove trickier than commanding a vessel through a squall.”
“I am certain of your innocence,” he said firmly. “And I will not rest until I have cleared your name.”
“But you’ll have a cup of tea first, Captain?” Mrs Bridges cut in quickly, fearing he might dash off in pursuit of justice before she’d had a chance to meddle in her granddaughter’s love life.
“I never say no to tea,” he answered with a smile, and Mrs Bridges immediately urged him to take a seat at the table.
As she put the kettle on to boil, she threw questions over her shoulder at the captain. Was news of the murder widespread? Was it definite it was murder? And, finally, were there any suspects?
At this question, Captain Thorne threw Flora an apologetic look.
“So far, only one person has been mentioned in relation to it,” he said.
Flora groaned softly and dropped her head into her hands.
“But I am certain,” he added quickly, “that with a little digging, we shall soon unearth a host of people who wished Sir Ambrose dead.”
“Well, I never liked him,” Mrs Bridges agreed, a little too enthusiastically. She paused, before adding. “Not that I killed him, of course.”
“Somebody did and we need to put our heads together to work out who,” Captain Thorne replied, his words directed toward Flora.
For a moment—despite the severity of her situation—Flora allowed herself a flutter of hope at his concern for her. And another flutter of something strange, as she imagined their heads close together, leaning in, conspiring…
“There was someone in the house with Sir Ambrose when I called yesterday,” she suddenly recalled, glad that the memory had distracted her. “I could hear them arguing from the gate, but when I went inside with Mrs Fitzhenry there was no one else there.”
“How did Sir Ambrose seem?” the captain pressed.
“Belligerent as always,” Flora could not help but roll her eyes. “Then we heard the back door slam. When Mrs Fitzhenry asked if anyone was there, he accused her of leaving it open before she left.”
“A deliberate distraction,” Captain Thorne decided, his certainty giving Flora a flicker of hope.
Outside, a fine mist of rain had begun to fall. As Mrs Bridges finished pouring the tea, she glanced out the window and let out a regretful sigh.
“I’ve been waiting for rain all week so I could harvest some mugwort,” she stated, undoing her apron strings as she spoke. “If you’ll both excuse me a for a few minutes…”
Flora tried to catch her grandmother’s eye to warn her that her ruse was quite obvious, but she resolutely refused to look at her. Instead, she grabbed a scarf and a basket, and hare-footed it out the door murmuring something about the mist preserving the plant’s oils.
Sir Ambrose wasn’t the only one with a flair for timely distractions.
Flora stared down at her teacup, afraid to meet the captain’s eyes in case he’d seen through the ruse. But he only sipped his tea, oblivious to her grandmother’s scheming, and resumed their conversation as though nothing at all were amiss.
“We have our first suspect,” he said, setting down his cup. “And, I must inform you, that I was investigating Sir Ambrose myself. I believe he was involved in a false investment scheme, which a friend fell victim to.”
“He was?” Flora gasped, wondering why her grandfather had made such an unscrupulous man trustee of her fortune.
“I cannot yet prove that he was directly involved,” the captain conceded. “But it looks likely. And there is no better motivation for murder than money.”
“Except passion,” Flora replied without thinking, recalling some of the Minerva Press novels she had found at Brackenfield.
There was a pause, during which Captain Thorne eyed her with a knowing amusement.
“Not that I think Sir Ambrose was engaged in any passionate affairs,” she stressed, her cheeks burning as she wondered why she had repeated the word.
“We must not discount any motives,” he reassured her, “No matter how unlikely they might seem.”
“Yes, that’s what Lady Crabb said when she was conducting her murder investigation,” Flora agreed, recalling how the former Miss Mifford had assisted Lord Crabb with proving his innocence when he was suspected of murdering the man he had inherited his title from.
“Monsieur Canet’s death?” Captain Thorne guessed.
“No, that was a different case,” Flora corrected him, “And his death only came after that of Mr Parsims, the old rector at St Mary’s.”
“Just how many people have been murdered in Plumpton?” the captain asked, half-laughing, though a slight furrow of concern crossed his brow.
“More than you’d credit, for a such a small village,” Flora confessed, her cheeks pink again. Noting his curious expression, she quickly listed off all the murders that had been committed—and solved—in Plumpton.
“I’ll make certain not to get on anyone’s bad side while I’m here,” he smiled as she finished.
“Oh, I don’t think anyone could ever be annoyed by you,” Flora blurted, without thinking.
Again, Captain Thorne looked so amused that she was overcome by blushes.
“It’s just, you have such lovely manners,” she finished, lamely. And lovely shoulders, lovely eyes, and a very lovely smile, she added silently to herself.
“That’s something I have never been accused of,” he replied, delighted by her compliment. “You must bring them out in me, Miss Bridges.”
Their eyes met and Flora dared offer him a shy smile, inwardly marveling that she was capable of flirting on what was the most calamitous morning of her life.
“How do you suggest we investigate, captain?” she questioned, as she realised that it was her turn to speak. Though she truly would have been content to stay smiling stupidly at him across the table all morning, if social norms hadn’t dictated she continue the conversation.
“Lord Crabb suggested that we question Sir Ambrose’s housekeeper on what visitors he received over the past few days,” he answered.
“She might know who it was he was arguing with,” Flora nodded in agreement. “She might also know something about the investment scheme from tidying up his papers.”
“I didn’t think of that,” he said approvingly. “Though, I believe we’ll have to wait until tomorrow before we speak with her—she’s presently nursing her shock with a bottle of spirits.”
“Or celebrating,” Flora grinned, thinking that Sir Ambrose had probably not been the most loved of employers. “What can I do to help?”
“I don’t want you to do anything,” he replied, his tone earnest. “Leave everything to me.”
For a moment, Flora felt a little put-out by his declaration, though she soon realised—from the determined set of his jaw—that Captain Thorne simply wanted to come to her rescue.
Which would have been most endearing, was it not for the fact that Flora was not the type of young lady to sit idly by and allow a white-knight attend to her.
“I want to help,” she insisted. “In fact, I must help. I think I would go mad, rattling around Brackenfield all day, waiting for news.”
“I don’t want to see you be carted off to Bedlam,” the captain conceded, with a rueful smile. “Forgive me, I did not mean to take command. It just—”
“—Comes naturally to you?” Flora guessed mischievously.
They shared a smile, but were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Bridges, back from her foraging.
“The rain cleared up before I could get anything,” she sighed, as she placed the empty basket down.
“How unfortunate,” Flora was droll. “Is there any chamomile? I feel I need something calming.”
She stood from her seat and walked to the corner cabinet, as her grandmother surreptitiously followed her progress. The more potent remedies were kept inside it; dried herbs, tinctures, and occasionally the odd jar poppy latex, if Mrs Bridges could get her hands on it.
Flora opened the door and scanned the shelves, noting the full jar of mugwort. She turned to stare pointedly at her grandmother, who had become distracted by a crack in the ceiling.
“None here,” Flora commented, though she knew well that the chamomile was kept in another press.
She made to close the door, but as she did so her eye was caught by something on the top-shelf—the wolfsbane jar.
The lid was askew, the muslin cover crooked and tucked unevenly beneath the string—it was never stored so carelessly.
Her grandmother kept only a small bit of the stuff, for the occasional winter mouse.
Flora closed the press quickly and whirled to face the room, hoping Captain Thorne hadn’t noticed her pale face or her trembling hands.
“You do look pale, dearest,” her grandmother fretted, “Sit yourself down and I’ll brew the chamomile for you.”
Flora mutely complied, her mind reeling from what she’d seen. She couldn’t yet make sense of it; her first instinct was to ask her grandmother, but she couldn’t while Captain Thorne remained.
“You do look tired,” the captain agreed, rising from his chair. “Forgive me for taking up so much of your time, on what is an upsetting morning.”
Minutes before, Flora might have protested or encouraged him to take another cup of tea. Now, she simply smiled wanly and offered him thanks for his concern.
“Captain Thorne,” she ventured, just as he turned to leave. “What poison do they think was used to kill Sir Ambrose?”
“Aconite,” he stated, pausing at the door. “Dr Bates is quite certain. Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity,” she replied lightly, struggling to keep her gaze from shifting to the cupboard. “I do hope whoever it was is found soon.”
“I’ll see to it that they will,” he replied, determined. “Good afternoon to you both.”
Captain Thorne offered the two women a bow, then took his leave.
Nerves bubbled in her stomach as Flora watched him go.
Despite his kind smiles and lovely shoulders, Flora was not yet certain that she trusted him enough to implicate herself—or her grandmother—by telling him of the jar of open wolfsbane in the press.
She waited a beat after hearing the front door shut, before turning to her grandmother anxiously and whispering; “I think the poison used to kill Sir Ambrose came from our stores.”
Mrs Bridges’ expression faltered for a moment, then she reached for the kettle.
“I expect we’ll need more tea.”