Chapter Six
CAPTAIN THORNE RETURNED to The King’s Head in spirits far more buoyant than they had any right to be. Yes, a man had been murdered. Yes, Miss Bridges was considered by the village to be the prime suspect.
But, oh—how she had smiled at him. Shyly, sweetly, and—if his instincts were correct—with the same delightful bubbles of excitement he himself had suffered during their exchange.
“Afternoon, Captain,” Edward said, springing to attention as James entered the foyer. “Lord Crabb left a missive for you.”
The eager young lad rummaged through several pockets until, at last, he produced a much-rumpled sheaf of paper.
James scanned the lines quickly: Lord Crabb had been called away to a drainage-related emergency and would be much obliged if James could take a cursory glance around Sir Ambrose’s cottage while the housekeeper was temporarily indisposed. The note said the key could be found with Mr Marrowbone.
“Do you know where I might find the constable?” James asked the footman.
“The Ring o’ Bells, Captain,” Edward replied, without even having to think on it.
And so, James turned on his heel and made his way back through the village to the public house. He found it busier than expected for so early in the afternoon—though he knew that when a man felt the need for a pint, he would prioritise it over almost anything, including honest labour.
Case in point: Mr Marrowbone.
The constable was leaning against the bar, regaling his fellow patrons with a tale. As James approached, he realised that he was, in fact, describing the murder scene in ghoulish detail.
“His face was frozen in a state of terror,” the constable declared, waving the pint in his hand for emphasis. “I reckon Miss Bridges stood and watched the whole thing unfold. Pretty girl, but you must remember there’s a coldness in her heart—she’s a witch, after all.”
He had barely added the full stop to his sentence when James caught him by the lapels and backed him to the wall.
“You will retract your statement, sir,” James said, low and calm. Though his voice was even, he was filled with a rage so blistering he was astonished the man remained conscious.
“Well—maybe Sir Ambrose didn’t look that terrified,” Mr Marrowbone stuttered, glancing at the barman for rescue.
“Not that statement,” James growled. “The one about Miss Bridges.”
“Oh,” the constable blinked. “She ain’t a witch.”
“And she is not a murderess,” James continued, eyes narrowed.
“No, Captain, of course not,” the constable agreed hastily, all sincerity now.
James released him, and Mr Marrowbone sank back onto his stool with a shaky sigh. The bar had fallen utterly silent. Every man present watched the pair with avid interest.
James turned slowly, sweeping his gaze across the room. He met each set of eyes in turn.
“If I hear of anyone else maligning Miss Bridges’ reputation,” he said evenly, “you’ll have me to answer to.”
He was met with a chorus of murmurings and mutterings, the loudest of which came from the white-haired man behind the bar.
“No one listens to Marrowbone anyway,” the barkeep called cheerfully.
“That’s unfair, Angus,” the constable was clearly wounded by this news.
Before another argument could break out, James interrupted.
“Lord Crabb sent me to fetch the key for Sir Ambrose’s cottage,” he said quietly, as Mr Marrowbone took his seat.
“Be my guest,” the constable said, fishing in his pocket for it. “Though you’ll find nothing worth drinking in the cabinet.”
James was tempted to remark that this was probably because Marrowbone had already pilfered the good stuff, but he refrained. Instead, he pocketed the key with a nod of thanks and set off for Sir Ambrose’s cottage.
The cottage was empty when he entered, as was the parlour room from which the body of the owner had thankfully been removed. James surveyed the cluttered room intently, wondering where to begin.
He decided on the desk, which was pushed against the window and strewn with books, ledgers, and papers.
The loose papers offered little: a tailor’s receipt, a half-written grocery order—nothing of use.
He then moved on to the drawers. The first was filled with ordinary odds and ends: a spool of thread, a receipt from the butcher’s, and a yellowed newspaper cutting dated the late 1770s.
He scanned it and saw that it was a clipping from an old gossip column.
One Lady B—long a fixture in a certain royal residence—has recently retired to the countryside with a young charge in tow. The child bears a striking resemblance to his mother’s illustrious admirer, though naturally, such matters are never spoken of directly…
He raised a brow and wondered at its significance, if any, to the murder. With a sigh, he continued through each drawer, finding nothing of note. When he reached the third, which was locked, he broke into a grin—nothing said secrets quite like a locked drawer.
He made quick work of the lock and opened the drawer to reveal a pile of correspondence. He scanned the top letter:
Sir,
I will gladly see to having Miss Bridges’ monthly allowance increased. I am sorry to hear her grandmother is unwell; do pass on my best wishes.
Yours,
Mr Treswell
James frowned as he finished the missive; he had only met Mrs Bridges twice and, to his eye at least, she looked to be in the rudest of health.
And had Flora not said that Sir Ambrose kept an iron grip on the purse strings of her inheritance?
Was it possible he had been feathering his own bed with Flora’s money?
The next letter listed the full lands and monies Flora had inherited. James tucked it away, unwilling to pry further. Then came something more promising:
Sir Ambrose,
If the remainder of my dues from my work on the West India Transport and Trade Co. are not remitted by the end of the month, I shall be forced to call on you and collect them in person.
Yours impatiently,
Beau
James cursed the vague signature—every young buck now fancied himself a “Beau,” thanks to Mr Brummell. Still, it confirmed Sir Ambrose’s dealings with the sham company and gave them a new suspect. One who believed he was owed money, by the looks of things.
He folded the letter and placed it in his coat pocket for safekeeping.
All that was left was a stack of ledgers which, upon opening, detailed Sir Ambrose’s financial accounts. He had neither the time nor the patience to puzzle out pages of figures; they would be best read later—with a large glass of brandy to lubricate the cogs and wheels of his brain.
James tucked the ledgers under his arm, then gave a cursory sweep of the cottage.
As dusk was beginning to draw in outside, he made quick work of his search.
There was something macabre about poking about a dead man’s home in the dark.
When he found nothing of note, James slipped from the cottage, locking the door behind him.
The village was quiet as he passed through, its residents presumably at home preparing for tea. At the green, however, he passed a familiar-looking woman who appeared to be waiting for someone.
“Why, Captain Thorne,” the woman beamed as he neared. “What a surprise.”
She grinned at him with great familiarity and James at last placed her—it was Mrs Mifford, Lord Crabb’s mother-in-law. They had met at dinner on James’s first night in Plumpton, when she had loudly enquired after his marital status and then insisted he sit beside her—rather petrified—niece.
“Mrs Mifford, a pleasure,” James gave a short bow, whilst trying to decide whether her note of surprise had rung false.
“A little birdie tells me that you’re investigating Sir Ambrose’s murder with Lord Crabb,” she continued, peering at him intently.
“I will assist him in whatever way is possible so that justice may be served,” James answered, drawing on all his reserves of diplomacy and tact.
“Wonderful,” Mrs Mifford broke into a satisfied smile. “I should hate to see Miss Bridges outcast by the village for something she didn’t do. Why, anyone who spoke once with Sir Ambrose wished to murder him—the insufferable old snob. She’s a lovely girl, Miss Bridges, don’t you think?”
James blinked, searching for a tactful answer to her very untactful question. As Mrs Mifford watched him from under her eyelashes, he felt a blush creep over his cheeks. This, it seemed, was answer enough for her, for she gave another smile of great satisfaction.
“Just as I foresaw,” she sighed dramatically. “I’m something of a clairvoyant, I’ll have you know. Mind you, you might want to be quick about marrying the girl, Captain. There are others in the village with eyes on her, especially since she inherited her fortune.”
James was startled both at having been married off by a stranger and by the surge of jealousy he felt at learning others wished to claim Miss Bridges. Such was his inner confusion that he didn’t have a chance to respond before Mrs Mifford spoke again.
“Like him,” she whispered, nodding across the road to the butcher’s shop.
A young man with golden locks and an outrageously tight pair of breeches was locking the front door. As he turned, he offered James and Mrs Mifford a friendly grin, which quickly faltered as Mrs Mifford glared back at him.
“Young Mr Henderson,” she sniffed with disapproval, her gaze following his retreating figure. “He has an eye for the good things in life and thinks he can charm his way into Miss Bridges’ affections.”
“Miss Bridges is far too sensible a lady to allow herself to be sweet-talked by a fortune-hunter,” James replied neutrally—though he realised, too late, that he had subconsciously squared his shoulders as he spoke.
This was not missed by Mrs Mifford, who almost purred like a cat at his visible response to the challenge.
“One cannot be too careful,” she declared.
“My visions do not always come to pass, so make haste, dear boy. Now, if you’ll excuse me—I’ve had word that Mrs Walton, the wheelwright’s wife, has come by a bolt of red satin and intends to make a gown out of it.
Can you credit the idea, with her colouring? ”
“The Lord’s work is never done,” James answered dryly, earning himself a delighted smile of agreement from Mrs Mifford.
She scurried off down the village with a cheery wave, away to torment poor Mrs Walton. James watched her go, slightly stupefied by the exchange.
Everyone in Plumpton was slightly mad, he decided. But somewhere among the eccentrics and gossips lurked a killer—and James intended to find them before Miss Bridges’ reputation was ruined forever.