Chapter Eight
MRS FITZHENRY DID not offer James and Lord Crabb tea when they arrived. James attributed her lack of hospitality to the after-effects of consuming a bottle of brandy the day before, rather than outright hostility.
Though there was some of that too.
“I can’t think why you’d want to ask me any questions, my lord,” the housekeeper sniffed, as Lord Crabb explained the reason for their visit. “I’m just the hired help. I know nothing of murder, except that I’m expected to clean up after it.”
She scowled as she leaned back in her chair, her trembling hands clutching a steaming posset with near reverence.
“I know a secret ingredient that will double the healing properties of that,” James said, nodding to the mug she held.
“I’m all ears, Captain,” Mrs Fitzhenry replied, with a slight wince of pain.
“If you’ll allow me.”
James stood, reached into his coat pocket, and produced a hip flask. The housekeeper’s face lit up and she extended the mug so he could add a generous dash of brandy.
“There’s glasses around here somewhere,” she said, her hostess skills miraculously returning.
She took a sip of her brandy-laced posset, then stood.
“I’m sorry I’ve nothing from Sir Ambrose’s collection to offer you, but Marrowbone confiscated it all as evidence.
Not that there was much to confiscate. The old miser never parted too eagerly with his coin. ”
She issued this last bit as a muttered aside while she extracted two tumblers from a glass cabinet at the far side of the room. She handed the tumblers to James, who filled them from his flask and passed one to Lord Crabb.
“That’s better,” Mrs Fitzhenry said, returning to her seat. “Now, my lord, what questions did you wish to ask me?”
“I suppose the obvious one first,” Lord Crabb smiled. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to murder Sir Ambrose?”
“About a dozen off the top of my head—more if you give me time to think,” the housekeeper replied flippantly.
Her shrewd gaze turned from Lord Crabb to James and she gave a thin smile.
“Though Captain Thorne was present to witness Miss Bridges calling for his head the day he was murdered; I expect it’s she who did it. ”
“Thanks to Mrs Wickling, half the village is aware of that tale,” Lord Crabb answered quickly, before James had a chance to offer an angry rebuttal. “We are looking for other suspects. Can you think of anyone who called in the days leading up to the murder—anyone at all?”
“It’s hard to recall things at my advanced age,” Mrs Fitzhenry sighed, casting her eyes down to her now-empty mug.
“Perhaps another drop might lubricate the old cogs,” James said dryly, leaning over to empty the remainder of his hip flask into her drink.
The housekeeper took a deep sip, her expression contented. She closed her eyes and for a moment James wondered if she had drifted off to sleep, but then they snapped open and she began to rattle off a list of names.
“Mrs Pinnock—she who is staying at the inn—has been a regular caller since she arrived in Plumpton,” Mrs Fitzhenry said.
“On the morning of the murder, she and Miss Vale took tea with Sir Ambrose. A Mr Goodwin, also resident at the King’s Head, called before noon, though Sir Ambrose bid me tell him he was not at home.
Mr Henderson from the butcher’s called in breeches so tight I could not even look at him.
Then, of course, Miss Bridges called, followed by yourself, Captain Thorne. ”
“Did Sir Ambrose say why he did not wish to receive Mr Goodwin?” James pressed, his mind at once leaping to the letter he had found.
“He did not say, Captain,” the housekeeper shrugged with disinterest. “Though that was not the first time Sir Ambrose refused to meet with him. You’d think he’d have got the hint the second time he called.”
“Some men are persistent,” James observed.
Especially when they were owed money.
“What do you know about Sir Ambrose’s financial affairs?” James asked, hoping she might reveal a thing or two.
“Only that he was insistent he had no money,” she answered, quick as a tick. “Not even an extra groat in my pay for Twelfth Night. I hope he’s made provisions for my pension; I can’t go looking for new employers at my age.”
“I’m certain Sir Ambrose’s relatives will do right by you,” Lord Crabb assured her. “Er—do you have any idea who they might be?”
Mrs Fitzhenry shrugged, her eyes drifting to the wall, where a portrait of a vaguely grand gentleman hung.
“It’s not him anyway,” she said, her lips curving into something dangerously close to a smile. “That came from an estate sale in Bath. Saw it listed in the catalogue with my own two eyes, though Sir Ambrose liked to imply it was his grandfather—the old snob.”
“Whoever his relatives turn out to be, I’m sure they’ll see you’re looked after,” Lord Crabb replied delicately. “You said Mrs Pinnock called more than once—were they old acquaintances?”
“They were members of the same society,” Mrs Fitzhenry confirmed with a nod. “Though I don’t believe Sir Ambrose relished the connection; he was always in foul form when she left.”
An interesting on-dit, James thought, but it was unlikely the elderly Mrs Pinnock was in any way connected to the murder—especially when it was now increasingly clear that Mr Goodwin was the man they should be investigating.
“And, before we finish up, I must ask,” Lord Crabb said, exhaling slowly. “Did you play any part in the murder, Mrs Fitzhenry?”
James threw a startled glance at his old friend, who gave an apologetic shrug.
“I’m afraid I have to ask,” he repeated. “Given your closeness.”
“I wouldn’t waste a good bottle of brandy like that,” Mrs Fitzhenry replied, not at all put out by the question. “It was a crying sin whoever did that.”
“Quite,” James agreed, hiding a smile.
The two men drained their glasses and bid Mrs Fitzhenry goodbye. She expressed regret at their leaving, though James rather thought it was more regret that another drink would not be forthcoming.
Outside, he took a deep breath, exchanging the housekeeper’s brandy fumes for crisp country air.
“Well,” Lord Crabb said, tugging on his gloves, “what did you make of that?”
“I believe Mrs Fitzhenry has pointed us to our suspect,” James said firmly, as he followed the viscount out the gate. He quickly explained the letter he had found amongst Sir Ambrose’s belongings.
“You believe Mr Goodwin is the author?” Lord Crabb raised a brow.
“Well, it would certainly make a more believable reason for his visiting Plumpton than his purported visit to Lord Chambers,” James grinned.
“You do a little digging at the King’s Head and I’ll see what I can learn from Freddie,” Lord Crabb decided, before turning a little awkward. “Have you any plans for tomorrow evening?”
“None that I’m aware of,” James answered.
“Mrs Mifford has insisted Jane host a dinner,” the viscount explained, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. “I suspect she plans on inviting Miss Bridges so she can play at matchmaking; I apologise in advance for any suffering she might cause you.”
James—who did not object at all to Mrs Mifford’s meddling if it meant he got to spend more time with Miss Bridges—gave a weak chuckle.
“Perhaps you could invite Mr Goodwin?” he suggested, for the viscount was regarding him with amused suspicion. “So that we might observe him at close quarters.”
“Might as well ask Mrs Pinnock and Miss Vale too; then we’ll have every suspect seated at the table,” Lord Crabb agreed—though he was still regarding James a little too thoughtfully for his liking.
The matter of dinner now settled, he bid James goodbye and mounted his steed. James watched him canter off a moment before he set off on foot back toward the village.
A few stalls had been set up at the village green for the half-market. Local farmers and cottagers had set out their wares of eggs, butter, and vegetables for Plumpton’s housewives to inspect.
At one stall, James spotted Mrs Canards loudly berating a poor tillage farmer about the state of his turnips.
“You can’t save all your good roots for the harvest home,” he heard her grouse. “You’ll lose valuable customers.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” the farmer retorted, snatching the turnip back from her, “but valuable customers usually buy things. You only come to complain—and I get enough of that at home from my wife.”
“Why, I never,” Mrs Canards exclaimed, clutching a hand to her chest as she turned from him.
Her upset vanished immediately as her beady eyes landed upon James.
“Captain Thorne,” she called, bustling over to him. “You’re just the man I hoped to see.”
“I am?” James hoped she would not note his disappointment.
“A little birdie tells me that you’re helping Lord Crabb to investigate the murder,” she said in a faux-whisper, placing a hand on his arm to draw him close.
James refused to confirm the rumour, instead waiting for her to continue.
“I know you were present when Miss Bridges had her unfortunate outburst,” she went on, undeterred by his lack of response. “Which, in my book, places her as the most likely suspect. However—”
She paused for dramatic effect, glancing fearfully across the green at the row of shops and cottages that made up Plumpton’s main street.
“Mrs Fitzhenry and her sister have Irish blood,” she whispered, “and you know what the Irish are like. Do you recall the poisoning of Lord Barrymore’s footmen?”
“I was not born, but I have heard the tale,” James conceded.
Everyone had. The story was the stuff of legend—several of Lord Barrymore’s unfortunate Irish footmen struck dead after eating a dish of poisoned peas. Yet, as James well knew, Mrs Canards was rather muddled in her recollection. The poor men had been victims, not villains.
“So you know already that if it was not Miss Bridges who murdered Sir Ambrose, then it was most likely that ghastly housekeeper—or her sister,” Mrs Canards beamed, delighted that they were on the same page.
She cast another glance across the green at the unassuming cottage belonging to Mrs Fitzhenry’s sister, and her brows narrowed into a frown. James followed the line of her gaze, curious, only to find she was frowning at a young man exiting the butcher’s shop next door.
“That’s the third new pair of breeches Mr Henderson has sported this week,” she told James, who did his best to look interested in this news.
“I shall have to have a word with Mr Hamley about the price of his offal,” she decided, jaw set and determined. “If he can afford to outfit his assistant in an entirely new wardrobe each day, then he’s clearly overcharging. Do excuse me, Captain.”
She took off before James had a chance to reply.
It was truly astonishing, the energy some people put into being annoyed by others, James thought, as he continued on his path to the inn. Who knew what remarkable feats Mrs Canards might achieve if she weren’t so preoccupied with finding fault—solving murders, perhaps?
Inside the King’s Head, a sleepy Edward informed him that Mr Goodwin had left for the day.
“He said he was headed out Cirencester way and wouldn’t be back until late,” the footman said cheerfully.
“Did he say who he was visiting?” James asked casually. Another accomplice to the investment scheme?
“His mother,” Edward’s answer put paid to that idea.
Resigned to an afternoon alone, James made for his room, where he thought he might pore over some of Sir Ambrose’s papers to see if they revealed any more clues.
“Captain Thorne,” Miss Vale greeted him as he reached the landing.
“Miss Vale,” James gave a short bow. “You are without your charge for the day?”
“If only,” the young lady rolled her eyes. “She forgot her shawl for our walk with Mr Henderson and I was sent to fetch it—though, if you ask me, she forgot it deliberately so that she could snatch a moment alone with him.”
Miss Vale waved the shawl in her hand as evidence, then gave a delighted laugh at the incredulous look on James’s face.
“Mrs Pinnock is an incorrigible flirt,” she confided. “She adores the company of handsome young men.”
“What lady doesn’t?” James replied diplomatically, unwilling to pass comment on Mrs Pinnock’s preferred pastimes.
“This lady,” Miss Vale frowned. “I should prefer to return home—we were supposed to depart yesterday. Alas, it seems my fate is to accompany Mrs Pinnock and Mr Henderson’s breeches on their constitutionals for the foreseeable. Good afternoon, Captain.”
She disappeared down the stairs with a wave, and James continued on to his rooms.
He might not have found Mr Goodwin, but he had a suspicion he had uncovered the source of the funds for Mr Henderson’s scandalously tight trousers.
Though James did not think he’d spend the afternoon mulling over the butcher’s boy’s wardrobe but, rather, his own for tomorrow evening’s dinner—he wanted to be rigged out like an admiral on parade to impress Miss Bridges.