Chapter Eleven
FLORA HAD BEEN at her grandmother’s cottage since morning, but she had not sat down once. The teacups on the dresser had been shifted from one shelf to another, the jars of herbs dusted, the floor swept and scrubbed—and still she found herself pacing, inspecting every corner for dust.
Her fussing was ridiculous; Captain Thorne had already visited the cottage. Yet she was suddenly conscious of the plain hearth, the worn chairs, the narrow walls, and hoped on this second visit he would not find it lacking.
Or her lacking.
She ran anxious fingers over the skirts of her second-best dress—for she had worn her best to dinner—just as a loud knock sounded on the front door.
“He’s here,” she called nervously.
“Maybe you’ll finally sit down so,” her grandmother replied, barely glancing up from the sock she was darning as Flora hurried down the hall.
She opened the door to find Captain Thorne, freshly shaven and looking every bit as handsome as the night before.
“Miss Bridges,” he greeted warmly, removing his hat.
For a heartbeat she could do nothing but stare dumbly at this tall, broad specimen of a man filling her doorway. Then, recollecting herself with a jolt, she stepped back and managed to find her voice.
“Do come in, Captain,” she said, ushering him into the hallway.
She led him to the kitchen, cheeks aflame. Her grandmother gave her a knowing smile as they entered, though—mercifully—if she had any thoughts on Flora’s flustered state she kept them to herself.
“Tea?” Flora asked brightly as the captain took a seat at the table.
“Not for me,” Mrs Bridges sighed, placing her needlework back in its basket. “I want to go out and check on the hens before the storm.”
Flora glanced out the window in confusion; the sky was a clear, bright blue.
“I can feel it in my bones,” Mrs Bridges said crossly in response to her sceptical look. She rose from her seat, took her shawl from the back of the chair, and departed through the back door with a cheery wave to the captain.
“As a captain, I often changed our course based only on a twinge from my second mate’s knee,” he remarked easily, as Flora began to apologise.
His second mate hadn’t been trying to force a romance, Flora thought dryly—though she kept that to herself.
“More biscuits for us, I suppose,” she said, moving to the stove where the kettle had begun to sing.
She quickly prepared a pot of tea and brought it to the table. Once he was settled with a cup and plate of biscuits before him, she finally took a seat.
After a few compliments about the quality of the biscuits, the captain quickly steered the conversation to the reason for his visit.
“I’m afraid that, after our chat last night, it looks as though Mr Goodwin might be innocent,” he said, setting his cup down, his tone as rueful as his expression.
“I thought as much from the look you gave me when you returned from the library,” Flora replied, offering him a smile to soften his disappointment. “It’s no matter; crossing a name off the list is progress, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
The captain gave a harrumph of protest, which caused Flora to smile.
“It’s true,” she insisted. “The more certain we are that our other suspects are innocent, the more certain we’ll be when we find the guilty party.”
“Are you always this optimistic, Miss Bridges?” he asked, eyeing her over the rim of his cup.
“Only when the good biscuits are out,” she replied, reaching across to take one from the plate.
As she brought it to her lips, she thought she noted the captain’s eyes following. As a result, when she bit into the shortbread, she was so flustered she was afraid she might choke.
“Remind me who our other suspects are?” the captain asked quickly, his ears redder than usual. Perhaps he was as overcome as she, she mused.
“Mrs Fitzhenry was the first,” Flora began, after taking a sip of tea to lubricate her now dry throat. “Though you are now mostly convinced of her innocence.”
“As the most compelling motive came from Mrs Canards and was more libel than motive, I remain mostly convinced,” he replied dryly.
“Then Mr Goodwin, who is now also ruled out—though you’re yet to tell me why.”
“He genuinely believes that he and Sir Ambrose were partners in the investing firm,” Captain Thorne winced a little as he spoke.
“He’s remaining in Plumpton until the will is read, so he can collect his windfall.
At first, I suspected he was engaging in elaborate subterfuge but as the conversation continued it became apparent that Mr Goodwin lacks the grey-matter for such a scheme. ”
“Oh, dear,” Flora sighed, though she was glad that her own intuition about Mr Goodwin had been correct.
“In truth, I had my own questions about his guilt,” she ventured. “If he had discovered he’d been swindled, he’d more likely have killed in anger—and poison is not the weapon of a man in a rage.”
The captain gave her a startled glance and she flushed.
“It’s too slow,” she explained quickly. “A man that furious would have used force in the heat of the moment. And then there was the problem of how the poisoned bottle entered the house when he himself was refused entry.”
“Well,” the captain sighed, “We have our answer now. He didn’t.”
“If it wasn’t him, then who was the man I overheard arguing with Sir Ambrose on the morning of the murder?” Flora wondered aloud.
“Our killer, perhaps?” the captain raised a brow. “We’ll add whoever it is to the top of the list.”
“And what about Mrs Pinnock?” Flora ventured, recalling the disquiet she had felt last night as the elderly woman had recounted the tale of her investment losses.
Her suggestion was met with bemused silence from Captain Thorne.
“She collects brandy, she knew Sir Ambrose, and she said that she lost some of her late husband’s fortune to unsound investment advice—which might have come from Sir Ambrose,” Flora continued, a little annoyed by his skepticism.
“If she wanted revenge, then poison would be the perfect means by which an elderly woman might seek it.”
“All very true,” the captain conceded, though Flora could sense he still held doubts.
This was it, Flora thought with a gulp, if she was to have him believe her, she would have to share her suspicions that she thought the wolfsbane had come from her grandmother’s press.
Perhaps he might then believe Mrs Pinnock a credible suspect?
She paused, wanting to wait a moment before she revealed her deception to the captain and the light of admiration in his eyes dimmed—or worse, extinguished forever.
“There’s something else,” she continued, squaring her shoulders.
Alas, that something else was not to be revealed, for the door was thrown open and her grandmother appeared.
“Don’t mind me,” she cautioned, as the captain leapt to his feet. “I’m just looking for a few nails and a hammer. I need to secure the hinges on the door of the coop, before the wind picks up.”
Flora stifled a sigh of annoyance; at this rate it felt as though fate itself was conspiring against her.
“I’ll do that for you, Mrs Bridges,” the captain offered, shrugging off his coat with ease.
Flora tried not to stare at the breadth of his shoulders as he set his coat aside—her grandmother however, had no such qualms.
“The salve is working well then,” she stated, as she eyed him appreciatively. “You’ve good movement back.”
Flora closed her eyes, praying that her grandmother would not suggest that the captain remove his shirt in the kitchen again.
“It hasn’t bothered me once since I started applying it,” Captain Thorne agreed. “I am forever indebted to you, Mrs Bridges. Now show me the hen-house so I can start working off what I owe.”
“Hush,” Flora opened her eyes to find her grandmother blushing at his words. “I’m just glad it’s helping; I’ll brew you up another jar while you’re outside. Come, I’ll show you what needs fixing.”
The captain offered Flora one of his crooked grins as he left, causing another pang of longing in her stomach. It should be illegal to be so handsome, Flora thought, rather churlishly—though she soon left her seat, to watch him work from the window.
Her grandmother shortly returned inside and came to stand beside her.
“He may have the voice of a gentleman,” Mrs Bridges remarked, as her eyes followed Flora’s gaze. “But those are the hands of a man who knows hard work.”
She then gave Flora’s arm a sly prod. “And so are those shoulders.”
“Really,” Flora blushed, tearing her eyes away from the window. “I wasn’t looking at him like that. He doesn’t look at me like that. Captain Thorne is merely here because he is being chivalrous.”
“Chivalrous, is it?” her grandmother sniffed. “At my age, a woman knows when a man is harbouring unchivalrous thoughts about a lady—and I’d wager the captain has had a few about you. Still, he’s not that sort to try anything before he’s put a ring on your finger, I’ll grant him that.”
She gave a roar of laughter at Flora’s stricken expression.
“Between his chivalry and your innocence, I won’t expect any unwanted surprises,” Mrs Bridges consoled her, patting her arm. “Now, hurry along and fetch a jar—I want the salve ready by the time he’s finished.”
Flora dragged her eyes from the window, glad for the distraction.
She hummed silently to herself as she fetched a pan from the shelf and dropped in a lump of lard to melt on the hob.
From the row of neatly labelled jars she measured out sprigs of St John’s wort, comfrey and rosemary, then added a pinch of lavender when her grandmother’s back was turned.
The herbs hissed as they met the warm fat, and soon the little kitchen smelled like a summer meadow.
Once ready, she picked up a square of muslin, and strained the infusion into a waiting jar, then set it aside on the dresser to cool.
“He’s taking his time,” her grandmother commented, suspiciously. “Perhaps I was mistaken about his hands.”
She moved to the window to peer out and gave an astonished chortle; “Well, I never.”