Chapter Sixteen
JAMES DID NOT get a chance to speak with Miss Vale alone until the next morning.
At breakfast she appeared without her usual shadow, explaining with a wry lift of her brow that Mrs Pinnock was “somewhat indisposed.” From the way she said it, James guessed the old dame had spent the previous evening appraising the inn’s brandy selection rather too thoroughly.
She seated herself at the table beside James and across from Mr Goodwin, who looked decidedly worse for wear.
“Any news on the stagecoach, Mr Goodwin?” Miss Vale asked sympathetically, as a sleepy-looking Edward poured coffee into her cup.
“None as yet,” Goodwin sighed. “Though Edward here tells me it’s possible there’ll be news tomorrow morning.”
“If the farmers can get through with their carts for the half-market, then the stage will be here in the afternoon,” the footman confirmed, before slipping away to fetch Miss Vale a plate of eggs.
“Imagine,” Goodwin sighed again—more contented this time—as he picked up his teacup with a hand that trembled faintly. “This time next week I could be a man of great fortune. I’ll recall you all fondly.”
“I’ve no doubt you will,” James said dryly, doubtful the young buck would ever stand him all the drinks he’d cadged.
“Say, Thorne,” Goodwin went on, setting down his cup. “You don’t have a cheroot on you, do you? This tea isn’t doing much to blast away the cobwebs.”
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, James reached into his coat and drew out his cigar case. He handed over three cigars to Goodwin, who accepted them wide-eyed, scarcely believing his luck.
“Very generous of you, captain,” he said, patting his breast pocket—no doubt checking his hip-flask was still in place—as he rose. “I’ll just slip into the smoking-room for a spell.”
James brushed off his thanks; his generosity had been inspired not by camaraderie but by opportunity. He wasn’t sure when he might next have a moment alone with Miss Vale.
Once Mr Goodwin had left, James engaged the girl in pleasantries until Edward arrived with her eggs. He dawdled over the rest of his own breakfast, until she had finished.
“I should look in on Mrs Pinnock,” she said, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. “She may require a tisane for her headache.”
James set his cup down. “Could you spare me a moment first, Miss Vale?”
She paused, tilting her head. A flicker of interest lit in her eyes—quickly veiled, though not before James caught it.
“Of course,” she answered lightly, lifting a hand to pat her hair.
James inclined his head and led the way from the dining room to the entrance hall, then the little annex beyond.
The inn advertised it as a library, though the shelves contained more dust than books.
A scattering of stuffed chairs and a few well-thumbed periodicals made it more a refuge for idlers than scholars.
James closed the door behind them, the quiet making him suddenly aware of the intimacy of the space. He cleared his throat.
“Miss Vale, I wished for a word—about Mrs Pinnock.”
Her lips, curved into a smile of expectation, parted in surprise before she quickly recovered.
“About Mrs Pinnock?” she echoed, all polite confusion.
“Please.” James gestured toward one of the chairs as he took the one opposite. He leaned forward slightly, the gravity in his voice at odds with the cosiness of the little room. “Forgive me, but I must ask plainly—do you think Mrs Pinnock bore Sir Ambrose a grudge strong enough to wish him dead?”
“Goodness no,” Miss Vale gave a quick, startled laugh.
James did not return her hesitant smile, he merely tilted his head, watching her carefully.
“It is not so preposterous a suggestion,” he said evenly.
“There are clues which are difficult to ignore. Mrs Pinnock lost a portion of her fortune to Sir Ambrose’s investment advice.
Poison was slipped into a bottle of 1776 Armagnac—a rare bottle and as she said herself, she’s a collector.
And she was present in Mrs Bridges’ cottage on the day of the murder—Mrs Bridges later discovered her jar of wolfsbane had been interfered with. ”
“Then perhaps the old witch did it herself,” Miss Vale shot back darkly.
James regarded her steadily. Her cheeks flamed under his scrutiny, and she lifted her chin in a bid for composure.
“Forgive me,” she said quickly, her voice softer now.
“It is the shock of it all. I cannot help but feel protective toward Mrs Pinnock—she saved me from a life of destitution. She can be snappish—yes, even cruel at times—but it is the drink that sharpens her tongue. I fear it has addled her mind more than she knows.”
“You do not want to end up homeless?” James guessed, feeling a stab of pity for the girl despite her barbed retort about Mrs Bridges.
“Homeless again,” Miss Vale replied, with a dry laugh at her misfortune.
“I am sorry for your troubles, Miss Vale,” James said, lacing his words with sincerity. “But if you believe it is possible that Mrs Pinnock is guilty of murder, you must tell me.”
She sighed, her eyes drifting to the window, as she mulled over his request. At last, she turned her gaze back to him, her fingers plucking nervously at her skirts.
“It is possible,” she admitted softly. “Sir Ambrose and Mrs Pinnock both belonged to the same society. He inveigled himself with its members—persuaded them to make investments. Years later, when they sought to draw upon their returns, there was nothing left. The money was gone.”
“And Mrs Pinnock lost hers?” James pressed.
“Yes,” Miss Vale sighed. “She was luckier than most of the other members, in that it was not her whole fortune that had disappeared. Enough to wound her pride and her purse, mind. She has never forgiven him. It was she who suggested the trip to Plumpton, and I agreed, not knowing he would be here. From the moment we got here she has been plotting; she set about befriending Mr Henderson and got him to bribe Sir Ambrose.”
Miss Vale’s voice faltered, then dropped to a whisper. “I do not think that was enough revenge for her. I believe she wanted him dead.”
“You accompanied Mrs Pinnock to Mrs Bridges’ home,” James pressed, reluctant to allow her trail off into contemplative silence. “Did you see her take the wolfsbane?”
“No,” Miss Vale shook her head. “Though Mrs Bridges took me outside to show me her roses, leaving Mrs Pinnock alone in the kitchen. I cannot say for certain, but if she stole it, it must have been then.”
“And did you see her give Sir Ambrose the bottle of brandy?” he asked, his voice sterner than he would have liked.
Again, Miss Vale shook her head. Her complexion had turned deathly pale and James was certain that she was on the verge of tears. He felt a brute for pushing her so, but needs must.
“Think,” he urged her.
“She was often alone with Mr Henderson,” Miss Vale said at last. “Perhaps she persuaded him to bring the bottle to Sir Ambrose’s cottage then?”
James sat back, mulling over her words. It all tied in neatly with Henderson’s confession—though the lad had been careful to leave out any suggestion of his involvement in the murder.
Confessing to the lesser crime of bribery was a clever enough strategy, especially for a boy who did not give the appearance of being overly bright.
Still, he thought, perhaps even dullards could grow cunning when their necks were in danger.
“What will you do next?” Miss Vale’s voice broke through his thoughts, thin with apprehension.
“I’ll tell Lord Crabb, the magistrate, and ask what he wishes to do,” James said. He leaned forward, his tone urgent. “But I beg you, keep our conversation between us. If Mrs Pinnock suspects we suspect her, she may bolt.”
“There’s nowhere to bolt,” Miss Vale replied with a wry laugh. “There’s not a stagecoach to be had till tomorrow—and that’s at best.”
“Keep her here,” James urged, rising to his feet. Then, recalling the flicker of fear in her voice earlier, he softened. “And don’t worry about your future, Miss Vale. I’ll see that you’re not left destitute.”
Her lips parted as if to reply, but she quickly pressed them shut again, colour flooding her pale cheeks. James gave a polite bow and departed, feeling wretched for leaving her in such an emotional quandary.
Still, he did not have time to worry over Miss Vale—there was murder to solve, and they were so close now he could almost taste victory. How strange that his mind imagined victory might taste like Miss Bridges’ lips upon his own.
He fetched his horse from the stables and rode for Crabb Hall, where Mr Allen subjected his boots to a discreet inspection before allowing him through to the drawing room.
Inside, Lord and Lady Crabb were bent over their son Michael, who sat on the rug propped up by cushions, his little face scrunched in fierce concentration at the very act of sitting. His wide eyes never strayed far from his mama, lest she be needed to rescue him from his wobbles.
Something shifted in James’s chest. The domestic tableau stirred in him a yearning he had not expected.
For the briefest moment he pictured Flora with such a child in her lap, smiling down with all the sweetness of her nature.
A surge of tender pride rose in him—something that felt very like the expression on the viscount’s face as he watched his wife and son.
Crabb looked up as James entered, one brow arched.
“From your air of excitement, I gather you have news,” he remarked.
“I have,” James replied, his voice clipped with urgency. He wasted no time, recounting Miss Vale’s story—the lost fortune, the long-held grudge, the wolfsbane opportunity—and how it dovetailed with Henderson’s confession, though the lad had conveniently omitted his own possible role in events.
When he had finished, James concluded firmly, “It seems we have our murderer.”
Crabb let out a long, low whistle. “Well, well. What do you want to do from here, my friend?”
“I think we should confront Mrs Pinnock at once and press her for a confession,” James said, decisive as ever.
Crabb nodded, but before he could speak his wife interjected.
“Is it necessary for her to confess today?” Jane asked, her tone mild but her glance toward her husband anything but.
“Mama has been so very excited about the assembly—I should hate to think anything might keep Captain Thorne from attending. Like, say, accompanying a prisoner to the cells in Stroud.”
Lord Crabb blanched, then turned an apologetic look toward James. “Perhaps we might hold off until morning?” he suggested meekly. “I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of the drag—”
He stopped himself at his wife’s warning look.
“—of my dear mother-in-law,” he finished. “She is very invested in your burgeoning relationship with Miss Bridges. Overly invested, some might say…”
The last was delivered as a low aside, though Lady Crabb caught it; her lips twitched with a suppressed smile.
“There are no stagecoaches until tomorrow,” she added smoothly. “Mrs Pinnock won’t be going anywhere. You might as well take the night off, Captain, and enjoy yourself.”
James inclined his head in reluctant agreement—though anticipation had already begun to stir.
He would have countless moments alone with Miss Bridges, perhaps even the chance to hold her in his arms if Plumpton proved forward enough to allow waltzing.
Suddenly, pressing Mrs Pinnock to confess did not seem quite so urgent.
“Very well,” he conceded graciously. “We’ll hold off until morning. I apologise for intruding on your morning together.”
“Not at all,” Crabb rebuffed cheerfully. “Would you stay for luncheon?”
James thanked him for the invitation but declined. He would ride back to the inn, where he meant to scrub himself within an inch of his life, shave until his chin was softer than baby Michael’s, and restlessly anticipate the moment he could claim Miss Bridges’ hand upon the dance floor.