Chapter Eighteen
THE ECHO OF Mrs Pinnock’s shriek still rang in James’s ears as he forced his way through the crowd to the stairwell.
At the top step he halted, peering down.
A crumpled figure lay at the foot of the stairs—Mrs Pinnock, unmoving, eerily still.
Miss Vale crouched over her, wailing, while nearby Mrs Canards—having abandoned her ticket desk—stood frozen, eyes wide with shock.
“Someone send for Dr Bates,” James called over his shoulder, before descending the stairs, three at a time.
He dropped to one knee beside Mrs Pinnock and pressed his fingers to her wrist, exhaling with relief as he found a pulse. Weak but present.
“Is she..?” Miss Vale’s wide eyes searched his face.
“She’s alive,” James confirmed, though the grim set of his mouth betrayed his deeper worry—that she was alive for now.
A juddering sob escaped Miss Vale as she closed her eyes. James felt a pang of sympathy; if Mrs Pinnock died, the girl would be left with nothing.
A commotion at the stairwell announced the arrival of Dr Bates, still clutching a generous wedge of seed cake from the refreshment table in one hand.
“Clear the way, clear the way,” he muttered, though without much enthusiasm. He descended the steps at a pace more suited to an afternoon stroll than an emergency, his gaze straying longingly to the doorway at the bottom of the stairs that led to the pub beyond.
“Doctor,” James barked, hoping to speed the man’s pace. “She fell the length of the stairs—she may have broken her neck!”
“Yes, yes, quite dreadful,” Bates sighed, handing the slice of cake to Mrs Canards, before crouching down beside Mrs Pinnock with evident reluctance.
“Still breathing,” he declared, after the briefest of examinations. “Her bones feel intact enough. Concussion, perhaps.”
“That’s it?” James could not hide his incredulity.
“We’ll have someone move her back to The King’s Head to rest. If she wakes, she may yet live. If she does not…,” The doctor gave a philosophical shrug. “Well, she won’t.”
His knees gave a click of protest as he rose to his feet. “My cake, please, Mrs Canards,”
Mrs Canards wordlessly handed over the slice of seed cake, which the doctor received with grave ceremony, before departing toward the bar.
Just as James was beginning to despair that no one in Plumpton could treat a crisis with an ounce of seriousness, a voice cut through the hubbub.
“Thorne—what’s happened?”
Lord Crabb appeared at his side, his brow furrowed with worry. In a low voice, James explained Mrs Pinnock’s fall and Dr Bates’ languid verdict that she should be moved to her rooms at The King’s Head without delay.
“I’ll pull a few strong men from up there,” Crabb said briskly, nodding toward the knot of onlookers crowding the stairwell. “You stay here with Miss Vale.”
James had almost forgotten Mrs Pinnock’s companion, who stood shivering nearby, her hands clutched tight at her skirts.
“Can you tell me what happened, Miss Vale?” he asked in a low, urgent whisper.
“We had decided to return home because Mrs Pinnock was feeling a little… under the weather,” she stammered, her voice shaking with shock.
James’s mind leapt at once to the brandy.
“I was halfway down the stairs,” Miss Vale continued, closing her eyes as though to blot out the memory. “I heard her cry out—I turned, and I tried to catch her, but—”
The juddering breath she gave explained clearly that her attempt had not been successful.
“So you believe she was so inebriated that she stumbled?” James frowned.
“I cannot say,” Miss Vale whispered, helpless. She hesitated, then added, nervously, “Though I thought—I thought I saw Mr Henderson behind her. But I might have been mistaken.”
“I saw him too,” Mrs Canards interjected. She had been standing a few feet away feigning concern for Mrs Pinnock—though her interjection made clear that she had been avidly eavesdropping.
“You’re certain?” James turned to her.
“As certain as his breeches are tight,” she replied, her thin lips pursed in disapproval.
James heaved a sigh. So Henderson’s part in the scheme had not ended with mere bribery. Perhaps he had decided that silencing Mrs Pinnock was the only way to keep her from exposing him.
Further discussion was halted as Lord Crabb reappeared with several sturdy fellows in tow. As the men began to discuss how best to move Mrs Pinnock without jostling her too roughly, James pulled the viscount aside.
“It seems Henderson pushed her,” he said grimly.
Lord Crabb gave a low whistle of surprise. “I didn’t think the lad had it in him.”
“You never know a man’s true mettle until he’s backed into a corner,” James shrugged. “We must find him before he makes good his escape.”
“I doubt he’ll attempt it,” Lord Crabb replied. “Silencing Mrs Pinnock is the lazy man’s solution to a difficulty—and I fancy Henderson prefers his comforts too well to risk flight.”
“True,” James agreed. “Though I’d prefer he was found sooner rather than later.”
“Are we organising a search party? Count me in.”
The Earl of Ashford—a tall, dark, and usually forbidding man—wore a look of faint distress as he joined their party.
“Don’t want to stay for another dance, Ashford?” Crabb commented wryly, noting the earl’s vague air of desperation.
“Would that I was permitted to dance,” he sighed. “I let slip to Mrs Mifford that I have a bachelor cousin and she has been berating me all evening for hiding a male in need of a wife. I’ve had to promise to invite him for Twelfth Night just to get away from her.”
“She does have a gift for matchmaking,” James offered, unable to keep the smile from his lips as he thought of Miss Bridges.
The earl and Lord Crabb noted it, exchanging an amused glance between them.
“Indeed she does,” Lord Deverell agreed placidly.
“I recall experiencing a similar affection when she determined I ought to marry Lady Deverell. That affection waned somewhat when I discovered that she now expects me to supply bachelors as fodder for her endless crusade. But enough of matrimony—who is it we are hunting?”
“A murderer,” the viscount answered, his tone instantly grave. He quickly explained Henderson’s role in both Sir Ambrose’s demise and Mrs Pinnock’s fall, to the evident astonishment of Lord Deverell.
“I didn’t think the lad had it in him,” the earl commented, echoing Lord Crabb’s earlier words.
“Well, he does,” James said grimly, nodding toward the group of men now carrying Mrs Pinnock to the exit. They were trailed by a ghost-like Miss Vale, who was being consoled by Mrs Canards—though James suspected her interest lay more in voyeurism than altruism.
As the bearers disappeared through the door, a slow trickle of revelers began to descend the stairs. The assembly, James realised, had come to its end.
“We’d best to it,” Lord Deverell sighed, as the foyer began to fill with people. “We should each round up as many men as we can, then we’ll divide into parties.”
“A sound plan,” Crabb agreed—then, catching sight of his wife, flushed. “Er—I’ll just let Jane know what’s afoot.”
“And I must inform Sarah and see her safely home,” the earl added, anxiously scanning the crowd for his wife.
And James? He realised, with a jolt, that he too had someone he cared for, someone who might fret if he vanished without word…
“Miss Bridges,” he called, as he sighted Flora descending the stairs. She was accompanied by a red-haired girl, whose gaze dropped to her feet as he strode toward them. The maid, James guessed.
“What happened?” Flora asked, as James ushered them both toward the door.
In a low voice, he quickly explained that Mrs Pinnock’s fall had not been accidental and the need to find Henderson quickly.
“We’re going to set up a search party,” James finished.
“I could help?” Flora offered.
“You can help,” James agreed, allowing himself a smile. “By returning straight home and staying out of harm’s way. I could not stand if anything were to happen to you—Henderson is much more dangerous than we had ever assumed.”
By now they had reached the gig, parked a short way down from The Ring. James assisted Helen up first, steadying her as she climbed. Then he turned back, and for a moment lingered with Flora in the shadow of the lantern light.
“If Henderson is dangerous, then I insist you take this,” she said, as she rummaged through her reticule. She drew out something and pressed it into James’ hand.
“Rosemary,” she explained. “For protection. I know you’ll think it silly—”
“I shall wear it close to my heart,” James cut her off, his voice rougher than he intended. He would not let her apologise for what was, to him, the most touching gift he had ever received—the concern of the woman he loved.
He took her hand for a moment, hoping his eyes might convey all the words he dared not speak.
“If there is any news, I’ll ride out to Brackenfield,” he promised, wondering if she would rebuke him.
Flora’s eyes widened a little, but she nodded. “Come, even if there is no news—I won’t sleep otherwise.”
A smile of longing passed between them, before James reluctantly helped her up into the gig. His hands lingered at her waist a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed—long enough to brand the moment into his memory—before he forced himself to let her go.
He stood for a moment, watching the gig disappear into the black night. Only when Flora was lost to sight did he turn back to the clamour within The Ring, her gift of rosemary pressed close against his heart.
The search turned up nothing. Henderson had vanished so completely that James worried they had been incorrect to guess that the lad would not skip town.