Chapter Nineteen #2
“Miss Bridges,” he called desperately over his shoulder, as Marrowbone dragged him onward.
“I didn’t push Mrs Pinnock! My breeches split and I was hiding in the attic above the hall until I could escape the assembly without being seen.
I must have fallen asleep—I only woke a few moments ago.
I was so ravenous that I decided I cared not a fig if anyone saw my calves. ”
Flora hurried after them a few steps, uncertain whether to believe him. Mr Marrowbone tugged him down a side lane that led toward the stables of The King’s Head, where Flora guessed he would be kept until Lord Crabb’s return.
“My calves are shapely—I have nothing to hide!” Henderson’s plaintive cry echoed down the lane as he vanished from view.
Flora paused her step, unable to follow any further. Her stomach churned with unease—Sir Ambrose’s murder was a puzzle and she could not help but feel that one piece did not quite fit into place. And she was quite certain she knew which one.
Determined now, Flora turned on her heel, marching back toward the green where she had spotted Mrs Canards. When she arrived, she found the market half-empty, the villagers having abandoned their shopping to watch the circus with Mr Henderson instead.
Flora sighed and turned to traipse back to The Ring, when she spotted a familiar figure, hurrying away from the village toward the bridge.
“Mrs Canards,” Flora called, chasing after her.
The village tabby—who could be relied upon to hear a pin drop two towns over—feigned a case of acute deafness and continued on her way.
“Mrs Canards,” Flora called again, as she lifted the skirts of her dress to give chase.
The older woman gave an exaggerated start, as though only just realising someone was behind her. “Oh, Miss Gardiner,” she said airily, not breaking stride. “I didn’t hear you.”
Flora quickened her step until she drew alongside.
“Perhaps your hearing is going as well as your sight?” she said pleasantly, as she matched Mrs Canards brisk pace.
“What are you suggesting, Miss Gardiner?” Mrs Canards sniffed, turning now to look at her.
Her face—Flora saw with a jolt—was rather pale. In fact, if she didn’t know any better, she might have said that Mrs Canards was afraid. Though that would be ascribing to the woman the ability to experience emotions—something Flora doubted she was capable of.
“I’m suggesting, that in the cold light of day, you might not be quite so certain if it was Mr Henderson you saw at the top of the stairs,” Flora suggested, gently.
“Well, perhaps I didn’t see quite as clear as I thought,” Mrs Canards agreed, exhaling with relief as she fiddled with the ribbons on her bonnet. “It was very dark, you see. And when Miss Vale said that she saw him—”
“You agreed,” Flora finished, her pulse quickening at the revelation.
“I was trying to be helpful,” Mrs Canards clarified, keen to exonerate herself of guilt.
“I didn’t think that it would cause quite such a fuss.
I should hate to see the Henderson lad hanged—he should be flogged for his crimes against public decency, of that there’s no doubt—but hanging is a stretch too far. ”
“Just a smidge,” Flora agreed faintly, wondering at the way the woman’s mind worked.
“And, Miss Vale is still certain it was him,” Mrs Canards finished smugly, as though this settled the matter.
“If he hangs, it will be on her conscience. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Gardiner, I must get to the church vestry.
I polish the brass candlesticks every week—it makes me feel closer to God. ”
Flora hid a wry grin as she bid Mrs Canards goodbye—she suspected it would take more than gleaming brass to bring Mrs Canards any nearer to heaven.
As she watched the woman hurry away, a feeling of disquiet rose again in her chest. Something was amiss, though she could not quite put her finger on what it was. What she needed, Flora realised, was someone to talk things through with—and that someone was Captain Thorne.
With more hope than expectation, she set off in the direction of The King’s Head, hoping she might learn that the search party had returned. The path along main street was thronged with villagers, gossiping with delight over Mr Henderson.
Flora had almost reached The King’s Head when Mrs Fitzhenry emerged from Mr McDowell’s, her basket heavy on her arm and her face set in a scowl.
“Daylight robbery,” the housekeeper muttered, giving Flora a curt nod. “His prices would beggar a duke, never mind a poor servant.”
“I try to stock up in Stroud when I can,” Flora replied absently, still scanning the street for Captain Thorne.
“I’d be wasting away if not for that hamper Miss Vale dropped off before Sir Ambrose died,” Fitzhenry went on. “Cold beef, elderflower cordial, pickled walnuts, and a jar of potted shrimps—though he’d guzzled half of it before I even found it.”
Flora’s gaze snapped to her. “When did you say she brought it?”
“Just before he died,” Fitzhenry sniffed. “Miss Vale said it was a gift from the Bath Philanthropic Society, arranged by Mrs Pinnock. You should have seen the treats inside; that’s what charities are handing out, I’d happily present myself as poor to receive one.”
Flora backed away, her mind racing. What did it mean?
Was it possible Miss Vale had unwittingly delivered brandy poisoned by Mrs Pinnock’s hand to Sir Ambrose?
But Mrs Pinnock now lay unconscious in her bed, hovering between life and death, purportedly pushed by Mr Henderson—though only Miss Vale had witnessed him.
Her thoughts tangled, Flora hardly noticed where she was going until she collided with a solid figure. She gave a startled gasp.
“Miss Bridges—I do apologise,” Mr Goodwin exclaimed, steadying her by the elbow. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. I need to gather a few things before I catch the stage—thank heavens it’s running again at last.”
His boyish grin widened. “And I’ll not be lonely on the road either—Miss Vale has agreed to accompany me part of the way. She is bound for Bath, to fetch some of Mrs Pinnock’s kin.”
“Miss Vale is leaving too?” Flora echoed, her heart lurching as, in her mind’s eye, the puzzle pieces finally slid into place.
“She’s at The King’s Head packing,” Goodwin explained cheerfully. “She near had to be torn from Mrs Pinnock’s side.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Flora murmured darkly—she was probably hoping to finish her mistress off before she left.
She thanked Goodwin and turned away, her steps quickening toward the inn as her thoughts spun.
Miss Vale—the orphan whose parents had once moved in the same circles as Sir Ambrose and Mrs Pinnock.
The girl who had so conveniently “delivered” that hamper, which Fitzhenry swore Sir Ambrose had half-finished before his death—keeping the brandy for himself.
The girl who had stood at the stairwell last night, accusing Henderson—knowing that Captain Thorne already suspected the lad of trickery.
And the wolfsbane—her grandmother had said Mrs Pinnock had lingered in the garden admiring roses when she’d called, leaving Miss Vale ample time to slip the poisonous roots into her pocket.
It was her. It had always been her.
Flora’s breath came faster as she hurried on, her heart pounding with the desperate hope she might reach The King’s Head before Miss Vale vanished for good.