Chapter Three
ALTHOUGH MR POSTLETHWAITE lay on the ground—perhaps breathing his last—all Charlotte could think of was that she was still holding the Comte’s hand.
And worse, she hadn’t yet found the courage to let go.
She was certain she had left bruises on the poor man—if, indeed, a creature carved from oak could bruise at all.
Oh, what he must think of her!
“I do apologise,” she whispered, tugging her fingers from his grip. “I was somewhat overcome.”
“It is not every day one witnesses a poisoning,” the Comte replied, all Gallic gallantry—or so Charlotte presumed, for she had never actually met a Frenchman before.
“No, really,” she persisted, her mortification rising. “It was quite unfair of me to grab you so. I pray you will forgive me.”
“Miss Mifford,” said the Comte, his tone as dry as white wine, as he nodded toward the stage, “I rather think there are more pressing matters at hand. Your aunt, it appears, is being accused of murder.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Charlotte touched a distracted hand to her bonnet. “Well, thank you for—and apologies again for—”
As she appeared quite unable to finish a sentence, Charlotte offered what she hoped was a charming smile, then pushed her way through the crowd to her aunt.
The chaos in the hall had subsided somewhat as the audience watched Dr Bates make his way slowly—and with a definite air of grievance—toward the stage.
As the doctor ascended the steps, Charlotte moved to stand beside her aunt and uncle.
“My dear, your baking does not usually have such an immediate effect on a man,” she heard Mr Mifford murmur to his wife.
Luckily for him, Mrs Mifford was too distracted by Dr Bates to pay the remark any heed, so Charlotte took it upon herself to deliver a discreet but admonishing elbow to his ribs.
“If this turns out to be a fit of the vapours,” the doctor muttered loudly, “Then I shall charge double. I was enjoying an evening off—though, clearly, no one cares about my well being.”
He crouched beside Mr Postlethwaite, pressed two fingers to the man’s throat, then leaned close to examine him.
“Pulse is steady enough,” he announced. “Breathing shallow, skin flushed—ah.” He lifted one eyelid and gave a small grunt. “The pupils are dilated.”
A confused murmur and a few gasps of shock went up from the crowd. Thankfully, Mrs Canards was not shy about asking for clarification.
“What does that mean, Doctor?” she cried, still eyeing Mrs Mifford carefully, as though afraid she might bolt from justice. From the fervour in her eyes, Charlotte could well imagine that, if her aunt ever did end up in the stocks, Mrs Canards would be first in line with a rotten turnip.
“Poison,” Dr Bates answered as he straightened, brushing off his hands. “If I’m not mistaken, this is the work of Atropa belladonna—deadly nightshade. A mild dose only, thank heaven. Mr Postlethwaite shall live to overcharge for another pair of gloves.”
A collective shudder swept the crowd at this announcement, swiftly followed by a triumphant cry from Mrs Canards.
“I told you! She’s poisoned him with berries!”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Dr Bates replied, pushing up his spectacles, startled by her outburst. “It’s possible Mrs Mifford picked them in error—they do look deliciously juicy when ripe.”
His hypothesis was enough to draw Mrs Mifford from her shocked silence. She drew herself up to her full height, her expression an alarming mixture of outrage and disbelief.
“Pick my own berries?” she repeated, as though this accusation was far worse than the one of attempted murder. “I have household staff, I’ll thank you to know—I don’t wander through the bushes with a foraging basket.”
All eyes in the room immediately turned to the Miffords’ maid-of-all-work, Nora, who made a valiant attempt at looking innocent.
“Well, I didn’t pick no berries neither,” Nora groused, realising that the villagers expected a reply. “Who has time for that when I’ve to keep Mr Mifford in a never-ending supply of mince pies?”
As all eyes then swivelled to the vicar, he raised his hands in surrender.
“Guilty as charged,” he confessed to the audience. “I am not immune to the lure of the deadly sins, and mince pies do draw out the glutton in me. I shall reflect upon it in my next sermon.”
“Well, if that matter is settled,” Dr Bates sighed, “Might I impose upon someone to help me move Mr Postlethwaite to my surgery? I expect I’ll have to keep an eye on him overnight—lucky me.”
“I can ’elp you, Doctor.”
The offer came from none other than the Comte de Roche. Though Charlotte noted that the doctor balked slightly at the sight of the hulking French aristocrat, he did not decline the offer of assistance.
Without further discussion, the Comte stepped forward, bent, and—with astonishing ease—lifted the unconscious postmaster and slung him over his shoulder as though he were a sack of flour. A collective gasp of admiration went up around the hall at this show of strength.
Charlotte was similarly impressed, and she felt a curious little thrill run through her—half admiration, half…something else. Shock, she told herself firmly. Entirely shock.
“Good heavens,” Dr Bates muttered, trotting to keep pace as the Comte strode forward. “I’ll—er—open the door for you.”
As the two men departed, the hall erupted once more into chatter.
Miss Morton, pale and wide-eyed, was being comforted by Miss Weaver the seamstress, who looked rather shaken herself.
“It was just so quick,” Miss Morton sniffed. “He didn’t even have time to admire my samplers.”
“It would take more than nightshade to kill Mr Postlethwaite,” Mr Cleeve, the schoolmaster, declared dourly to no one in particular. “You can’t kill a bad thing, after all.”
“Hush, Horace,” his wife admonished, while Mr Mifford turned to the man running the cider table and lightly suggested that it might be time to cut Mr Cleeve off.
Mr Benoit Hardy—a young gentleman staying at The King’s Head Inn—moved toward the stage in fascination.
“Good heavens,” he exclaimed. “I wasn’t expecting this on my painting tour of the Cotswolds! Would it be unseemly of me to capture the scene?”
Charlotte touched a hand to her brow, glad that the Comte had not stayed to witness the bazaar descend into complete farce. Surely everyone would soon disperse and go home?
“Why hasn’t the constable arrested Mrs Mifford yet?”
This demand came from Mrs Canards and was so loud that it silenced the room. From the corner of her eye, Charlotte spotted Mr Marrowbone—the constable himself—slipping discreetly out of the hall. No man was quicker on his feet than Mr Marrowbone when he suspected he might be prevailed upon to work.
“Convenient of you to point the finger at Mrs Mifford, Mrs Canards,” came a sharp voice from the rear. It was Mrs Walton, the wheelwright’s wife and a long-time nemesis of Mrs Canards. “When I heard you and the postmaster having an almighty quarrel just a few days ago!”
Mrs Canards drew herself up, looking mutinous. “It does not matter if we argued, for it was not I who poisoned Mr Postlethwaite—we all saw that it was Mrs Mifford!”
“Now really, that’s enough.”
The Duke of Northcott was not known for his verbosity, so when he did speak, the rarity of the occasion—and the grandeur of his title—was enough to command attention.
The room fell instantly silent as the duke swept an imperious gaze around the audience.
“Mr Postlethwaite’s collapse aside, we have all enjoyed a lovely evening—haven’t we?”
The room nodded silently in unison.
“And we have raised an astonishing sum for the Parish Benevolent Fund, which should be commended,” he continued.
Miss Morton preened prettily, glancing around in search of admiring looks for her good work.
“And I am glad to announce that—given the season—I will match the sum raised here tonight,” he added, prompting sighs of pleasure from the ladies.
“And I shall also stand a round for every man here in The Ring,” he finished, drawing appreciative murmurs from the menfolk.
“Which brings our bazaar to an end. Good night.”
The clipped precision with which the duke ended his impromptu speech was all the encouragement the crowd needed to disperse.
The stall-holders began dismantling their tables while the villagers filed out through the door—no doubt to gossip about the evening’s events in the pub.
Within minutes, only Charlotte, the Miffords and their respective husbands, and Nora remained.
“I do so love when you take command, dear,” Mary, Duchess of Northcott, sighed as the door closed behind the last villager. She smiled up at her husband as she stroked the gentle curve of the bump that her voluminous gown could not conceal. “You’re so dashing when you’re firm.”
“Er—yes, well.”
Northcott’s cheeks pinkened, and Charlotte felt decidedly as though she were intruding upon a very private moment.
Luckily, Mrs Mifford was not one to leave any silence unfilled.
“Accused of murder!” she exclaimed, pressing a hand to her temple. “And by Mrs Canards, of all people. Oh, the indignity!”
Charlotte was quite certain that, to her aunt, the murder accusation was the lesser annoyance.
“At least Papa wasn’t judging the competition this year,” Eudora, Lady Delaney, offered in a valiant attempt to look on the bright side. “That would have been a complete disaster.”
“I wouldn’t mind a good night’s sleep in Dr Bates’s surgery,” Charlotte heard her uncle mutter, though fortunately his wife missed the remark.
“I shall never live down the humiliation,” Mrs Mifford sighed, then—perhaps remembering her manners—added, “Not that my suffering compares to poor Mr Postlethwaite’s. But… still.”
“You’ve survived worse, Mama,” Emily, Lady Chambers, said briskly. “Don’t you recall that Easter when you walked to the top of the church with your skirts tucked into your draw—”
“What Emily is trying to say,” Mr Mifford cut in hastily, “Is that you’ve nothing to be humiliated about, my dear.
You did not poison Mr Postlethwaite, neither by accident or design, and the truth shall prevail.
In the meantime, let us return to Primrose Cottage for some medicinal wine. It’s good for frazzled nerves.”
“Yours or mine?” Mrs Mifford demanded archly, though affection glimmered in her eyes.
“Both,” he admitted, grinning as he took her hand to lead her from the parish hall. As they left, he called back an admonishment that his daughters were to stay out of trouble.
“None of us have been accused of murder,” Eudora—the youngest—muttered at his retreating back.
“No one’s been accused of murder; it was an accident,” Jane corrected firmly as she began to tidy. “Dr Bates explained it all. Not everything in Plumpton is a murder mystery—despite our past experience.”
“Accidents do happen,” Emily agreed, before glancing sidelong at her sisters and Charlotte. “Though if someone had tried to murder Mr Postlethwaite, I wonder what their motive was?”
“Revenge, loot, or lust—those are the usual suspects,” Lord Crabb observed cheerfully, as he and the Marquess of Highfield carried the long table from the stage to its rightful place at the back of the hall.
His wife’s withering look made him clear his throat and clarify. “Not that I think we’ve witnessed an attempted murder, of course. A mere unfortunate accident, as Jane said.”
He wiped his brow. “That’s the last of the heavy stuff lifted. I’ll just go and check on de Roche.”
Charlotte’s heart gave an inconvenient flutter at the mention of the Comte’s name—though, fortunately, she managed to drop a chair on her toe at that precise moment, which provided an excellent distraction. Excellent but painful, she reflected, as hobbled across the hall to fetch another chair.
As the viscount took his leave, Mary gave a delicate yawn, immediately echoed by Eudora.
“Off you go, both of you,” Jane said firmly, ushering her sisters toward the door. “We’ve had quite enough drama this evening without you two recreating the Nativity scene on your way home.”
Mary laughed, patting her rounded belly. “I don’t think I have the temperament to play our Saviour’s mother.”
“And I,” Eudora added through another yawn, “Am so large that the only role I could conceivably play would be the donkey.”
Lord Delaney gallantly objected to his wife’s statement, whilst Northcott anxiously wrapped a cloak around Mary’s shoulders, and after a round of fond farewells, the little party departed—leaving Jane, Emily, Charlotte, and Nora to finish clearing up the aftermath.
With some help from Lord Chambers, though once the heavy lifting had been completed, Charlotte observed that he became less of a help and more a hindrance.
“I’ll take those, dear,” Emily said, rescuing a wobbling tower of cups from her husband’s grasp. “Why don’t you go and see if Ivo needs any help?”
“Why do I have the distinct feeling I’m being dismissed?” the marquess asked, amused.
“Your astuteness was one of the reasons I agreed to marry you,” Emily replied sweetly, ushering him toward the door.
Once he had departed, she added more quietly, “And I still say there’s more to this than meets the eye.”
Jane did not dignify this with an answer; she merely swept the floor with increased vigour.
“If someone truly did try to murder Mr Postlethwaite, I should very much like to know why,” Emily went on, undeterred by her sister’s silence.
Charlotte paused as she set down the final chair, a faint thrill running through her.
A mystery! Surely not—but still…wouldn’t that be an achievement before she turned twenty-five?
True, it was not a husband or home of her own, but solving a murder was not something many ladies accomplished in their lifetime.
With the exception of her four cousins, of course.
“It was an accident,” Jane insisted. “Plain and simple. I cannot imagine anyone attempting a murder at Christmas—it simply wouldn’t be right.”
“So any other time of year would be perfectly acceptable?” Emily teased.
“That is not what I said,” Jane huffed, planting her hands on her hips.
Charlotte smiled faintly, letting their good-natured quarrel fade into the background.
Mr Postlethwaite’s poisoning might remain a mystery, but one thing was certain: that night, as she laid down her head, her thoughts would be occupied not by the day’s drama, but by the Frenchman who had carried off the postmaster—and captured her imagination.