Chapter Four
“I’M SO SORRY this happened while you were here, Roche,” Lord Crabb said, as the two men trotted slowly away from Crabb Hall the next morning. “I feel terrible that the best entertainment I can offer you today is to accompany me on my duties as magistrate.”
“On the contrary,” Gabe replied mildly. “When the alternative is joining the villagers in their—how do you call it?—wassailing, I think I prefer the murder.”
“Wassailing can be great fun, you know,” Crabb informed him, amused by the faint horror in his companion’s tone at the idea of communal singing and—heaven forbid—gaiety.
“You English call so many strange things fun,” Gabe replied gravely. “That I have learned to be suspicious of the word.”
Crabb gave a snort of amusement at Gabe’s determined cynicism, then urged his steed on to a brisk canter. The morning was crisp and bright; frost decorated the hedgerows, and in the distance the rolling Cotswolds hills were capped with fresh white snow.
Even Gabe—cynic though he was—could not deny how quaint and charming the scene appeared. Plumpton looked especially picturesque as they crested the hill leading down to the village. Lights glowed in mullioned windows, smoke curled from chimneys, and thatched roofs glittered with ice.
A man could grow very comfortable here, Gabe thought—before catching himself. If he was not careful, he would be snared by Plumpton’s magic.
“I hope they’re awake,” Lord Crabb called cheerfully as they reached the thatched cottage at the edge of the village.
A neat wooden sign hung beside the door: Dr Bates, Physician.
Beneath it lay the entrance to the surgery—the very door through which Gabe had carried Mr Postlethwaite the night before.
Both men dismounted and tethered their horses to the fence, then Lord Crabb led the way into the doctor’s lair.
The surgery was dark, quiet, and faintly musty—an atmosphere that put Gabe instantly to mind of death. Perhaps the décor was Dr Bates’s way of reminding his patients what might come next if they failed to heed his advice—or pay their bills, he thought with amusement.
A door creaked open at the far end of the room, and Dr Bates emerged, his coat askew, spectacles sliding down his nose, and an air of definite harriedness about him.
“Is the patient well, Doctor?” Lord Crabb called in a nervous whisper.
“The patient is thriving,” the doctor replied dryly. “It is I who am at risk of an apoplectic fit. I told Mr Postlethwaite an hour ago that he’s fit to return home, and he hasn’t budged an inch. It’s Christmas Eve—I can’t spend the whole day plumping pillows for the man.”
“I’ll speak with him,” Lord Crabb assured the doctor.
As he beckoned Gabe to follow, he noted a definite look of relief on the viscount’s face that he would not have to arrest his mother-in-law for murder after all.
“Mr Postlethwaite,” Lord Crabb greeted the postmaster cheerfully, as they entered the tiny infirmary-bay. “I hear you’re much recovered.”
The postmaster was propped regally against a mound of pillows, clutching a cup of tea, an empty breakfast tray at his side.
“Miles better,” he assured them both. “Another few cups of tea—and perhaps some of Mrs Bates’s seed cake—and I’ll be right as rain and on my way.”
“Yes, I expect Christmas Eve is one of your busier days,” Crabb said, with a heavy hint.
“Oh, young Tom Boden can handle things for an hour or so,” the postmaster replied airily.
“There’ll be no mail coaches today. I say, it’s good of you to call, my lord.
Dr Bates suggested you might see to my bill—given your connection to Mrs Mifford—but I assumed he was bluffing.
Mighty fine of you to offer, though, and I shan’t be shy in saying it’s much appreciated at this time of year—what with Christmas expenses and all. ”
Gabe was silently impressed. Somehow, Mr Postlethwaite had engineered matters so deftly that Lord Crabb could hardly refuse. It was a small masterclass in manipulation.
“Yes, well,” Crabb said, more amused than annoyed.
“I suppose it’s the least I can do. Speaking of Mrs Mifford—while I’m quite certain Dr Bates’s hypothesis is correct and it was all an unfortunate accident—I do still have to investigate.
You don’t think anyone might have had reason to want you dead, do you? ”
“Good heavens, no! I’m generally beloved by all,” Mr Postlethwaite assured them both. Even as a Frenchman, Gabe was a little taken aback by such self-confidence.
“And I’m quite sure Mrs Mifford is beside herself with distress for causing me harm—she’s quite devoted,” the postmaster continued—a remark that, Gabe noted, sent the viscount’s eyebrows briefly soaring toward his hairline.
“Between ourselves,” Mr Postlethwaite added conspiratorially, “I believe she’s a little in love with me. A hazard of the profession; women do so love men in positions of power.”
“Your position as judge at the competition?” Gabe guessed.
“Nothing as transitory as that,” Postlethwaite chortled. “As postmaster, I am custodian not only of the post—but of all Plumpton’s secrets, too.”
Gabe offered a silent prayer of thanks that the letter he had posted upon arrival had contained only a dusty missive to his solicitor, and not a love-note to a mistress, for Plumpton’s postmaster had all but confessed to reading the letters left in his care.
“If you’re quite certain no one wants you dead, then I’m more than happy to bring my investigation to a close,” Lord Crabb replied, then added—for Dr Bates’s benefit—“and I won’t keep you much longer, Mr Postlethwaite.
It is Christmas Eve, after all. I’m sure you’ve endless things to attend to before tomorrow. ”
“Not really,” the postmaster shrugged. “If you wouldn’t mind asking Dr Bates for another cup of tea on your way out?”
From outside the door came the sound of something crashing to the ground—crockery, judging by the shattering that followed. If Mr Postlethwaite wanted tea, Gabe thought, he’d best be prepared to have it lobbed at his head.
The two men took their leave with polite wishes for the postmaster’s continued recovery.
The main room of the surgery was deserted—Dr Bates most likely having gone to fetch a brush and shovel—so they made their escape at great speed, unwilling to share the news that his patient had no intention of vacating the premises.
“I’ll send him a note, instructing him to send the bill my way,” Crabb murmured, as he untethered his horse.
“Are you truly satisfied the investigation is over, my lord?” Gabe asked, once both men were back in the saddle.
“Lud, no!” Crabb exclaimed. “Not until I’ve had a look through Mrs Mifford’s larder and found the offending ingredient—or she’ll have killed half the village by Twelfth Night. You’re free to bow out if you wish; I’m sure there’s a fire at The Ring you could happily glower at all morning.”
“Tempting though that sounds,” Gabe replied smoothly, unruffled by the teasing, “I find I have become somewhat invested in our investigation.”
Which, of course, was a lie. He couldn’t have cared less who or what had poisoned Mr Postlethwaite. He cared only that searching Mrs Mifford’s larder might grant him a chance to see Miss Mifford again.
They rode on to Primrose Cottage—a quaint abode with ivy climbing the walls, a sloping thatched roof, and a garden that, even in winter’s slumber, showed signs of chaos.
Gabe felt a small thrill of anticipation as Lord Crabb rapped on the door to announce their arrival—then, without waiting for an answer, promptly let himself in.
“I’m family,” Crabb said by way of explanation to Gabe’s raised brow at the familiarity of his action.
“And besides, Nora would be cross if she had to come all the way to the door just to answer it to me. And when she’s cross she tends to burn the cooking – a catastrophe at Christmas, I’d never be forgiven. ”
“Who is Nora?” Gabe murmured, lowering his voice. Crabb sounded faintly nervous.
“The maid,” he whispered back.
“Ah yes, you wouldn’t want to offend the maid,” Gabe remarked dryly, amused by this very English aversion to giving offence—even to one’s servants.
“Exactly,” Crabb grinned, entirely missing the sarcasm.
In the kitchen, Gabe was introduced to the famous Nora, whose eyes widened as she took in his imposing frame. Her gaze slid swiftly from him to the decorative china displayed on a nearby dresser.
“Why don’t you sit here, Comte” she suggested, gesturing toward a chair positioned safely away from anything fragile.
She clearly believed him the proverbial bull in a china shop, Gabe realised with amusement.
“We’re not here on a social call, Nora,” Lord Crabb interjected, his voice and expression both grave.
The maid—a diminutive girl with sharp features and a mob cap stuffed with hair—arched a brow at his tone. It’d didn’t take an Englishman to realise that Nora was offended.
“I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea,” Gabe interjected, earning himself a smile from the girl. He felt rather tickled that—for once—he was the most charming man in the room. The viscount cast him a confused glance as Nora bustled off to fetch tea, to which Gabe gave a nonchalant shrug.
“It’s almost eleven,” he said, as he settled himself at the worn table. “You can’t expect a man to make it to noon without a cup of tea.
“Careful, Roche,” Crabb said. “You’re beginning to sound quite the Englishman. Next thing you’ll be wanting to try some of Mrs Mifford’s elderflower wine.”
Gabe did not deign to reply to that; he merely gave a shiver to express his distaste at the very idea that anything produced outside Bordeaux might be referred to as wine.
Nor did he truly want a cup of tea—though he wouldn’t have said no to shortbread biscuits, if offered.
He simply wished to linger in the Miffords’ kitchen a while—far longer than Lord Crabb, who looked far too efficient for Gabe’s liking.