Chapter Eight
AS WAS CUSTOMARY among the English, no festivity was considered properly concluded until a pack of men in red coats had terrorised some unfortunate creature across the countryside.
The Boxing Day hunt, Gabe had been informed, was as sacred a ritual as Christmas pudding or Mr Marrowbone consuming too much ale. To abstain was considered unmanly, unsporting, and—worst of all—un-English.
Gabe had naturally declined his invitation to join. He was far too large to care what other men thought of his manliness, far too jaded by war to mistake a hunt for sport, and far too French to trouble himself over being thought un-English.
Nevertheless, he had joined the Crabb household—and half the village—on Plumpton’s green to see the hunt off.
Servants from both Crabb Hall and Northcott Manor dashed between the riders, dispensing hot cider to huntsmen and spectators alike.
Horses snorted, hounds strained at their leashes, and the gentlemen shifted restlessly in their saddles as they awaited the Master of Hounds to sound the bugle.
Gabe watched all this with feigned interest, every sense attuned instead to any sight—or sound—of Miss Mifford.
He did not have to wait long.
“Beg pardon, Miss Gibbons, I didn’t see you there.”
“Not at all, Colonel Fawkes.”
Gabe recognised her voice at once and turned to find Miss Mifford rubbing her elbow and scowling at a small, rotund, and very self-important huntsman trotting past her.
“Miss Gibbons?” he queried, sidling closer to her side.
“Only according to Colonel Fawkes,” she whispered, a spark of amusement in her eyes. “He doesn’t trouble himself remembering a lady’s name unless she’s married to someone important.”
“A tragic limitation,” Gabe declared, glancing toward the pompous colonel. “Almost as tragic as that hat.”
“I suppose it adds a few extra inches,” Miss Mifford murmured back mischievously, eyeing the colonel’s tall velvet bell-topper. “And gives the fox incentive to run.”
“Ah, merveilleux,” Gabe said under his breath, his mouth curving. He was glad to discover she had claws; like wine, he preferred his ladies with a hint of sharpness.
The brassy cry of the horn rang out, and the hunt took off amid cheers from the gathered crowd. Gabe’s gaze drifted from face to face, wondering if a murderer stood among them.
The murder was evidently on the minds of others, for—from a few feet away—he heard Mrs Canards sniff to the reedy woman beside her:
“It’s bad form, if you ask me, holding a hunt the day after a murder. Poor Mr Postlethwaite is still lying in the church—not that this lot cares.”
“If you think it’s such bad form, Mrs Canards, then why are you here supping cider with us?” a male voice goaded. “Perhaps, like the rest of the village, you’re not actually mourning that puffed-up popinjay’s passing?”
Gabe’s eyes swivelled toward the slightly stooped gentleman standing near her. For a moment he struggled to place him—until the woman at his side admonished,
“Hush, Horace.”
“That is the schoolmaster, oui?” Gabe whispered to Miss Mifford.
“Yes,” she replied, chewing nervously on her bottom lip. “He’s known for being quite vocal—though it’s usually on political matters.”
“Nowhere is more political than a small village,” Gabe said dryly.
“Yes, but most village squabbles don’t usually descend into murder,” she replied, frowning as she watched the crowd, buoyant as they cheered the riders disappearing into the misty white fields beyond.
“Would you care to take a walk with me—to discuss matters?” she asked softly, leaning closer.
For a moment, Gabe thought—absurdly—that the matter she wished to discuss was the attraction thrumming between them.
“There are ears everywhere,” she continued, nodding toward Mrs Canards. “We won’t get to dissect the meat of the murder if we’re worried about eavesdroppers.”
Gabe’s shoulders dropped. Ah. It seemed he was destined to thrum alone.
Still, the prospect of walking with Miss Mifford—attraction unrequited or otherwise—was a temptation in itself.
She was clever, quick-tongued, and—he caught himself smiling—smelled as though her perfume had been drawn from angel’s tears.
If he could not have her admiration, he would settle for a few discreet sniffs of her scent—a pleasure that, to his embarrassment, warmed him to his toes and tended to follow him into his dreams.
“Lead the way,” he agreed.
She set off at once, her small frame weaving nimbly through the crowd. Gabe followed at a discreet distance, less graceful in navigating the throng given his size. He muttered apologies as he went, but still managed to collide shoulders with a gentleman standing before an easel.
“Pardonnez-moi,” Gabe said automatically.
“Mais bien s?r,” the man replied in the same tongue, his voice pleasantly accented.
Gabe paused, startled, and glanced back. The fellow was tall, slim, and elegant in a Parisian way, a paintbrush clutched between his ink-stained fingers.
“I’m capturing the hunt,” the man said cheerfully, mistaking Gabe’s hesitation for interest as he gestured toward his canvas. “A scene of great animation, non?”
“Indeed,” Gabe replied, though something about the man set his nerves faintly on edge. He inclined his head and moved on, yet when he looked back, he saw the artist watching him, scribbling something hastily on a page.
A spy? In Plumpton?
The notion was far-fetched, yet the hairs at the back of Gabe’s neck prickled all the same. He pressed on through the raucous crowd, scanning the green until he caught sight of Miss Mifford waiting a little way up the now-deserted street.
“Now we can talk,” she said conspiratorially as he reached her.
“I am all hands,” Gabe replied solemnly, his heart beating a fraction faster.
“Ears,” she corrected, smiling shyly. “Shall we take the path by the river? It might be a bit difficult with the snow, but we’re not likely to meet anyone there.”
He nodded and followed as she turned down the narrow lane beside the pub, which wound towards the river.
The Churn moved sluggishly beneath a veil of mist, its banks glittering with frost. The reeds stood stiff and white, the bare trees arched overhead, and the path before them lay blanketed in untouched snow.
“Miss Mifford, I must insist you take my scarf,” Gabe said, noting the tip of her nose turning red.
“I couldn’t—” she began, but he was already draping it over her shoulders.
“Now,” he said, once satisfied she was warm. “Tell me—what is it you wished to discuss?”
“A list of possible suspects,” she replied at once, as though she had been waiting all day for someone to ask. “I’m afraid it’s not very long.”
“It doesn’t need to be long,” he assured her, as though he’d spent a lifetime adjudicating lists of possible murder suspects. “Tell me—who is first?”
“Mr Cleeve, the schoolmaster,” she began nervously. “You heard him on Christmas Eve—and even just now. He and Mr Postlethwaite must have had some kind of argument recently.”
Gabe nodded in silent agreement; had he compiled a list, he’d have placed Mr Cleeve at the top as well.
“Then,” she continued, hesitantly, “Mrs Canards.”
“Naturellement,” Gabe said, wondering at her hesitation—the woman was dreadful.
“Mrs Walton said she overheard Mrs Canards and Mr Postlethwaite arguing,” Charlotte added quickly, as though he had questioned the choice. “It’s not just because I don’t like her.”
“I’m on your side,” Gabe replied, lifting his hands in surrender to the battle she was waging with herself. “If you think she belongs on the list, then on the list she goes. I defer entirely to your expert judgment.”
“Oh.” She paused mid-step, blinking at him in confusion. “Thank you for your trust, Comte.”
“Gabe,” he corrected smoothly, taking advantage of her momentary befuddlement. “If we’re to be partners in solving this crime, I don’t believe we should stand on formalities. Do you agree, Charlotte?”
“Oh yes,” she said earnestly. “I’ve always believed in calling a shovel a shovel whenever possible.”
Gabe’s mouth curved. “I prefer Gabe to a shovel—but as you wish, mademoiselle.”
They walked on in silence for a time, the sudden stripping away of titles and formalities rendering them both momentarily awkward. The only sounds were the crunch of their boots on the snow—and the steady, insistent thrum of Gabe’s heart, though he hoped only he could hear that.
“Is there anyone else?” he ventured at last, raking his mind over the villagers he had met during his visit. “What about that young lad who helps in the shop—Tom Boden?”
Charlotte shook her head, amused by the very notion. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Well, then—motives,” Gabe said with a small shrug. “What reason might either of our suspects have had to murder Mr Postlethwaite?”
“My cousins always hold true that there are usually only ever three reasons for murder,” she answered promptly. “Money, revenge, and passion.” She coloured prettily on the last word. “Not that I put much stock in the last one applying to Mr Postlethwaite.”
Gabe smiled, thoroughly charmed by her innocence. “Beneath the surface of even the dullest man runs a current of passion,” he informed her.
It was, perhaps, a little too much for his sweet robin; she blushed so deeply that Gabe feared he might have to reclaim his scarf to stop her from overheating.
She cast him a sidelong glance, as though wondering what deep passions stirred within him—nervous, yes, but perhaps a little intrigued as well.
“Though,” he added quickly, rescuing them both from the moment, “I do agree that money and revenge are the more probable motives. Perhaps, in his position as postmaster, Mr Postlethwaite discovered someone’s secrets?”
“He did always imply that he read the letters left in his care.” Miss Mifford wrinkled her nose in distaste.
“I recall,” Gabe snorted, thinking of the missive he’d sent to King’s Inns.