Chapter Nine
ST STEPHEN’S NIGHT was traditionally a time to put one's feet up and relax after the bustle and chores of Christmas Day. Which was exactly what Mrs Mifford planned to do for the evening, though Charlotte did wonder how her aunt's feet were aching after a day of being waited on by everyone else.
As for Charlotte, having thrown herself bodily at the Comte, she doubted she would ever know peace again. Yesterday had been bad enough—rubbing grease from his coat like some over-zealous housemaid—but today she had gone one better and hurled herself straight into his arms.
Well, not hurled. Fallen. Entirely by accident.
At least, she thought it had been an accident.
She paced the parlour of Primrose Cottage, retracing the same few feet of rug until the pattern began to blur. Had she tripped? Or had her traitorous subconscious pushed her?
He had caught her easily—no wonder, she supposed. Men of his status probably always had young ladies flinging themselves at him.
And she could not deny that she had thoroughly enjoyed the few brief moments she'd found herself cradled in his arms, discreetly inhaling his masculine scent of leather and spice.
Oh, what must he think of her? A desperate, aging spinster, ready to swoon at the nearest bachelor.
You smell divine.
The words rose again, unbidden, and her cheeks flamed. Had he meant them as gallantry? As mockery? Or was it simply what Frenchmen said when unmarried ladies fell on them? She could no more read his tone than she could his heart, and the uncertainty was torment.
“Charlotte, you’ll wear a hole in that rug,” her aunt complained from her reclined position on the settee. “I’m exhausted enough already without watching you bounce to and fro like a shuttlecock. Sit down before you make me dizzy.”
“I couldn’t sit still if I tried,” Charlotte muttered.
“Well then, try harder,” Mrs Mifford advised sagely.
Charlotte stared out of the window, where the snow gleamed under the moonlight, and felt suddenly hemmed in by the cosy little parlour—the fire felt too hot, her aunt’s breathing too loud, and the whole room felt suddenly too small for her thoughts.
“I believe,” she decided, “That I shall pay a call on Mrs Walton.”
“One must look in on the unfortunate at this time of the season,” Mrs Mifford agreed mildly. “Poor Mrs Walton is marching toward the New Year still convinced that pink is her colour.”
“I’ll be sure to let her know,” Charlotte replied dryly, fetching her cloak.
She called a quick goodbye as she slipped out the door, grateful for the excuse to stretch her legs—and to push the Comte de Roche from her mind.
Despite the dark and inclement weather, the village was alive with cheer: neighbours calling at one another’s doors, laughter spilling out into the frosty air.
Charlotte waved to several acquaintances as she trod through the snow, slowing her pace only when she neared The Ring o’ Bells—and wondering, against her better judgement, if the Comte was squirrelled away inside.
A loud shout of laughter spilled from the pub as one of its inhabitants burst through the door, and Charlotte gave a start.
It would not do to be caught dawdling outside a public house alone at night, mooning over the Comte—if word got back to him, he would probably pack his bags and leave town by morning.
She hurried on, clutching her cape tight against the chill breeze.
As she passed the haberdashery, she noticed a light within and paused, wondering who might be inside.
Peering through the window display—the same one she had so recently admired with Mr Postlethwaite—she spotted young Tom Boden behind the post desk, sorting through letters.
For a moment she hesitated, not wishing to intrude, but curiosity soon got the better of her.
“Evening, Tom,” she called, pushing the door open.
Her greeting was accompanied by the cheerful tinkle of the bell overhead. The young lad gave a start and jumped back from the counter, a handful of letters still clutched in his hands.
“I’m just sorting through tomorrow’s post,” he stammered nervously. “I don’t want things to fall behind, even if—even if—”
His bottom lip began to tremble perilously, and Charlotte felt a stab of sympathy. Mr Postlethwaite had been many things to many people—and not all of them good—but to Tom he had been an employer, and perhaps even a friend.
“I’m sure that’s what he would have wanted, Tom,” Charlotte assured him gently. “Mr Postlethwaite could not have asked for a better assistant than he had in you. Don’t stay up too late, though, eh?”
“I won’t,” he promised, his eyes still watery but his voice more composed.
Charlotte turned to leave, then hesitated. She took a thoughtful step toward the counter, her brow furrowed.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, Tom,” she ventured softly. “But can you think of anyone who might have wished Mr Postlethwaite harm? Did you overhear any arguments—or notice anything amiss?”
She gestured lightly toward the postal counter to show what she meant by anything, hoping her expression was kind enough to invite confidence.
“Nothing, Miss Mifford,” he answered quickly, dropping the letters onto the counter as though they were hot coals. Charlotte frowned at the guilty flicker that crossed his face—a look he promptly noticed, biting his lip.
“Only person round here people think might’ve murdered Mr P is your aunt,” he added at last with a shrug, his tone edging toward the petulant.
Charlotte blinked, unable to truly contradict his statement.
“Yes—well—goodnight, Tom,” she said, managing a stiff nod before turning to leave.
That hadn’t gone at all to plan, she thought as she stepped back into the cold night, the bell tinkling cheerfully overhead. Though she hadn’t expected much, she certainly hadn’t planned on discovering that people still suspected Mrs Mifford of the postmaster’s murder.
That Mrs Mifford might be involved was such a preposterous idea, she almost laughed aloud. The postmaster had been beaten to death with a shovel—anyone who knew her aunt knew she abhorred manual labour of any kind.
Charlotte sighed and trudged onward through the snow, her boots crunching with each step. Mrs Walton's cottage glowed warmly in the distance, lamplight spilling from its windows onto the white drifts outside. At least there, she might learn something useful.
She knocked, and as Mrs Walton led her inside, she discovered that young Mr Boden wasn't the only one who viewed the Miffords with suspicion.
“Thank you, dear—you… shouldn’t have,” Mrs Walton said, as Charlotte pressed a tin of shortbread into her hands. A fleeting look of alarm crossed the wheelwright’s wife’s face, and Charlotte immediately realised the cause.
“They’re from Mr McDowell’s,” she said quickly.
Mrs Walton let out an audible sigh of relief. “Oh, thank heaven for that—I thought your aunt had baked them,” she said with a shaky laugh. Then, realising herself, she blushed and hurried to usher Charlotte into the kitchen.
“Sit yourself down at the table, child,” she cried, waving Charlotte to a seat. “And forgive the mess—I wasn’t expecting callers—whatever will you think of me!”
Charlotte glanced around the kitchen, neat and shining in the lamplight.
The flagstone floor was clean enough to eat off—if one were so inclined—and not a jar or cup looked out of place.
Women’s insistence on denigrating their own housekeeping was always a puzzle to her, especially now that she lived with Nora, whose favourite motto was, “A bit of dust never harmed no one.”
As Mrs Walton busied herself preparing tea, Charlotte wondered how she might broach the subject of the true reason for her visit. After Tom’s outburst she didn’t want the village speculating that she was trying to frame someone else for Mr Postlethwaite’s murder, to save her aunt.
Luckily, Mrs Walton’s enmity with Mrs Canards superseded any suspicion she might hold toward Mrs Mifford.
“I expect you’re here to ask me about the argument I overheard between Mrs Canards and Mr Postlethwaite,” she said the moment her bottom touched the seat.
When Charlotte gave a nod, Mrs Walton’s face broke into a smile.
“In that case,” she whispered conspiratorially, “Why don’t I add a dash of something festive to our brew?”
She rose and fetched a bottle from the larder, adding a generous splash to both cups with a flourish.
“It’s good stuff, that,” she said encouragingly, as Charlotte took a tentative sip.
“Mr Walton got it off some gentleman who lost a wheel on the London Road, near Long Acres. If he comes back, don’t let slip I’ve shared it—not that I expect him back anytime soon.
He’s down The Ring with half the menfolk in the village. ”
“My uncle is there too,” Charlotte confided with a smile. “He said he wanted to give my aunt the night off.”
“If only Angus kept them when they were done drinking,” Mrs Walton sighed. “Then we’d really have a night off. I can’t tell you how loudly Mr Walton snores after a few pints of ale. Now, about Mrs Canards…”
In a hushed whisper, Mrs Walton began her tale. A few days before the incident with Mrs Mifford’s pudding—she coughed discreetly and averted her eyes when she said this—she had gone to the receiving office to see if a letter she’d been expecting had arrived.
“I’d just pushed the door open a crack—so the bell overhead hadn’t rung—when I realised there was a terrible hubbub inside,” she continued, setting down her cup.
“I’m not one to eavesdrop”—she fiddled a moment with the chain of her necklace—“but I told myself I’d best stay in case it descended into violence and someone had to call for the constable. ”
“Of course,” Charlotte said quickly, eager to assure her of her innocence.