Chapter Ten
ON THE THIRD day of Christmas, Gabe awoke with a sore head instead of the song's promised French hens. The previous evening—on Miss Mifford's instruction, of course—he had spent a few hours in The Ring o' Bells, hoping to bump into Mr Cleeve.
The schoolmaster had not materialised; pint after pint had instead—each one bought by a merry villager who had not heeded his protests that the glass already in his hand was his last.
As the evening wore on, Gabe had begun to suspect the drinks were not offered entirely out of goodwill, for each had been accompanied by a shuffling, blushing gentleman enquiring after his intentions toward Miss Mifford.
It was soon revealed that there was a book running behind the bar, on whether he and Miss Mifford would be engaged by Twelfth Night.
Out of an old superstition—that fate delighted in upending men's plans—he had bet against himself.
He sighed as he tied his neckcloth. His evening at the pub had done little to aid the murder investigation and had resulted only in a headache. He only hoped his excursion hadn't done anything to hamper his ramshackle attempt at courting Miss Mifford—heavy emphasis on the ram.
He had a vague memory of breaking into a rousing rendition of Plaisir d'amour, when questioned yet again on his intentions toward her.
Angus had thanked him afterwards, saying he usually had trouble clearing people out at closing time.
The barman had then advised him—with a discreet cough—that if he was truly trying to court Miss Mifford, he'd do best to avoid singing under her balcony.
And, if he was planning to propose, he'd be much obliged if Gabe did it by New Year.
“A shilling's a shilling,” he'd finished, as he'd pushed Gabe out the door. “Though I wouldn’t have wagered so heavily if I’d known you were putting money on no proposal at all. What sort of Frenchman bets against romance?”
Gabe sighed at the memory of it. He’d wagered against his own happiness; cynical, even by his standards. Disgruntled, he gave himself one last glance in the mirror before taking off in search of breakfast—and a little distraction from his thoughts.
“You look fresh,” Lord Crabb commented as Gabe entered the breakfast room.
“You sound surprised,” Gabe returned dryly.
“I am,” the viscount grinned. “I heard you attempting the stairs last night when you came in. You seemed to master them on the third attempt.”
“The locals were rather hospitable,” Gabe confessed as he took a seat at the table.
A footman poured him a steaming cup of coffee, which he accepted with heartfelt gratitude and sipped cautiously, testing the strength of his stomach.
Lord Crabb’s breakfast plate was piled high with an alarming assortment of meats—rashers, sausages, kidneys, and something that looked suspiciously like the ram that had attacked him yesterday. Gabe discreetly averted his gaze as his stomach gave a lurch.
“Not hungry?” Crabb queried between mouthfuls.
“I’m afraid I left my stomach behind the bar at The Ring o’ Bells,” he sighed in reply.
“Never mind,” Crabb said cheerfully. “You can collect it after the funeral—service starts at ten, so we’d best be off soon.”
A funeral was hardly the most thrilling prospect for a morning’s excursion, but as Gabe already felt like death, he figured it could do no harm.
It might also, he thought as he rose from his chair, provide a chance for a little further sleuthing.
Then, at least, he might have something useful to offer Miss Mifford the next time they met—aside from his unrequited yearning.
Within the half-hour he found himself striding beside the viscount through the village, the bells tolling mournfully in the distance.
The entire parish seemed to have gathered outside St Mary’s by the time they arrived, murmuring softly among themselves, their breath misting in the cold morning air.
Gabe removed his hat as the funeral procession came into view. He dropped his gaze as the coffin—carried on a small cart—reached the church gates, where it was transferred to the pallbearers to bring inside.
The crowd followed in behind. Lord Crabb moved forward at once, having spotted his wife and her sisters, but Gabe hung back. He stood discreetly—or as discreetly as a hulking, tall foreigner could manage—at the rear of the church as the service began.
Mr Mifford read solemnly from the Book of Common Prayer, his voice echoing beneath the vaulted roof.
Gabe let his eyes wander over the congregation.
There was Mrs Canards toward the front, posture rigid, eyes perfectly dry.
Mr Cleeve was there too, arms and legs folded in sullen symmetry.
The only mourner who appeared genuinely affected was young Tom Boden, seated at the edge of the aisle and snuffling as though trying to dam a flood of tears.
The service was mercifully brief. Before long Mr Mifford was bidding the pallbearers step forward to carry the coffin out to the graveyard, and reminding his flock that sandwiches would be provided in The Ring o’ Bells for any who wished to partake.
“I love a good funeral sandwich, me,” murmured a man beside Gabe—then darted out the door before the coffin had even passed.
Gabe waited for the rest of the congregation—who, to their credit, showed remarkable restraint even at the prospect of a free sandwich—to leave before he followed suit. His eyes swept the crowd for Miss Mifford, but there was no sign of her jaunty bonnet or her smiling face.
Resigned, he fell into step with the slow-moving throng as they trudged through the village toward the pub.
“Oh, I say,” a high voice exclaimed by his shoulder. “You’re the Comte de Roche! Miss Weaver—this is the gentleman I was telling you about. He was quite taken by my samplers at the fair!”
He glanced down, frowning for a moment before he connected the smiling face with the young lady who had flounced away in disgust from him at the bazaar.
“Ah yes,” he said slowly, a grin tugging at his mouth. “I recall. Have you any more edifying sayings for today, Miss—”
“Morton,” she interjected eagerly, her eyes travelling appreciatively over him from top to toe. News of his fortune, Gabe presumed, had reached her ears.
“And no, I couldn’t possibly think of my craft on a day like today—oh, it’s so tragic.”
She lifted an embroidered handkerchief to her eyes and, when no one reacted, gave a few forced sobs.
“There, there, Miss Morton,” the woman walking beside her consoled, though Gabe detected a hint of dryness in her tone.
Around her neck she wore a scarf of ivory silk, tied close to her throat with an elegant knot that would have put any valet to shame.
“We’re all upset about what happened to Mr Postlethwaite. ”
“I’ll just miss him so,” Miss Morton sniffed, casting a sidelong glance to make certain Gabe could appreciate her feminine distress.
“And I,” her companion agreed—before adding as an aside, “Though I shan’t miss the baskets of mending he sent me. Never knew a man to pop so many buttons.”
“Miss Weaver, now is not the time to talk about your work,” Miss Morton interjected with a sniff, obviously annoyed that attention had been taken from her.
Gabe shared a sympathetic glance with Miss Weaver, whose mouth had turned rather thin.
“You’re obviously very upset, Miss Morton,” he said solemnly. “I should hate to intrude any further upon such raw grief—so if you’ll excuse me.”
He gave a quick bow as he moved off, ignoring Miss Morton’s protests that she wasn’t that upset after all.
At The Ring o’ Bells, he found several men already gathered at the bar, including Mr Cleeve and the gentleman from the church—who was hovering territorially over the plates of sandwiches.
“Angus, a round for my friends here,” Gabe called, stepping casually forward to stand beside Mr Cleeve.
“You may have anything you want, Comte—so long as you promise not to sing again,” Angus said with a wink, as he began pulling a round of pints.
Gabe dutifully remained silent as he waited for his drink, pondering his next course of action. At sea, boldness had always been rewarded; he wasn’t entirely sure he possessed the required tact to deal with delicate investigations.
Luckily, the old English tradition of offering a toast with every pint saved him from having to think of a nonchalant opener.
“To Mr Postlethwaite!” the gentleman from the church cried, lifting his pint—and the sandwich in his other hand, for good measure.
“Pah. Good riddance,” Mr Cleeve muttered quietly as the toast was echoed throughout the pub, though he took a sip of his ale nonetheless.
“You were not close,” Gabe stated, deciding that a direct observation might be the best route to the truth.
“We did not share the same world views,” the schoolmaster puffed out his chest. “Mr Postlethwaite was not the sort of man who embraced change—either political or social. Which I might have tolerated if he had simply not liked it, but he chose to obstruct it at every chance he got.”
“How so?” Gabe asked, doing his best to sound offhand.
“By poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted,” Mr Cleeve replied. Then, as though heeding his own words, he peered suspiciously over his spectacles at Gabe.
Gabe met his gaze evenly, then lifted his pint in silent acknowledgement and took a measured sip. He had pushed the schoolmaster far enough, though not without result. Something had happened between Mr Cleeve and the deceased. But what?
The postmaster had access to every letter, every parcel, every secret sealed beneath wax. Had he discovered something about Mr Cleeve whilst sneaking through his post?
Gabe drained the last of his ale as the pub grew louder around him. Villagers pressed in from the cold, eager to toast the deceased and devour sandwiches in his honour. Lord Crabb and his family were not among them. Nor, he noted, was Miss Mifford.