Chapter Ten #2
He was about to set down his empty glass when he felt it—a faint prickle along the back of his neck. He was being watched.
Turning slightly, he caught sight of the painter, Benoit, tucked into a snug at the far end of the room. The man's head was bent low over a notebook, his hand moving furiously across the page. Every few moments, his eyes flicked up—toward Gabe.
Gabe watched a moment longer, uncertain whether Benoit's subject was the crowd, or himself. The war had taught him to trust his instincts. But he was no longer at war—he was in a sedate Cotswolds village.
Irritated now, he set down his pint and stepped out into the cold.
The frigid wind hit him with force, blowing away the cobwebs of his disquiet.
The village had woken from its Christmas slumber; carts trundled along the slushy road, and shoppers darted between the newly reopened businesses.
Mr Postlethwaite might be dead, but commerce was immortal, he thought dryly, as he set off for Crabb Hall.
Even the receiving office stood open as he passed, its neat little sign promising business as usual.
Curious, he pushed the door open, the bell tinkling overhead as he entered. He paused on the threshold, spotting young Tom Boden behind the counter, anxiously sweeping a handful of letters out of sight.
“Morning, sir,” the lad stammered. “If you’ve come for the post, I’ve not quite sorted it yet.
“I’ll call again later,” he replied mildly, though his curiosity was piqued. Tom’s nervous twitching seemed out of proportion to the simple act of tidying away old post.
Gabe turned to leave and his gaze caught upon the small table of curios where he had first encountered Miss Mifford. The little robin ornament still sat in its makeshift nest, its porcelain eyes glinting as it watched him.
He felt a sudden, absurd urge to buy it to brighten his bare, rented townhouse in London—a memento to recall her by. This dashed village was turning him into a sentimental magpie, he realised, as he fled the shop and hurried off home.
The pint of ale had made him sleepy, and he was suddenly eager to rest beside a blazing fire.
As he passed St Mary’s, he couldn’t help turning his head to peer into the churchyard.
The mourners had all gone; only the gravediggers remained, adding the final shovels of earth to Mr Postlethwaite’s resting place. Gabe shivered and quickened his pace.
But as he began to climb the hill toward Crabb Hall, he spotted a familiar figure standing beneath a copse of bare trees.
“Miss Mifford,” he greeted her so casually that one would never suspect his entire day had been spent hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
She started and turned to him, tearing her attention from the scene in the churchyard below.
“Comte de Roche,” she said, returning the smile he had offered. “I was just on my way home and paused a moment to watch…”
She waved a gloved hand—almost apologetically—toward the macabre work of the two gravediggers in the distance.
“Ce qui est terrible attire toujours,” he commented, before translating. “That which is terrible always draws us in. But come—allow me to walk you home before you perish in this cold.”
“One funeral is enough in a week,” she agreed with a faint shiver. “And I can tell you all about what I discovered last night while we walk.”
They fell into step together, boots crunching on the frozen ground.
“I called upon Mrs Walton,” she began in a whisper.
“To ask about the argument she heard between Mrs Canards and Mr Postlethwaite before the pudding competition. According to her, it sounded as though he’d promised something to her in exchange for domestic chores—but then he reneged.
Mrs Canards was quite incensed, by all accounts. ”
“Does Mrs Walton have any idea what was promised?” Gabe raised a curious brow.
“She thinks it was first prize in the Christmas pudding competition,” she replied, laughing a little at the idea.
“From what I have seen of some of the ladies in Plumpton, that’s motive enough to murder,” Gabe grinned.
She thwacked him gently on the arm in reprimand.
“It has to be something more serious than pudding,” she chided, before furrowing her brow. “But what that could be is anyone’s guess. Had you any luck with Mr Cleeve?”
“I met him just now,” Gabe confessed. “He let slip that Mr Postlethwaite had poked his nose into his affairs—though, once he realised I was prying—he closed up like a clam, so I have no idea what those affairs could be. It could be sedition, it could be a love-affair, it could even be nothing for all I know.”
“So, our two possible suspects are still…merely possible,” Miss Mifford sighed, seemingly dispirited.
“There maybe be another suspect,” Gabe ventured, hesitantly. “I stopped by the receiving office just a few moments ago. Young Tom Boden was there when I entered and he looked as though I’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t. He swept a stack of letters out of sight the moment I walked in.”
Charlotte stopped short. “He was strange with me as well last night. Nervous, defensive almost. I thought it was grief.”
“Grief makes people do funny things,” Gabe ventured, before adding. “So does guilt.”
“We’ll add him to the list,” she decided, her eyes meeting his.
Gabe felt a stir of pride in his chest. He wondered if he should mention his suspicions about the painter but didn’t want to risk her admiration by saying something ridiculous. So he tucked that theory away in his pocket for later.
“This is me,” she said suddenly and he realised that they had neared Primrose Cottage.
He paused, wishing his mind was quick enough to think of some topic of conversation to prolong their time together but, alas, her nearness had turned his brains to mush.
Suddenly he understood why women were considered back luck upon ships—it was because men couldn’t be trusted to concentrate while around them.
“There’s a meeting of the Parish Ladies’ Society tomorrow, to finalise plans for the New Year assembly dance—I’ll try to pry something out of Mrs Canards while I’m there,” she continued, pausing at the gate.
“There’s to be a dance on New Year’s Eve?” Gabe’s mind, naturally, focused on the thing that might allow him hold Miss Mifford in his arms.
“A Plumpton tradition,” she confirmed with a smile. “Do you enjoy assemblies, Comte?”
“I adore them,” he answered quickly. A complete lie. Though now, perhaps not. He had never attended a dance where he’d actually had someone he wanted to dance with.
“And,” he continued, before she could disappear. “I do hope that you will save a dance for me, Charlotte.”
She blushed—and in that moment, he knew that she was not as immune to his charms as he had feared.
He just had to coax his robin down from her tree.