Chapter Eleven
PLUMPTON PARISH LADIES’ Society meetings were famed for occasionally being as tense as some sessions at Lords—though today’s, Charlotte thought with dismay, risked turning into a bloodbath that might rival the fields of Flanders.
“I’ll not sit and casually make arrangements for an assembly whilst a murderess lurks in our midst,” Mrs Walton declared, just after Lady Deverell, the Countess of Ashford, had called the meeting to order.
She folded her arms across her ample chest and glared pointedly at Mrs Canards as she finished speaking.
To her credit, Mrs Canards didn’t miss a beat.
“Well, I certainly shan’t object to kicking Mrs Mifford out,” the village gossip replied, her tone sugary sweet.
“Ain’t Mrs Mifford I’m talking about,” Mrs Walton rebutted.
“Even if she’s not on your list of suspects, Mrs Walton, I can assure you she’s at the top of everyone else’s,” Mrs Canards sniffed, drawing herself up straight. “We all saw her poison Mr Postlethwaite at the bazaar—and we all know she never liked the man.”
Mrs Canards swivelled in her chair to glare across at Mrs Mifford. The whole room fell silent as the ladies awaited her reply. And waited.
Charlotte fiddled nervously with the hem of her sleeve. The problem, she guessed, was that Mrs Canards was half-correct. Her aunt had never liked Mr Postlethwaite and, despite the gravity of the situation, could not bring herself to pretend otherwise.
“I hope, Mrs Canards, that you are not implying that I—the mother of a duchess, a marchioness, a viscountess, and a baroness—have ever laid hands on a shovel?” Mrs Mifford gave a delicate shiver of distaste on the word shovel, to emphasise her point.
“I think she’s implying that you murdered Mr Postlethwaite, Mama,” Lady Delaney explained patiently.
“That’s almost as laughable an idea as my knowing my way around a tool shed,” Mrs Mifford replied with a tinkle of laughter. “Besides, I’ve not the shoulders to bludgeon a man to death—unlike some.”
Every eye in the room then swivelled toward Mrs Canards, who, admittedly, did possess rather broad shoulders to match her broad frame.
“Enough!”
Lady Deverell’s voice cut through the mêlée, sharp with impatience. The countess offered reproving glances to Mrs Mifford and Mrs Canards—and then one to Mrs Walton, for she had started the whole thing—before exhaling.
“Need I remind you that we are here as servants of the parish?” she scolded, though Charlotte noted the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “Not magistrates of the law.”
“No, that title belongs to her son-in-law,” Mrs Canards muttered to Mrs Wickling beside her, as she nodded toward Mrs Mifford.
The countess chose to ignore this.
“And while we all mourn Mr Postlethwaite’s tragic passing,” she continued, “I think we can safely say that he would have wished for the New Year’s assembly to go ahead.”
“He did love the gossip the next day,” Miss Morton offered, dabbing a handkerchief against her perfectly dry cheeks.
“And every other day besides,” Mrs Walton added with a wry chuckle.
“Remind me again, ladies, who has signed up to manage the refreshment table?” Lady Deverell’s voice was so taut Charlotte feared it might snap. Fortunately, the other ladies, sensing that the countess was on the verge of committing another murder, rushed to answer at once.
The meeting continued apace—without any further accusations of murder—and within the half-hour, the details of the assembly had been finalised: the refreshments, the fiddlers, and the ticket desk.
Mrs Canards had seized that throne once again, despite many objections, and all that remained as the meeting ended was to pray the New Year’s assembly would prove less eventful than the Christmas bazaar.
“I’ll need chamomile tea after all that,” Mrs Flora Thorne whispered conspiratorially to Charlotte as the ladies began to file out.
She, like Charlotte, lingered behind to help stack the chairs. Only recently known as Mrs Thorne, Flora was the granddaughter of the village herbalist, Mrs Bridges, and had just opened Plumpton’s first apothecary.
It struck Charlotte, with a small jolt, that Flora would know rather a great deal about poisonous berries.
“Might I ask a delicate question?” Charlotte ventured, as they headed toward the door.
“Go right ahead,” Flora grinned. “This week alone I’ve been shown carbuncles, blisters, and a boil in a very uncomfortable spot—I’d welcome something delicate.”
“It’s about the murder,—well, the first attempt at it,” Charlotte whispered, pausing to check they were alone. “Dr Bates said it was Deadly Nightshade in the brandy—do you know does it grow locally?”
Flora’s brows lifted, though her expression was more intrigued than surprised. She had probably already guessed that a Mifford girl was investigating Mr Postlethwaite’s murder.
“It does indeed,” she answered gently. “Anywhere that will allow it. You’ll find it along the hedgerows out toward Long Acres, and on the riverbank behind the mill. It’s a pretty thing for such a dreadful plant—the berries shine like drops of ink.”
“So it isn’t rare, then? Not something one might find only in one particular spot?” Charlotte sighed. She had been hoping Flora would tell her that Mrs Canards was famed for cultivating it in her garden.
“I’m afraid not.” Flora’s tone was sympathetic. “But don’t lose heart, Charlotte. You’ll solve your case—especially with the help of the Comte de Roche.”
“Oh, I—oh, he—” Charlotte stammered, alarmed at how casually Flora had linked their names together.
“Are both single and attempting to solve a murder,” Flora finished, grinning. “We all know what that means in Plumpton, Miss Mifford.”
She winked and hurried off toward the apothecary, where—Charlotte was certain—she was doing a roaring trade in cures for gout after the Christmas feasts.
A little discomposed, Charlotte set off through the village. The Ladies’ Society meeting had—temporarily—pushed the Comte from her mind. Now he was back and taking up rather a lot of room, which, she supposed, could hardly be helped, given the size of him.
Yesterday, when he had asked her to save him a dance, she had finally realised that his attention was just that—attention. Perhaps even… intention.
Charlotte blushed as she wondered just what kind of intentions the Comte might hold toward her.
In her quest to find Charlotte a husband, Mrs Mifford had furnished her niece with dozens of warnings on the dangers that dark and handsome men posed to single ladies.
Her predictions of ruin usually included a peppering of alarming euphemisms—the serpent of sin, the manly implement, and, once, an alarming reference to the devil’s staff—which had left Charlotte both confused and, inconveniently, a little curious.
She set off through the village, deciding that while she would by no means like to learn about the Comte’s “implement of iniquity”, the idea of him holding her in his arms again was most appealing.
Most appealing indeed.
At the bottom of the village she paused by the low stone bridge that led to the London Road, along which lay Long Acres and the mill. She knew she was unlikely to find her suspect there again today, picking poisonous berries, but she was rather taken by the idea of walking in their same footsteps.
She was just rounding the bend by the mill—still thinking of the Comte’s strong arms—when the crunch of approaching footsteps made her look up.
“Miss Mifford, out for a constitutional, I see.”
“Yes, Mr Cleeve,” she replied with forced brightness—for, inside, her heart was racing. The schoolmaster’s sudden appearance felt almost serendipitous, given the purpose of her walk. “And you?”
“Just finishing mine,” he said, drawing himself up proudly. His mud-splattered boots and the long stick in his hand lent credence to the claim. “Three miles every day—the same loop.”
“Oh?” Charlotte managed, raising a curious brow.
“I go up toward Long Acres, cut across the meadow by the crossroads to the river until I reach the mill, then turn back onto the main road home,” he said, sketching a map of his route in the air with brisk strokes of his stick.
“Every day?” Charlotte pressed, scarcely daring to breathe.
“Every day,” he confirmed stoutly. “Mrs Cleeve insists upon it. She’s a great believer in long walks.”
Not so great a believer that she accompanied him, Charlotte thought, hiding a grin. A rook cawed somewhere overhead and Charlotte felt the first, delicious flutter of certainty that she had just stumbled upon a clue.
Mr Cleeve tipped his hat and continued on his way, his stick swinging smartly as he disappeared round the bend.
Charlotte continued on a few steps toward Long Acres, then paused; her destination felt rather pointless now that she had a clue.
A real clue!
And there was only one person she wanted to tell.
She turned on her heel to hurry back to the village, her ears pricked at every bend for the sound of Mr Cleeve’s footsteps ahead.
Excitement fizzed through her veins at the thought of sharing her news with the Comte, and by the time she reached the low stone bridge she felt she might actually skip across it.
“Miss Mifford, it’s considered rude to smile like that in public—it makes people uncomfortable.”
Charlotte’s quick steps faltered. Mrs Canards, a basket hooked over one elbow and a scarf knotted firmly beneath her chin, had materialised before her like a spectre of spite. A cool breeze seemed to accompany her, and Charlotte gave a shiver.
“Where are you coming from?” Mrs Canards demanded, peering past her shoulder. Her own cottage—a fastidiously neat, thatched abode of yellow stone and sparkling windows—stood a short distance off.
“Were you snooping around my cottage?” she pressed, brows knitting. “You Mifford girls are always poking your noses in where they’re not wanted.”
If Charlotte hadn’t been so indignant at the accusation, she might have appreciated the irony of the statement coming from Mrs Canards’s lips. If there were a prize for inserting oneself into other people’s business, Mrs Canards would take county first.
“Oh, that Mrs Walton,” she went on, clearly on a roll. “Spreading malicious lies about me simply because I’ve bested her every year at the pudding competition. Yes, Mr Postlethwaite and I argued before he died—but no, it wasn’t anything worth murdering that pompous little postman over.”
Charlotte blinked. She hadn’t needed to say a word to coax Mrs Canards into talking; her mere presence had irritated the truth from her.
“Er—what did you argue about?” Charlotte asked delicately, edging a little closer.
“Gossip,” Mrs Canards sniffed. “Or rather, the lack of it. Mr Postlethwaite assured me he had the juiciest morsel imaginable—he was only waiting on one final letter to confirm his suspicions. Of course, while we waited, he had me dusting his parlour, washing his windows, and mending the holes in his socks. Then, when I finally lost patience playing maid to him, he reneged on his promise. Said he had obligations to his post—pah! He only ever felt obliged to read the post that passed through his hands, from what I could see.”
“Do you happen to know what the gossip concerned?” Charlotte asked, keeping her tone mild even as her heart began to race. Her mind leapt instantly to Mr Cleeve, their other suspect.
“I don’t know, and even if I did I wouldn’t tell you,” Mrs Canards said with a lofty shrug. “And Mr Postlethwaite has taken it to the grave with him, the selfish man.”
She adjusted the basket on her arm with a huff. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Mifford, I’ve had a very long morning—even before your rude intrusion upon it.”
She turned to leave, then paused at the crown of the bridge and turned back. Her beady eyes raked Charlotte from top to toe with obvious irritation.
“I’ll tell you one piece of gossip, Miss Mifford,” she called. “There’s a book running at The Ring o’ Bells on whether you and the Comte will end up engaged. I won’t upset you by telling you the current odds.”
She swept away then, but not before her thin lips curled into a cruel grin—one that made Charlotte understand precisely why Mrs Canards found other people’s smiles so uncomfortable.