Chapter Twelve #2
“Most commendable of you, Comte,” Mr Mifford beamed, suddenly all clerical enthusiasm. “I can provide a receipt and have the funds transferred through your banker, if you wish. We are very modern at St Mary’s.”
“Capital,” Gabe replied briskly. “I shall repair at once to the receiving office to send a letter of instruction.”
He bowed stiffly to the vicar, then turned to Miss Mifford with equal formality. “Miss Mifford,” he said, most formally as he bowed to her in turn.
She curtseyed, pink-cheeked, her bonnet slightly askew.
Gabe bid them both goodbye, then strode from the vestry with his head held high. He somehow managed to keep his pace measured until he reached the churchyard gate—then, certain he was out of earshot, he gave a whoop of elation. He had never felt so alive. He had almost kissed Miss Mifford.
And she had been about to let him.
He might not be Casanova, but even he knew that when a lady failed to respond to one’s advances with violence, she must be very interested indeed.
He whistled a cheerful tune as he strode through the village to the receiving office. He even offered a smile to those villagers who looked familiar. He felt an entirely different man from the one who had arrived in Plumpton with a ready scowl for anyone who dared glance his way.
“Good morning, Mr Boden,” Gabe called as he pushed open the door to the shop, the bell tinkling merrily above his head. “I have need to send an urgent letter.”
“Of course, Comte de Roche,” the young lad said, springing from his seat behind the counter. He noted Gabe’s empty hands and rushed to fetch a pot of ink, a quill, and some sand.
Gabe dashed off a quick missive to his man of business, dusting the wet ink with sand when he was done.
“We’ll just give it a minute,” Gabe told the young lad, who was hovering nearby, eager to assist.
“How are you finding your new responsibilities?” Gabe asked when it became clear that Mr Boden would not be the one to break the awkward silence that had fallen.
The young man’s pale colouring—all flaxen hair and freckled skin—made the blush that followed Gabe’s question all the more obvious.
“I’m trying my best to manage until Mr Postlethwaite’s family arrive in the new year,” he stammered nervously. “Though I doubt he would approve of my efforts. He was quite the stickler for rules.”
“Indeed.” Gabe raised a sceptical brow—the deceased postmaster must not have considered his customers’ privacy a strict rule.
Tom flushed again and even cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, as though afraid that Mr Postlethwaite’s spirit might be lurking about the place, eavesdropping. Gabe bit back a sigh; it might be difficult to extract information from a boy who was still afraid of a dead man—but needs must.
“Tom, I’m afraid sending a letter is not the only reason for my visit,” Gabe began, rising to his full height and squaring his shoulders.
“I have reason to believe that Mr Postlethwaite was interfering with some of the villagers’ private post. Have you discovered anything untoward since you began caretaking the place? ”
The lad’s rosy cheeks drained so quickly that his complexion soon resembled a bowl of porridge. He licked his lips nervously, his eyes darting beneath the counter.
Mr Boden would never make a good spy, Gabe thought, hiding a grin.
“Was he holding someone’s post?” Gabe pressed. “Perhaps using its contents to blackmail the rightful owner.”
Mr Boden nodded mutely.
“Was that someone Mr Cleeve?” Gabe continued, his tone encouraging.
At the mention of the schoolmaster’s name, Tom closed his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He took a deep, shuddering breath and at last opened his eyes to meet Gabe’s gaze.
“Y–yes, sir,” he stammered. “There was a letter. I found it in Mr Postlethwaite’s drawer after—after it happened.”
“A letter?” Gabe repeated, affecting mild surprise though his pulse quickened. “Addressed to whom?”
“To Mr Cleeve, sir.” Tom hesitated. “It spoke about a meeting—creating a society for reforming Parliament and dividing the country’s wealth more fairly amongst its people.”
“Good heavens,” Gabe’s brows shot up; that sounded like the start of a tale he knew all too well.
“Yes, sir,” Tom went on nervously. “The man who wrote it talked of the land belonging to those who worked it, and of every Englishman having a vote. Wild ideas, if you ask me. Here—I’ll show it to you.”
Tom opened a drawer beneath the counter and withdrew a well-thumbed, much-creased piece of paper. He handed it to Gabe, who scanned each line quickly—it was a decidedly seditious-sounding letter for a schoolmaster to receive.
“Did you ever see Mr Cleeve and Mr Postlethwaite arguing?” Gabe pressed, his mind racing. They just needed one more clue—one more sighting—to link Mr Cleeve clearly to the murder.
“I heard them arguing the morning of the bazaar,” Tom confirmed, nodding miserably.
“Mr Postlethwaite threatened to go to the school’s governor over the contents of the letter—said a man who thought like that wasn’t fit to mould young minds.
Mr Cleeve stormed out afterwards; he slammed the door so hard we thought the windows might crack. ”
Gabe clenched his fists at the delicious prickle of triumph he felt. The pieces were starting to fall into place. A radical letter. Political reform. A quarrel on the morning of the first murder attempt. Of course!
“Thank you for sharing this with me, Tom,” he said kindly, pocketing Mr Cleeve’s letter, then sealing his own banker’s note with a decisive press. “You’ve been of great assistance.”
Tom nodded again, still pale, fingers worrying the edge of the counter.
“Postage will be paid on delivery,” Gabe finished, pushing the letter across the counter. He offered the lad a smile, which was returned half-heartedly, then turned on his heel and left.
The bell tinkled cheerfully again above his head, its merry tune matching Gabe’s buoyant mood. He had potentially helped solve a murder; he had almost kissed Miss Mifford—not bad for a day’s work.
Outside the shop he paused, inhaling the cool air deep into his lungs. He smiled as he exhaled. Nothing could dampen his mood, not today. Not even Benoit Hardy, seated on the bench by the green, watching Gabe closely as he scribbled in his notebook.