Chapter Sixteen
NEW YEAR’S MORNING broke on a Plumpton once again blanketed in thick white snow—though Gabe, who had been pacing since before dawn, was in no mood to appreciate the charming scene beyond his window.
What the devil had happened with Miss Mifford? he wondered for the seven hundredth time that morning—and, he supposed, that year.
A voice of reason in his head urged him not to fret—that the explanation offered, that she had suddenly been taken ill, was the truth—but still he worried. Had he said something to offend her?
Perhaps he shouldn’t have told her that he thought of her as a robin. Women, he suspected, preferred to be likened to the more exotic creatures found in Polito’s Menagerie. But no—she had seemed charmed by that. Which left the more troubling possibility: that someone else had said something.
He could not help but recall the dancing eyes of Miss Morton—she of the virtuous samplers—tracking him across the assembly room for as long as he had remained there. Which, admittedly, had not been long. He hadn’t even stayed to ring in the New Year, claiming a sudden bout of illness as his excuse.
“It’s Mrs Walton’s pudding,” Mrs Mifford had whispered conspiratorially as he took his leave—her desire to spread gossip greater than her dislike of him.
“Her kitchen’s like a sty, Comte. I expect you’ll be on the chamber pot all evening.
At least you’ll get to start the year with a flat belly—won’t that be nice for a change! ”
Gabe had thanked her for her concern and departed swiftly—though for the entirety of his walk back to Crabb Hall his hand had been worrying at the front of his waistcoat, wondering if he had, in fact, gained weight.
When he wasn’t worrying about Miss Mifford, that is.
What a way to begin the New Year—sleepless, fretful, and convinced that he had somehow offended the young lady who had stolen his heart.
He sighed and turned from the window; the snow outside looked far too bright and cheerful against his gloomy mood.
Downstairs, somewhere in the bowels of Crabb Hall, a clock struck eight. As it was far too early to drink away his anxiety, he supposed he might as well settle on breakfast—and, if fortune were kind, some news of Miss Mifford.
“De Roche, are you feeling better?” Lord Crabb called as Gabe entered the breakfast-room.
“Wha—oh, yes,” Gabe replied solemnly, arranging the expression of a man who had spent the night suffering the ill effects of a bad Christmas pudding. He moved to the table, where a footman—eyes bleary with sleep—poured him a steaming cup of coffee.
“Is there any news of Miss Mifford?” Gabe asked, striving for casualness as he lifted the cup. He took an overly hearty sip, hoping Lord Crabb would not notice that his interest in the answer ran far deeper than his tone suggested.
“No—and thank heaven for that,” Crabb chortled. “Only very grave news would arrive before breakfast. She must have come down with whatever it was that got you.”
“Indeed,” Gabe nodded seriously.
The footman set down a plate piled high with eggs, sausages, and toast. Gabe considered falling upon it at once, then remembered he was supposed to be convalescing.
He took a timid bite of toast and chewed slowly, praying Lord Crabb might become distracted long enough for him to gobble a sausage whole.
“I’m planning to call on Mr Marrowbone at nine,” the viscount continued. “I’ll drag him to Mr Cleeve’s by the hair if needs must. I can’t start the new year with a murder hanging over my head.”
He reached for the coffee-pot, pouring himself a generous cup. “Honestly, de Roche, at this rate I expect I’ll be called to stand in the House of Lords and explain why a village the size of Plumpton boasts a higher murder rate than Whitechapel.”
“Does it?” Gabe raised a startled brow.
“Er—well.” Crabb flushed slightly, clearing his throat. “Figure of speech. Merely an expression.” He busied himself with his toast. “Now then—would you care to accompany us? You’ve done the bulk of the investigating so far, and it would be a shame if all the glory were to fall to Marrowbone.”
“I’ve no other plans,” Gabe replied—which was the truth. His only other option for the morning was to anxiously run through every word he’d said to Miss Mifford the night before, and confronting a murderer sounded far more appealing than that.
“Well, that’s settled then,” Crabb said cheerfully. “Once you’ve finished that, come and find me in the stables. I’ll have the grooms ready the horses.”
He threw down his napkin and left the table with a whistle on his lips.
Gabe waited until the sound of his footsteps had faded, then fell upon his breakfast with gusto. He was already nursing a broken heart; it would be intolerable to add an empty stomach to the mix.
An hour or so later, Gabe found himself standing in the snow outside Mr Cleeve’s cottage, beside Lord Crabb and a very disgruntled Mr Marrowbone.
They had collected the constable along the way—who had spent the duration of the journey grumbling about how it was considered bad luck to work on New Year’s Day.
“A superstition you apply to the other three hundred and sixty-four days as well,” Lord Crabb had retorted, rolling his eyes.
That had quietened Mr Marrowbone completely—at least until they arrived at the schoolmaster’s cottage.
“Follow my lead,” the viscount instructed, rapping sharply on the door.
A moment later, Mr Cleeve himself appeared, looking pale but composed.
“Lord Crabb, what a surprise,” he said, his spectacles slipping down the bridge of his nose. He hastily pushed them back up. “Won’t you come in? Oh, I see you’ve brought the Comte too. And Mr Marrowbone…I say, what’s all this about?”
“We just have a few questions to ask regarding an argument you had with Mr Postlethwaite,” Lord Crabb said evenly, motioning for Mr Cleeve to lead the way inside.
“Don’t you know it’s considered bad luck to work on New Year’s Day?” the schoolmaster sighed—prompting Mr Marrowbone to break into a triumphant smile.
Despite his obvious irritation, he ushered his three unwanted guests into a small parlour, where a cheerful fire burned in the grate.
“I’m afraid I’ve nothing to offer you except tea,” he said, gesturing to the chairs. “Mrs Cleeve keeps the good stuff under lock and key, and she’s gone off visiting neighbours.”
Gabe exhaled with relief; it would be far easier to coax a confession from the man without his wife present.
“Now,” Mr Cleeve continued once they were seated, “You wish to discuss Mr Postlethwaite’s attempt to blackmail me, is that correct?”
Gabe shifted uncomfortably in his chair; the schoolmaster appeared far too calm and in control for his liking.
“Amongst other things,” Lord Crabb confirmed smoothly.
Mr Cleeve shifted in his chair, his composure faltering for the first time. He was clearly unused to being spoken to as anything less than the most commanding voice in the room.
“He read my private post and threatened to have me removed from my position,” he huffed. “I don’t know why you’re acting as though I’m the guilty party here, my lord. I am not the one who committed a grave dereliction of duty.”
There was a pause as the schoolmaster blinked furiously, colour rising in his cheeks.
“But we believe you may have committed a murder, Mr Cleeve,” the Viscount replied—almost sympathetically.
“Murder?” Mr Cleeve started, his voice cracking. “I didn’t murder anyone! This is outrageous, what reason do you have to accuse me?”
“Mr Postlethwaite threatened to take away your livelihood—that’s reason enough,” Gabe interjected.
The schoolmaster glanced at him as though noticing for the first time that there was an absurdly large Frenchman crammed into one of his parlour chairs, and gave a small jump of alarm.
“He did threaten to go to the school governor," the schoolmaster admitted, recovering himself. “But I got there first. And once I had explained what had happened—and shown him the letter in question—the governor was not at all concerned.”
A likely story, Gabe thought.
“And who is this governor?” Lord Crabb asked with a frown.
“Mr Mifford.”
Gabe blinked; perhaps it was not such an unlikely story after all.
“Even if you knew your position was safe,” Lord Crabb went on, though his tone had lost some of its earlier certainty, “You might still have wanted revenge. There’s the little matter of you disappearing for hours on the night of the murder. How do you explain that?”
A silence fell—one that seemed to stretch into eternity—before the schoolmaster slowly turned in his seat and fixed the constable with a pointed look.
“Ah,” said Mr Marrowbone awkwardly, tugging at his collar. “I can explain that…”
Three expectant faces turned toward him.
“Well,” he began, “After the midnight service, Angus had a few of us back to the Ring o’ Bells for a dram or two—purely to toast our Saviour’s birth, you understand. And, er, one dram led to another.”
“How many drams precisely?” Lord Crabb asked dryly.
Marrowbone looked heavenward, counting silently on his fingers. “Enough that I was seeing double but still walking straight, m’lord. Anyway, Mr Cleeve here was with us the whole time. We left together—close on three in the morning, I should think—and I walked him right to his door.”
Gabe stared. “You might have mentioned that sooner, Constable.”
“Well, I didn’t think of it,” Marrowbone said, affronted. “Not least because you didn’t share any clues with me—you just dragged me from my bed at cockcrow to make an arrest. I hope you don’t mind me saying, my lord, but I feel entirely vindicated now. Working on New Year’s Day is bad luck.”
There followed a silence so long that Gabe had time to think of several different ways in which the viscount might murder Mr Marrowbone after they left.
“Mr Cleeve,” Lord Crabb said at last, his voice stiff. “Might I offer you my most humble apologies for the intrusion.”