Chapter Seventeen #2
“Tom,” she returned his greeting, hurrying toward the counter. “I’m sorry to trouble you again, but I simply must know—did you find any letters when you were clearing through Mr Postlethwaite’s things? Letters that didn’t belong to him?”
Tom froze. His face went as pale as his wheaten hair, and his tongue darted nervously across his lips.
“Compromising letters,” Charlotte pressed, her tone pleading. “I believe Mr Postlethwaite was attempting to blackmail someone in the village. I think he—”
“Enough!”
The word burst from Tom with such violence that Charlotte jumped. The usually placid postmaster’s assistant gripped the counter so tightly his knuckles turned white. His posture was as rigid as one of Nora’s soufflés and, for a moment, Charlotte felt a prick of real fear.
“That is to say,” he continued after a heavy exhale. “No, Miss Mifford. I didn’t find anything untoward among Mr Postlethwaite’s personal effects. Please forgive my outburst—it’s been a very upsetting few weeks, as I’m sure you understand.”
The apology was delivered in a flat voice, his gaze never quite meeting hers. Charlotte nodded politely, suddenly conscious that—though young—Tom was a tall, strapping lad, with shoulders broad enough to—
She suppressed a shiver.
“Forgive me, Tom,” she stammered. “It was most insensitive of me to come barging in, asking questions. I’ll just be off—er—happy new year.”
She bobbed her head and turned to leave. As she passed the little table where she had first spoken to Gabe, she noticed with a small pang that the robin ornament was gone.
It’s a sign, she decided as she pushed open the door—though she wasn’t entirely sure what it was a sign of. Apart from someone else in Plumpton having excellent taste in porcelain birds.
Outside, the village remained much the same, though the pastoral charm of the snow-covered scene did little to calm her disquiet.
Tom Boden's reaction had been more than merely rude—it had been downright suspicious.
As she set off toward home, Charlotte began to wonder if, perhaps, the postmaster's assistant had played some role in his employer's demise.
He was certainly acting guilty enough to warrant such suspicion.
There was one person who would know what to make of Tom's behavior—who would have already pieced together what she was only now beginning to see. But as even thinking of his name made her throat burn, she resolutely quashed that thought. She would not think of Gabe. She would not miss him. And she most certainly would not go chasing after a man who had so little interest in her that he’d wagered against ever marrying her.
No, she was quite finished with Frenchmen, she thought—at precisely the same moment she rounded the corner and nearly collided with another Frenchman.
“Ah! Mademoiselle Mifford,” Mr Benoit Hardy exclaimed, lifting his paintbrush in greeting. “Forgive me—I should not have set my easel in the middle of the path, but the light, she captivated me.”
He gestured toward his canvas with his brush, and Charlotte stepped forward to examine his work. The watercolour showed the village green, all soft blues and greys, with the Cotswolds Hills visible beyond.
“Beautiful,” she said sincerely.
“It is the village that is beautiful,” Mr Hardy humbly replied. “I am only grateful to have the chance to capture it.”
Charlotte felt a small stab of endearment toward the young artist. In a village full of secrets and murder, he appeared cheerful, open, and uncomplicated.
And anyone who held Plumpton in such high regard was alright, in her book.
The Comte's suspicion of the lad had obviously been misplaced, she decided—much like her own hope in the Comte himself.
“I shall be sad to leave,” Mr Hardy continued with a sigh. “Though I am holding a small exhibition of my works at The King’s Head on the eve of Twelfth Night. I do hope you’ll come.”
“I should like that very much,” she said, meaning it. Then, before the cold could seep any deeper into her bones: “Well—I won’t keep you from your work any longer, Mr Hardy, or your watercolours will turn to ice. Good day.”
“Bonne journée, Mademoiselle!”
She gave him a final wave and set off toward Primrose Cottage, her mind already returned to the murder. An alleged illicit love affair. Tom Boden’s anger at her questions. The poisoned bottle of brandy, followed by the second—successful—attempt on Mr Postlethwaite’s life.
The pieces were all there, she just had to slot them together—without the Comte’s assistance.
Don’t think of him, Charlotte reminded herself sternly.
In her distraction over the Comte, she failed to spot a particularly compacted patch of snow on the path.
Her feet shot out from under her, her arms windmilling in a desperate attempt to keep upright.
As she could not defeat gravity with sheer will alone, she landed squarely on her bottom with a decided thump.
"Ouch," she muttered, clambering ungracefully to her feet.
A quick glance around revealed the road mercifully empty; no one had witnessed her inelegant fall to earth. She felt a flicker of relief—followed swiftly by a pang of loneliness.
There was no one to help her up, no one to laugh with her at her clumsiness, no one to ask if she was alright.
She shook her head sharply, in an attempt to ward off the feelings of hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm her.
"You’ll be alright," she said aloud. She was a practical girl—if reassurance was what she needed, she could very well provide it herself.
And she would solve the case alone.
And the pain in her backside—much like the pain in her heart—would eventually pass.
Hopefully.