Chapter Nineteen #2
“That figure is walking toward Mr Postlethwaite’s cottage,” she whispered, turning to him with bright, sudden excitement. “Who do you think it might be?”
He leaned in beside her, his face so close she could see the faintest hint of dark stubble along his jaw, the small scar that cut through one thick brow, and the deep shadows beneath his eyes.
He hadn’t been sleeping, she realised with a pang.
“A woman,” he answered, with quiet certainty.
He straightened, and she mirrored him. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and withdrew a folded piece of paper.
“I spoke with Mr Boden at the receiving office,” he said, holding the paper up as evidence.
“Mr Cleeve was not the only person in the village whose post Mr Postlethwaite was interfering with. This was meant to be delivered to a female resident of Plumpton. It’s a missive from an admirer—one which, I believe, the recipient would not wish made public. ”
“Goodness,” Charlotte breathed, her eyes fixed on the paper. “May I?”
“I don’t think it’s the sort of letter you’d wish to read—” the Comte began, awkwardly. But he sighed in defeat as soon as he caught Charlotte’s mulish expression.
“I did try to warn you,” he said dryly, handing her the letter. Charlotte accepted it primly, inwardly scoffing at his high-handedness.
She skimmed the opening lines at speed, wondering who its “blonde enchantress” might be. But when she reached the middle of the letter, her pace slowed and heat crept steadily up her neck.
She glanced up and found the Comte watching her, his eyes—for the first time that evening—alight with unmistakable amusement.
She cleared her throat. She had questions—many, many questions—but the foremost, and the only one she could voice, was: “Who do you think it might be?”
The Comte gave a small shrug of his broad shoulders. “I have no idea. But if she was willing to kill Mr Postlethwaite rather than have the letter revealed, then I would guess she is married.”
“Or not,” Charlotte murmured, her mouth twisting thoughtfully. A married woman might weather a scandal—an unmarried lady had no such luxury.
She handed the letter back to him, willing her hand not to tremble as their fingers brushed.
“I still question whether a woman would have the strength to bludgeon a man to death,” she said at last, her eyes lifting to meet his.
“She tried with poisoned brandy first,” the Comte reminded her gently. “When that failed, she was forced to resort to more difficult means.”
Charlotte nodded, her mind working furiously. The first attempt was far more revealing than the second, successful one—because the first had been planned, not born of panic.. Something niggled at the back of her mind, some connection she couldn’t quite grasp.
“Are you quite finished, Miss Mifford?” a voice called sharply from behind them. “Some of us would also like a chance to view Mr Hardy’s works.”
Charlotte and the Comte turned to find Mrs Canards and her equally dour shadow, Mrs Wickling, looming behind them. Mrs Wickling tutted softly, while Mrs Canards stood with her arms folded, beating an impatient tattoo on the floorboards with the toe of her boot.
“Do excuse us, ladies,” the Comte said smoothly, sheltering Charlotte with his broad frame as he ushered her past the horrid pair.
“I question the morality of Plumpton’s unmarried ladies; fraternising publicly with bachelors, receiving strange callers—it wasn’t like that in our day, was it Mrs Wickling?”
“Presumably,” the Comte murmured in Charlotte’s ear as they moved away, “Because they had no male admirers to refuse.”
A shiver darted down her spine as his breath tickled her ear.
He guided them to the next painting—the watercolour of the lopsided carriage on the snow-swept lane. She admired it only vaguely, her attention split between the Comte’s nearness—unreasonably distracting—and the niggling feeling that Mrs Canards had just said something important…
“Oh, Miss Mifford—if you happen to see Miss Weaver, would you tell her we’ll be leaving shortly?
” Lady Deverell said, pausing to touch Charlotte’s arm as she glided past. “Tell her we’re more than happy to drop her home on our way to Long Acres—that is, if I can find Ashford first. He’d best not have ducked out to The Ring. ”
“Of course,” Charlotte smiled. “I do hope you find Lord Deverrell soon.”
“He’d best hope I do too,” Lady Deverrell said dryly, flicking her eyes heavenward. She swept off into the crowd in search of her errant husband.
Charlotte watched her go, brow furrowed. It felt as though Lady Deverell had dropped another clue in their lap, but—again—she could not quite grasp its importance.
“Charlotte!” Mrs Mifford’s shrill cry sliced through her reverie.
Her aunt barrelled toward them, more flustered than usual. “Mary is having contractions! We must leave at once—you need to return home immediately and inform Mr Mifford that I’ll be at Northcott Manor all night.”
She shot a pointed glare toward the Comte.
“And no detours.”
Before Charlotte could utter a single word, her aunt had whirled around and vanished back into the crush of people, presumably to collect her labouring daughter.
Charlotte turned to the Comte with an apologetic shrug. “I’m so sorry, I must—”
“Of course,” he said gently. “I will walk you to the door.”
His hand hovered at the small of her back as he guided her through the press of bodies. They passed Mr and Mrs Walton, still engaged in their good-natured bickering.
“—best bottle of brandy I ever received, and you gave half of it away—”
“Well, my brother did re-thatch the roof during a snowstorm, dear. It was the least—”
Charlotte’s steps faltered.
A bottle of fine brandy.
A caller with a broken carriage wheel on the road to Long Acres.
Her mind began to race, pieces clicking into place with almost frightening clarity.
They reached the entrance hall of the inn just as Lady Deverell and her husband were making their way out through the front door.
Evidently Lord Deverrell had been wrongfully accused; he had not ducked out to The Ring after all, she thought with a smile.
Following closely behind them was Miss Weaver, fastening the buttons of her green pelisse, her golden curls escaping prettily from beneath her bonnet.
Charlotte stopped dead.
Green.
Blonde.
Long Acres—the very road along which deadly nightshade could be found.
The brandy, given by a gentleman caller to Mr Walton.
Not just any brandy but a fine bottle—just like the one Mr Postlethwaite had given to Mrs Mifford, unaware it had been tampered with.
Mrs Canards’s sniping about Miss Weaver receiving “strange callers” on the night of the assembly. Her guess that Mr Postlethwaite had found it more profitable to blackmail the subject of the gossip herself. The new buttons on Mr Postlethwaite’s waistcoat on the day she’d first met the Comte.
The figure in green in Mr Hardy’s painting, walking alone toward Mr Postlethwaite’s cottage on Christmas morning.
Each clue struck her in rapid succession, locking into place with terrible certainty.
Charlotte whirled on her heel, tipping her face up to the Comte.
“It was Miss Weaver,” she whispered, breathless. “Miss Weaver killed Mr Postlethwaite.”