Chapter Twenty
“MISS WEAVER.”
GABE exhaled as he echoed Miss Mifford, aware of the thin thread of awe curling through his voice.
And why shouldn’t it be there? She alone had noticed the patchwork of clues scattered around the exhibition—tiny scraps of information most people would have walked straight past—and she had somehow woven them together into an entire blanket of… guilt?
He winced. Blanket of guilt didn’t sound quite right, but he’d never been celebrated for his way with words. He’d refine the metaphor later; there were far more important matters at hand.
“Miss Mifford,” he went on quickly, before she had a chance to interrupt — a skill she had perfected with alarming speed this evening — “I do believe you’ve solved the case.”
And she had. He had hoped to present her with the culprit on a platter, like some foolish knight laying tribute at his lady’s feet, but she had beaten him to it long before he could attempt such gallantry.
Small wonder she held her forgiveness so tightly; he was hardly worthy of a woman with such a keen mind—or such a generous heart.
“I didn’t do it alone,” she replied at once, her lovely blue eyes lifting to his for the briefest, most disarming moment.
“This victory is yours as much as mine, Comte de Roche. We wouldn’t have found the clue from the letter if not for you. I called into Tom at the receiving office, and he denied that any other letters existed.”
“My only contribution was my power of intimidation,” Gabe snorted, though he was secretly warmed by her praise. “You’re the brains of this operation.”
Charlotte coloured at once, a rosy flush blooming across her cheeks—warm enough, Gabe thought helplessly, to thaw January itself. Oh, to spend a lifetime making her blush like that.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, flustered. “If I’m the brains, then you’re… well…”
Her gaze flicked—wildly, helplessly—over his frame, and before she could stop herself she blurted, “…the rest of the body. The—er—broad shoulders and whatnot.”
Mortification dawned instantly in her eyes. Gabe, on the other hand, felt a frankly indecent surge of pleasure at her involuntary admiration. He was, after all, only a man — the basest of creatures.
She rallied quickly, glancing toward the door through which their suspect had just vanished.
“Whatever shall we do next?” she asked, turning back to him with a look of earnest trust.
Pride stirred in Gabe’s chest alongside a fragile, foolish hope. At least she still looked to him to take command of a situation, even if she could not yet trust him with her heart.
“We must tell Lord Crabb at once,” Gabe decided. They could hardly confront Miss Weaver without the local magistrate present. Then, as an afterthought, he added; “And fetch Mr Marrowbone.”
“I don’t think you need me to tell you where you’ll find the latter,” Charlotte replied dryly. She glanced toward the door, frowning. “Heavens, I forgot all about Mary! I must return to Primrose Cottage and inform my uncle.”
“I can look after the matter of the murder from here, Miss Mifford,” Gabe said, concern for her wellbeing making his tone firm. “We do not know how Miss Weaver might react when confronted. I should not like to see you hurt in anyway.”
There followed a pause—during which Gabe added a silent again.
She nodded, quietly accepting the truth in his words; he could see her thoughts pulled in two directions—half on the murder, half on the impending arrival of a new member of the Mifford clan.
“I’ll have someone to share my birthday with now,” she said at last, giving in to hope and excitement instead of the darkness of the murder. “Won’t that be fun! Oh, but poor Eudora—she was hoping to have the family’s first granddaughter.”
She shook her head, turning back to him with an apologetic smile.
“Forgive me—my head is in a complete tizz. Promise me you’ll call the moment you have news?”
“On my honour,” he answered, inclining his head in a short, solemn bow.
She blinked—perhaps privately questioning that same honour—but did not give voice to her doubts.
“Thank you, Comte,” she said instead, gifting him one last smile. “And… bonne chance.”
With a fluttering wave, she turned on her heel and slipped out through the inn door into the dark night.
Gabe stood for a moment, watching the place where she had vanished, before releasing a long, shaky breath.
The night had offered him no moment for a grand apology—not even the opportunity to grovel on his knees—but it had offered him something else: a chance to see this murder mystery through to the end.
And if that was all fate intended for him where Miss Mifford was concerned, then that was what he would do.
He pulled his coat close and stepped from the warmth of the inn into the chill of the village night, confident that Mr Marrowbone could be found precisely where one would expect.
After a quick stroll he arrived to The Ring, momentarily blinded by its dimness and the waft of pipe smoke that greeted him.
When his eyes adjusted, they landed not on the constable—but on the magistrate instead—seated at the bar beside Captain Thorne.
“We slipped out of the exhibition for a quick one,” Crabb said as Gabe approached. He glanced ruefully at his glass. “Though we seem to be on our third.”
“A man needs courage to face his wife,” Captain Thorne sighed, “When she sees Mr Hardy has captured you looking utterly besotted — and begins to question why her own husband did not inspire a similar artwork.”
Before Gabe could muster a scathing reply to that rejoinder, a clatter erupted at the far end of the bar. Tom Boden had toppled clean off his stool, landing in an ungainly heap on the floorboards.
“I’ll have to cut you off, Tom, if you don’t pace yourself,” Angus warned, peering over the counter with a long-suffering sigh.
“Poor lad hasn’t recovered from the murder,” Crabb murmured sympathetically as two men hauled Tom upright again.
“Speaking of which,” Gabe interjected firmly, seizing the chance before the viscount wandered into tangent—an ever-present danger when a man was three pints in. “I believe Miss Mifford has solved our case.”
Crabb straightened at once, all joviality vanishing, his eyes bright with interest as Gabe—hastily and in as low a voice as possible—laid out everything. The letter. The painting. The brandy. Every thread of evidence, and how Miss Mifford had woven them into a very tight case against Miss Weaver.
By the time he finished, Crabb looked as sober as a judge.
“I’m convinced,” he said, setting down his glass. “Thorne, would you care to join us? Marrowbone—put down that pint—we have work to do.”
A faint groan drifted from the darkest corner of the pub, followed by the scrape of a chair legs on flagstone and several muttered asides about writing a resignation letter come morning.
Despite his protests, Marrowbone bundled himself into his coat and followed the others out into the cold, where their horses were tethered by the frosty green.
“Miss Weaver rents a cottage just near Long Acres,” the constable called, as he hoisted himself—none too gracefully—into the saddle. “Won’t take us but a few minutes to get there. With some luck, we’ll have this all settled and over before my pint goes flat.”
“You are an optimist, Constable,” Gabe murmured, swinging up onto his own mount.
“No, I’m thirsty, Comte,” Marrowbone muttered darkly—then astonished them all by urging his short-legged pony into a surprisingly brisk canter.
The three men stared at each other in surprise for a moment before spurring their horses after the constable.
They cantered down through the village, crossed the low stone bridge, and followed the London Road until they at last caught up with Marrowbone—who had already dismounted outside a neat, thatched cottage.
A single candle glowed in one of the front windows, casting a warm square of light onto the snow. Whoever was inside was still awake.
Gabe cast a quick glance at Crabb as they tied their horses, silently wondering how best to proceed.
“I’ll go first,” the viscount declared, squaring his shoulders as he pushed open the garden gate. With Marrowbone beside him, he rapped sharply on the door, the sound ringing clear through the still night.
Gabe remained slightly back beside Thorne, who gave him a bracing smile.
“You’ve faced worse,” his friend murmured encouragingly.
Gabe nodded silently in reply. Thorne was right—he had faced cannon fire, storms at sea, and men who wanted him dead. And yet none of that had ever set his pulse racing quite like this. He wanted this interview to go well—for Miss Mifford’s sake.
He drew a steadying breath just as the door opened.
Miss Weaver took one look at the assembled party on her doorstep—Crabb the grave magistrate, the constable beside him, Captain Thorne watchful, and Gabe standing tall and solemn behind them all—and her shoulders slumped.
“Oh,” she murmured, voice flat with resignation. “Please do come in, gentlemen.”
She stepped back, leading them into her neat parlour room.
A small fire in the grate crackled merrily but it did little to ward off the chill in the air.
Miss Weaver gestured them to sit with a weary flick of her hand, then perched on the edge of her own seat, worrying the ends of her scarf with nervous fingers.
Gabe wasted no time.
“Miss Weaver,” he began gently, “You tried to poison Mr Postlethwaite, and—”
He did not get to finish. She crumpled forward with a broken sob, one hand covering her eyes.
“I’ll admit it,” she choked, looking utterly wretched. “But I wasn’t trying to kill him. I just wanted to teach him a lesson about sticking his nose in other people’s business.”
Crabb and Thorne exchanged a look. Marrowbone’s mouth fell open.
Miss Weaver pressed on, voice shaking.