Chapter Five
SARAH PAUSED AT the gates of Northcott Manor, questioning the wisdom of calling on Mary. She wasn’t one to share her burdens—but the weight of Silas Hardwick’s murder, and her father’s connection to it, was too much to shoulder alone.
Besides, Sarah thought, as she straightened her posture and began her march down the long gravel drive—if anyone could help her with a murder-related problem, it was Mary.
The sun shone cheerfully in the clear sky above, mocking Sarah’s anxious mood. She pulled the brim of her bonnet lower to protect her skin, her eyes cast down at her feet as she walked.
Her mind was so filled with worry that she did not note the sound of a rider approaching from behind until they drew to a halt a few feet in front of her.
“Miss Hughes.”
The Earl of Ashford elegantly dismounted his large steed, then removed his hat as he offered her a sweeping bow.
“My lord,” Sarah bobbed a neat curtsy, her thoughts scattering at his sudden appearance. “I was just going to call on Her Grace…”
Any other day, Sarah might have managed a reply that did not sound quite so dismissive of his warm greeting. Luckily, Lord Deverell didn’t seem to notice—or care—that she was dismissing him. Oh, to have the confidence of an earl.
“The duchess has gone to visit her mother,” Lord Deverell informed her, his tone regretful.
“Oh,” Sarah’s shoulders dropped with disappointment. “Did she say when she would return?”
“Not until this evening,” Lord Deverell watched her carefully, his grey eyes kind. “There was mention of taking the carriage to Stroud to visit the plumassier there.”
Sarah closed her eyes as she willed herself not to betray her upset at the news.
“If it’s a sympathetic ear you’re in need of, I have two I might offer,” the earl continued, startling Sarah with his directness.
“You heard about the murder?” Sarah whispered, torn between gratitude for his offer and a natural reluctance to confide in the man. After all, it was her father’s name that was at stake and she wasn’t entirely certain she could trust the earl—no matter how kind his eyes.
“I was a distant witness to it,” Lord Deverell confided. At Sarah’s raised brow, he elaborated a little further, explaining how he and the duke had heard gunshots on their way home from The Ring’o’Bells, then discovered Hardwick’s body further up the road.
“If you were in The Ring, then you heard my father threaten Silas,” Sarah ventured as he finished. She was only aware of the threat because she had overheard her father telling her brother Thomas about it that morning, when Thomas had called to the house to share the news.
“Unfortunate timing on your father’s part,” Lord Deverell conceded, his eyes dancing with amusement. “But he did not express a particularly original sentiment; half the pub was thinking the same.”
“Half of the pub did not promise Mr Hardwick his comeuppance moments before he was fatally shot,” Sarah countered, refusing to have her anxieties pushed aside.
“True,” the earl bowed his head in recognition of her statement. “But that will not matter when the true culprit is found.”
“I’m afraid, my lord, that I fear the true culprit will never be found if it is left to Mr Marrowbone,” Sarah replied with a sigh. The local constable wasn’t above allowing an innocent man’s reputation be ruined if it meant he did not have to leave his perch at the pub.
“I have no intention of leaving the investigating to Mr Marrowbone.”
If Sarah hadn’t been so anxious, she might have appreciated just how gallant the earl was in that moment. His grey eyes were fierce, his strong jaw set and determined, and his broad shoulders squared as though readying for battle.
“You’ll help me investigate?” Sarah questioned, barely able to believe her luck.
While Mary—actually all of the Mifford sisters—had experience in solving murders, they’d each been assisted in their investigations by a man.
An aristocratic man at that. Sarah was well aware that a tall, strong, and wealthy gentleman would help open doors that might otherwise remain closed to a lady alone.
“From what I know of Plumpton, one can’t conduct a courtship without also conducting a murder investigation alongside it,” Lord Deverell smiled mischievously. “We must keep up appearances for Mrs Mifford’s sake.”
Sarah’s stomach gave a funny squeeze at his boyish smile, which she tried valiantly to ignore. It would not do for her to believe that the earl was in anyway interested in her, when he had explicitly stated that he simply wished to use her as shield against Mrs Mifford.
“Thank you, my lord,” she gave a curt nod. “I believe we should start by compiling a list of suspects.”
Lord Deverell’s steed took umbrage at Sarah’s brisk tone and began to stomp impatiently behind him. The earl cast the magnificent beast an annoyed glance, before turning to offer Sarah an apologetic shrug.
“Bramble believes we should start by returning him to the stable for a brush down,” he said, reaching for the horse’s reins.
Sarah stilled, disappointed that the cavalry was already retreating.
“I could probably do with a brush down too,” the earl continued, oblivious to her internal despair. “But I trust you will forgive my state of dishabille. Wait here, Miss Hughes, I will be but a moment.”
The earl tipped his hat to her before elegantly remounting his saddle.
Sarah watched as horse and rider trotted up the drive toward Northcott Manor and the stables beyond.
She tried not to focus on what a dashing figure he cut on horseback but when that proved impossible, she decided to pace instead.
Her mind raked over the conversation that she had overheard that morning while standing at the kitchen door.
Her father’s voice had shaken as he had told Thomas that he had left The Ring just before Hardwick to walk home alone, meaning that he had no alibi for his whereabouts at the time of the murder.
Worse, the whole village thought him the culprit, given his outburst. Even Thomas, in a voice so quiet that Sarah had been forced to strain to hear him, had asked his father if he was guilty.
Sarah’s pacing came to a halt as she recalled the terror Thomas’ question had brought. If even her own brother believed it possible, then what hope did she have of ever clearing their father’s name?
The only solace she had was in her father’s annoyed response.
“I did not,” he’d said with a snort. “But I’ll be the first to buy a pint for the man who did.”
The crisp sound of boots on gravel interrupted Sarah’s thoughts. She turned to find Lord Deverell striding briskly toward her, his coat tails billowing behind him.
As he neared, Sarah caught a definite whiff of cologne; fresh citrus with a hint of basil. Beneath his hat, his hair looked recently brushed, and the cravat at his neck was far neater than it had been when she’d last seen him.
It appeared that Lord Deverell had engaged in a swift toilette. Sarah resisted rolling her eyes; there was no end to the vanity of the aristocracy.
“Shall we?” the earl gestured toward the gate in suggestion.
Sarah nodded and took off at a brisk pace. The earl fell into step beside her, his long legs easily matching her speed.
“There’s a walk beside the river that is charming at this time of year,” Sarah said, veering left as they exited the gate.
It was also far quieter than the main road; Sarah did not want to be spotted walking alone with the earl.
She had enough to deal with, without adding idle gossip about her love life to the mix.
They walked in silence for a few moments, as Sarah led the Earl of Ashford through a small clearing in the hedgerow to the path that ran alongside the river Churn.
“A charming vista indeed,” Lord Deverell commented as they emerged from the thicket, picking a thorny branch from the sleeve of his coat.
“I fear your wardrobe shall never recover from its skirmishes with the arboretum of Plumpton,” Sarah commented, hiding a smile.
“My valet enjoys a challenge,” he assured her. “Now, shall we get down to the business at hand?”
Sarah nodded shyly in agreement, the mention of his valet reminding her of the deep chasm of wealth and privilege that divided them. This was not a man who put his trousers on the same way as everyone else each morning—he had hired help to assist him.
“I suggest that before we compile a list of suspects, you tell me everything you know about the late Mr Hardwick,” the earl continued, his commanding tone making redundant his use of the word suggest.
“I’m afraid that’s not much,” Sarah murmured, as she racked her brain to recall the tidbits of gossip she had heard about Silas since his arrival to Plumpton.
As they began to walk parallel to the slow moving Churn, Sarah shared all that she knew about the now deceased Mr Hardwick.
“He inherited his farm from old Mr Gardiner just a few months ago,” Sarah began. “After a long search it appeared that Mr Hardwick was the only relative who could be found. He’s said to have lived in Essex before moving here but I have not heard mention of any other family, nor have any visited.”
“Then we may rule out any longstanding family feuds,” Lord Deverell said with satisfaction. “If Mr Hardwick has no historical ties to Plumpton, then the grudge which killed him is a fresh one.”
“He was killed because of his plan to divert the stream, my lord,” Sarah responded, “I’m certain of it.”
“That is the most likely reason,” the earl conceded, ignoring her slightly exasperated tone. “However we must look for others. After all to exonerate your father we must look for different motives, ones that he does not share.”
Feeling slightly chastened, Sarah gave a quiet nod.
“This might surprise you to learn,” Lord Deverell continued, his cheeks curiously pink. “But for a period I enjoyed reading The Newgate Calendar. What I can tell you from my reading is that there are usually three reasons for murder; money, lust, and revenge.”