Chapter Six
IT WAS MISS Sarah Hughes who was at the forefront of Lucian’s mind as he strolled into Plumpton, rather than anyone on their list of suspects.
She was charmingly shy, maddeningly self-possessed, and completely immune to Lucian’s charm. Or attempts at charm; he was beginning to suspect that he was a little rusty in that department.
Lucian was just pondering the delicate line between flirtation and a scandalised slap, when he realised that his boots had brought him right to the door of The Ring’o’Bells.
The door was ajar, allowing a restricted view of the pub’s dark interior. From within, Lucian could hear the sound of glasses clinking and the deep rumblings of voices— decidedly lively for mid-morning.
Steeling himself—for he was still a little queasy after last night’s excesses—he pushed the door open and strolled inside.
“In need of a cure, m’lord?” Angus asked from behind the bar, his eyes knowing beneath his bushy brows.
“I’ve heard that a drop of poison can serve as its own antidote,” Lucian smiled, placing a few coins upon the bar. “A pint please and one for my friend here.”
Lucian nodded his head toward Mr Marrowbone who was seated at the end of the bar cradling a pint.
“Much obliged, my lord,” Mr Marrowbone grinned, lifting his drink in toast. Lucian suspected that it was not the constable’s first drink of the day.
“I expect you’ll be busy at work over the next few days,” Lucian commented, aiming for insouciance to start.
Unfortunately, the mere mention of work caused Mr Marrowbone’s smile to curdle.
“And why’s that?” the constable questioned, regarding Lucian with hostile suspicion.
“The murder of Silas Hardwick,” Lucian said mildly.
He briefly wondered if the news hadn’t yet made it into the pub. It was entirely possible that Marrowbone hadn’t moved from his stool since last night. Lucian leaned in, discreetly sniffed the air, and decided it was more than possible.
“Oh, that,” Mr Marrowbone shrugged with disinterest. “Reckon we all know who did it.”
“We do?” Lucian raised a brow.
Mr Marrowbone looked over his shoulder to ascertain that no one was eavesdropping, then leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially to Lucian.
“Well, it was Mr Hughes, wasn’t it?” the constable hissed. “We all saw him threaten Hardwick just minutes before he was shot.”
“Can that be proved?” A feeling of dread stole over Lucian at Marrowbone’s certainty; he could not bear to inform Miss Hughes that her father might face the end of the hangman’s rope.
“Lud, no,” Mr Marrowbone chortled, easing Lucian’s worry. “No witnesses to speak of, just you and His Grace. Neither of you saw nothing of worth, according to Lord Crabb.”
The constable brushed his hands together, as if to declare the matter closed.
“So you are just going to allow Mr Hughes’ name be dragged through the mire?” Lucian questioned, struggling to quell his annoyance.
“The man won’t have to put his hand in his pocket for a pint for the rest of the year,” Marrowbone answered wistfully, as though this settled matters completely.
“Lud, man,” Lucian growled. “It does not matter that everyone wanted Hardwick dead, the point is someone killed him and despite your certainty, I don’t believe it was Mr Hughes. There is a murderer running loose in the village. Don’t you care about justice?”
Marrowbone’s only response to Lucian’s question was sulky silence.
“Even Mr Tresswell don’t care about justice for Hardwick,” Marrowbone huffed eventually. “And he was the man’s solicitor. All he’s annoyed about is having to start the search for one of Mr Gardiner’s relatives again.”
Lucian touched an exasperated hand to his brow; it was obvious that Marrowbone was now attempting to obfuscate and divert. Unfortunately, from behind the bar, Angus took the bait.
“If Mr Gardiner hadn’t been such an ornery so-and-so, Mr Treswell’s job might not be so difficult,” Angus commented.
Thus ensued a long conversation between the two men about the late landowner’s legendary sourness, which—according to Angus—resulted in his wife’s early death and ensuing estrangement from his late son.
Lucian who had little interest in Plumpton’s ancient history, listened only absently to their chatter as he finished his pint. While his conversation with Mr Marrowbone had been anything but helpful, the pint of ale had at least cured the worst of his hangover.
“I do believe I am cured,” Lucian said, setting his empty glass down upon the bar. He paused a moment, during which Marrowbone eyed him nervously, as though expecting to be collared into work.
“Are either of you acquainted with Colonel Fawkes?” Lucian ventured, adopting a tone of nonchalance. “I’m told he lives in the area but is not often at home.”
“He’s at home, alright,” Marrowbone answered. “Arrived back from Bristol a few days ago. According to Mr McDowell he’s already complained twice that the papers are only delivered once a week.”
“A man never likes to fall behind on The Salisbury and Winchester Journal,” Lucian was diplomatic as he tucked the information about the colonel away for later.
“He’d be better employed keeping tabs on his wife, rather than the papers,” Marrowbone commented. Being a gentleman, Lucian feigned a case of acute deafness at this remark.
He bid Angus and the constable goodbye and slipped outside. There, he was forced to blink several times as his eyes adjusted to the bright glare of the morning sun.
Outside the dim pub he found the village alive, as its residents hurried about their day.
Villagers darted in and out of this shop or that, while carts trundled past delivering goods.
Across the road, on the village green, stood a cluster of women of varying ages, engaged in what sounded like a boisterous conversation.
“Lord Deverell!”
One of the women had detached herself from the group and was waving her hand furiously in the air to attract Lucian’s attention. It was, he realised after a moment of disorientation, Mrs Mifford.
“My lord,” she cried, as Lucian—who couldn’t well ignore her—crossed the road to join the group of ladies. “I’m glad you’re here. You can help us settle our heated debate.”
“Oh?” Lucian hoped his expression did not betray his alarm. He did not wish to get dragged into a public conversation about Hardwick’s murder with a brood of clucking hens.
“I’ve taken the liberty of consulting Mrs Bridges about the weather,” Mrs Mifford began rather confusingly. “According to her bones and her almanack we’d be best placed to hold the village fête a week earlier than planned.”
“Is that so?” Lucian’s surprised reply was so high-pitched he worried only dogs might hear it.
“It is,” Mrs Mifford said firmly, before casting a dark scowl in the direction of one of the other ladies in the circle. Lucian might have felt sorry for the scowl’s recipient but her expression—that of someone who had just caught a whiff of something foul—and general sourness kept his pity at bay.
“Mrs Canards, my lord,” the plump woman sniffed as she introduced herself. “I am sorry Mrs Mifford has dragged you into this fracas. I’m certain that matters like organising a village fête are far beneath the notice of an earl.”
As Lucian suspected that Mrs Mifford’s burning desire to hold the fête early was tied to her burning desire to see Lucian matched with Miss Hughes, he shook his head in disagreement.
“I’m afraid that I have a vested interest in the fête being held at an earlier date, Mrs Canards,” he replied, mustering up some of his rusty charm and offering the sour-pus a smile.
“I am only visiting for a fortnight and Mrs Mifford has regaled me with tales of the superior baking skills of Plumpton’s ladies. ”
A few of the ladies in the group giggled and flushed, batting his compliment away with bashful waves of their hands. His charm wasn’t entirely dead, it seemed.
“We had set a date for the last Sunday of the month so that the fête would not clash with the assembly,” a reed-thin woman interrupted, glaring across at Mrs Mifford.
“Mrs Wickling is right,” Mrs Canards took up the baton of protest from her friend. “The Ladies’ Society cannot be expected to host two events the same weekend.”
A few members of the group murmured in agreement; Mrs Mifford’s cause seemed quite lost.
“Oh, what a pity,” Mrs Mifford gave a dramatic sigh worthy of Drury Lane. “Lord Deverell was so looking forward to some home-baked treats. He hasn’t had any since his poor wife passed.”
Lucian blinked at the audacity of the remark. It was such an obvious ploy that he might have been affronted had he not been certain that his late wife would have found the sheer lengths Mrs Mifford was willing to go to to get her way terribly amusing.
Mrs Mifford’s ploy worked as the ladies’ began to cluck with pity for the poor, cake-deprived earl before them. Lucian dropped his gaze to his boots, worried that he might burst out laughing and give the game away.
“Then it’s settled,” Mrs Mifford cried happily. “We shall have the assembly on Saturday and the fête on Sunday. We’ll have to tell all the ladies to start early on their baking for you, my lord. And, you simply must sample Miss Hughes’ Apple-Tansey—it’s delightful.”
“I’ll prepare one of my seed-cakes,” the youngest of the group—a pretty girl of about twenty—preened, as she batted her eyelashes at Lucian.
“I wouldn’t feel overly obliged to, Miss Morton,” Mrs Mifford commented, crushing the poor girl.
The matter of the fête now settled, the group began to disband. Most seemed satisfied with the outcome of the impromptu meeting apart from Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling, who cast malevolent glances at Mrs Mifford as they left.
“Now that’s settled I must return home,” Mrs Mifford decided aloud. “I want to catch Nora before she goes to the grocers and tell her that Mrs Bridges has offered us some of the rabbits she shot this morning.”
Lucian stilled, suddenly alert.
“Does Mrs Bridges hunt?” he queried with a raised brow.
“Only lagomorphs, my lord.” Mrs Mifford replied. “And only when they invade her lettuces. She has quite the aim for a woman of seventy!”
“Impressive,” Lucian commented. Internally he wondered if including the healer on their list of suspects hadn’t been as wild as Miss Hughes had claimed.
Lucian bid Mrs Mifford and the remaining ladies goodbye, then set off back down the village. His stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him that he was expected back at the manor soon for lunch with Northcott.
He quickened his pace, his mind mulling over all that he had learned. Colonel Hughes was in town, Mrs Bridges was a fine shot—if only he had discovered something about Mr Leek, then he would have a triad of clues to present to Miss Hughes.
No sooner had he thought this, than a woman came rushing out of the butchers so quickly that she bashed straight into him.
“I do apologise,” Lucian said instinctively, even though it was she who had collided with he.
“My fault entirely,” the woman protested as she righted herself.
She looked up from beneath her ghastly bonnet to glance at Lucian and he realised with a start that it was Mrs Vickery.
The housekeeper was dressed as she had been during his visit to Long Acres; all austere black and prim buttons. The only touch of colour was her bonnet, which was trimmed with a bouquet of paper flowers so garish they hurt Lucian’s eyes.
“Mrs Vickery,” he forced a smile, “How nice to see you again. I trust all is well at Long Acres?”
“Of course it is, my lord,” she replied—sounding a little defensive to Lucian’s ear.
“Awful news about the murder,” Lucian continued, keeping his tone conversational. He wanted the housekeeper to believe that he simply wished to dally for a gossip not fish for clues.
“I doubt Mr Hardwick will be much mourned,” Mrs Vickery sniffed, before following up with a reluctant, “Though murder is, of course, a terrible sin.”
“A mortal sin,” Lucian agreed, “And how is Mr Leek?”
He had broached the question in a casual, off-hand manner, but Mrs Vickery paled as though he had slapped her.
“Mr Leek is at home tending to his gardens as he always is,” she replied, shifting the wicker basket in her arms. “Morning, noon, and night he tends to them—he rarely ventures out.”
She said this all very quickly, like an actress rushing to get her lines out before she forgot them.
“If that is all, my lord,” she continued, clearing her throat awkwardly, “Then I must return to Long Acres to prepare lunch.”
“Of course,” Lucian touched his hand to the brim of his hat. “Good day, Mrs Vickery. It was a pleasure.”
A slight case of hyperbole on his part, but while speaking with Mrs Vickery had been far from pleasurable, it had most certainly been illuminating.
Lucian continued on his walk back to Northcott Manor, now satisfied that he had three compelling bits of information to lay before Miss Hughes. Like a schoolboy, he hoped fervently that she would be impressed by his work.
His need to impress was, he thought with some despair, faintly ridiculous—he was an earl. Though it appeared, that when it came to Miss Hughes, he was very much just a man.