Chapter Twelve
THE MORNING AFTER the outing to Rosemount, Lucian took himself on a social call to Crabb Hall.
Lord Crabb received him graciously in his library and insisted that, despite the early hour, Lucian accept a glass of brandy.
“It’s noon somewhere,” Lucian agreed, parroting the line he had used with Colonel Fawkes.
The two men settled in on the pair of well-worn Chesterfields and, after some idle chat, Lucian revealed the true purpose of his visit.
“I offered to help Miss Hughes investigate Mr Hardwick’s murder,” Lucian began.
To his surprise, the viscount gave a groan of annoyance.
“I do hope I haven’t stepped on your toes, in your role as magistrate,” Lucian said, a little bewildered. He hadn’t marked Crabb as a fusspot.
“It’s not that,” Lord Crabb smiled. “It’s just now I owe Northcott a pound. He swore your courtship of Miss Hughes was real, whilst I guessed it as more a figment of Mrs Mifford’s imagination.”
“I am helping Miss Hughes out of a sense of chivalry,” Lucian answered ambiguously, out of deference to Sarah. He believed a gentleman should never kiss and tell—though, sadly, he did have any kisses to tell of. Yet.
“Of course,” Crabb’s tone was disbelieving.
“As you are aware,” Lucian ploughed on, “After their cross words in The Ring, the villagers all assume that it was Mr Hughes who murdered Hardwick.”
“The gossips of Plumpton do not ascribe to the idea of innocent until proved guilty,” Crabb was droll. “Luckily, none of them are charged with upholding the law.”
“I believe Mr Hughes innocent,” Lucian said firmly. “There were many more people than he with motive to kill the man.”
The viscount raised a curious brow, prompting Lucian to go through the list of suspects he and Sarah had compiled. Crabb nodded in agreement with Mr Leek’s name, then a little less enthusiastically for Mrs Fawkes, then raised two eyebrows in disbelief at hearing Mrs Bridges mentioned.
“Mrs Bridges?” he repeated, as he rubbed his ear. “She wouldn’t harm a fly. And she cured Michael’s colic—do you know what a lack of sleep does to a man, Ashford?”
“I have vague memories,” Lucian grimaced. “And while I’m certain you and Lady Crabb owe your sanity to her remedies, Mrs Bridges will remain on the list. Even if it’s only so we can clear her name entirely.”
The viscount nodded solemnly at that, his square jaw set with resolve. Lucian suspected that, as a former sailor, Lord Crabb was somewhat salt-hearted and thus more inclined to rescue old women than implicate them in a murder.
“And if it turns out she did do it, then we shall remedy matters discreetly,” Crabb declared, confirming Lucian’s suspicions.
“If you are in agreement that we should investigate further, then might I suggest that we start with confirming alibis for all our suspects?” Lucian suggested.
“Capital idea,” Lord Crabb replied, setting down his empty glass.
He called for a footman to have his horse readied and within a few minutes, he and Lucian were riding toward Hill House.
“Have you a grand plan for extracting an alibi for Mrs Fawkes without accusing her of making her husband a cuckold right in front of him?” Crabb asked cheerfully, as both men dismounted at the top of the gravel drive.
“Of a sort,” Lucian fibbed. “Though if I shout ‘run’, I suggest you do just that.”
Most fortunately for both their hides, the door was answered by the footman with the ramrod-straight spine who revealed that both his master and mistress were abroad.
“Shall I tell them you called, my lords?” he asked solicitously.
“Do,” Crabb answered at the same time as Lucian said; “Don’t.”
The footman blinked uneasily; Lucian suspected that he preferred his commands to be less confusing.
“Lord Crabb and I are investigating the murder of Mr Hardwick,” Lucian continued, rather enjoying the drama of his declaration.
“We require alibis for all those who interacted with Mr Hardwick in the weeks before his murder. Can you confirm that the colonel was visiting with Sir Charles that night?”
“Yes, my lord,” the lad answered. Lucian saw his hand twitch and wondered was it an old impulse to salute.
“And Mrs Fawkes?” he added lightly. “Can you confirm that she was at home all night?”
“I can, my lord,” the footman replied, though this time he stepped off parade and added a mutter; “Couldn’t help but hear her, could I?”
He paled as he realised that Lucian was regarding him with naked curiosity and quickly tried to extricate himself. “She’s loud is all and I like my sleep. Didn’t mean to speak out of turn, my lord.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to share?” Lucian pressed, “Anything at all?”
“No, my lord,” the lad was now resolute. “You have my word that Mrs Fawkes was at home the whole night, that’s all.”
As it was clear that the servant would not divulge anything else, Lucian and Lord Crabb bid him good day and returned to their mounts.
“Curious,” the viscount commented, as they trotted back down the drive.
“And disheartening,” Lucian sighed in reply. “I believe we’ve just crossed one suspect off our list.”
They rode on in silence, both men secretly wondering just what noises Mrs Fawkes had made that night to put her manservant in such mutinous form.
At Long Acres they were greeted at the front door by Mrs Vickery, all starch and buttons like Lucian remembered.
“My lords,” she said grandly, “Might I offer you an elderflower and horseradish cordial? It’s freshly bottled this week. Mr Leek swears it keeps his blood flowing.”
“We’ll have to take his word on that,” Crabb replied, a bit green around the gills. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call, Mrs Vickery.”
“Is something amiss, my lord?” she questioned, her face pale.
Lord Crabb answered her gently by explaining that they needed an alibi for Mr Leek’s whereabouts on the night of the murder.
“He was here, all night,” the housekeeper replied, without missing a beat.
“You’re certain?” Lucian prompted, a little suspicious that she didn’t have to think on her answer.
“Quite,” Mrs Vickery sniffed. “He took a late supper then afterward repaired to his bedchamber. I stayed up until eleven, attending to my mending basket, and not a sinner entered or left the house. I’d know; the hinge on the front door makes enough noise to wake the dead.”
It was all rather convenient, Lucian thought sourly.
“Have you any proof that it was he who committed the murder?” the housekeeper continued, her eyes assessing them both shrewdly.
As they had no proof but a hunch, Lord Crabb glossed over the question.
“My good lady, we are merely being fastidious and noting the whereabouts of anyone with a vague connection to poor Mr Hardwick,” he assured her. “I must be seen to be doing something.”
“Naturally, my lord. Heaven forbid anyone think you indifferent,” Mrs Vickery replied, her tone perfectly polite but her eyes cold.
Sensing that there would be no further offers of cordial, Lucian and Lord Crabb thanked the housekeeper for her time and departed.
“That’s another name scratched from the list,” Lord Crabb commented, as they trotted back down the gravel drive.
“Perhaps,” Lucian replied; he wasn’t entirely convinced by Mrs Vickery. The housekeeper was far too loyal to her master to be considered a credible witness.
Outside the wrought-iron gates of Long Acres they turned left for Mrs Bridges’ cottage. They rode in silence, both men appreciating the fine summer day.
“It’s down this way,” Lord Crabb called, guiding his horse down a narrow lane.
Lucian followed suit but was quickly forced to pull hard on the reins, as Crabb came to an abrupt halt before him.
“Mr Treswell,” he heard Lord Crabb exclaim, “Whatever’s the matter?”
The diminutive solicitor raced past them, his spectacles askew and his face pale.
“That woman is a menace,” he panted, throwing a fearful glance down the lane to where Mrs Bridges’ cottage stood. “You should do something about her, Lord Crabb, before she kills someone.”
Lord Crabb hastily dismounted his horse and Lucian followed suit.
“Whatever do you mean?” Lucian pressed, his eyes scanning the man from top to toe to assess for injury.
“I-I-I called to ask her some q-questions and she ran me off her p-property with a shotgun,” Mr Treswell stammered. “She’s fit for B-Bedlam and a danger to society.”
Lucian cast a startled glance down the lane at the cottage, though his eyes were caught by a figure hurrying toward them; Miss Hughes.
“Sarah,” he cried, rushing toward her. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m perfectly well, my lord,” she answered, though Lucian could discern a slight quiver in her voice. “I’m afraid that it’s Mrs Bridges who is unwell. I wonder, Lord Crabb, would it be best to fetch Flora and have her check in on her grandmother?”
“Good idea,” the viscount nodded, turning to saddle up immediately. “You wait here; I’ll return as quickly as I can.”
“I’m afraid that I too must leave,” Mr Treswell interrupted, “I hope The Ring is open, I need a stiff drink after that shock.”
“It’s always noon at The Ring,” Lucian assured him. “Tell Angus that I’ll settle up your bill this evening. I trust you will be discreet about what has happened here, Mr Treswell.”
“I’m hardly likely to brag about running away from an elderly woman, my lord,” the solicitor mumbled, before adding a reluctant word of thanks for Lucian’s offer.
Lord Crabb took off at a gallop down the London Road with Mr Treswell hurrying after. Lucian returned his attention to Miss Hughes who, despite her protests, looked a trifle pale.
“Are you certain you are alright, Miss Hughes?” he queried again, reaching out to take her hand.
She glanced down, startled, at her white glove resting in his leather clad hand. She did not however, Lucian noted with some satisfaction, remove it.
“I assure you I am well, I’m just worried for Mrs Bridges,” she answered. “She has always been such a kind soul, this is so unlike her.”