Chapter Fourteen
LUCIAN DID NOT often peacock but while assuring Miss Hughes that he would handle Mr Treswell, he might have puffed out his chest a bit. And insinuated that he would use the brute force of his muscles to bring the solicitor to heel.
While Lucian did possess muscles beneath the merino wool of his coat, he also had a brain beneath his beaver hat.
A man like Mr Treswell would not respond to threats of violence.
Lucian would have to draw on his reserves of charm, which—if the indifference of the inhabitants of Plumpton were anything to go by—were running low.
He caught up with Mr Treswell a fair bit along the Bath Road, quite near the gates to Crabb Hall. The solicitor had made great pace thanks to a furious stride and a burning sense of injustice—which showed itself as two red spots upon his cheeks.
“Mr Treswell,” Lucian hailed him cheerfully as he dismounted to walk beside him. “Are you calling into Lord Crabb? What a coincidence, I was just dropping in to discuss the murder investigation with him.”
“Investigation?” Treswell snorted, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “There’s no need for an investigation. It’s quite clear who killed Mr Hardwick—Mrs Bridges!”
“There are several other people with the motive—and means—to have murdered Hardwick,” Lucian informed him, with a murmur of confidential authority.
“Several other people did not chase me with a shotgun,” the solicitor deadpanned.
Lucian bit back a sigh; his charm had failed him yet again, it was time to pull a trick from up his sleeve.
“But where’s the fun in the most obvious suspect?” Lucian questioned, slapping the man so heartily on the shoulder that he stumbled a little. “When we can discuss other, less conspicuous suspects over a good bottle of brandy. Crabb’s cellar rivals that of White’s.”
Like most men, Treswell could be softened by alcohol and aspiration. He might never be invited to White’s, but he clearly liked the sound of being spoken to as if he belonged, for he quickly agreed to the plan.
If Lord Crabb was surprise to find Lucian and the solicitor at the threshold of his library, he hid it well. He instructed the butler who had ushered them inside to fetch fresh glasses and—much to Lucian’s relief—made a great show of selecting the finest bottle from the shelf for his guests.
“It always seems a shame to open a bottle alone,” Crabb said, as he finally settled on a bottle of Armagnac, allegedly smuggled in from Elba. He poured them each a generous measure, then sat down and smiled at them expectantly.
“I bumped into Mr Treswell on the ride here,” Lucian quickly explained, “I was hoping to catch a moment with you to discuss the investigation. I invited old Tressy here to join us, though I do hope I’m not distracting from the purpose of your own visit?”
Lucian turned to the solicitor, who looked a little startled to find that an earl had already bequeathed him an intimate moniker. He grinned a little stupidly, before clearing his throat.
“I had called to discuss the issue of Mrs Bridges, my lord,” Treswell ventured, nervously.
“It’s quite clear that she is suffering from some sort of violent episode, brought on by the loss of her faculties.
I am afraid that it was most likely she who killed Mr Hardwick and was going to suggest you, eh, have her arrested. ”
“And brought to Stroud to sit in the prison there, until a court finds her guilty and hangs her for her crime?” Lord Crabb replied, adding an incredulous laugh to the end of his sentence.
“Well, yes,” Mr Treswell shrugged. “A man was murdered. The law must be enforced.”
“We cannot say for certain that Mrs Bridges is guilty, especially not when we have other suspects we are investigating,” Lord Crabb replied, his tone even and polite despite the glint of annoyance in his eyes.
“She chased me from her garden whilst brandishing a gun,” Mr Treswell protested, looking to Lucian for support.
Lucian gave a helpless shrug, to indicate that there was little he could do to dissuade the viscount.
“Why did you call on her that day?” he asked curiously.
“It was suggested by Mr Mifford that Mrs Bridges might be able to help me with problem I’m having,” Mr Treswell answered, taking a large sip of his brandy in an attempt to hide his obvious discomfort.
“Colic?” Lord Crabb suggested innocently.
“If only,” the solicitor gave a groan, then another as he realised his glass was now empty. Lord Crabb was quick to his feet to replenish it, topping up Lucian’s and his own for good measure.
“I’m afraid it’s a confidential matter that relates to the estate of the late Mr Gardiner,” Mr Treswell stuttered, as he realised that Lucian and Lord Crabb were waiting for him to continue.
“There are no secrets amongst friends, Tressy,” Lucian assured him.
Treswell looked tickled pink by the idea that he now counted an earl and a viscount as friends. He gave a shy smile, leaned forward, and in a hushed whisper began to explain his problem.
“As you may already know, Mr Gardiner became estranged from his son after his wife’s death,” he began. “They were never reunited, the lad was lost at sea during a naval campaign.”
“How terrible,” Lucian said on an exhale, thinking of Rowan.
“Indeed,” Mr Treswell agreed, his glasses slipping as he nodded sadly. “However, Mr Gardiner revealed on his deathbed, that before he died, his son had married and sired a daughter. He requested I change his will and leave everything to the girl.”
“But you could not find her, so Hardwick inherited,” Lucian finished for him.
“There was a codicil that stated if Miss Gardiner could not be found within a year that the next male relative should inherit,” Mr Treswell confirmed, “Now that Mr Hardwick has also died, I find myself right back where I began. Miss Gardiner is the last living relative of both Mr Gardiner and Mr Hardwick.”
It was a fascinating tale, though Lucian was still confused.
“What did Mrs Bridges have to do with all this?” he asked, as the solicitor took another sip from his glass.
“Well, it was Mr Mifford who suggested that she might know something of the girl’s identity,” Treswell explained. “By his own account, her memories are probably a far more accurate record of all the births in Plumpton than his own.”
Here, the solicitor frowned with annoyance. “A terribly nice fellow, Mr Mifford, but his record-keeping skills leave something to be desired.”
“He does do a lovely sermon, though,” Lord Crabb shrugged. “Never runs over and ruins the Sunday roast.”
“So, Mrs Bridges was upset by you asking to reveal the particulars of local women’s confinements.” Lucian surmised aloud.
As Mr Treswell nodded in agreement, a thought struck him.
Mr Hardwick must also have guessed at the secrets Mrs Bridges learned as a lying-in woman to the village.
That was the only possible explanation for their argument.
Was that reason enough for Mrs Bridges to have killed the man? It seemed rather far-fetched to Lucian.
“Well, Tressy,” Lucian continued with a shrug, “All I can say is that perhaps Mrs Bridges takes her Hippocratic oath seriously enough to threaten to shoot a man over it. Case closed.”
“The case of Miss Gardiner remains open, I’m afraid,” Treswell sighed, though his thirst for Mrs Bridges’ blood must have been sated by the Armagnac for he did not further mention pressing charges.
“We shall keep an ear out for any whispers of a missing heiress,” Lord Crabb assured him.
As the bottle was now finished, the impromptu gathering came to a fuzzy end.
“We never did discuss the other suspects,” Mr Treswell commented, as he donned his coat to leave.
Lucian lingered a while after the solicitor had left, to discuss Tresswell’s revelations with Lord Crabb—and his own suspicion that Hardwick suspected the woman knew Miss Gardiner’s true identity.
“Perhaps he returned on the night he was killed to threaten Mrs Bridges again?” Lucian hazarded a guess, then frowned. “Though that would imply that he thinks this mysterious heiress is nearer than we think.”
“She may be,” Lord Crabb suggested, “Though you’ll have to forgive me Ashford, my head is quite fuzzy after all that brandy. I don’t think I’ll be any help solving the murder this afternoon.”
“I’m as far off an epiphany as you,” Lucian agreed, standing up to stretch his limbs. “My thanks for the hospitality.”
“I shall see you tomorrow evening at the assembly,” Crabb called after him, as he strode from the room.
The mention of the assembly brought Miss Hughes back to the forefront of Lucian’s mind. He let his horse set the pace as he rode back toward the village, his thoughts occupied with memories of the kiss he had shared with her.
His worry that she might be indifferent to him had now vanished; she had responded to his kiss eagerly, if shyly. He sighed, adjusting his reins, as he thought longingly of holding her in his arms the next night for the two dances she had promised him.
The sudden idea that someone else might try claim another dance from her was so abhorrent, that Lucian decided he would fill her dance-card with only his name. It would cause a scandal, no doubt, but then so would an earl engaging in fisticuffs with any other would-be-suitors.
He passed through the village, keeping an eye out for Miss Hughes, though he reached the London Road without sighting her. He guided his steed over the bridge that led to the road to Northcott Manor and his mind naturally drifted toward Mrs Bridges.
It seemed, if she had any motive to murder Hardwick, it was likely self-defence. Lucian could well imagine the dissolute man terrorising an old-woman he viewed as a threat. It was not a happy end to the search for the murderer but at least her neck would be safe from the hangman’s noose.
If only their other suspects had proved more suspect, Lucian thought mournfully, as he neared Long Acres.
The wind shifted and he slowed his horses’ pace, to appreciate the scent of lavender and woodsmoke as he passed. A lone crow circled above, bravely scanning Mr Leek’s property for an afternoon snack.
“There’s tastier treats elsewhere, my friend,” Lucian murmured to himself.
He nearly jumped from his saddle as a shot went off behind the hedges just as he finished speaking. He shielded his eyes with his hand and watched with disquiet, as the crow fell from the sky in a slow, spiraling descent.