Chapter Sixteen
LUCIAN HAD NEVER slept on a cloud, but when he awoke the morning after the assembly, it seemed the only adequate comparison. His thoughts were light, his step lighter still, and even the memory of the men’s toilet facilities at The Ring could not dampen his spirits.
Well, perhaps the memory of Mr Marrowbone launching into “Rule Britannia” while they were otherwise engaged was mildly scarring, but Lucian quickly purged it from his mind.
He whistled a cheerful tune as his valet assisted him with his morning toilette. Hummed under his breath as he skipped down the stairs to the dining room. He almost pirouetted through the door to breakfast but a sense of decorum—and one of his knees—held him back.
“Lord Deverell you look far too well for a man who was dancing past midnight,” the Duchess of Northcott commented as he entered the room.
She, Lucian noted, looked rather fragile.
“Ashford did not indulge in the punch, dear,” Northcott commented, from behind his newspaper.
“Nor did I,” the duchess argued, though as she finished speaking she clasped a hand over her mouth, as though worried she might cast up her accounts.
“Excuse me, please,” she said after a pause, then pushed back her chair and fled the room.
“She hasn’t been able to take a sip of wine without suffering violently the next morning since she had George,” Northcott said fondly.
“There’s a reason why God left the responsibility of creation to women,” Lucian chortled, as he took a seat. “If the rumour got around that a man couldn’t drink after, we’d have died out as a species long ago.”
“True,” the duke agreed, before returning his attention to his paper.
A footman arrived with a plate of sausages and eggs, which Lucian tucked into with gusto. He was ravenous, a fact he put down to the numerous dances and unsated desire of the night before.
He had just speared his final sausage when, from outside the tall window, there came the sound of furious hooves on the gravel outside.
“Must be Mrs Mifford arriving for her morning gossip,” Northcott said mildly, as he glanced out the window.
Whatever he saw caused him to frown and fold his paper.
“It’s Lord Crabb,” he explained to Lucian’s questioning glance.
Northcott stood from the table to go meet his brother-in-law but by the time he reached the door, it was already being opening by an out-of-breath butler.
“Lord Crabb, your Grace,” the butler intoned, as the viscount strode in behind him.
“Mr Leek is dead,” Crabb said, his gaze turning to Lucian. “He was found on the London Road with two bullets through his chest.”
Lucian blinked, the enormity of his words not quite sinking in. Mr Leek, dead? How could the man have been murdered, when he was a suspected murderer himself?
At Northcott’s urging, Lord Crabb took a seat at the table and recounted the tale of what had happened to the two men, over steaming cups of coffee.
“Mr Marrowbone came to fetch me first thing this morning,” Lord Crabb said. “Mr Leek was discovered at day-break, by a farmer on his way to the market at Stroud.”
“Were there any signs of a struggle?” Lucian questioned quickly.
“None,” the viscount shook his head. “According to Dr Bates, the bullet wounds resemble those found on Mr Hardwick. Small and neat, with no powder burns or stippling to be found.”
Two men, shot at long distance. The sign of a good marksman, or a woman who dared not risk getting too close to her target, in case she was physically overpowered?
“Miss Hughes overheard Mr Leek arguing with Mrs Fawkes last night,” Lucian blurted, “She said she wanted to shoot him dead.”
“She’s certain?” Lord Crabb pressed.
“Well, she did not see who was arguing but she was certain she recognised the voices,” Lucian confirmed, then added loyally, “And if she is certain, then so am I.”
“I will call on Hill House later,” Lord Crabb decided, “And have another word with that footman of hers.”
“We could go now?” Lucian suggested, eager to do something.
“I wish to speak with Mrs Vickery first,” the viscount gave a slight grimace. “To see if there’s any light she can shed on the matter.”
“In that case, I might join you,” Lucian said, then explained to both Northcott and Crabb what Sarah had learned from the butcher’s boy.
It was decided that Lucian and Lord Crabb would set off for Long Acres at once. Northcott did offer to go with them but the butler then summoned him to say Her Grace had requested his assistance, and he was forced to cry off.
“Happy wife, happy life and all that,” Northcott said, as he beat a hasty retreat from the room to attend to his ailing duchess. “See you both at the fête!”
Lucian then called for his horse to be saddled and, a few minutes later, he and Lord Crabb were galloping off toward Long Acres.
The door of the house was opened by a young woman Lucian did not recognise.
“Mrs Vickery is in the drawing room, my lords,” she said in a whisper, as she led them down the dark hallway. “I can bring tea, if you like? Just give me a few minutes, I usually only come in to do the cleaning.”
The girl led them into the drawing room where they found Mrs Vickery seated on an overstuffed chaise, staring vacantly into the empty fireplace.
“I am sorry for your loss, Mrs Vickery,” Lucian offered, as he and Lord Crabb took a seat opposite her.
“Thank you,” Mrs Vickery answered, her eyes still staring vacantly into the empty grate. “I have lost both my employer and my home in one night; I pray you will forgive my distraction.”
Lucian looked helplessly at Lord Crabb; he doubted they would be able to coax anything from Mrs Vickery in this state, let alone a vital clue.
“I understand your great upset, Mrs Vickery,” Lucian ventured across the silence, “But I must ask; did you lie about Mr Leek’s whereabouts on the night of Mr Hardwick’s murder?”
The housekeeper started, as though she had just properly realised their presence. She glanced from Lucian to Lord Crabb balefully, the whites of her eyes bloodshot from tears.
“I thought I was protecting him,” she offered after a lengthy pause. “I know it was wrong, please forgive me.”
“Do you think Mr Leek killed Mr Hardwick?” Lucian pressed, hoping in her shock that she might reveal something.
“I don’t know,” she shrugged, worrying the handkerchief in her hands. “All I know is that he went out that night, when I said he hadn’t.”
Lucian bit back a sigh of frustration. Mrs Vickery seemed more worried about being caught out in a lie, than a murderer on the loose.
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to do Mr Leek any harm?” he continued, leaning forward in his seat.
The housekeeper sighed, her eyes once again returning to the empty fireplace.
“There were those who envied his success,” she murmured. “Rival horticulturists; men who called themselves experts but hadn’t half his knowledge or passion.”
Lucian and Lord Crabb exchanged an amused glance at the very idea of a roving band of violent gardening enthusiasts being the culprit.
“Or maybe he was the victim of a madman, as Mr Hardwick was,” Mrs Vickery shrugged, then added distractedly, “Or a madwoman.”
Her glazed expression told Lucian that she was plucking theories from thin air, though her addendum brought to mind Mrs Bridges—who was still not completely in the clear.
“What about ladies?” Lord Crabb asked bluntly. “Did Mr Leek have a lover that you know of?”
“I could not say. I worked for the man for thirty years and I don’t think I knew him at all,” Mrs Vickery answered, folding the handkerchief in her lap into a neat square.
She gazed up at them again, her bottom lip trembling, and Lucian decided it was time to put the poor woman out of her misery. He felt a jolt of guilt for pressuring the woman when she was so overwrought.
“Our thanks for your time, Mrs Vickery,” he said. He rose to his feet and Lord Crabb followed suit. “If there are any further developments, we’ll let you know.”
“My lords,” Mrs Vickery inclined her head, then her gaze returned to the empty fireplace.
The two men waited until they had reached the end of the drive before either gave voice to their suspicions.
“I’m rather shocked to be saying this,” Lord Crabb said, “But I’m beginning to think Mrs Fawkes might be the true culprit after all.”
“A dangerous woman in disguise,” Lucian agreed. “Perhaps beneath her polished exterior, she suffers from some sort of affliction of the mind. Such things are not impossible—I’ve read of them in the, ahem, Bloody Register.”
The viscount snorted. “Didn’t think that was your sort of reading material, Ashford.”
Lucian’s ears went red beneath his beaver hat, though he valiantly attempted a look of nonchalance.
“A man must cultivate a broad set of interests,” he said, a little too stiffly.
“If you say so,” Crabb replied with a grin.
The viscount glanced up at the blue sky above, gauging the time from the sun’s position.
“The fête should be starting soon,” he informed Lucian. “What say we split up? I’ll head for Hill House to see if I can get anything useful out of the footman there, and you can see what you can sniff out at the fête.”
“Good idea,” Lucian agreed—though privately, he was thinking the first thing he wanted to sniff out was an apple tansey baked by Miss Hughes.
Halfway down the road the men parted, Lord Crabb galloped off down a back road toward Hill House, while Lucian continued at a more sedate pace toward Plumpton.
The village green had been transformed into a riot of colour and cheerful chaos.
Strips of bright bunting fluttered overhead, strung haphazardly from tree to tree.
Beneath them stretched lines of stalls offering everything from spun sugar to home-brewed mead—a stall that appeared very popular with the men-folk.
Even Miss Morton had set up a neat table to display her embroidery samplers, each bearing a painfully earnest motto.
“Obedience is the ornament of the home,” Lucian read aloud, with faint horror.
Miss Morton misinterpreted his interest as admiration and simpered prettily.