Chapter Sixteen #2
“This one is my favourite,” she said, batting her eyelashes as she pointed to one which read Idle Hands Invite Ruin.
“How lucky for us all that you keep your hands busy, Miss Morton,” Lucian said somberly, before tipping his hat and fleeing.
Lucian strode past a farmer inviting punters to guess the weight of a pig and a purported fortune teller in a gaudy turban, before he finally spotted Sarah.
“Miss Hughes,” he called, as he pushed his way over to her.
“My Lord,” she smiled as she turned to greet him, the soft scent of lavender drifting in the air between them. Longing surged within him as her scent instantly conjured the memory of holding her in his arms as they danced.
“Care to toss a turnip, guv?” a red-faced boy called out, distracting Lucian somewhat.
“A—what?” he glanced helplessly at Sarah, who shooed the boy away.
“He wants you to pay six-pence to try knock some turnips off their perches,” she explained, as she took the arm he offered. “Unfortunately he’s probably nailed the last turnip to its post.”
“Why, that’s thievery,” Lucian was vaguely outraged yet slightly impressed by his industry.
“It would be, but the parish-hall needs a new roof and he donates all his profits,” Miss Hughes’ wry grin acknowledged the dubious morality of it.
“Now,” she continued, pulling him a little closer, “Tell me everything.”
Lucian stilled. For one mad second, he thought she meant his feelings; his longing, the sleepless night he had spent, replaying the memory of their dance.
“Jane tells me that you and Lord Crabb called upon Mrs Vickery this morning?” Sarah continued, glancing at him curiously.
Lucian’s shoulders sagged a little; she’d meant the case. Of course, that’s what she wanted to know about. Unlike the rest of the British Isles, the ladies of Plumpton held more interest in murder than marriage.
“She confessed to lying for Mr Leek at once,” Lucian said. “Which leads us to the conclusion that Mrs Fawkes is now the prime suspect for both murders.”
“You really believe there’s no one else it could be?” Sarah looked vaguely alarmed. Lucian did not blame her; the idea of the fairer sex committing violence was a difficult notion to grapple with.
“The only other suspect left is Mrs Bridges,” Lucian shrugged, “And I believe Flora has locked up her shotgun whilst she stays with her.”
“Well, here’s our chance to ask her,” Sarah replied, nodding across the green at Miss Bridges. The young woman was walking with great determination to her stride, her elfin face set with purpose.
Both Sarah and Lucian watched with open curiosity, as she strode across the green to the mead stall, where she came to a halt before Mr Treswell.
The maid leaned to whisper something into Mr Treswell’s ear and the solicitor turned to her with a shocked expression.
“I wonder what’s going on there?” Lucian said, as he began to steer them both toward the pair.
Though his tall frame allowed him push through the crowds with ease, by the time they reached the stall, both Miss Bridges and Mr Treswell had vanished.
“Did you see where the two people here a second ago went?” Lucian asked of a young man sipping reverently on a pint.
“I don’t make a habit of spying on strangers,” the man replied, though as he turned and recognised Lucian, his scoffing expression changed to one of surprise.
“That is, I didn’t see anything, my lord,” he corrected himself, nervously. As he rigidly straightened his posture, Lucian realised the man was none other than the Fawkes’ footman—almost unrecognisable in his civilian attire.
“Never mind,” Lucian batted his apology away with an impatient hand. “You’re just the man I hoped to see.”
“I am?” the footman looked most disappointed by this news. Lucian supposed he did not want his only day-off of the month interrupted by a demanding aristocrat.
“I need to ask you a few questions about Mrs Fawkes,” Lucian said.
The footman shifted nervously from one foot to the other, his expression closed.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware but Mr Leek was murdered last night,” Lucian began but was cut-off as the footman gave a displeased sigh.
“I’m well aware, my lord,” he said, rolling his eyes, “Mrs Fawkes has been roaring and crying hysterically since we heard the news.”
“She has?” Lucian could not help the note of surprise in his voice. He shared a perplexed glance with Miss Hughes, whose confused expression mirrored his own.
“Her and Mr Leek became very friendly when she redesigned the garden,” the footman said, adding a wink in case Lucian missed his heavy hint.
“I thought it was Mr Hardwick whom Mrs Fawkes was first friendly with?” Lucian questioned.
The footman gave a snort of derision and took another healthy sip from his pint.
“Mr Hardwick had too much sense to dally with the colonel’s wife,” the footman chuckled. “I did warn Mr Leek that if Colonel Fawkes found out he’d have his hide, but he didn’t listen.”
Lucian’s mind whirred as he tried to fit this new information into the puzzle. The suggestion that it was Mr Leek, not Hardwick, who had been Mrs Fawkes’ lover changed the investigation entirely.
“And on the night of Hardwick’s murder?” he asked carefully.
“Mr Leek was visiting with Mrs Fawkes,” the footman said simply.
“Thank you for your help, young man,” Lucian said, taking a coin from his pocket and pressing it into his hand. “Enjoy your day off.”
In silence, he took Sarah’s arm again and steered her away from the stall, his mind racing. When they had gained some distance, he turned to look down at her.
“Well, this changes everything,” she said, looking back at him with eyes as confused as his own.
Lucian offered a short nod. “Let’s walk.”
And so they did; both lost in thought as the noise of the fête carried on around them