Chapter Seventeen
THE CHAOS OF the fête carried on around them, but as Sarah walked beside Lord Deverell, she registered little of it. Her mind was crowded with thoughts of Mr Leek, Mr Hardwick, and a suspect list that had dwindled to naught.
Who on earth in Plumpton could have had cause to murder them both?
Now that they had no suspects, a creeping sense of panic took hold; what if the true killer was still walking amongst them, blending in with the bunting and good cheer?
The only comfort she felt in that moment was the strength and steady warmth of the man beside her.
“Everything will be alright,” Lord Deverell ventured, sensing her disquiet.
“It feels as though we have gone backward instead of forward,” Sarah could not help the note of despair in her voice.
“Something else will crop up,” the earl said with a certainty Sarah could not match. “You’ll see.”
She nodded and tried to coax herself into calm. As Lord Deverell led her from one stall to the next, she let herself be distracted—only half-aware that being seen so publicly in his company was bound to set tongues wagging.
It was only when they arrived at the quoits stall and bumped into Mrs Canards, did Sarah realise their walk had given rise to gossip.
“Miss Hughes,” Mrs Canards sniffed, her beady eyes gleaming. “If there hadn’t just been a murder, I daresay your little promenade would be the talk of the village.”
“How lucky we are that someone shot Mr Leek, so we can enjoy our walk together without the town-tabbies commenting, Mrs Canards,” Lord Deverell replied easily.
Mrs Canard’s eyes narrowed, though thankfully she was too much of a snob to dare goad an earl any further.
“Poor Mr Leek,” Mrs Canards sighed dramatically, “And no wife or child to inherit Long Acres; a shame to think his gardens might be destroyed by the next owner and replaced with a barren sweep of lawn.”
“Indeed,” Lord Deverell replied and Sarah saw that he was genuinely disturbed by the idea.
“Of course, how was a man expected to find a bride when his own housekeeper went on like she was lady and mistress of the house?” Mrs Canards shivered with distaste. “I do so dislike when servants forget their place, don’t you, my lord?”
“I can’t say I have any experience of that,” Lord Deverell answered, with maddening calm. “I have a retinue of very loyal staff.”
“Of course you do, my lord,” Mrs Canards rolled her eyes. “If you will excuse me, I wish to attend the cake stall, before Mrs Fulham snaffles every last slice. She must have been absent the day gluttony was covered in Sunday school.”
“Sadly,” Sarah murmured to Lord Deverell as the older woman stalked off, “Mrs Canards must also have been absent when they covered love thy neighbour.”
Lord Deverell gave an appreciative chuckle before his attention was caught by the quoits stall. A young gentleman was throwing rings made of rope at a board, attempting to land one on a wooden peg. He gave a whoop of delight as he finally snagged one and was promptly awarded with a boiled sweet.
“Would you like to attempt it, my lord?” Sarah asked, recognising the boyish desire on his face.
“Pfft,” the earl scoffed.
“Give it a try,” Sarah encouraged undeterred by his pretence of disinterest.
She didn’t need to ask twice; Lord Deverell had already parted with his twopence and was aiming rings at the pegs with grim determination.
If a player managed to snare all the pegs, they won the main prize: a jointed and rolled ham, which might have seemed an odd reward, were it not that young Mr Henderson was manning the stall.
Sarah wondered, just for a moment, if the earl’s fierce concentration had anything to do with a desire to prove himself before the peacocking, handsome young man who kept smiling over at her—though she kept this thought to herself.
The earl uttered an epithet—then quickly apologised—as his final ring missed the peg. He had caught three rings out of six, an admirable effort Sarah informed him.
“Three boiled sweets for you, my lord,” Mr Henderson said in a slightly condescending manner as he handed over the prize.
“Thank you,” Lord Deverell said stiffly as he accepted them.
“No shame in scoring three,” Mr Henderson continued, with a wink to Sarah. “I ain’t never seen no one get all six, excepting Mrs Vickery. She has an aim on her like Nemesis herself.”
“I didn’t know that,” Sarah said faintly, as her mind began to whirr.
“Of course she does,” Mr Henderson chortled, “Didn’t you ever see her shoot down a crow at Long Acres? Bang! Could get one with her eyes closed, so she could.”
Sarah frowned at his words as something clicked into place in her mind. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, my lord?” she whispered to Lord Deverell, tugging on his sleeve to catch his attention.
“Another round?” the earl sounded surprise, but he nodded. “I think if I had one more shot at it, I could get all six.”
“No, my lord,” Sarah rolled her eyes as she pulled him away from the stall. “Mrs Vickery! We didn’t include her on the first list of suspects for we didn’t know she had such a good aim.”
His open mouthed surprise let Sarah know that he understood the implications of this revelation.
“But Mrs Vickery was at the assembly last night,” he frowned.
“She left to water some night-blooming cereus,” Sarah answered, surprised at herself for recalling the name.
“Mr Leek didn’t have any in his collection,” Lord Deverell interrupted, his expression now one of urgency. “He spoke to me at length about his desire for one and how annoyed he was that the funds from the assembly would not be put toward purchasing one for his collection.”
So Mrs Vickery had lied not once, but twice!
“What reason would she have had for shooting Mr Hardwick?” the earl urgently questioned her.
“To protect Long Acres,” Sarah was certain.
“If she was willing to shoot Mr Hardwick to protect Long Acres, then why would she then go on to shoot the man who cared for it the most?” Lord Deverell questioned, throwing his hands up with confusion.
Sarah thought on the previous night, of Mrs Vickery’s stiff rigid posture as she had watched the dancers at the assembly.
Her expression of disdain as she declared that assemblies were dens of iniquity where people danced with other people’s husbands.
Mrs Canards cruel words sprang to mind; that Mrs Vickery thought herself the wife and mistress of Long Acres.
“Love,” the answer came to Sarah at once. “She shot Mr Hardwick because she loved Mr Leek and he threatened all they had built together. Then, when she saw Mr Leek dancing with Mrs Fawkes at the assembly, she must have realised that they hadn’t built anything together at all.”
As the idea tripped off her tongue, Sarah wondered if it sounded too far-fetched. But Lord Deverell nodded thoughtfully in agreement.
“It’s worthy of the Bloody Register,” he said, with faint surprise.
“I’ll take that as high praise from you,” she answered, unable to resist the urge to tease him even during a serious moment.
“I’ll never live that down,” the earl murmured, though he looked rather pleased at the intimacy of it all. His expression then turned serious, as he scanned the crowd.
“Lord Crabb has gone to Hill House, to speak with Mrs Fawkes,” he said, “If I leave now, I might catch him on his return. We can go to Long Acres together to confront Mrs Vickery.”
“Oh, be careful,” Sarah pleaded, shocked by the piercing worry his words brought.
“I will call in to Northcott Manor to collect my pistol,” he assured her.
Before she could respond, he reached up and brushed a stray curl from her brow. The gesture was so casually affectionate that Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. His fingers lingered for the briefest moment, and when he met her gaze, his grey eyes were solemn.
“I promise I’ll be careful,” he said softly.
With a look of regret, he allowed his hand fall from her hair. As he strode away, Sarah watched him depart with a growing sense of worry.
The murder investigation had always felt so abstract; now that it seemed certain Mrs Vickery was the culprit, the danger of it felt more real. A woman who could shoot two men dead was a threat to everyone—even two strapping lords.
Sarah turned her head wildly, seeking out Mr Marrowbone. Though the constable was idle and workshy, he did constitute an extra pair of hands. And to the best of Sarah’s knowledge he did own a shotgun, unless he had traded it for a pint.
Her eyes scanned the moving crowds but found no sight of the constable. Instead, she spotted Anne, standing with Nora and their friend Bess, who worked at Long Acres. With a brisk stride, Sarah made her way over, hoping that Bess might have some useful scrap of information.
“Bess,” she said, nodding a greeting the other girls, “Have you just come from Long Acres? How was Mrs Vickery?”
Bess, usually cheerful and bright gave a dark scowl.
“She sent me off just after the two lordships left,” she said. “Told me she’d have my final wages sent over by the solicitor. She said she wanted to pack and close up the house before catching the stage to Bath and didn’t need my help.”
“Bath?” Sarah echoed, startled.
“To see her sister, she said,” Beth confirmed. “ Though I didn’t know she had one. If you ask me she doesn’t know what to do in the house, now she doesn’t have Mr Leek to moon over.”
Sarah’s shock was obviously writ across her face, for Bess misinterpreted it and added a hasty, “Rest his soul, of course.”
But Sarah barely heard her over the din of her racing thoughts. Mrs Vickery was planning to leave Plumpton. She might already be gone, for all Sarah knew. And—Sarah guessed—she wasn’t leaving to visit a sister at all. Mrs Vickery was fleeing justice.
“Anne,” Sarah said urgently, catching her arm and pulling her away from the other two. “I need you to run to The Ring. Find Mr Marrowbone and tell him to meet me at Long Acres at once. Please don’t argue or tell anyone what I’ve asked.”