Chapter Three #2
The butcher’s cottage was modest yet comfortable and well-stocked.
Mr. Groby was a hard worker, and he’d provided well for his family.
The kitchen pantry was loaded with dried meats, potatoes, wheat, flour, eggs, and other staples.
Also, his farm spanned out behind the cottage and housed a herd of cattle, sheep, pigs, and chickens.
Mrs. Groby and her children would certainly not starve for now, but if nothing could be done to save their papa, then their lives could take a serious turn for the worse.
Bridget assumed it would be difficult for Mrs. Groby to maintain the farm, butchery, and children on her own.
As they entered the house, Mrs. Groby said faintly, “I was just making John his morning tea. But he won’t be needing it now.”
“Sit down while I make it for us,” Bridget said. “I’m sure the children could use a bite.” Bridget guided Mrs. Groby to the rocking chair by the fire in the front parlor. “Then we can talk about what needs to happen next.”
Still holding her babe, the woman sank into the chair, and the child snuggled against her mother’s breast.
“Perhaps Edmund would like to help me?” Bridget smiled at the little boy.
“Do you want to show me where Mummy keeps the tea?” The child shook his head and scooted closer to his mother’s chair.
Bridget could not blame him. He’d just watched his neighbors turn on his papa while the magistrate escorted him from his home.
It was no wonder he didn’t want to let his mama out of his sight.
“How does Mummy like her tea? Does she take cream and sugar?” she asked, trying again to engage the child.
He turned his face and buried it in his mother’s skirt.
“Black for me,” Mrs. Groby said flatly.
In the kitchen, Bridget found the pot of tea Mrs. Groby had prepared for her husband, along with a jug of milk.
She poured a glass for Edmund. And after locating some biscuits, she prepared a tray and took it to the front parlor.
Edmund turned to his mother and waited for her nod of approval before he accepted the cup of milk and a biscuit.
Bridget then placed the tea tray on the small table beside Mrs. Groby’s rocker and poured two cups of tea, but the woman made no effort to touch hers.
Bridget pulled up a stool and sat next to the young mother. “Drink,” she said. “It will make you feel better.”
Mrs. Groby lifted her cup, but her hand trembled so much that she had to place it back in the saucer. “Mr. Otis is dead,” she said. “Murdered! And John will hang for it! How will my children hold their heads up in this village with a father who hanged for murder?”
“They won’t hang him. I won’t let them—at least not without a proper investigation.”
“Investigation? They don’t care about the truth.
I’ve seen it before. It happened once at the market in Harrogate.
They accused a man of stealing, and a mob set upon him.
He were taken and hanged a week later. Mr. Oliver, he were called.
A farmer and a good man, known to all. I saw them turn on him like rabid dogs.
Then a month later, the true thief were uncovered. ”
“That’s not going to happen,” Bridget said, although fear of the very same fate for the butcher had filled the pit of her stomach.
This wasn’t a mere case of theft, which was serious enough in itself.
This was murder, and no ordinary murder at that.
George Otis had been mercilessly and brutally butchered.
And even though George had been new to Westmorland, he had been well-liked.
And Rupert had whipped the good people of Westmorland into a frenzy.
They’d felt the injustice of a young life lost keenly, and they would want justice, precisely because they were good, honest people.
“Everyone is against us,” Mrs. Groby said, breaking into Bridget’s thoughts. “Only you can help us now.”
“Me?” Bridget asked.
The babe in Mrs. Groby’s arms began to fuss and stuffed her small fist into her mouth. Bridget handed her one of the hard biscuits. The child clutched it with her tiny fist and began to suck furiously on it.
“You are clever. You solved two murders last year. You’re the only person who can save my John.”
“Mama, where have they taken Papa?” Edmund looked up at his mother, his blue eyes wide.
Bridget’s heart twisted, but she did not want to give false hope. “I—that’s not something I can promise.” Things did not look good for John Groby. Not only the people but the magistrate believed him to be guilty, and she didn’t have a clue as to who could have committed this murder.
“But say you’ll try. Please. If John hangs, we will suffer his shame forever.” She gestured to her little boy at her feet. He’d barely touched his milk and biscuits. “Your papa had a murderer’s burial. You know what this will mean for my children.”
Bridget swallowed the pain that rose in her throat and threatened to choke her.
She had known the butcher her whole life and desperately wanted to believe in his innocence, but she’d recently learned that no matter how well you thought you knew someone, you could never know all their dark secrets. Still, she had to try.
“I’ll do all I can to help, but you must be honest with me. I will need to ask you some difficult questions.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Groby frowned. “I have nowt to hide.”
“Very well, then. Tell me, what happened between you and Mr. Otis that made your husband so upset?” she asked. “Why would Mr. Groby threaten to carve up George and feed him to his pigs?”
“Nowt happened!” A blue vein pulsed under the pale skin on Mrs. Groby’s neck.
“Rupert said you were taking lessons from Mr. Otis,” Bridget nudged the woman.
“He were teaching me to read. But John didn’t like it.
He said he needed me to cook and care for our little ones, not read all day.
But you see, I wanted to learn so I could teach my children one day.
It might seem like a grand notion, but I thought it could help give them a better chance.
People who can read have the respect of others.
It makes them—well, you can read. You understand. ”
Bridget nodded. “I think it’s wonderful you want to learn how to read and teach your children. Did Mr. Groby force you to stop learning?”
“He didn’t forbid it—at first. But then he refused to let me pay for the lessons, and when Mr. Otis said he’d give me lessons for free, John became cross. He said men didn’t do acts of charity out of generosity, and eventually George would want another sort of payment from me.”
“I see.” Bridget frowned. Why would Mr. Groby say something like that? George had always behaved like a perfect gentleman.
“I told him I could take care of myself. But John wouldn’t listen. He said he knows men like George Otis. And that’s when he ordered me to stop the lessons.”
Bridget worried her bottom lip. So, Mr. Groby had been jealous, but had he been jealous enough to murder?
“But I didn’t want to stop my lessons. I thought John were wrong, and I don’t like being told what to do. So, I refused. And now, someone has killed him, and my John will hang for nowt!”
Bridget glanced at Edmund, who looked fearfully up at his mother.
She wished Mrs. Groby would stop talking about hanging in front of the child.
He was young yet, but children were accustomed to seeing public hangings in town just like adults were.
Thankfully, young Edmund Groby may have been spared as much, living in Westmorland, where crime was minimal—at least it had been until last year.
“And you believe Mr. Groby to be innocent, despite his suspicions and threats?” Bridget asked.
“John wouldn’t do a thing like that—he wouldn’t kill anyone.” Mrs. Groby pulled her daughter close. “He says silly things sometimes when he’s had a little too much to drink, but he wouldn’t actually…no, he couldn’t have.”
Bridget bit her lip. Mrs. Groby didn’t sound too confident that her husband was innocent. “Was he home with you all of last night?” she asked.
“He were at The Black Horse, and I were asleep when he came home.”
“So, you don’t know when he returned home?” Bridget asked, her heart sinking.
“I can’t think what we will do now,” Mrs. Groby said, ignoring the question.
“Do you have any family? Someone who can come and stay with you and help with the children, at least.”
“I have nowt. Even young Miss Evans, who were helping me in the house and watching the children when I took my lessons, has abandoned me now. I saw her papa in the crowd today. He will never let her return.” She gazed at her daughter who still sucked contentedly on the hard biscuit.
“How could they?” she said, her voice a whisper.
“How could they turn on him—our neighbors and friends? John were good to everyone. He were always helping those in need, letting them pay when they could. He never wanted people to go hungry.”
“Do a lot of people owe him money?” Bridget asked.
“A few people, I think. But most are good about paying.”
“Well, you should be able to collect what’s owed to you while Mr. Groby is…away.”
Just then, a knock sounded at the door, and Mrs. Groby straightened in her chair, looking startled.
“What is it? Are you expecting someone?”
The woman shook her head.
“Stay here.” Bridget patted the woman’s arm.
“I’ll go. It’s likely Mr. Squires.” She stood, walked to the door, and opened it a crack.
“Mr. Collins,” Bridget said in surprise upon seeing the young man.
He was a tall, fair-haired, well-spoken gentleman who was new to Westmorland, and he lived in a rented cottage not five minutes from the Groby’s farm and slaughterhouse.
“Miss De Lacey,” he too sounded surprised to see her. “I came to see how Mrs. Groby and the children are faring.”
“How kind of you,” Bridget said, glancing back in the direction of the parlor. “But I’m not sure she’s ready for company just yet.”
“Of course. I understand. I am new to town, so I don’t know much about how things work here, but I thought what happened today in front of Mrs. Groby and her children seemed terribly cruel.
I imagined they might be feeling rather friendless; that’s why I came to lend a kind word.
But now that I see you are here, I feel quite relieved. Perhaps you can send her my regards.”
“Of course,” Bridget said. “It was very kind of you to—”
“Let him in,” Mrs. Groby said, coming up behind Bridget. “The children will be happy to see a friendly face.”
Bridget looked back, startled. Mrs. Groby was smiling at Mr. Collins. Bridget quickly moved aside to let the gentleman step into the cottage.
“Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Groby said. “I thought everyone had abandoned us.”
“I imagine you did,” Collins replied. “But I would never abandon a neighbor in need. Still, I don’t mean to intrude. I didn’t know you already had company.” He glanced at Bridget.
“I’ve just prepared some tea,” Bridget said, suddenly feeling uncomfortable, yet she couldn’t put her finger on why. “Shall I fetch you a cup?”
“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother. I only wanted to see that Mrs. Groby was being looked after, and now that I know you are here…”
“It’s no bother,” Mrs. Groby said. “Stay. We are in need of all the friends we can hold on to.”
“You will always have a friend in me.” Mr. Collins bowed his head slightly, and his blond hair flopped forward into his blue eyes. He swept it back with his hand and smiled at Mrs. Groby. A silence fell over the room, and for a minute, Bridget felt as though she was an intruder.
“I’ll just go and fetch that cup of tea for you,” she said and edged toward the kitchen. She returned a minute later with a teacup and a plate of biscuits, only to find Mrs. Groby and Mr. Collins engaged in a whispered conversation.
Bridget’s chest tightened, and she cleared her throat to alert them of her presence. They sprang apart. Something was afoot. Perhaps there was more to Mrs. Groby than a distraught wife and worried mother.