Chapter Five #2
“She saw him arrested.” Maria straightened her shoulders as if feeling quite important. “And she told us all about how Mr. Groby carved up poor Mr. Otis and fed him to his pigs.”
“That’s nothing but gossip,” Bridget said.
“But he has been arrested.” Cook placed a teacup in front of Bridget. “So, who are we to get our meat from now?”
“I hadn’t even thought of that,” Bridget said. “There are other butchers in nearby villages, but I shouldn’t like to take business away from Mrs. Groby now. She’ll need the money. Perhaps she’ll hire someone to help her.”
“Well, I don’t want to be cooking her pigs, not if they’ve been feasting on a man’s body parts,” Cook said.
“I told you that’s only a rumor,” Bridget said.
“But it might be true, mightn’t it?” Cook said. “And that’s enough for me not to serve his swine.” The rest of the servants nodded and murmured in agreement.
Bridget sighed. “I realize this situation is disturbing, but please, let’s try to be kind. Think of Mrs. Groby and her children. I plan on going to see her again in a day or two. Perhaps you can bake some biscuits for her little ones. They need all the comfort and support they can get.”
“I will do so, Miss Bridget. But don’t you be bringing any of her pork home for me to cook. I won’t do it, I tell you. And if you or Mr. Squires try and make me, I’ll—”
“We won’t—I mean, I’m sure Mr. Squires will understand. We can adjust the menu accordingly.” She broke off a piece of her biscuit and gave it to Bijou, who gobbled it and then turned to look at her with pleading eyes that begged for more.
She gave him the remainder of her biscuit and smiled as he chewed it. But her shoulders felt heavy as the weight of the day’s events bore down on her.
*
Bridget needed time to think and breathe before she went in search of Nate or faced her aunt’s and any of the guests’ questions.
Her mind felt overloaded with information.
Was Mrs. Groby the faithful, loving wife she professed to be?
Who exactly was Mr. Collins and what was his relationship with Mrs. Groby?
He’d arrived so swiftly, supposedly to render comfort, but why him of all people?
And why had Rupert goaded Mr. Groby? Was it to taunt the butcher or to hurt George?
Furthermore, why had Groby’s friends and neighbors turned against him so quickly?
She exited the villa with Bijou and followed him as he raced across the grass. She thought he might go into the thicket but when he veered right and ran down the main garden, her heart sank. She could not bear the thought of going near the daffodils again.
“No, boy! Come back!” she called, but Bijou paid her no heed and continued toward the bright yellow flowers.
He stopped at the edge, just as he’d done earlier that morning.
Perhaps he thought George still lay there.
She recalled how much Bijou had enjoyed the poet’s playful personality.
George always had a stick to throw for Bijou and never seemed to tire, no matter how many times her pup wanted him to throw it.
Bridget stood frozen and gazed at the daffodils from afar, recalling the first time she’d met the young man.
He’d wandered through the gates of Villa De Lacey, drawn there by the daffodils, which he’d come to admire.
She’d spotted him when she’d emerged from the thicket that surrounded the garden—a place Bijou loved.
He’d seen a squirrel on the lawn and chased the poor thing back into the thicket where the little creature scrambled up a tree.
And there it sat, taunting Bijou from above as he yapped incessantly at it.
There’d been no getting Bijou away as long as the creature sat there staring down at him, so Bridget had scooped him up in her arms and taken him out of the thicket.
And that’s when she’d seen George, admiring the daffodils.
As soon as she’d set Bijou on the ground, he’d raced toward the handsome stranger.
“Hello!” George had knelt to pet Bijou, who’d promptly rolled onto his back so George could scratch his tummy. “Who do you belong to?”
“He’s mine,” Bridget had said. “And if you keep doing that, you’ll have made a friend for life.”
George had glanced up at her and smiled. “Good,” he said. “I adore dogs as much as I adore Wordsworth and daffodils.”
And with those words, he’d won Bridget’s friendship.
“Well, you’re welcome to come and see them whenever you like. Are you visiting, or have you recently moved to Westmorland? I haven’t seen you here before.”
“I’m a poet. And I’ve come on a pilgrimage with my two friends. We’re secretly hoping to meet Wordsworth.”
“How wonderful. Perhaps your wish will come true. He is sometimes out and about on walks, and he’s been known to take a rowboat out on the lake. Where are you staying?”
“In a tiny cottage about half a mile from here. It’s the perfect halfway mark between Braithwaite and Lake Windermere.
A lovely, secluded spot. Also, we can’t afford much else.
” He’d chuckled. “Nothing like this place,” he said, gazing up at Villa De Lacey.
“Are you the mistress of this beautiful villa?” he asked.
“I was once, but now I’m just the hostess.”
“I don’t understand,” George had said.
“It’s my family home, but it now belongs to Mr. Squires. Together, we decided to turn it into an inn,” she’d said, not wanting to explain her entire history.
“Oh yes.” George’s eyes had grown wide as he reexamined the villa. “I heard about this place. The ‘murder inn’ they call it.”
The memory of those prophetic words made Bridget’s blood run cold, slapping her back to the present.
She scanned the garden and, not seeing Bijou, walked cautiously forward, her legs shaking and her heart thumping in her chest. “Bijou.” She clapped her hands together.
She hoped he hadn’t gone into the daffodils again.
“Bijou!” She ran toward the flowers, her heart racing.
“Bijou!” She stopped by the daffodils and scanned the flower beds. “You know you’re not supposed to be in here,” she said weakly. “They’ll make you sick.” Her legs felt shaky, and her body trembled. The image of George’s body flashed in her mind.
Just then, Bijou came racing out of the thicket and across the garden toward her, his tail wagging madly. Bridget felt her heart lift. Her dog was safe, and his happiness and joy for life was infectious.
“What were you doing in the thicket again?” She picked up her dog and held him close as she gazed out at the daffodils.
Had Papa’s death by his own hand left a permanent cloud over Villa De Lacey?
Were they indeed now cursed? There was something so sinister and awful about butchering a man in a field of flowers.
Especially since the daffodils had been a place that brought George such happiness.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Nate’s voice sounded behind Bridget, and her heart jumped as he came to stand beside her.
“Oh, you frightened me.” She pressed Bijou close. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
“I’m sorry.” Nate smiled. “I spotted you from the drawing room, so I came down to meet you. I’ve been waiting for you to come back. I was worried.”
Bridget suppressed a smile. She liked the fact that Nate cared. But his worry had been unnecessary.
“I shouldn’t have left you there alone,” Nate said.
“Where? In Braithwaite, where I’ve lived all my life?
Or with Mrs. Groby and her children? Do you think little Edmund is the killer?
” Bridget immediately felt a stabbing pain in her heart.
How can I joke about George’s death? Have I become so callous—so accustomed to murder—that I am able to joke about my friend’s brutal killing?
Shame spread from her chest up to her throat and across her cheeks.
“Are you well?” Nate blinked at her. “Did something happen in Braithwaite?”
“No,” Bridget said. “I just…it was fine. I did my best to comfort Mrs. Groby, and then Mr. Collins came to check on her, so I left.”
“Collins? What did he want?”
“He said he wanted to check up on her. He felt bad for her, I think.”
“That’s interesting.” Nate massaged his jaw. “Because I am certain that I saw Collins in the crowd today. Not in Groby’s slaughterhouse, but outside. There was a mob jeering at Groby while he was being led away by Magistrate Hunt.”
“Was Collins jeering at him?”
“I don’t quite remember.” Nate frowned. “No, I don’t think so. But he was in the crowd.”
“An observer, then.” Bridget said, “I don’t see anything wrong with that.
But there was something odd. I went into the kitchen at the Groby’s to make tea and when I returned to the parlor, I walked in on Mrs. Groby and Mr. Collins having a private conversation.
It made me feel a bit uncomfortable. It felt as though they were a little too familiar with each other. That’s when I decided to leave.”
“Odd, indeed,” Nate said, with a thoughtful frown. “We shall have to look further into that.”
“I heard from the servants that you were busy explaining things to the guests. Are they very confused and upset?” Bridget asked.
“Some are. Others seem a bit excited.”
“By that, you mean Colonel Kendall, I presume,” Bridget said with a halfhearted smile.
“Yes, and I got a similar impression from Mr. Angert. Strange fellow.”
“What about the others?”
“Lady Armstrong hardly seemed to care, except for the effect it had on her companion. Miss Jennings was visibly upset, but I can’t say if it was because of Otis or because of Lady Armstrong’s bullying. She’s quite awful.”
“Poor Miss Jennings,” Bridget said. “She reminds me a bit of Jane when she first arrived at Villa De Lacey last year—the way Lady Darby constantly beat her down with her bullying. It’s just terrible.”
“I agree. And then, of course, there’s Lady Matheson.”
“Yes, all eyes must be on Lady Matheson.” Bridget giggled. “I expect she was quite dramatic.”
“She was, but I also learned something quite interesting. She was the last person to see George alive—aside from the killer, of course. They met for a moonlit walk, and he recited a poem to her. After their walk, he escorted her back to the villa. She swears that’s the last time she saw him.”
“It might not even be true,” Bridget said with a sigh. “Lady Matheson likes to be the center of attention. She might be making the whole thing up.”
Nate gave a short laugh. Then he slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and gazed at the horizon, and Bridget could not help but notice how handsome he looked.
“There’s a lot to consider,” he said. “But there is nothing to suggest that Groby is not the killer. All the evidence still points to him. He had a motive, and he had the means to kill George.”
Bridget’s heart sank. In these past months, her world had been turned upside down. People close to her had betrayed her. Still, she could not dismiss her neighbor and a man she’d known all her life based on another’s actions.
“If he is guilty, then he should be punished. I just can’t believe he would do such a thing. And there’s something else…” Bridget frowned as she thought back to her conversation with Thomas.
“What?” Nate asked.
“I met Thomas in the garden. He was at The Black Horse last night, and he said Groby was highly intoxicated—more so than usual. I just have a bad feeling about it. Thomas said Rupert was goading Groby, calling him a cuckold. He even recited a humorous poem about it. Everyone was laughing at him and I think it embarrassed Groby. That, together with too much drink—or whatever else he’d consumed—made him say something out of character. ”
“It may have also caused him to act out of character—to do something he’d never have ordinarily done. Even good men do terrible things sometimes, especially when blinded by jealousy. Shakespeare taught us that.”
“‘It is the green-eyed monster that doth mock the meat it feeds on.’” Bridget recited Shakespeare’s famous line from Othello.
“Well, someone was a good student.” Nate grinned. “I’m impressed.”
“I had a lot of time to read before Papa…” She bit her lip, not wanting to finish her sentence.
Nate cleared his throat and looked down at the ground before saying, “I think you’re right. Mrs. Groby’s relationship with her husband, as well as Mr. Collins and George, warrants closer investigation. But you must be prepared for the fact that it may prove rather than disprove Groby’s guilt.”
“All I want is to catch and punish George’s killer. He didn’t deserve to die that way—no one deserves something like that…” The swelling in her throat stopped her speech as she thought of her papa.
It always came back to him. She would never find peace with how he was buried.
She swallowed her pain. “Perhaps I’ll pay Mrs. Groby another visit tomorrow. But I must say, it feels rather invasive, digging for information about a man’s relationship with his wife.”
“We have no choice,” Nate said solemnly. “The people are going to demand swift justice, and Magistrate Hunt is going to want to give it to them.”