Chapter Six
The next day, Nate rode back to the village of Braithwaite and managed to persuade Magistrate Hunt to let him speak with Mr. Groby.
“It won’t do you any good to give the man false hope, Mr. Squires.
” Magistrate Hunt rested his folded arms on his round belly.
“I know Miss De Lacey has a soft heart and wants to believe the butcher is innocent, but I’ve got twenty men who heard Groby swear he’d carve that young poet up and feed him—”
“Yes, I know.” Nate held up his hand to stop the magistrate from going on. “All I’m saying is that you’ve known Groby for years. He is your neighbor and your friend. Are you simply going to condemn a man without an investigation? Surely, there must be an inquest to decide if he should stand trial.”
“Why call an inquest when we already know what the outcome will be? Yesterday was proof enough. The people of Westmorland have already decided that Groby is the killer and must stand trial for the slaughter of George Otis. We don’t need an inquest for that.
But…if the formality is what you want, then I shall do one. Just don’t expect a different outcome.”
The magistrate had a point. At best, an inquest would yield the same result as yesterday.
At worst, it would create more anger and chaos.
Nate shuddered at the thought. “I’d like to ask him if there is anything I can do to help his wife and children.
They’re innocent, aren’t they? If you’re going to send a man to his death, at least let him go in peace. ”
Magistrate Hunt shifted his stance, unfolding his crossed arms and reaching into his pocket for the keys to Groby’s cell. “I suppose I can’t see any harm in that. Follow me.”
Nate followed the magistrate across the street to the local jail, which was most often occupied by intoxicated men needing to sober up.
“I’m taking Mr. Squires to Groby’s cell,” Magistrate Hunt informed the guard, who jerked up from his slouched position as they marched past his desk.
Groby sat in a cell with a wooden bench that acted as his bed and looked as though it were only big enough for a child. The bear of a man looked up in surprise as Nate and the magistrate approached his cell.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you inside,” Magistrate Hunt said, slipping the keys back into his pocket. “Too much of a risk after the heinous act he committed.”
“Well, we don’t know that he’s guilty. The man hasn’t had a trial yet,” Nate reminded the magistrate.
“All the same,” Magistrate Hunt said, “this is as far as you’re going.”
“Very well,” Nate said. “Thank you, Magistrate.”
The magistrate nodded and strode away.
“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” Nate said, and Groby shrugged in response.
“Can’t intrude on a dead man, now can you?”
“You will have a trial. There’s a chance you might be found innocent.”
Groby snorted. “Is that why you came? To try and save my neck?”
“I’d like to try. If you are innocent as you claim, I—Miss De Lacey and I—would like to help prove as much.”
A faint smile appeared on Groby’s gruff face. “Aye, Miss De Lacey. She’s a sweet lass. Known her since she were the age of me daughter.”
“She thinks very highly of you, too, and that’s why she—we—want to try and help you.”
“That’s mighty good of you. But how will you do that?”
“If you can answer a few questions for me, that will be a start.”
Groby shrugged again. “What is it that you want to know?”
“Do you recall what you said in The Black Horse last night?”
“I know what people told me I said, but I don’t remember saying it.”
“Some of the patrons that night remember you as being very intoxicated—more so than usual. Did you start drinking earlier than normal?”
“I don’t remember,” Groby said. “It’s a blank space in me head.”
“Do you remember if something happened to upset you that night?”
“It’s all dark up here.” Groby tapped his finger against his temple. “But it’s no mystery. It’s happened to me before. Drink a little too much ale, ’an you can’t remember a thing of what occurred the next day.” He chuckled, but then quickly grew somber.
“Your wife was taking reading lessons from Mr. Otis, and I’ve been told you ordered her to stop, but she continued against your will. Were you jealous of Mr. Otis?”
“Jealous? Not of that whippersnapper, I weren’t.”
“So why did you order your wife to stop the lessons? Was it because of money?”
Groby ran a hand through his shaggy black mane. “It weren’t Otis who had me raging. It were Collins.”
“Collins?” The hairs on the back of Nate’s neck stood on end.
“Aye. She’d take her lessons with Otis an’ then she’d meet up with Collins after. It weren’t too long ’afore she stopped the reading and only went out to meet Collins.”
“How do you know that?”
He hung his head. “I had Trent follow her. He owes me some money, so…”
“And did you confront her about Collins?”
“Nay, I did not.”
“Why not?” Nate asked, but he already knew the answer.
Groby loved his wife and confronting her would mean facing a reality that was easier to ignore.
Nate had behaved similarly when he’d been betrothed to Helen.
“So, when Rupert taunted you about being a cuckold, you became enraged. And you don’t remember what you did after that? ”
“It’s all dark, like I said.”
“So, it’s possible that in your intoxicated rage, you attacked and killed Otis.”
Groby stood. His bulky frame took up a large portion of the small cell, making him look like a caged bear. He turned to face Nate and gripped the cell bars with his large, meaty hands.
“I know I look like someone who can crush a man with his fists, but it’s not me nature to act so.
I’ve been a butcher for well-nigh thirty years ’an I know how to kill.
But I’m no black-hearted murderer. I don’t take pleasure in death like some do.
I take care to cause as little pain as possible to the animals an’ treat them well when they’re alive. I don’t abide by cruelty.”
Nate’s gaze fell on the butcher’s beefy hands that gripped the cell bars and the clumps of dried blood under his fingernails. Then he looked up at the man’s face. He was gruff-looking, that was for certain, but his soft brown eyes told a different story. They pleaded with Nate to believe him.
“I’m a God-fearing Christian, Mr. Squires, an’ I wouldn’t condemn myself to an eternity of torment or curse my children with a murderer for a father. If I hang, my wife’s and children’s good names hang with me. I love my family. I’d not do anything to hurt them.”
Nate believed the man. But that didn’t discount the fact that Groby may have acted out of character if he’d been in a blind, intoxicated rage of which he had no memory. “Aside from Collins, do you have any enemies? Any person who might want to frame you for this murder?” Nate asked.
Mr. Groby shrugged. “A few men who owe me money, and they’ve been a little troublesome.”
“Owe you money?”
“Aye, I loaned them some at a modest interest.”
“When you say modest…” Nate’s heartbeat accelerated. Debt and the threat of debtors’ prison were a strong motive for framing a man.
“Two percent. I’m not practicing usury.”
“How many people?” Nate asked.
“Five or six,” Groby said.
“You mean you don’t know exactly?”
“It’s six, but Wilson finished repaying his debt just last week. So, only five now.”
“Have any of the remaining five had any trouble repaying you?”
“Morris, Hornby, and Trent have given me some trouble for a few months now. Sometimes, I let them pay me in with chickens, pigs, or even labor.”
“And did you see all five of those men among your accusers tonight?”
Groby frowned in recollection, and then his face took on a pained expression. “Aye. I did. All six.”
“Is Mr. Collins one of those you lent money to?”
“Nay, not Collins. I wouldn’t have lent him a farthing.”
Nate blew out his breath. That at least explained why Groby’s “friends” were so eager to see him hanged. Whether or not they framed him, Nate wasn’t so sure. Money was indeed a strong motive for murder, but so was love. It appeared as though several people had reason to want Groby gone.
*
It seemed in bad taste to play a game of croquet on the lawn beside the daffodils where a man had lain slaughtered just the day before.
But Bridget and Nate had agreed that it was best not to dwell on the murder or turn Villa De Lacey into a house of mourning.
Nonetheless, Bridget was disturbed that some of the guests—namely Colonel Kendall and Mr. Angert—seemed intrigued and excited by the prospect of playing croquet just a few feet from where the murder victim had been discovered, while others appeared to be indifferent.
So she forced a smile and joined the guests in their game, despite her urgent desire to return to Braithwaite and visit Mrs. Groby again.
Teamed with the Harleys, Bridget played against Miss Jennings, Colonel Kendall, and a reluctant Lady Matheson.
Lady Armstrong, who had an aching knee, sat on a lawn chair and observed the players, occasionally using her spyglass to get a closer look and act as a self-appointed referee.
Mr. Angert declined to play and instead fetched his easel and proceeded to sketch them competing on the grass.
And Aunt Marianne, who hated croquet, stayed inside to ensure all was running smoothly within the walls of the villa.
After the disastrous summer when the household staff had run amok and two people ended up dead, Aunt Marianne had reassumed the role of managing the servants.
Her aunt secretly enjoyed being in charge, but, as she frequently reminded Nate, she was not and would never be a servant.
After all, Villa De Lacey was her ancestral home, and she made certain the guests knew as much too.