Page 23 of A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford
"Is there anything else?" Henry prompted
"Well," the footman tugged on his starched collar, as though it was too tight, "I would not like to get anyone in trouble..."
"An innocent lady's reputation is at stake," Henry pressed, hoping that gallantry might inspire the young man to share his secrets, "If you think you might know something--no matter how small--it is of the utmost importance that you tell me."
"Mr Parsims was here yesterday," Edward whispered in a rush, casting a fearful glance over his shoulder to make sure no one else was listening, "He met Monsieur Canet in the gardens, and they had a terrible row; I don't know what it was about, because I could not hear them. But I knew they were having an argument as monsieur's face went all red, the way it always does when he's angry."
Interesting. Henry tried to keep his face impassive so that the footman would not know just how important the information he had shared was. Canet had lied; he had said that he had never spoken with Mr Parsims and now here was a fellow who was saying that he had seen him do just that.
"Thank you," Henry said stiffly, "That is most helpful. I pray you will not tell anyone what you have just told me?"
"I shan't, Your Grace," the footman vowed, and Henry slipped him a farthing for his troubles.
Henry left The King's Head, his mind clouded in thought. He would not confront the Frenchman with what he had learned just yet, he decided. He needed more proof; a substantial motive, or a witness who had seen Monsieur Canet about the village after eleven, before he could say for definite that he had murdered Parsims--though Henry was already convinced of the Frenchman's guilt.
In fact, he was so thoroughly certain that Canet was the perpetrator, that he would have gone straight home without seeking out the last remaining suspect, had Mr Fairweather not crossed his path by chance.
Outside The Ring'O'Bells stood two men, both farmers judging by their attire, engaged in a heated debate. Henry, who was not immune to human curiosity, slowed down as he passed--along with several others, who were less subtle than he in their gawking--to try to glean what the argument was about.
"Don't tell me you've no money to pay me, Fairweather," the older of the two men roared, "For I know what you're up to-don't think I haven't seen you skulking about late at night. Now, you will repay me for the loss of my mare, or I will march myself up to the manor and--"
"Alright," Mr Fairweather interrupted, his face pale, "I shall have it for you by next week. You have my word."
The elder gentleman had evidently been expecting more of a fight from Mr Fairweather, for he seemed momentarily thrown by the acceptance of his demand.
"You have until Monday," he replied, after a pause, "And I'll only take your word once, do you hear?"
"I hear you," Fairweather replied, though he was not looking at his companion, rather his eyes kept flicking nervously toward Henry.
Having only just mounted his horse, it was rather a pain to have to dismount again so soon, but Henry, keen to have a word with the farmer, did just that. He hopped from the saddle to the ground quickly, calling out for Mr Fairweather to wait.
"Your Grace," the farmer acknowledged him as he turned at Henry's call.
"I wish to have a word with you, Mr Fairweather," Henry replied. He glanced around and saw that the half-dozen or so people who had been watching the earlier fight between the two farmers were still lingering conspicuously. Mrs Canards--the woman who had been so quick to point the finger of blame at Miss Mifford--had actually taken a seat on some crates outside the haberdasher's and was munching on a bag of sweets as though at a play in Drury Lane.
Henry cast a withering glance Mrs Canards' way, "Perhaps it might be best if you take a walk with me."
"Yes, Your Grace," Fairweather agreed, his top lip slick with sweat.
The man was a nervous wreck, Henry noted, though he knew that his title often induced fear in even the most brawny of men--and Fairweather was just that. He stood almost as tall as Henry himself, though his shoulders were wider, and his forearms were thick and wiry with muscle. Henry's physique was toned from exercise--riding, fencing, sparring matches in Gentleman Jackson's club in town--while Fairweather's was a testament to a life spent manual labouring. No matter that Henry was fit, he still would not like to chance upon Fairweather down a dark alleyway.
"I wish to know where you went after you left the assembly last night," Henry said, as he and Fairweather walked down High Street. It was best, Henry thought, to get to the point immediately rather than faff about with small-talk.
"Why is that, Your Grace?" the farmer questioned in response; his tone was light, but his sweaty brow belied any attempt at nonchalance.
"Why?" Henry gave a bark of impatient laughter, "A man was murdered, Fairweather; a man who is reported to have vexed you by flirting with your wife. That is why I wish to know where you went last night after you left the assembly in a temper."
"Oh," Fairweather emitted a shaky laugh, which to Henry's ear could almost be mistaken for relief, "That. No, Your Grace, I did not kill Mr Parsims, I went straight home after the dance with my wife. She will confirm it if needs must."
"Needs must," Henry was serious, "Your name was also included on a list of people who appear to have owed Mr Parsims money, do you mind if I ask why?"
"No idea," Fairweather appeared genuinely perplexed, "I paid what tithes I owed annually, like everyone else. There was no need for Parsims to come scrounging after me for more, not when he had calculated his dues down to the last half-penny."
Henry liked to think that he was a good judge of character--the error in appointing Mr Parsims notwithstanding--and he believed Fairweather when he said that he did not know why he was on Parsims' list. However, his earlier twitchy behaviour warranted suspicion. Mr Fairweather was hiding something, of that Henry was certain--though the reason as to why was less obvious.
"Tell me," Henry continued, wishing to return to the matters of the previous night, "Did you notice anyone at all on your way home? Monsieur Canet, perhaps?"
The farmer's cheeks had lost their earlier pallor, but it returned once again at the mention of Canet.
