Page 21 of A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford
A brief grin crossed Mr Browne's face, though he hid it quickly.
"Terrible business," the farmer said, rather unconvincingly.
"Yes," Henry frowned, "And I am trying to deduce who did it. You had a rather public altercation with Mr Parsims, did you not? An altercation in which you threatened to kill him."
"I did, Your Grace," Mr Browne confirmed, his face stony, his eyes looking not at Henry but into the past, "The man set a dog loose amongst my pregnant ewes."
"You suspect he did," Henry corrected him, but Mr Browne shook his head stubbornly.
"Look around," he said, gesturing a thick arm at the nearby fences, "There's not a fence that needs mending on this farm, never has been, for I know that a lost lambing season can ruin a man. In my forty years of farming, I've never had a flock attacked, then the week after my run-in with Mr Parsims, a dog miraculously made its way into one of my pens. I don't believe in coincidences, Your Grace, and I know a bad 'un when I see him. That Mr Parsims was as bad as could be."
"Didyou kill him?" Henry asked baldly.
"No," Mr Browne shook his head, "I heard he was struck on the back of the head; if I'd have killed him, I'd have wanted him to know it was me. I would have wanted to watch him suffer, as I have suffered, and know that it was I who caused his pain."
Gracious, was everyone in Plumpton secretly homicidal, or was it only when it came to Mr Parsims? Henry did not have a chance to ponder this thought, for Mr Browne spoke again.
"Besides," he added sheepishly, "I was nowhere near the village last night, and there are plenty of folk who can confirm it. Mr Hayes, two-mile over, had a dinner to celebrate the birth of his first grandchild, and there were several of us there until the small hours. I could not see straight to walk home, let alone murder a man."
It was Henry's turn now to hide a smile; he had thought Mr Browne's pale, sweaty mien a sign of guilt, but it could equally have been attributed to the after-effects of alcohol. Home brewed mead packed quite the punch.
"Very well," Henry nodded, "I shall ask about and confirm your story; you are off the hook for now."
"He really was a bad 'un," Mr Browne continued, his eyes thoughtful, "If I didn't know any better, I'd swear he was only pretending to be a rector. Not one bone in that man's body was Christian, I can guarantee you that. Not, of course, that I am questioning your appointment of him, Your Grace."
These last words were added hastily, as Mr Browne realised that he might have spoken out of turn. Henry brushed away his concern with a careless wave of his hand.
"No need to mollycoddle me," Henry smiled ruefully, "I am man enough to admit when I have made a mistake, and I'm afraid--from the other complaints that I have heard about him--that I made a rather large one in appointing Mr Parsims to St Mary's."
Conversation then turned to matters agricultural. Mr Browne was eager to show Henry how well he kept his land, and Henry indulged him for a half-hour, before taking his leave.
"I shall discuss with Mr Silks how we might find a solution for your rent arrears," Henry said before he departed. From what he had seen, Mr Browne had not lied when he had said how much care he took of his flock, and Henry was beginning to feel that he had some culpability in the man's misfortune, for it was he who had appointed Parsims to Plumpton.
Henry remounted his horse, his stomach rumbling with hunger, and set off for the village. As he rode, he cast his mind back over what he knew of Mr Parsims, which was not very much.
His initial meeting with the rector had been rather serendipitous. Henry's father had been dead two years when news that the old rector of St Mary's, Mr Goodwill, had succumbed to old age. Henry had spent two years avoiding visiting his ducal seat, due to guilt at having neglected his father before his unexpected death in favour of gadding about town, and he had not relished the thought of returning to the Cotswolds to find a replacement for Goodwill.
The evening that he had learned of Goodwill's death, he had visited White's, before ending up--as many men of means did--in a gaming hell in Pickering Place. There, at a hazard table, Henry had bumped into Parsims, who had sought to introduce himself. Or re-introduce himself, for Parsims had claimed a prior acquaintance.
"William Parsims," he had said, his fleshy face smiling, "From Oxford. I wrote several essays for you during our time there."
Tuft-hunters--Oxford theology students of little means in search of a living--spent almost as much time trying to curry favour with the landed gentry as they did on their studies, in the hope that one of these lords might appoint them a living. Henry had been plagued by tuft-hunters for the entirety of his studies, so when he could not place Parsims, he had not thought it odd.
Having drunk more than he usually would of a night, in order to assuage the gnawing guilt he had felt at the reminder of his duties to Plumpton and the estate, Henry had decided that Mr Parsims' re-entrance into his sphere was divine intervention, rather than merely a well-timed coincidence and had impulsively offered him the living at St Mary's.
Mr Parsims had sent a letter to Henry, a sennight after their drunken conversation, to say that he was installed in the rectory, and Henry had given no more thought to the matter.
Another mistake, Henry thought, guilt gnawing at his stomach.
Though he was fastidious in business matters, and a perfectionist with everything else, Henry was also terrifically stubborn. He had not liked the feeling of guilt and shame that filled him when he thought of Plumpton, and so had ignored its very existence. Oh, he ensured that he had installed only the best land agent in Mr Silks, the best servants in the manor, and provided any funds requested without question--but that had not been enough.
A ducal seat required a duke, Henry realised, and he had deprived Plumpton of one for five years.
Guilt threatened to overwhelm him, but Henry would not allow it. He was here now, and he would do his duty.
Though first, he thought, as his stomach rumbled, he must eat.
Thinking to kill two birds with one stone, Henry made for The King's Head, where the French chef Canet was employed. There, Henry indulged in a large luncheon of stuffed pigeon, served on a plate of Dauphinoise potatoes, and accompanied by green beans and a decanter of claret.
