Page 10 of A Victim, A Viscount, And Miss Mifford
Jane munched happily for a few minutes, as her father perused The Times, occasionally emitting a little laugh of amusement at something which he had read.
"Oh, look," Mr Mifford called, as something caught his eye, "They have mentioned Mary."
Mr Mifford slid the paper across the table to Jane, so that she might have a read of it.
"The Duke of Northcott attended The Theatre Royal last night, in the company of his new wife, to view Mrs Sarah Siddons' breeches performance of Hamlet."
Jane furrowed her brow a little, as the column went into grand detail about Mary's gown—a dusky pink crape over a lighter sarsnet slip, with a full rouleau of beaded crape at its hem—yet said little else about the play.
Jane sighed with envy; she had never visited the theatre—not even the modest one in Cirencester—and to imagine that Mary had witnessed Mrs Siddons perform her most famous role, was almost beyond comprehension.
"You will get there one day, Jane," Mr Mifford smiled, "Most likely sooner than you think; your Mama is making plans for you to come out in the Spring."
Jane, who usually objected to the very idea of having a season, remained perfectly quiet as her father delivered this news. Mr Mifford raised no suspicion at her silence—just an eyebrow to let her know it had been noted.
Jane was grateful for his tact, for she would not like to explain to him the reason for her sudden acquiescence to the idea of having a come out—and, from that, the implied inference that she was thinking of marriage. She would not like to tell her father that her decision had centred around wanting a life apart from her Mama—nor was she willing to allow herself to acknowledge that her meeting with Mr Bonville also played a part...
Thankfully, further discussion of a season was averted by a series of loud knocks upon the front door.
"Who on earth is calling at this hour?" Jane pondered, as her father gave a harrumph of annoyance. As vicar, his flock called regularly to the house for counselling and guidance—though most knew better than to approach him before he had finished his breakfast.
It was Nora who answered the knocking, and Jane could hear her exclamation of surprise as she opened the door.
Footsteps sounded urgently in the hallway and the door was thrown open to reveal Mr Marrowbone, the local constable, looking worse for wear. Well, more so than was usual.
"Lord Crabb is dead," he called, by way of greeting, "Poisoned, according to Dr Bates. Oh, Mr Mifford, whatever shall we do?"
We?
Jane could almost read her father's thoughts and despite the gravity of the situation, she could not help but be amused at his irritation at having been assigned a task which had nothing to do with him.
"We shall have a cup of tea, Mr Marrowbone," Mr Mifford replied, gesturing for the constable to take a seat at the table.
Mr Marrowbone's appearance was even more dishevelled up close and he exuded a strong smell of stale smoke and alcohol. His blue eyes were bloodshot, darting nervously this way and that, and the act of sitting down had caused him to break out into a sweat.
"Perhaps I shall ask Nora to fetch you a medicinal spirit, rather than a cup of tea?"
Mr Mifford's wise suggestion was met with an enthusiastic nod from the constable and Nora was duly summoned. She appeared instantly, having—Jane guessed—been standing on the other side of the door eavesdropping.
"A brandy and port for Mr Marrowbone, please, Nora," Mr Mifford instructed. Nora bobbed her head and fled the room, her haste an indication that she did not want to miss out on any gossip.
"From the beginning, if you please, Mr Marrowbone," Mr Mifford instructed, once the door was closed.
"Well," Mr Marrowbone heaved a sigh, "I woke up at the crack of dawn, with a head as rough as a badger's ar—"
"The beginning of your dealings in Plumpton Hall," Mr Mifford interrupted, his face pained. "I don't wish for a retelling of your whole day."
"Oh, right," Mr Marrowbone's tone indicated that he was inclined to take umbrage with Mr Mifford's shortness, but Nora's reappearance with his drink offered a timely distraction.
"Well," the constable continued, once he had drank half the glass in one gulp, "I was at home, tending to my business, when a footman from the Hall came banging on the door. He said that when Lord Crabb's valet went to rouse him this morning, he couldn't be roused—what with 'im being dead and all."
"Perfectly understandable," Mr Mifford murmured in agreement.
"The valet noted a rash upon Lord Crabb's person and instructed a footman to fetch Dr Bates, in case his lordship had succumbed to some contagious infection that might strike down the staff."
"Very wise," Mr Mifford offered; smallpox or scarlet fever could spread like wildfire through a household, if precautions weren't taken.
"Dr Bates arrived a short while later," Marrowbone continued, "And he knew with one glance that his lordship had not suffered from any illness, but had been poisoned!"
