Page 33 of A Victim, A Viscount, And Miss Mifford
"Bless my heart," Mr Harold exclaimed, setting his teacup down on the table before him, "You think Flora might have been involved in the murder? Flora Bridges?"
"I don't think that," Ivo stressed, "I was wondering if you thought it possible that she might be. She is a kind-hearted young girl, but perhaps outside pressure might have influenced her into doing something out of character?"
"Did you not see the bird?" Mr Harold grumbled, "Anyone else would have left it fend for itself. I once caught her sobbing over a mouse in one of the traps in the scullery. I don't think anyone could influence such a girl to go so against her nature, my lord."
"You're probably correct," Ivo conceded, for the valet was most upset, "It's just that she was the person who brewed the tonics for Lord Crabb, I had to consider her."
"Miss Bridges prepares her recipes in bulk in the still room," Mr Harold responded, belligerently, "As I already told you, the tonic was not the route used to poison Lord Crabb, for he had drank half of the bottle the night before."
Mr Harold did not say it, but his belief that Lord Crabb's nightly tonic had not been the thing which killed him lightly implied that he believed that the murderer had found an opportunity earlier in the day. As it was well documented that Ivo—a stranger to Plumpton Hall—had been one of the last people to be alone with the viscount, it was then not a great leap for Ivo to presume that Harold thought him guilty. Which irritated Ivo no end, for in his mind, as the last person to see Lord Crabb alive had been Harold when he had helped him dress for bed, he was just as implicated as Ivo was...
Except Mr Harold had not possessed any motive to kill Lord Crabb, while Ivo—in everyone's opinion—had, Ivo recalled, with a sigh.
"Is there any way that anyone else might have poisoned the bottle?" Ivo pressed, desperate for some sort of clue.
"The bottles were kept in the still room at all times," Mr Harold shrugged, "Under lock and key."
As a still room was often used as a distillery to prepare homemade wines and ales, as well as medicines, it was not surprising to learn that its contents were locked away from the servants.
"Who else holds a key?" Ivo questioned.
"Mrs Hardbottle, of course," Harold shot Ivo a dark look, as though daring him to even try to implicate the housekeeper, "Myself, and Mr Allen."
That was it.
Ivo had been so busy trying to connect Flora to the poisoned tonic, that he had not even thought of Mr Allen.
"Thank you, Mr Harold," Ivo feigned surrender, "I see I have been misdirecting my efforts in this matter; there is no way that Miss Bridges might have been able to taint the tonic."
"I am glad you have seen sense, my lord," Mr Harold replied, "Plenty of villains in Plumpton, without having to try paint Miss Bridges as one."
In order to make peace, Ivo instigated a conversation about the next races at Cocklebarrow, a topic which Mr Harold had a great interest in. After swearing that he would take a punt on one of Mr Harold's tips—and gifting him a shilling so that he might do the same—the atmosphere in the cottage had returned to one of congeniality.
"I'd best return to the Hall," Ivo said, as Mr Harold made to offer him another cup of tea.
"You haven't finished your rout cake, my lord," the valet observed, "Let me wrap it in a handkerchief so you might finish it later."
And so, with a pocket full of cake and a mind filled with trouble, Ivo returned to Plumpton Hall.
He would have to confront Mr Allen, Ivo decided, as he made his way through the front door to the entrance hall, but he would have to bide his time. Perhaps he might unearth some more evidence, which implicated the cold butler, for he was not the type of man who would willingly confess to such a thing.
Ivo's mind was so firmly transfixed on Mr Allen, that he failed to note that the man himself was standing inside the door waiting for him.
"A letter just arrived for you, my lord," he intoned, as he handed Ivo a sheet of paper folded in two.
"Thank you," Ivo answered, accepting it and hurrying away quickly, lest the butler spot the suspicion in his eyes.
Once he was safely ensconced in the library, Ivo unfolded his missive and read it in seconds. It was a letter from Mrs Mifford, writing on behalf of the Plumpton Ladies' Society to invite him to an assembly in his honour the next week.
Though Ivo had been expecting an invitation, the sight of it cheered him up greatly.
It was not all murder and mayhem in the Cotswolds, he thought happily, there were opportunities for romance as well. Then—despite the fact that he had some very important things to mull over—Ivo went off in search of Newman, to request that his best attire be prepared, so that he might impress Miss Mifford on the night.
Chapter Nine
The Plumpton Parish Ladies' Assemblies could hardly be compared to a night in Almack's, nor the Pump Rooms in Bath, but the villagers of Plumpton regarded them as the greatest outing of the winter season.
As Jane followed her family to The Ring'O'Bells, she saw that the village square was teeming with revellers, all bedecked in their finest costumes. As Plumpton was as far from London as it was possible to be, this finery included but a few modern fashions, with a great many outfits appearing to have been purchased in the previous century.
