Page 18 of A Murder, a Marquess, and Miss Mifford
"I am a cousin of the late Lady Hardthistle," she continued, mercifully aware enough to realise that Freddie had no clue who she was, "She was a true lady; proud, principled, and truculent until the end. I owed it to the strength of her character to come all the way from Plumpton to pay my final respects."
Freddie, who had been momentarily distracted by the use of the word truculent as a compliment, blinked in surprise as Mrs Canards mentioned the small, Cotswolds village from which Miss Mifford hailed.
"Plumpton?" he repeated, and his companion scowled in reply.
"I'm afraid the reputation of the village has been sullied somewhat by one of our inhabitants," Mrs Canards sniffed, as a black clad Ethel, and a wispy woman with a pinched face approached, "Miss Willard has informed us that one of the Mifford girls is suspected of carrying out the barbaric act. I cannot say that I am surprised, given that the eldest girl also found herself mixed up in a murder, and the second as well. Those girls have a predilection for scandal, my lord. Ah, Mrs Wickling, there you are--no, I did not ask for brandy, I specified tea. What will the marquess think of me, imbibing alcohol at such an early hour?"
Freddie hid a frown; it was not Mrs Canards' consumption of alcohol before noon which he was inclined to judge, rather her slandering of the Mifford clan.
"Miss Mifford played no hand in Lady Hardthistle's murder," Freddie answered, as calmly as he could, "There is another suspect, whom I am confident will soon be brought to justice."
Ethel gasped as Freddie revealed this and brought a lace-gloved hand to her chest. She was dressed in full mourning, in a heavy, expensive looking, black-bombazine gown and matching mob-cap drawn low over her brows.
"I can't think of anyone else who might wish to kill Lady Hardthistle," she cried, dabbing at her cheek--which was noticeably dry--with a handkerchief, "She was too gentle to have had any enemies. No, I cannot believe it."
"Believe it you must," Freddie countered, refusing to bow to histrionics, "Miss Mifford is innocent--and I shall prove it."
He then bowed his head to the lady's maid, and Mrs Canards and her companion, before turning on the heel of his Hessian and making for the far side of the room, where a parlour-maid and footman stood, offering refreshments.
"A brandy, please," Freddie bid the footman, who duly disappeared to fetch him one.
As Freddie waited for the lad to return, he surveyed the room's inhabitants. Most, he assumed, were Lady Hardthistle's neighbours; country folk dressed in their Sunday-best, uncomfortable and itching to leave. He spotted a few distant cousins on his mama's side, garbed in far finer clothing than the villagers, but wearing a similar look of impatience on their faces, as well as the vicar--who was guzzling his second glass of brandy--standing alongside a country-squire type.
The footman returned with his brandy, and Freddie sipped on it gratefully for a few minutes, until the gathered masses decided it was time to leave. Lord Hardthistle became the object of attention, as the guests streamed toward him--the most official of the baroness' distant relatives--to offer their condolences and goodbyes. At last, there was only Freddie, Lord Hardthistle, Mr Bubarry, and a Mr Hillcrest--another distant cousin--left standing, and the gentleman that Freddie had presumed to be a country-squire cleared his throat.
"Gentlemen," he said, with a deep Kentish twang, "If there are no objections, I think now is as good a time as any to read her ladyship's last will and testament--don't you agree?"
"Most definitely," Mr Bubarry answered, with haste.
"As you wish," Lord Hardthistle--to whom the comment had really been directed--added, with far more restraint.
Thus, the men made their way to the library, where Mr Osbourne began the laborious task of reading the will. The young footman kept the gentleman topped up with brandy, as the solicitor read through the usual lengthy and detailed stipulations about servants' pensions, taxes, and tithes to the church, before finally getting to the meat of the matter.
"To my treasured nephew, Matthew Bubarry," Mr Osbourne intoned, causing the aforementioned to bolt upright from his snooze, "Who so shared my love of the flat, I bequeath my first edition copy of Morrell'sA Compendium of Flat Racing in The British Isles."
"Is that it?" Mr Bubarry spluttered, glancing around the room in disgust. Mr Osbourne, who presumably had great experience with such ill-mannered outbursts, ignored him and continued.
"To my nephew, Lord Hardthistle, I bequeath the paintings and portraits of Nettlebank, which were collected by his uncle and hold some monetary and much sentimental value," Mr Osbourne droned on.
"It's better than nothing," Freddie heard the baron mutter under his breath.
"And finally," the solicitor drew a large breath, "My remaining monies, jewels, properties, and property--including bloodstock--shall be left to..."
Freddie wasn't entirely certain, but he was nearly sure that Mr Osbourne's pause was for dramatic effect--possibly the only bit of theatrical fun to be found in the law profession.
"...Miss Ethel Willard, my fast and firm companion in my last decades of widowhood."
The gentlemen of the room gasped in surprise and displeasure, and much muttering ensued. But while the others were thinking themselves hard-done-by, Freddie was thinking of something that Miss Mifford had said.
That the two motivations for murder were usually lust or money.
Which meant that out of everyone, Ethel was the person who had gained the most from her mistress' death. Was it possible that the lady's maid had played a hand in Lady Hardthistle's violent death?
Freddie racked his brains and recalled that on the very night of the murder, the baroness had ventured into the gardens in search of Ethel..and, it was Ethel who had found the corpse!
Motiveandmeans, Freddie thought to himself, as his feet itched to get back to London so he could share his news with Miss Mifford.
Chapter Five
