Page 13 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“More than you’d credit, for a such a small village,” Flora confessed, her cheeks pink again. Noting his curious expression, she quickly listed off all the murders that had been committed—and solved—in Plumpton.
“I’ll make certain not to get on anyone’s bad side while I’m here,” he smiled as she finished.
“Oh, I don’t think anyone could ever be annoyed by you,” Flora blurted, without thinking.
Again, Captain Thorne looked so amused that she was overcome by blushes.
“It’s just, you have such lovely manners,” she finished, lamely. And lovely shoulders, lovely eyes, and a very lovely smile, she added silently to herself.
“That’s something I have never been accused of,” he replied, delighted by her compliment. “You must bring them out in me, Miss Bridges.”
Their eyes met and Flora dared offer him a shy smile, inwardly marveling that she was capable of flirting on what was the most calamitous morning of her life.
“How do you suggest we investigate, captain?” she questioned, as she realised that it was her turn to speak. Though she truly would have been content to stay smiling stupidly at him across the table all morning, if social norms hadn’t dictated she continue the conversation.
“Lord Crabb suggested that we question Sir Ambrose’s housekeeper on what visitors he received over the past few days,” he answered.
“She might know who it was he was arguing with,” Flora nodded in agreement. “She might also know something about the investment scheme from tidying up his papers.”
“I didn’t think of that,” he said approvingly. “Though, I believe we’ll have to wait until tomorrow before we speak with her—she’s presently nursing her shock with a bottle of spirits.”
“Or celebrating,” Flora grinned, thinking that Sir Ambrose had probably not been the most loved of employers. “What can I do to help?”
“I don’t want you to do anything,” he replied, his tone earnest. “Leave everything to me.”
For a moment, Flora felt a little put-out by his declaration, though she soon realised—from the determined set of his jaw—that Captain Thorne simply wanted to come to her rescue. Which would have been most endearing, was it not for the fact that Flora was not the type of young lady to sit idly by and allow a white-knight attend to her.
“I want to help,” she insisted. “In fact, I must help. I think I would go mad, rattling around Brackenfield all day, waiting for news.”
“I don’t want to see you be carted off to Bedlam,” the captain conceded, with a rueful smile. “Forgive me, I did not mean to take command. It just—”
“—Comes naturally to you?” Flora guessed mischievously.
They shared a smile, but were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Bridges, back from her foraging.
“The rain cleared up before I could get anything,” she sighed, as she placed the empty basket down.
“How unfortunate,” Flora was droll. “Is there any chamomile? I feel I need something calming.”
She stood from her seat and walked to the corner cabinet, as her grandmother surreptitiously followed her progress. The more potent remedies were kept inside it; dried herbs, tinctures, and occasionally the odd jar poppy latex, if Mrs Bridges could get her hands on it.
Flora opened the door and scanned the shelves, noting the full jar of mugwort. She turned to stare pointedly at her grandmother, who had become distracted by a crack in the ceiling.
“None here,” Flora commented, though she knew well that the chamomile was kept in another press.
She made to close the door, but as she did so her eye was caught by something on the top-shelf—the wolfsbane jar. The lid was askew, the muslin cover crooked and tucked unevenly beneath the string—it was never stored so carelessly. Her grandmother kept only a small bit of the stuff, for the occasional winter mouse.
Flora closed the press quickly and whirled to face the room, hoping Captain Thorne hadn’t noticed her pale face or her trembling hands.
“You do look pale, dearest,” her grandmother fretted, “Sit yourself down and I’ll brew the chamomile for you.”
Flora mutely complied, her mind reeling from what she’d seen. She couldn’t yet make sense of it; her first instinct was to ask her grandmother, but she couldn’t while Captain Thorne remained.
“You do look tired,” the captain agreed, rising from his chair. “Forgive me for taking up so much of your time, on what is an upsetting morning.”
Minutes before, Flora might have protested or encouraged him to take another cup of tea. Now, she simply smiled wanly and offered him thanks for his concern.
“Captain Thorne,” she ventured, just as he turned to leave. “What poison do they think was used to kill Sir Ambrose?”
