Page 15 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“No one listens to Marrowbone anyway,” the barkeep called cheerfully.
“That’s unfair, Angus,” the constable was clearly wounded by this news.
Before another argument could break out, James interrupted.
“Lord Crabb sent me to fetch the key for Sir Ambrose’s cottage,” he said quietly, as Mr Marrowbone took his seat.
“Be my guest,” the constable said, fishing in his pocket for it. “Though you’ll find nothing worth drinking in the cabinet.”
James was tempted to remark that this was probably because Marrowbone had already pilfered the good stuff, but he refrained. Instead, he pocketed the key with a nod of thanks and set off for Sir Ambrose’s cottage.
The cottage was empty when he entered, as was the parlour room from which the body of the owner had thankfully been removed. James surveyed the cluttered room intently, wondering where to begin.
He decided on the desk, which was pushed against the window and strewn with books, ledgers, and papers. The loose papers offered little: a tailor’s receipt, a half-written grocery order—nothing of use. He then moved on to the drawers. The first was filled with ordinary odds and ends: a spool of thread, a receipt from the butcher’s, and a yellowed newspaper cutting dated the late 1770s. He scanned it and saw that it was a clipping from an old gossip column.
One Lady B—long a fixture in a certain royal residence—has recently retired to the countryside with a young charge in tow. The child bears a striking resemblance to his mother’s illustrious admirer, though naturally, such matters are never spoken of directly…
He raised a brow and wondered at its significance, if any, to the murder. With a sigh, he continued through each drawer, finding nothing of note. When he reached the third, which was locked, he broke into a grin—nothing said secrets quite like a locked drawer.
He made quick work of the lock and opened the drawer to reveal a pile of correspondence. He scanned the top letter:
Sir,
I will gladly see to having Miss Bridges’ monthly allowance increased. I am sorry to hear her grandmother is unwell; do pass on my best wishes.
Yours,
Mr Treswell
James frowned as he finished the missive; he had only met Mrs Bridges twice and, to his eye at least, she looked to be in the rudest of health. And had Flora not said that Sir Ambrose kept an iron grip on the purse strings of her inheritance? Was it possible he had been feathering his own bed with Flora’s money?
The next letter listed the full lands and monies Flora had inherited. James tucked it away, unwilling to pry further. Then came something more promising:
Sir Ambrose,
If the remainder of my dues from my work on the West India Transport and Trade Co. are not remitted by the end of the month, I shall be forced to call on you and collect them in person.
Yours impatiently,
Beau
James cursed the vague signature—every young buck now fancied himself a “Beau,” thanks to Mr Brummell. Still, itconfirmed Sir Ambrose’s dealings with the sham company and gave them a new suspect. One who believed he was owed money, by the looks of things.
He folded the letter and placed it in his coat pocket for safekeeping.
All that was left was a stack of ledgers which, upon opening, detailed Sir Ambrose’s financial accounts. He had neither the time nor the patience to puzzle out pages of figures; they would be best read later—with a large glass of brandy to lubricate the cogs and wheels of his brain.
James tucked the ledgers under his arm, then gave a cursory sweep of the cottage. As dusk was beginning to draw in outside, he made quick work of his search. There was something macabre about poking about a dead man’s home in the dark. When he found nothing of note, James slipped from the cottage, locking the door behind him.
The village was quiet as he passed through, its residents presumably at home preparing for tea. At the green, however, he passed a familiar-looking woman who appeared to be waiting for someone.
“Why, Captain Thorne,” the woman beamed as he neared. “What a surprise.”
She grinned at him with great familiarity and James at last placed her—it was Mrs Mifford, Lord Crabb’s mother-in-law. They had met at dinner on James’s first night in Plumpton, when she had loudly enquired after his marital status and then insisted he sit beside her—rather petrified—niece.
“Mrs Mifford, a pleasure,” James gave a short bow, whilst trying to decide whether her note of surprise had rung false.
“A little birdie tells me that you’re investigating Sir Ambrose’s murder with Lord Crabb,” she continued, peering at him intently.
