Page 16 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“I will assist him in whatever way is possible so that justice may be served,” James answered, drawing on all his reserves of diplomacy and tact.
“Wonderful,” Mrs Mifford broke into a satisfied smile. “I should hate to see Miss Bridges outcast by the village for something she didn’t do. Why, anyone who spoke once with Sir Ambrose wished to murder him—the insufferable old snob. She’s a lovely girl, Miss Bridges, don’t you think?”
James blinked, searching for a tactful answer to her very untactful question. As Mrs Mifford watched him from under her eyelashes, he felt a blush creep over his cheeks. This, it seemed, was answer enough for her, for she gave another smile of great satisfaction.
“Just as I foresaw,” she sighed dramatically. “I’m something of a clairvoyant, I’ll have you know. Mind you, you might want to be quick about marrying the girl, Captain. There are others in the village with eyes on her, especially since she inherited her fortune.”
James was startled both at having been married off by a stranger and by the surge of jealousy he felt at learning others wished to claim Miss Bridges. Such was his inner confusion that he didn’t have a chance to respond before Mrs Mifford spoke again.
“Like him,” she whispered, nodding across the road to the butcher’s shop.
A young man with golden locks and an outrageously tight pair of breeches was locking the front door. As he turned, he offered James and Mrs Mifford a friendly grin, which quickly faltered as Mrs Mifford glared back at him.
“Young Mr Henderson,” she sniffed with disapproval, her gaze following his retreating figure. “He has an eye for the good things in life and thinks he can charm his way into Miss Bridges’ affections.”
“Miss Bridges is far too sensible a lady to allow herself to be sweet-talked by a fortune-hunter,” James replied neutrally—though he realised, too late, that he had subconsciously squared his shoulders as he spoke.
This was not missed by Mrs Mifford, who almost purred like a cat at his visible response to the challenge.
“One cannot be too careful,” she declared. “My visions do not always come to pass, so make haste, dear boy. Now, if you’ll excuse me—I’ve had word that Mrs Walton, the wheelwright’s wife, has come by a bolt of red satin and intends to make a gown out of it. Can you credit the idea, with her colouring?”
“The Lord’s work is never done,” James answered dryly, earning himself a delighted smile of agreement from Mrs Mifford.
She scurried off down the village with a cheery wave, away to torment poor Mrs Walton. James watched her go, slightly stupefied by the exchange.
Everyone in Plumpton was slightly mad, he decided. But somewhere among the eccentrics and gossips lurked a killer—and James intended to find them before Miss Bridges’ reputation was ruined forever.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FLORA DECIDED TObrew a remedy to distract herself from the ever-pressing worry of the open jar of wolfsbane in her grandmother’s press. The familiar rhythm of chopping, grating, measuring, and steeping kept her hands busy and soothed her mind.
Even Helen, who was wont to chatter inanely, had obliged Flora by deciding that all the rugs needed beating and had taken herself out of the kitchen for the morning.
Flora hummed a soft tune to herself as she added a sprig of rosemary to the pot atop the stove.
“Rosemary for loyalty,” she whispered absently, giving the remedy a stir.
She paused, watching the leaves swirl in the boiling water, and ran through the list of all she had added to the concoction. Chamomile, of course, for frazzled nerves. Lemon balm to lift the spirits, honey to sweeten, and a pinch of vervain.
Which was said to…
Flora bit her lip as she realised she had unconsciously brewed one of her old love potions. She’d sold them occasionally at the summer market, whispering to the young ladies of Plumpton about vervain’s power to attract love to whoever drank it.
She sighed, wondering at how her brain worked. A man was dead and the metaphorical loaded gun lay hidden in her grandmother’s cupboard, yet here she was brewing potions for Captain Thorne.
Still, she reasoned, as she lifted the iron pot from the flame, it would be a pity to waste it…
From the pot, she poured herself a large cup of the tea, waiting a moment for the leaves and petals to settle before she took a sip.
It was tart with a hint of sweetness—comforting, but not potent enough to dull the gnawing worry in her chest. Once again, she ran through the list of people who had called to her grandmother’s house on the day of Sir Ambrose’s murder.
Mrs Mifford had been the first caller, not for a remedy but to ask for Mrs Bridges to consult her almanac for the best date for the harvest-home festival. The second caller had been young Mr Henderson, delivering a joint of mutton. Neither gave Flora any cause for suspicion—if Mrs Mifford were ever to commit murder, Mrs Canards would surely be the victim, and Mr Henderson was far too distracted by his own reflection to have time to form murderous intent.
Mrs Fitzhenry, however…
The irritable housekeeper had collected a remedy for Sir Ambrose’s gout that morning. While her grandmother had insisted she was there but a few minutes, Flora wondered if, in that time, she’d managed to pinch some wolfsbane to poison her employer. It seemed quite likely to Flora that anyone forced to spend an extended period in Sir Ambrose’s company might feel inclined to murder him.
Certainly more so than Mrs Pinnock and Miss Vale, who had called after, or Mr Jasper Goodwin who, like them, was staying at the King’s Head.
