Page 20 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“I’m certain Sir Ambrose’s relatives will do right by you,” Lord Crabb assured her. “Er—do you have any idea who they might be?”
Mrs Fitzhenry shrugged, her eyes drifting to the wall, where a portrait of a vaguely grand gentleman hung.
“It’s not him anyway,” she said, her lips curving into something dangerously close to a smile. “That came from an estate sale in Bath. Saw it listed in the catalogue with my own two eyes, though Sir Ambrose liked to imply it was his grandfather—the old snob.”
“Whoever his relatives turn out to be, I’m sure they’ll see you’re looked after,” Lord Crabb replied delicately. “You said Mrs Pinnock called more than once—were they old acquaintances?”
“They were members of the same society,” Mrs Fitzhenry confirmed with a nod. “Though I don’t believe Sir Ambrose relished the connection; he was always in foul form when she left.”
An interesting on-dit, James thought, but it was unlikely the elderly Mrs Pinnock was in any way connected to the murder—especially when it was now increasingly clear that Mr Goodwin was the man they should be investigating.
“And, before we finish up, I must ask,” Lord Crabb said, exhaling slowly. “Did you play any part in the murder, Mrs Fitzhenry?”
James threw a startled glance at his old friend, who gave an apologetic shrug.
“I’m afraid I have to ask,” he repeated. “Given your closeness.”
“I wouldn’t waste a good bottle of brandy like that,” Mrs Fitzhenry replied, not at all put out by the question. “It was a crying sin whoever did that.”
“Quite,” James agreed, hiding a smile.
The two men drained their glasses and bid Mrs Fitzhenry goodbye. She expressed regret at their leaving, though James rather thought it was more regret that another drink would not be forthcoming.
Outside, he took a deep breath, exchanging the housekeeper’s brandy fumes for crisp country air.
“Well,” Lord Crabb said, tugging on his gloves, “what did you make of that?”
“I believe Mrs Fitzhenry has pointed us to our suspect,” James said firmly, as he followed the viscount out the gate. He quickly explained the letter he had found amongst Sir Ambrose’s belongings.
“You believe Mr Goodwin is the author?” Lord Crabb raised a brow.
“Well, it would certainly make a more believable reason for his visiting Plumpton than his purported visit to Lord Chambers,” James grinned.
“You do a little digging at the King’s Head and I’ll see what I can learn from Freddie,” Lord Crabb decided, before turning a little awkward. “Have you any plans for tomorrow evening?”
“None that I’m aware of,” James answered.
“Mrs Mifford has insisted Jane host a dinner,” the viscount explained, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. “I suspect she plans on inviting Miss Bridges so she can play at matchmaking; I apologise in advance for any suffering she might cause you.”
James—who did not object at all to Mrs Mifford’s meddling if it meant he got to spend more time with Miss Bridges—gave a weak chuckle.
“Perhaps you could invite Mr Goodwin?” he suggested, for the viscount was regarding him with amused suspicion. “So that we might observe him at close quarters.”
“Might as well ask Mrs Pinnock and Miss Vale too; then we’ll have every suspect seated at the table,” Lord Crabb agreed—though he was still regarding James a little too thoughtfully for his liking.
The matter of dinner now settled, he bid James goodbye and mounted his steed. James watched him canter off a moment before he set off on foot back toward the village.
A few stalls had been set up at the village green for the half-market. Local farmers and cottagers had set out their wares of eggs, butter, and vegetables for Plumpton’s housewives to inspect.
At one stall, James spotted Mrs Canards loudly berating a poor tillage farmer about the state of his turnips.
“You can’t save all your good roots for the harvest home,” he heard her grouse. “You’ll lose valuable customers.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” the farmer retorted, snatching the turnip back from her, “but valuable customers usually buy things. You only come to complain—and I get enough of that at home from my wife.”
“Why, I never,” Mrs Canards exclaimed, clutching a hand to her chest as she turned from him.
Her upset vanished immediately as her beady eyes landed upon James.
