Page 19 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“I have every certainty it will,” Captain Thorne assured her. “I will call to your grandmother’s tomorrow with any news.”
He tipped his hat, wished her a pleasant afternoon, and took off in the direction of the village.
Flora stood watching him go, her heart tugged in two directions—yearning in one, guilt in the other.
It will all be settled by this afternoon, she assured herself as she continued her walk to her grandmother’s.
It had to be—or she would be forced to explain to Captain Thorne that she had lied to him, and she knew his blue eyes would not be able to hide his disappointment.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MRS FITZHENRY DIDnot offer James and Lord Crabb tea when they arrived. James attributed her lack of hospitality to the after-effects of consuming a bottle of brandy the day before, rather than outright hostility.
Though there was some of that too.
“I can’t think why you’d want to ask me any questions, my lord,” the housekeeper sniffed, as Lord Crabb explained the reason for their visit. “I’m just the hired help. I know nothing of murder, except that I’m expected to clean up after it.”
She scowled as she leaned back in her chair, her trembling hands clutching a steaming posset with near reverence.
“I know a secret ingredient that will double the healing properties of that,” James said, nodding to the mug she held.
“I’m all ears, Captain,” Mrs Fitzhenry replied, with a slight wince of pain.
“If you’ll allow me.”
James stood, reached into his coat pocket, and produced a hip flask. The housekeeper’s face lit up and she extended the mug so he could add a generous dash of brandy.
“There’s glasses around here somewhere,” she said, her hostess skills miraculously returning. She took a sip of her brandy-laced posset, then stood. “I’m sorry I’ve nothing from Sir Ambrose’s collection to offer you, but Marrowbone confiscated it all as evidence. Not that there was much to confiscate. The old miser never parted too eagerly with his coin.”
She issued this last bit as a muttered aside while she extracted two tumblers from a glass cabinet at the far side of the room. She handed the tumblers to James, who filled them from his flask and passed one to Lord Crabb.
“That’s better,” Mrs Fitzhenry said, returning to her seat. “Now, my lord, what questions did you wish to ask me?”
“I suppose the obvious one first,” Lord Crabb smiled. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to murder Sir Ambrose?”
“About a dozen off the top of my head—more if you give me time to think,” the housekeeper replied flippantly. Her shrewd gaze turned from Lord Crabb to James and she gave a thin smile. “Though Captain Thorne was present to witness Miss Bridges calling for his head the day he was murdered; I expect it’s she who did it.”
“Thanks to Mrs Wickling, half the village is aware of that tale,” Lord Crabb answered quickly, before James had a chance to offer an angry rebuttal. “We are looking for other suspects. Can you think of anyone who called in the days leading up to the murder—anyone at all?”
“It’s hard to recall things at my advanced age,” Mrs Fitzhenry sighed, casting her eyes down to her now-empty mug.
“Perhaps another drop might lubricate the old cogs,” James said dryly, leaning over to empty the remainder of his hip flask into her drink.
The housekeeper took a deep sip, her expression contented. She closed her eyes and for a moment James wondered if she had drifted off to sleep, but then they snapped open and she began to rattle off a list of names.
“Mrs Pinnock—she who is staying at the inn—has been a regular caller since she arrived in Plumpton,” Mrs Fitzhenry said. “On the morning of the murder, she and Miss Vale took tea with Sir Ambrose. A Mr Goodwin, also resident at the King’sHead, called before noon, though Sir Ambrose bid me tell him he was not at home. Mr Henderson from the butcher’s called in breeches so tight I could not even look at him. Then, of course, Miss Bridges called, followed by yourself, Captain Thorne.”
“Did Sir Ambrose say why he did not wish to receive Mr Goodwin?” James pressed, his mind at once leaping to the letter he had found.
“He did not say, Captain,” the housekeeper shrugged with disinterest. “Though that was not the first time Sir Ambrose refused to meet with him. You’d think he’d have got the hint the second time he called.”
“Some men are persistent,” James observed.
Especially when they were owed money.
“What do you know about Sir Ambrose’s financial affairs?” James asked, hoping she might reveal a thing or two.
“Only that he was insistent he had no money,” she answered, quick as a tick. “Not even an extra groat in my pay for Twelfth Night. I hope he’s made provisions for my pension; I can’t go looking for new employers at my age.”
