Page 21 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“Captain Thorne,” she called, bustling over to him. “You’re just the man I hoped to see.”
“I am?” James hoped she would not note his disappointment.
“A little birdie tells me that you’re helping Lord Crabb to investigate the murder,” she said in a faux-whisper, placing a hand on his arm to draw him close.
James refused to confirm the rumour, instead waiting for her to continue.
“I know you were present when Miss Bridges had her unfortunate outburst,” she went on, undeterred by his lack of response. “Which, in my book, places her as the most likely suspect. However—”
She paused for dramatic effect, glancing fearfully across the green at the row of shops and cottages that made up Plumpton’s main street.
“Mrs Fitzhenry and her sister have Irish blood,” she whispered, “and you know what the Irish are like. Do you recall the poisoning of Lord Barrymore’s footmen?”
“I was not born, but I have heard the tale,” James conceded.
Everyone had. The story was the stuff of legend—several of Lord Barrymore’s unfortunate Irish footmen struck dead after eating a dish of poisoned peas. Yet, as James well knew, Mrs Canards was rather muddled in her recollection. The poor men had been victims, not villains.
“So you know already that if it was not Miss Bridges who murdered Sir Ambrose, then it was most likely that ghastly housekeeper—or her sister,” Mrs Canards beamed, delighted that they were on the same page.
She cast another glance across the green at the unassuming cottage belonging to Mrs Fitzhenry’s sister, and her brows narrowed into a frown. James followed the line of her gaze, curious, only to find she was frowning at a young man exiting the butcher’s shop next door.
“That’s the third new pair of breeches Mr Henderson has sported this week,” she told James, who did his best to look interested in this news.
“I shall have to have a word with Mr Hamley about the price of his offal,” she decided, jaw set and determined. “If he can afford to outfit his assistant in an entirely new wardrobe each day, then he’s clearly overcharging. Do excuse me, Captain.”
She took off before James had a chance to reply.
It was truly astonishing, the energy some people put into being annoyed by others, James thought, as he continued on his path to the inn. Who knew what remarkable feats Mrs Canards might achieve if she weren’t so preoccupied with finding fault—solving murders, perhaps?
Inside the King’s Head, a sleepy Edward informed him that Mr Goodwin had left for the day.
“He said he was headed out Cirencester way and wouldn’t be back until late,” the footman said cheerfully.
“Did he say who he was visiting?” James asked casually. Another accomplice to the investment scheme?
“His mother,” Edward’s answer put paid to that idea.
Resigned to an afternoon alone, James made for his room, where he thought he might pore over some of Sir Ambrose’s papers to see if they revealed any more clues.
“Captain Thorne,” Miss Vale greeted him as he reached the landing.
“Miss Vale,” James gave a short bow. “You are without your charge for the day?”
“If only,” the young lady rolled her eyes. “She forgot her shawl for our walk with Mr Henderson and I was sent to fetch it—though, if you ask me, she forgot it deliberately so that she could snatch a moment alone with him.”
Miss Vale waved the shawl in her hand as evidence, then gave a delighted laugh at the incredulous look on James’s face.
“Mrs Pinnock is an incorrigible flirt,” she confided. “She adores the company of handsome young men.”
“What lady doesn’t?” James replied diplomatically, unwilling to pass comment on Mrs Pinnock’s preferred pastimes.
“This lady,” Miss Vale frowned. “I should prefer to return home—we were supposed to depart yesterday. Alas, it seems my fate is to accompany Mrs Pinnock and Mr Henderson’s breeches on their constitutionals for the foreseeable. Good afternoon, Captain.”
She disappeared down the stairs with a wave, and James continued on to his rooms.
He might not have found Mr Goodwin, but he had a suspicion he had uncovered the source of the funds for Mr Henderson’s scandalously tight trousers.
Though James did not think he’d spend the afternoon mulling over the butcher’s boy’s wardrobe but, rather, his own for tomorrow evening’s dinner—he wanted to be rigged out like an admiral on parade to impress Miss Bridges.
