Once under the quilts, Mary allowed herself a little sniffle of self-pity. She had failed at everything; at finding a husband in London, at being Plumpton's most admired spinster, and at acting in a decorous way in front of a duke.
Life, Mary thought, as sleep began to overtake her, could not possibly get any worse.
But, of course, it could...
An hour or two later, Mary was roused from her slumber by Jane, who was furiously shaking her shoulder.
"What is it?" Mary groused, irritable at having been woken.
"It's Mr Parsims," Jane replied, face pale, "He has been murdered."
"What?" Mary squawked, awake now, "By whom?"
"We do not know," Jane said slowly, her eyes filled with fear.
For a moment, Mary was confused by the anguish Jane displayed until the realisation of her circumstances hit her like a tonne of bricks.
Mr Parsims was dead and, thanks to her earlier outburst, Mary was the main suspect.
Chapter Four
The morning after Mr Parsims' murder, Henry was plagued with a headache; a dull, throbbing pain behind his eyes which did not ease, even with the application of camphor oil to his temples.
Despite the pain, Henry did not complain, for it would have been in bad taste, given that the late Mr Parsims had more cause to complain of a pain in the head than Henry. Excepting that he could not because he was dead.
Henry gave a deep sigh as he recalled the events of the night before. The assembly had been exceedingly dull, the only bright spot being that he had been able to keep Miss Mifford in his sights. He had not danced, for there had been no one of his ilk to dance with, and he had not made much conversation, for, excepting Lord Crabb and his mama, there was no one of his ilk to converse with.
When Miss Mifford had left, keenly observed by Henry, all the fun had gone out of the evening, and Henry had decided it was time to start muttering about returning home. Of course, it was not good ton to leave an event abruptly, so Henry, having subtly dropped a few hints of his intention to depart, had been forced to endure another half-hour of Lord Crabb before he could finally declare his plan to leave.
"What an enjoyable evening," he had lied, as he helped Cecilia to her feet, "Everything went so well."
Had he realised that his statement would tempt fate, Henry might have rephrased his words. Alas, Henry was no clairvoyant.
As soon as the words had left his mouth, the doors to the assembly rooms were thrown open, and an elderly lady had let out a scream.
"Mr Parsims is dead!"
The music had stopped at once, replaced by confused whispers and chattering, as the assembled guests registered the news.
"Murdered," the lady had elaborated crossly, as though the reaction of the crowd had not been dramatic enough for her liking.
At once, the whispers and chatters transformed into a roar; several ladies screamed, one had fainted, and Henry had realised that someone was going to have to take charge of matters.
"Where can I find the local constable?" Henry had called, his tone haughty and commanding.
"In the pub," a voice had answered in reply, accompanied by a few muted giggles from the crowd.
Henry had sighed and set forth for the pub, accompanied by Lord Crabb, Dr Bates, and Mr Mifford. Once they had roused the constable--Michael Marrowbone--from his perch at the bar, they had set forth for the bridge, where the elderly lady had said that they might find Mr Parsims' remains.
The sight that had greeted the men had been sufficiently gruesome for them to ascertain that Mr Parsims had been murdered. A blunt object to the back of the head repeatedly, by the looks of things. Henry's eye had caught on a rock, discarded near the body, which was covered with blood. It had not taken a genius to work out that it was the murder weapon.
"He's dead," Dr Bates had confirmed, though it had been clear enough without his assistance.
"Should you give him 'is last rites?" Mr Marrowbone asked of Mr Mifford.
"I'm not a Catholic," Mr Mifford had replied, though he had muttered a few verses--albeit with a show of reluctance and an air of impatience.
"We must move the body," Henry commanded, once Mifford had finished, "And find out at once who did it."
"But it's nearly eleven o'clock," Marrowbone had answered, blinking in half-drunken confusion, "By the time we move the body, it'll be well after midnight."
"And?"
"And everyone will be in bed," the constable had replied with a shrug, "Ain't no helping Mr Parsims now, Your Grace, and ain't no point in us all staying up all night when matters can wait until morning."
His insubordination and laziness had rankled Henry, but the idle constable had clearly learned his ways from his master, for Lord Crabb had given a pointed yawn, before agreeing with him.
"Marrowbone is right, Northcott," Crabb had said, "This may wait 'till the morning. If it was an opportunistic attack, the perpetrator is long gone. If it is the work of a local, we shall discover more at first light. Marrowbone, you stay here and guard the body--I shall send a cart and a few men along shortly."
With that, the viscount had turned on the heel of his dancing slipper, leaving Henry to follow suit.
"I feel we should do more, Crabb," Henry had argued, as he walked alongside him, "While the trail is still warm."
"As I have said," the viscount replied, "If it is a local who has committed this crime, then we shall find out more in the morning. Once the townsfolk have had a whole night to gossip, they shall come up with a name for you soon enough."
Crabb's words had proved true, for even by the time that the two men had returned to The Ring'O'Bells, a suspect had already been named.
Miss Mifford.
Henry winced as his head gave another throb; all night he had lain awake wondering if it might be true that the lovely Miss Mifford had bludgeoned the rector to death. His heart said no, but some of the local ladies--led by an enthusiastic creature called Mrs Canards--had all insisted that the eldest Mifford girl had been involved in an altercation with the late Mr Parsims. An altercation in which she had loudly, and emphatically by all accounts, declared that she wished the rector dead.
Even he had to admit that Mr Parsims' bloody demise was rather unfortunate timing, but he refused to believe that Miss Mifford had any hand in the matter. A delicate lady, such as Miss Mifford was surely incapable of murder...
Henry was relieved to arrive in Plumpton a short while later, the act of riding having further aggravated his headache. He guided his steed toward the village square, where he tethered him by the trough outside The Ring'O'Bells, before venturing inside in search of Marrowbone.
"Ah, Mr Marrowbone. I see you are hard at work, despite the early hour."
The village constable, who had been nursing a pint of ale, looked up at Henry's greeting, though he did not stand.
"Position of constable is a voluntary one, Your Grace," he muttered in reply, "And I didn't volunteer to go chasing murderers at the crack of dawn."
"It's eleven o'clock," Henry snapped in response, "Hardly early--though, perhaps, too early for a drink, especially when there is work to be done. We must find out who murdered Parsims, post-haste."
"We already know," Marrowbone shrugged, "It was Miss Mifford."
"I hardly think a lady capable of murder," Henry retorted, darkly.
"Then you ain't ever seen my missus first thing in the mornin'," the constable guffawed, though he assumed a more respectful mien when he realised that Henry was not laughing along with him.
"I do not think Miss Mifford is the culprit," Henry insisted, "There must be someone else who wanted Parsims dead. Can you think of anyone else in Plumpton who wished the rector ill?"
"Off the top 'o my head," Marrowbone tapped his balding pate, "I can think o' a dozen or so men and, if you give me a minute longer, I'm sure I could think o' a dozen more. Wasn't well-liked, your Parsims."
"I had gathered."
Mr Marrowbone turned back to his pint, having ev
idently decided that his work for the day was done. Henry gave a sigh of irritation; he was beginning to fear that the local constable would not be very helpful in the investigation.
"Well?" Henry prompted, "Aren't you going to share the names of the men you believe may have had a motive to bludgeon Parsims to death?"
"An' why would I do that?" Marrowbone turned back to him, his expression horrified, "If I go mentioning names, one of those named might end up swinging on the end of a rope."
"Which would be justice for having committed a capital offence," Henry reminded him.
"I reckon Mr Parsims had it coming," the constable shrugged, having now appointed himself judge and jury, "Ain't no point in stirrin' up trouble for the locals. That Miss Mifford seems likely enough to have done it, and even if she had been found with blood on her hands, she would not swing for it."
"And why is that?"
"Her great-uncle is the magistrate," Marrowbone shrugged again, "He's not likely to send her up to the Old Bailey. So you see, Your Grace, I think it is easier for everyone if we simply accept that Miss Mifford is as guilty as they come."
"Have you asked her anything about the murder?" Henry interrupted, though he already knew the answer.
"And why would I go and do something like that?"
"Because you cannot decide that a lady is guilty of a crime without having asked for her version of events."
"Don't reckon it's my place to be askin' ladies about murder, Your Grace," Marrowbone decided, forgetting that as constable it really was his place.
Henry exhaled angrily, though he held his tongue. Marrowbone would be of no use to him, but at least he did not need to worry that the constable might be overtaken by a fit of zealousness and apprehend Miss Mifford himself.
"I shall ask her myself," Henry declared. He cast Marrowbone the most withering of glances before he turned on the heel of his Hessian boot and made his way back outside into the bright summer sunshine.
The good people of Plumpton were busily going about their everyday business, though a cluster of women was congregated on the green, gossiping. One of the females--Mrs Canards, if Henry recalled correctly--detached herself from the flock when she sighted him.
"Your Grace," she called, as she hurried over to him.
Henry paused his step at her call, though he did adopt a most ducal frown so that she might know his time was not hers for the taking.
"I am sorry for interrupting you, Your Grace," Mrs Canards said, in an ingratiating manner, "It's just that I wanted to say that we are, all of us, grateful to have you once more in our midst. If you were not here, then Lord Crabb would simply ignore the fact that his niece bludgeoned poor Mr Parsims to death, and we would have no justice."
Public hangings were, in London at least, a spectator event. Hundreds of people--even thousands, depending on the infamy of the condemned's crimes--attended executions for the sheer enjoyment of it. Henry had never understood the publics' zest for watching one of their own die an agonising death, but he suspected, from the gleam in her eye, that Mrs Canards was of a similar bent to those macabre souls.
"Miss Mifford is innocent," Henry replied firmly, "I am certain of it."
Mrs Canards scowled, pursed her thin lips, and made a noise somewhere between a donkey's bray and a dog's bark. She was not, Henry guessed, best pleased with him.
"I do not believe in coincidences, Your Grace," the elderly lady said, drawing herself up imperiously, "Miss Mifford declared in public that she wanted Mr Parsims dead, and not an hour later he is brutally murdered. If she is not the culprit, then pray tell, who is?"
"I have a list of people with grievances against the late Mr Parsims," Henry lied smoothly, "Rest assured, Mrs Canards, that I will find out who killed him, and they will see justice."
Mrs Canards' eyes softened at the mention of justice; she was, Henry guessed, just blood-thirsty in general, and not out for Miss Mifford's blood in particular.
"If you need any assistance, Your Grace, you just need to call," she offered magnanimously.
Henry nodded, desperate to be away.
"The chef in The King's Head is French," Mrs Mifford continued before Henry could make his escape, "And you know what they're like; so bloody-minded. And Mr MacDowl in the haberdashery has Irish blood; he'll deny it if you ask him, but it's the truth. And you know what the Irish are like--worse than the French!"
"I shall bear that in mind, Mrs Canards," Henry replied, as patiently as he could.
He then touched his gloved hand to the brim of his hat--a universally understood signal that a gentleman was about to take his leave--and took off before she had a chance to offer up any other of her fellow villagers for slaughter.
Henry then made his way on horseback to Primrose Cottage. The journey was a short one, but it felt longer as anticipation had slowed his perception of time. Though the task at hand was a macabre one, Henry could not help but relish the thought of speaking with Miss Mifford in the intimate setting of a parlour room. He imagined her eyes lighting up when he declared his conviction of her innocence and wondered if, perhaps, she might swoon a little when he told her that he would not rest until he had cleared her name.
Alas, Henry's tête-à-tête with Miss Mifford was not destined to be. As Henry arrived at Primrose Cottage, Lord Crabb was just leaving. The viscount waited by the garden gate for Henry to dismount, his rheumy eyes narrowed into a frown.
"Do you have business here, Northcott?" Lord Crabb asked, by way of greeting as Henry approached.
"I wished to speak with Miss Mifford regarding the murder."
"No need," Lord Crab was brusque, "I have already spoken with her. All matters have been satisfactorily resolved."
"So, you have discovered who it was that killed Parsims?" Henry did not bother to hide his surprise, for he had not expected the viscount to have solved the mystery so promptly.
"Bleugh," Crabb gave a startled, phlegmy cough in return, "Of course not, don't be foolish. I have simply explained to my grand-niece that despite her being the prime suspect for the heinous crime, that she cannot be prosecuted on mere hearsay. As there are no other persons of interest, it will probably be assumed by all that she is guilty, but I cannot remedy that. I do not have the power to tell people what they may and may not believe."
"Surely you have some desire to discover the true villain?" Henry pressed; was everyone in Plumpton bone-idle?
"You cannot leave your grand-niece subject to rumour and suspicion for the rest of her days--her reputation shall be ruined," Henry continued, his voice impassioned.
"Miss Mifford should have thought about her reputation before she shot her mouth off," Lord Crabb harrumphed, "It is my opinion that a lady with such a vulgar tongue deserves any censure she has drawn upon herself. I told her as such myself, and she took herself off wailing and crying in another obscene display of emotion. In my day, ladies rarely spoke--a much more civilised way of life, if you ask me."
Henry did not comment on Lord Crabb's reminiscing on a world of mute females; instead, he focused his attention on the more pertinent information that he had shared.
"So, Miss Mifford is not at home?" Henry clarified, to which Lord Crabb nodded.
"She has taken herself off for a walk," Crabb sniffed, disapprovingly. Evidently, he believed women should forgo walking along with talking.
An initial wave of disappointment crashed over Henry until his scheming mind--fuelled by desire--deduced that were he to get on his horse, as the saying went, then he might have a chance of catching Miss Mifford alone, away from censorious eyes and ears.
"Must be off," Henry blurted, tipping the brim of his hat once more.
If Lord Crabb was startled, Henry did not see it, for he turned abruptly to remount his horse--a duke on a mission.
Chapter Five
When Mary had fled Primrose Cottage in tears, following a stern dressing down from Lord Crabb, she had not had a destination in mind. All that she had wanted to do was escape; to flee he
r great-uncle's censure, her mother's anxiety, and Jane's concern.
Her mind was in such turmoil that she did not realise that she was on the Bath Road until the spires of St Mary's came into view. Mary paused, brushing away the tears which dampened her cheeks; though she had not intended to come here, surely there was some divine reason as to why she was now standing before the late rector's abode.
Perhaps there was some clue as to who had murdered Parsims inside, she thought with excitement. A threatening letter perhaps?
If Mary was being sensible, she might have decided that breaking into Mr Parsims' home the day after he had been murdered--allegedly by her--was unwise. Sadly, being wrongly accused of murder did strange things to a lady's brain, and Mary did not think twice before opening the garden gate of the rectory and making her way toward the front door. She tried the handle, but it did not budge.
Rats, she thought, taking a step back to survey the small cottage. All the windows were shut, and Mary knew, from having observed Northcott all those days ago, that they would also be locked against intruders. She was just beginning to ponder whether she should risk breaking the glass in one of the panes when the mewling of a cat interrupted her shockingly criminal thoughts.
"Hello, kitty," Mary said, absently, to the cat which was now rubbing itself against her skirts. The creature, a sweet thing if one liked cats, which Mary did, gave a mewl of approval, before suddenly darting away. Mary watched its progress absently; it slithered along the wall, intent on some invisible prey, before leaping onto the fence which divided the front garden from the rear.
The back door!
Had she been the type of girl who uttered profanities, Mary would have cursed her stupidity; the people of Plumpton rarely locked their kitchen doors.
Silently and with no little excitement, Mary followed the cat's path to the rear of the house--though, thankfully, a gate meant that she did not have to resort to also climbing the fence. There, she found a neat vegetable garden--with plots full of brassica, liliaceae, and solanaceae--which was overlooked by the kitchen.
A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage Book 1) Page 5