Mary rushed to the door, tried the handle, and let out a breath of relief when she found it unlocked.
As she had not given her plan much thought, Mary was surprised to note a sense of eeriness wash over her as she entered the late rector's kitchen. Upon the rough-hewn table lay reams of pages--Sunday's sermon, no doubt--besides which was a cup of tea, half-finished. It was strange to think that Mr Parsims had left this room fully expecting to return to it, yet now he was no more.
Mary shivered, though it was not cold. She imagined that if Mr Parsims was watching her from beyond that, he would surely be so vexed by her intrusion that he would come back and haunt her. Not wishing to incur the wrath of a spectred Mr Parsims, Mary decided that she'd best find what she needed and leave.
She glanced around the kitchen, unsure where one might leave a menacing note, had one received such a thing. She opened a few of the cupboards marvelling at the abundant supplies a single man had access to but found nothing of note.
Mary sighed; perhaps she had been too optimistic to think that a murderer would have left a helpfully signed note detailing their intentions atop Mr Parsims' kitchen counter.
She glanced around the kitchen once more, wishing to leave but not quite ready to give up just yet. An apple with a single bite taken out of it stood atop the mantelpiece--such wastefulness--and in the far corner of the room, Mary spotted the bushel from which it came. Her stomach gave a growl of longing, and she realised that she had not eaten since the night before.
"It would be a shame to leave them go to waste," Mary decided aloud so that any ghosts might note her intentions were merely motivated by frugality and not greed, before wandering over to the basket to select one.
The apples were small, probably an early crop, and many were afflicted with canker and rust. Mary did not doubt that whichever farmer delivered these to Mr Parsims had done so with a reluctant heart.
She picked up the ripest of the apples, wiped it idly on her skirts, before taking a large bite. It was sour at first, but once her mouth adjusted to its sharpness, Mary happily continued munching--she really was famished.
As she ate, her eyes flickered about the room, finally coming to rest upon the mantelpiece. Beside the half-eaten apple that Mr Parsims had left behind stood a decorative box made of enamel and mother of pearl. It had not been placed on display, as one would expect of such a fine object, rather it looked as though it had been left there by mistake.
Her heart beating with excitement, Mary raced over to the box, hoping against hope that she might find something inside.
Her hands shook as she opened the box, its hinges squealing in protest, and as she saw what was hidden within, Mary gave a gasp of amazement.
Money; gold shillings, silver sovereigns, farthings, and groats, filled the box. There were even a dozen or so banknotes--which Mary had never seen--declaring that they had been underwritten by The Bank of England, in London. Along with the notes, there were folded sheaves of paper, written on with what looked to be Mr Parsims' own hand. Mary unfolded them and found the names of all the local farmers, their expected output for the year, what Mr Parsims' would be owed from them, and what those owings might earn for him should he sell his share. The numbers amounted to quite a considerable sum, Mary noted with shock.
The final page differed from the other pages, in that it merely contained a list of names with a monetary sum written beside each one. Some names Mary did not recognise, others had been crossed out, struck through with a thick dash of ink.
Mary frowned as she read the names which remained; Fairweather, Canet, Walker, Wickling. Each name had a different sum writ beside it; Canet two crowns, Fairweather one, Wickling a farthing, Walker two. Whatever could it mean, Mary wondered. There was no rhyme or reason as to why Mr Parsims might be seeking payment from those listed--apart, of course, from Mr Fairweather, who as a farmer would owe a tithe to the church.
Mary stood still for a few moments, the box of money tucked under her arm, the list of names in her hand. Her earlier wish to be gone as soon as possible had left her, but as the kitchen door rattled, indicating that someone was about to enter, it soon returned.
Curses! Who was it? And what would they think when they found Mary, standing in a dead man's kitchen holding a box of loot?
She looked around for somewhere to hide, but, of course, it was too late. The kitchen door creaked open to reveal the towering figure of the Duke of Northcott, framed by the morning sun.
"Miss Mifford," he sounded somewhat surprised, though not as surprised as Mary might have imagined. In fact, there was a faint blush around his cheeks, though it might have been from the sun.
"Y-Y-Your Grace," Mary answered, wondering if it would be very obvious if she were to hide the box behind her back.
As though omnipotent--and perhaps he was, for he seemed a most accomplished gentleman--Northcott's eyes darted to the box and papers which Mary held in her hands. His thick, dark brows drew into a frown.
"I know this looks rather suspicious," Mary said, deciding that honesty might be the best--and only--policy open to her.
"I am glad we are in agreement on that matter," Northcott was cool.
"It's just that--" Mary could feel herself welling up, but she refused to cry before the duke. Not only would she look weak, but he might also think that she was using tears to try to manipulate him.
No, Mary would not cry, for she had no reason to. She had not murdered Mr Parsims, and she was not a gravedigger, seeking to steal from the dead.
"It is just," she continued, in a more even tone, "That I am aware that the entire village thinks that I murdered Mr Parsims--which is my own fault for being so vulgar, as my uncle informed me--, but I did not. I thought that, perhaps, there might be something here which might reveal who had killed him; a note, or an item, or something..."
Her excuse sounded pallid, even to her own ears, though to Mary's surprise, the duke gave a firm nod of agreement.
"I am convinced of your innocence, Miss Mifford," he said, rather formally, "And while I do not approve of you rummaging through Mr Parsims' belongings alone, there is some method to your madness."
Though she was rather affronted at having her actions dubbed as "mad", Mary held her tongue. It would not do to look a gift-horse in the mouth, especially when said horse was a duke--a duke who had planted himself firmly on her side if his words were to be believed.
"I found this," Mary waved the papers she held in the air, "It's a list of all the tithes Mr Parsims expected to collect, though at the end there is another page, which I cannot make head nor tail of. Would you like to see?"
Northcott nodded, and Mary crossed the flagstone floor to hand them to him. His gloved hand brushed hers as he took them and Mary shivered; not once in her life had she been in such close proximity to a man unchaperoned. Did they all smell so divine, she wondered, or was it just the duke in particular who exuded this heavenly scent? The air around him was crisp, like citrus, sweet, like basil, yet with a distinctly woody undertone. Had she been more worldly, Mary might have guessed that Northcott wore a cologne from Floris of Jermyn Street in town, but her parochial nose simply decided that the duke was naturally scent-sational.
"What on earth?" Northcott frowned as he read the page that Mary had handed to him, "I cannot fathom why those listed might owe Parsims these sums? His living is quite clear; tithes to be paid from agricultural increases, not any waged employees."
Northcott paused, to think. As he did so, Mary surreptitiously admired his features, which were decidedly more handsome up-close. His jaw was square, his cheekbones high, his nose Roman and aristocratic. It was his eyes, however, which were the most striking of all his features; bright blue, framed by a thick set of black lashes, which Mary envied terribly.
"Is there any chance that Parsims might have been acting as a money-lender of sorts?" the duke wondered aloud.
Mary, despite her best intentions to impress the duke, gave a snort of laughter.
"Excuse me," she apologised, cheeks pink, "It's just that there were not many people who liked Mr Parsims, and I think that dislike was so great that there would be few who would wish to debase themselves by asking him for a monetary loan."
"True," Northcott agreed, "Though there must be some reason for this list."
"We might ask them?" Mary suggested, rather liking the use of "we" in regards to herself and the duke.
"I think matters which need investigating are best left to me, Miss Mifford," Northcott answered, sounding rather imperious to Mary's ears.
Had Mary three brothers, instead of three sisters, she might have understood that this was the way men were; they took charge of situations, thinking themselves duty-bound to act on behalf of all females, to protect them. However, having had no experience of this masculine chivalry, Mary was prone to think it bossiness more than helpfulness.
"I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace," Mary replied, feeling quite hot under the collar, "But as it is my reputation which is at stake, I would rather not sit passively by and allow you to do all the work. Besides, I might offer some local insight which might be useful to speed up your investigation."
Northcott looked momentarily taken aback; as a duke, Mary guessed, he was not used to people going against his wishes. She could not, however, regret her words. It was her reputation on the line and her sisters' for that matter. There was no greater cause worth fighting for than her own flesh and blood.
"Very well," Northcott nodded, and waved a hand at the table, "Why don't we sit down and discuss what we know so far?"
A bright smile tugged at Mary's lips, though she fought against it valiantly. It would not look well to be so cheerful when they were discussing such serious matters. And so, Mary rearranged her features into what she hoped was a thoughtful repose, then took a seat on one side of the table, while Northcott took the seat opposite her.
"Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Parsims dead?" he asked, getting straight to business. "I am aware that there was an incident with a farmer last year when Parsims was suspected of letting a dog loose to worry his ewes."
"Stephen Browne," Mary confirmed.
"Then there was a disagreement with a gentleman at the inn."
"Mr Thompson," Mary supplied, a font of knowledge when it came to local gossip.
"Though both of these incidents happened some time ago," Northcott continued, "And neither man is on that list."
Northcott was correct, Mary thought; while both men might have had reason to want Mr Parsims dead some time ago, there were surely people with more current grievances.
"Mr Fairweather," Mary gasped. Northcott gave her an enquiring gaze and Mary continued--though not before allowing herself to feel a momentary pang of something delicious as his eyes met hers.
"At the assembly," Mary explained, "Mr Parsims was behaving most inappropriately with Mrs Fairweather, and her husband was most aggrieved. They had an argument; she stormed off, he followed."
"Interesting," Northcott scratched his chin, "Is Mr Fairweather the jealous type?"
"Oh, yes," Mary nodded, "Mrs Fairweather is very beautiful and her husband is suspicious of any gentleman she talks with. Perhaps, Mr Parsims' leering incited a jealous rage?"
"Perhaps," Northcott agreed, "Anything else?"
"He also behaved rather inappropriately with Mrs Walker," Mary mused, "Though as she is a widow, she is not in possession of a husband to commit murder on her behalf."
"She is on the list, though," Northcott pointed out, to which Mary could only agree.
"Oh," she cried, as another thought struck her, "Monsieur Canet! His name is written there, and the day of the ball, Jane and I--Jane is my sister--overheard him arguing with someone in the gardens of The King's Head. We could not see who it was, but perhaps it was Mr Parsims?"
"It just might have been," Northcott glanced down at the page, reading through the other names listed, "And what of this Wickling person?"
"Mrs Wickling," Mary rolled her eyes, "I do not think she murdered the rector, Your Grace; she does not do anything without Mrs Canards' say-so."
"There must be some reason as to why she's been included," Northcott mused, though he stopped abruptly as the kitchen door opened, and Mrs Goulding entered, humming cheerfully.
"Lud," the elderly woman jumped as she spotted the pair seated at the kitchen table, "I wasn't expectin' to find anyone 'ere."
"And you might be?" Northcott was cool, though he did stand to his feet as she entered.
"Your Grace, this is Mrs Goulding," Mary rushed to introduce the rector's housekeeper, who did not look too impressed by the duke's greeting, "She keeps house--I mean she kept house--for Mr Parsims."
"I just popped in to make sure everythin' was neat and tidy," Mrs Goulding explained, "Lest any of Mr Parsims' family arrive up from Abingdon."
"He's not from Abingdon," Northcott corrected, absently. "That was just his last parish; he hails from Cirencester, if I recall correctly."
"Well, it don't matter where they're from," Mrs Goulding grumbled, "They'll still complain if they find this place in a sty, and I shall be the talk of Plumpton!"
Mary, who was herself the current talk of Plumpton, was happy to imagine a time when someone else might be the subject of village gossip. Still, she liked Mrs Goulding, and it was true that Mrs Canards would have great fun blackening her name, so Mary decided it might be best to leave to allow her to get on with her task.
"I should be off," Mary said, standing from her seat.
"And what were you both doin' 'ere?" it was Mrs Goulding's turn to be suspicious, as she belatedly registered that neither Mary nor the duke belonged there.
"Looking for clues as to who might have killed Mr Parsims," Mary replied, tartly.
"I 'eard it was you."
"Yes, well," Mary flushed, "You heard wrong."
"You were Mr Parsims' housekeeper," the duke interrupted, perhaps sensing a need to intervene between the two ladies, "Can you think of anything suspicious, or anyone who might wish him harm?"
"Oh, plenty," Mrs Goulding was far too cheerful for a woman discussing her recently deceased employer. "In fact, I've often thought of the ways I'd like to kill that man myself. Mean as a snake, so 'e was. Not even an extra groat for Twelfth Night, just complaints that 'is collars were too grubby and that my hemming wasn't up to scratch."
"Er..." for such a worldly man, Northcott looked completely flummoxed by Mrs Goulding's bald honesty, "Did you kill him?"
"What, me?" the housekeeper was outraged, "No, sir, Your Grace, sir. If I was to kill 'im, it would have been with poison; mixed in with 'is evening stew is how I always thought I'd do it. You can't think an old woman like me would have the strength to batter a man to death?"
"Of course not," Northcott soothed, though Mary did wonder at the obvious thought that Mrs Goulding had put into murdering the rector.
"Well, we shall leave you to it," Northcott said, offering the housekeeper a bow, before ushering Mary to the door. As it closed behind them, they heard Mrs Goulding resume her very cheerful humming--Green Grow the Rushes, O, if Mary was not mistaken.
"Well," Northcott exhaled, a smile tugging the corners of his generous mouth, "That was certainly eye-opening; it seems there's not a person alive who did not wish Mr Parsims dead, which augurs well for you, Miss Mifford."
"Unless we find out who it was that did it, Your Grace," Mary replied glumly, "I'm afraid that it does not matter how many people had murderous thoughts about Mr Parsims, and that I will always be thought of as the suspect."
Despair threatened to overwhelm Mary, but then something strange happened. Northcott gave a strange, strained cough, and his gloved hand brushed briefly against Mary's own. It was an action which might have been completely accidental, perhaps caused by the duke shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but the slight touch sent Mary's heart skittering.
She felt her cheeks blush, and as she willed them to calm down, she felt them growing ever
hotter.
"Rest assured, Miss Mifford," His Grace said, "That I shall not rest until I have found the perpetrator and cleared your name."
Oh, if Mary had not been a newly-sworn, dedicated spinster, she might have swooned. As it was, practicality took over her girlish urge to faint--for after London, she knew that no man of means would have any romantic interest in her--and, instead, she offered Northcott a cheery smile.
"And I shall assist you in your task, Your Grace," she replied, sounding as hearty as any gentleman, "I shall poke about a bit, and see if I can gather any information from Mrs Walker and Mrs Wickling. You can take on the men."
"Er, yes," Northcott looked slightly wrong-footed at having been dictated to, "I shall call on you should I learn anything of interest."
"And I shall send word to the manor if I learn anything," Mary agreed, as she unconsciously clenched and unclenched her hand.
She offered Northcott a stiff good-bye, refused his gallant offer of an escort home, and set back off along the Bath Road in the direction of Plumpton.
Though she tried to keep her mind on the task of subtly interrogating Mrs Walker and Mrs Wickling, Mary's thoughts kept drifting back to the moment that Northcott's hand had brushed against hers. Her limbs still felt light, her heart giddy, and she allowed herself a moment to achingly long for Northcott to have done it purposefully--a perfectly ridiculous idea. A duke would never take a fancy to a lady such as she.
You have chosen your path, Mary reminded herself sternly; you shall dedicate yourself only to seeing that your sisters marry well. And the only way to ensure that that would happen, was be by clearing her name.
Mary's step was more certain as she continued on her path. She would do everything in her power to find out just who it was that had killed Mr Parsims--though she could not help but feel that she was overlooking something.
Chapter Six
A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage Book 1) Page 6