Although there were a dozen things on the estate to which Henry ought to attend, as he left Mr Parsims' cottage, he decided that the matter of Miss Mifford took top priority on his to-do list.
After all, he told himself, if there was a murderer on the loose in Plumpton, it was his duty to track them down as speedily as possible. He owed it to his tenants, he reassured himself, unwilling to admit even to himself that his mind was not filled with the great and good of Plumpton, but an image of a pretty young woman in a hideous mob-cap instead.
As he urged his steed forward toward Stephen Browne's holding, Henry's hand within his glove burned. It had only briefly brushed off Miss Mifford's own gloved hand, but in all his thirty years, Henry had never felt so moved by such a small connection. A pity that Miss Mifford had not seemed similarly affected; she had not even seemed to note his brief touch and had been all business thereafter.
Perhaps she was a bluestocking, Henry mused, as he guided his horse down Cheddar Lane, toward the Brownes' farmhouse. There were a few such creatures in London; ladies who eschewed men in favour of literature and highbrow pursuits. Having spent far too much time in White's--where after a certain hour the calibre of conversation was really quite low--Henry was not entirely sure he blamed these bluestockings for their choice.
A towering wych elm marked the entrance to the Brownes' holding, and Henry turned off the laneway onto a well-maintained track. He followed this for a minute or so, before arriving at the farmer's cottage, a single-story, yellow brick building, with a roof of bright new thatch.
His arrival had not gone unnoticed; from inside, Henry could hear the sounds of squawking and panic, before the door was flung open and a woman--Mrs Browne, he presumed--emerged.
"Your Grace," she called, near bowing in deference whilst simultaneously attempting to tuck her hair under her cap, "Mr Browne will be out in a moment, he's just making himself presentable."
Henry was mildly pleased to have finally been greeted with the deference owed to his title, and so he offered Mrs Browne a smile, which sent her blushing.
"I shall not take up too much of your husband's time," Henry offered, as he dismounted.
His boots hit the muddy ground--work for his valet later--and Mrs Browne flushed.
"I am sorry," she said, glancing at the mucky yard, "If I had known you were coming, I would have--"
"Cobbled the yard?" Henry grinned, before waving a lazy hand, "Please, there is no need to apologise. I am a country man at heart."
Mrs Browne lifted a hand to her mouth, as though hiding a smile. Henry supposed that in his Hessian boots, spotless buckskin breeches, and merino wool coat that he did not look the part of a country man, but he had not lied. If required, he could roll up his sleeves and muck in with lambing, threshing, or harvesting, as well as the next man.
He was saved from having to fill an awkward silence by the arrival of Mr Browne, whose ears were dusted with soap suds and whose shirt was startlingly clean in comparison to his boots, which were caked in muck.
"Your Grace," Mr Browne stumbled a little as he walked toward him, "To what do we owe the honour?"
He spoke very formally and slowly, as though he had been rehearsing the line, which Henry supposed he had. It wasn't every day that a duke deigned to call on a farmer.
"I wish a word with you if you please," Henry replied, and Browne paled.
Was it guilt which made him turn so ghostly grey?
"Shall I brew some tea?" Mrs Browne croaked, but Henry shook his head.
"No, thank you," he replied, not wishing to discuss matters of murder in front of the fairer sex, "Perhaps Mr Browne, you might indulge me in a walk around the farm? We might inspect some of the lands while we talk."
"Yes, Your Grace," the farmer nodded, before leading Henry away from the farmhouse, wearing the expression of a man walking to the gallows.
They moved in silence, for a few minutes, across green fields dotted with sheep. Henry absently noted the new fences, the freshly dug drainage channels--for this close to the river the land was marshy--and the general air of order, as they walked through Browne's land.
"Please, Your Grace," Mr Browne eventually stuttered, "I can bear your silence no longer. Mr Silks had said that he would put in a kindly word with you about my arrears, but if you have decided to evict me, I would rather know now."
Oh, dear. Henry had taken several meetings with his estate agent since his return, but not once had Mr Browne's arrears come up in conversation. As Mr Silks was an excellent agent, and as the matters they had already attended to had been of the utmost importance, Henry deduced that Mr Silks had not mentioned anything yet as Mr Browne's arrears were not so great and his chances of repaying them were high.
"I have not come to evict you," Henry said firmly, and Mr Browne visibly sagged with relief.
"I have, however," Henry continued sternly, "Come to discuss the matter of Mr Parsims' murder with you."
A brief grin crossed Mr Browne's face, though he hid it quickly.
"Terrible business," the farmer said, rather unconvincingly.
"Yes," Henry frowned, "And I am trying to deduce who did it. You had a rather public altercation with Mr Parsims, did you not? An altercation in which you threatened to kill him."
"I did, Your Grace," Mr Browne confirmed, his face stony, his eyes looking not at Henry but into the past, "The man set a dog loose amongst my pregnant ewes."
"You suspect he did," Henry corrected him, but Mr Browne shook his head stubbornly.
"Look around," he said, gesturing a thick arm at the nearby fences, "There's not a fence that needs mending on this farm, never has been, for I know that a lost lambing season can ruin a man. In my forty years of farming, I've never had a flock attacked, then the week after my run-in with Mr Parsims, a dog miraculously made its way into one of my pens. I don't believe in coincidences, Your Grace, and I know a bad 'un when I see him. That Mr Parsims was as bad as could be."
"Did you kill him?" Henry asked baldly.
"No," Mr Browne shook his head, "I heard he was struck on the back of the head; if I'd have killed him, I'd have wanted him to know it was me. I would have wanted to watch him suffer, as I have suffered, and know that it was I who caused his pain."
Gracious, was everyone in Plumpton secretly homicidal, or was it only when it came to Mr Parsims? Henry did not have a chance to ponder this thought, for Mr Browne spoke again.
"Besides," he added sheepishly, "I was nowhere near the village last night, and there are plenty of folk who can confirm it. Mr Hayes, two-mile over, had a dinner to celebrate the birth of his first grandchild, and there were several of us there until the small hours. I could not see straight to walk home, let alone murder a man."
It was Henry's turn now to hide a smile; he had thought Mr Browne's pale, sweaty mien a sign of guilt, but it could equally have been attributed to the after-effects of alcohol. Home brewed mead packed quite the punch.
"Very well," Henry nodded, "I shall ask about and confirm your story; you are off the hook for now."
"He really was a bad 'un," Mr Browne continued, his eyes thoughtful, "If I didn't know any better, I'd swear he was only pretending to be a rector. Not one bone in that man's body was Christian, I can guarantee you that. Not, of course, that I am questioning your appointment of him, Your Grace."
These last words were added hastily, as Mr Browne realised that he might have spoken out of turn. Henry brushed away his concern with a careless wave of his hand.
"No need to mollycoddle me," Henry smiled ruefully, "I am man enough to admit when I have made a mistake, and I'm afraid--from the other complaints that I have heard about him--that I made a rather large one in appointing Mr Parsims to St Mary's."
Conversation then turned to matters agricultural. Mr Browne was eager to show Henry how well he kept his land, and Henry indulged him for a half-hour, before taking his leave.
"I shall discuss with Mr Silks how we might find a solution for your rent arrears," Henry
said before he departed. From what he had seen, Mr Browne had not lied when he had said how much care he took of his flock, and Henry was beginning to feel that he had some culpability in the man's misfortune, for it was he who had appointed Parsims to Plumpton.
Henry remounted his horse, his stomach rumbling with hunger, and set off for the village. As he rode, he cast his mind back over what he knew of Mr Parsims, which was not very much.
His initial meeting with the rector had been rather serendipitous. Henry's father had been dead two years when news that the old rector of St Mary's, Mr Goodwill, had succumbed to old age. Henry had spent two years avoiding visiting his ducal seat, due to guilt at having neglected his father before his unexpected death in favour of gadding about town, and he had not relished the thought of returning to the Cotswolds to find a replacement for Goodwill.
The evening that he had learned of Goodwill's death, he had visited White's, before ending up--as many men of means did--in a gaming hell in Pickering Place. There, at a hazard table, Henry had bumped into Parsims, who had sought to introduce himself. Or re-introduce himself, for Parsims had claimed a prior acquaintance.
"William Parsims," he had said, his fleshy face smiling, "From Oxford. I wrote several essays for you during our time there."
Tuft-hunters--Oxford theology students of little means in search of a living--spent almost as much time trying to curry favour with the landed gentry as they did on their studies, in the hope that one of these lords might appoint them a living. Henry had been plagued by tuft-hunters for the entirety of his studies, so when he could not place Parsims, he had not thought it odd.
Having drunk more than he usually would of a night, in order to assuage the gnawing guilt he had felt at the reminder of his duties to Plumpton and the estate, Henry had decided that Mr Parsims' re-entrance into his sphere was divine intervention, rather than merely a well-timed coincidence and had impulsively offered him the living at St Mary's.
Mr Parsims had sent a letter to Henry, a sennight after their drunken conversation, to say that he was installed in the rectory, and Henry had given no more thought to the matter.
Another mistake, Henry thought, guilt gnawing at his stomach.
Though he was fastidious in business matters, and a perfectionist with everything else, Henry was also terrifically stubborn. He had not liked the feeling of guilt and shame that filled him when he thought of Plumpton, and so had ignored its very existence. Oh, he ensured that he had installed only the best land agent in Mr Silks, the best servants in the manor, and provided any funds requested without question--but that had not been enough.
A ducal seat required a duke, Henry realised, and he had deprived Plumpton of one for five years.
Guilt threatened to overwhelm him, but Henry would not allow it. He was here now, and he would do his duty.
Though first, he thought, as his stomach rumbled, he must eat.
Thinking to kill two birds with one stone, Henry made for The King's Head, where the French chef Canet was employed. There, Henry indulged in a large luncheon of stuffed pigeon, served on a plate of Dauphinoise potatoes, and accompanied by green beans and a decanter of claret.
Having sated his hunger, Henry waved for the footman and requested the chance to offer the chef his compliments.
"Of course, Your Grace," the footman answered, "Monsieur Canet will be delighted."
Perhaps not for long, Henry thought, though inwardly he doubted that a man who could perform such heavenly feats with potatoes might be capable of murder.
The footman led Henry to the kitchens, where they found the chef smoking a pipe by the open back door. He turned, all Roman nose and dark brow, as Henry and the footman entered, casting them both an impatient glare.
"Oui?" he demanded of the footman, who blushed with embarrassment on Henry's behalf.
"His Grace wishes to speak with you, monsieur," the footman stammered, wringing his hands nervously.
The French man did not look remotely awed to find himself in the presence of a duke, Henry noted. Canet turned his brown eyes to Henry and waited impatiently for him to speak.
"I'd actually like a word alone, with Mr Canet," Henry said to the footman, who duly obliged them by scampering from the room.
"I wish to compliment you on your fine cooking," Henry continued, once they were alone. It was always best to lead with a compliment, he knew--especially when dealing with a man in possession of some terrifically impressive carving knives as Monsieur Canet had displayed upon the wall.
"Merci," Canet gave a smug smile, turning to Henry with interest now, "Am I to take it that you wish to offer me a position at the manor?"
"Ah..."
The idea had not even occurred to Henry, but now that he mentioned it, it would be rather nice to be served such gourmet fare every evening.
"I cannot be bought," Canet continued, with a pompous toss of his--admittedly luscious--brown locks, "I am a believer in the égalité of men; every English man has the right to sample my creations, not just the aristocracy."
"I doubt every English man could afford lunch here," Henry replied dryly. He understood what Canet was about now; a revolutionary idealist with more words than conviction. The guests at The King's Head were hardly the poor and huddled masses--they were, each one, decidedly genteel and moneyed. And Canet himself did not look like a starving idealist; his boots were Lobby's, if Henry was not mistaken.
"I also wished to enquire about any dealings you might have had with the late Mr Parsims," Henry continued, glad that Canet's outburst had allowed him to forgo any further politeness.
The chef's eyes flickered momentarily, but long enough for Henry to note the panic in them.
"I did not know Mr Parsims at all," Canet shrugged, "I have never had any dealings with that man."
"Really?" Henry raised a brow.
"Really," Canet nodded, tapping his pipe impatiently against the door frame.
"Then why was your name included in a list of people that Mr Parsims appeared to believe owed him money?"
Victory was sweet; Canet paled, the hand which held his pipe shook furiously, and he licked his lips nervously.
"It was?" he asked, nonchalantly, though it was a beat too late for genuine innocence.
"Yes," Henry watched him carefully, "You're listed as owing two crowns; that's quite a sum of money."
"Perhaps he expected me to donate to the church from my wages," Canet shrugged, though his brown eyes would not meet Henry's, "I did not know Mr Parsims, but I have heard enough to learn that he was a man who felt the world was in his debt."
"Where were you last night?" Henry questioned, unwilling to allow Canet think he was off the hook.
"Here," Henry was offered a Gallic shrug, "You may ask any of the staff; they will tell you that I worked until eight o'clock and then retired to my rooms. Edward, the footman, brought me up coal at about ten, as I was running low."
"I shall confirm that with Edward," Henry replied, still suspicious of the French man, "Though that would only confirm your whereabouts at ten o'clock and Mr Parsims was murdered after eleven. Plenty of time to sneak out, if one wished to."
"I did not wish to," Canet's eyes were cool, "Now, if you will excuse me, I have a soufflé to which I must attend."
There was nothing in the world that Henry loved more than a good soufflé. Had he less pride, he might have tried to sneak back into the dining room to order a bowl, but he resisted the temptation. Henry gave the chef a stiff nod, to let him know that he was dismissed and left the kitchen, stopping only to confirm with the footman that he had brought coal to Canet's rooms the night before.
"That I did, Your Grace," Edward confirmed, though his youthful face was awash with uncertainty.
"Is there anything else?" Henry prompted
"Well," the footman tugged on his starched collar, as though it was too tight, "I would not like to get anyone in trouble..."
"An innocent lady's reputation is at stake," Henry pressed, hoping that g
allantry might inspire the young man to share his secrets, "If you think you might know something--no matter how small--it is of the utmost importance that you tell me."
"Mr Parsims was here yesterday," Edward whispered in a rush, casting a fearful glance over his shoulder to make sure no one else was listening, "He met Monsieur Canet in the gardens, and they had a terrible row; I don't know what it was about, because I could not hear them. But I knew they were having an argument as monsieur's face went all red, the way it always does when he's angry."
Interesting. Henry tried to keep his face impassive so that the footman would not know just how important the information he had shared was. Canet had lied; he had said that he had never spoken with Mr Parsims and now here was a fellow who was saying that he had seen him do just that.
"Thank you," Henry said stiffly, "That is most helpful. I pray you will not tell anyone what you have just told me?"
"I shan't, Your Grace," the footman vowed, and Henry slipped him a farthing for his troubles.
Henry left The King's Head, his mind clouded in thought. He would not confront the Frenchman with what he had learned just yet, he decided. He needed more proof; a substantial motive, or a witness who had seen Monsieur Canet about the village after eleven, before he could say for definite that he had murdered Parsims--though Henry was already convinced of the Frenchman's guilt.
In fact, he was so thoroughly certain that Canet was the perpetrator, that he would have gone straight home without seeking out the last remaining suspect, had Mr Fairweather not crossed his path by chance.
Outside The Ring'O'Bells stood two men, both farmers judging by their attire, engaged in a heated debate. Henry, who was not immune to human curiosity, slowed down as he passed--along with several others, who were less subtle than he in their gawking--to try to glean what the argument was about.
"Don't tell me you've no money to pay me, Fairweather," the older of the two men roared, "For I know what you're up to-don't think I haven't seen you skulking about late at night. Now, you will repay me for the loss of my mare, or I will march myself up to the manor and--"
"Alright," Mr Fairweather interrupted, his face pale, "I shall have it for you by next week. You have my word."
A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage Book 1) Page 7