"I met Mrs Fairweather on High Street and she said that she was bringing a tablecloth to you, so I volunteered to come in her stead," Mary said, thinking it best to ignore Mrs Wickling's other comment altogether.
"Does Mrs Fairweather think herself too grand to do her own deliveries?" Mrs Wickling grumbled, as she accepted the package Mary proffered.
Some people, Mary thought darkly, could never be satisfied. She was glad now that she had offered to come to Mrs Wickling's on Mrs Fairweather's behalf, for Mary was certain that the cantankerous, crabby woman would have made a hurtful remark about the bruise which marred the seamstress' cheek. And, after that, she would have gossiped about it with Mrs Canards.
"She does not think herself too grand," Mary was firm, "I insisted, for I was already coming this way."
"And what brings you down this end of the village?" Mrs Wickling queried, nosey as ever.
"Actually," Mary held her gaze, "I wished to discuss something with you; Mr Parsims."
The slight second of satisfaction that Mary felt at startling the awful Mrs Wickling disappeared as the elderly lady turned pale and began to shake.
"Oh," Mary cried, feeling wretched, "Come inside, Mrs Wickling, and I shall make you a cup of tea."
Mary led Mrs Wickling inside the cottage, which was dark and cold despite the sunny day outside. Mary helped Mrs Wickling into a seat by the fireplace, before using the bellows to stir some life into the fire and popping the kettle on to boil.
"What do you know?" Mrs Wickling queried, as a few minutes later Mary handed her a cup of tea.
The woman looked so ghastly that Mary briefly wondered if she had killed Mr Parsims. What a turn up for the books that would be.
"I know only that he was bribing you," Mary said, carefully, as she sat down in the chair opposite Mrs Wickling, "And I want you to know that you were not alone. Mr Parsims used many peoples' secrets against them for his own financial gain."
"He did?"
Mrs Wickling, whom just seconds ago Mary had feared was about to expire from shock, sat up in her chair with excitement. Her dark eyes danced with interest, and she regarded Mary more kindly than she had on her arrival.
"Do tell, dear," she whispered, leaning forward, "I'm all ears."
Some people, Mary thought sourly, could not be helped.
"It is not for me to say," Mary was pious, "I simply wanted to let you know that you were not alone in your suffering, but now that Mr Parsims is dead and buried, it has come to an end."
"You won't tell her, will you?" Mrs Wickling blurted, as Mary finished her speech, "You won't tell Mrs Canards that it was I who sabotaged her roses? Oh, I just couldn't stand to watch her win again. Every year she takes first place in that competition; I wouldn't mind it if she was gracious, but she gloats and gloats for weeks afterwards."
So that was the secret Mr Parsims had held over her head! Mary tried not to let her surprise show on her face--for this was nearly more shocking that Mrs Walker's reveal--as she offered Mrs Wickling a kindly smile.
"Gossip is a disease which spreads from mouth to mouth," Mary said in reply, "And I, for one, will not partake in it. Your secret is safe with me, Mrs Wickling."
"Thank you," the elderly woman replied, though it was obvious that the words were difficult for her to get out. She cleared her throat, sipped her tea, then turned her head to the package in her lap in order to distract them both.
"Such fine work," Mrs Wickling commented, as she rubbed an arthritic hand across the linen "Her embroidery is faultless, even if her character is not."
"Let he without sin cast the first stone," Mary responded, her patience finally giving way, "Thank you for the tea, Mrs Wickling, I shall let myself out."
Outside, Mary took a deep breath of fresh air to calm herself. Mrs Wickling would try the patience of a saint and Mary could not think of two people more suited to be friends than she and Mrs Canards. They were like two peas in a pod; grasping, mean, and hypocritical. Every Sunday, both ladies could be found in church, sitting proudly in the front row, judging those they thought less holy than they.
"My dear, you look vexed."
It was rare for Mary to find her father alone in the house, but upon her return he was the only one present. Mr Mifford regarded Mary with knowing eyes, then waved a hand to indicate that she should follow him into the library.
As Primrose Cottage was not a large house, and as most of the space was taken up by its four daughters, Mr Mifford's library might be regarded by some as more of a cupboard than a room. Mary, however, adored the squashed, cosy feeling of the library, where the shelves reached up to the very ceilings and the chairs were so close to the fire that it was almost a hazard.
"Is there anything that you would like to share with me?" Mr Mifford questioned, as he poured a glass of brandy for himself and a minuscule serving for Mary.
Mary hesitated as she tried to decide what she needed to censure from her father's ears. Not only was she the custodian of Mrs Walker's and Mrs Wickling's secrets, but she was also the custodian of her own--she could not tell her father how much time she had spent alone with Northcott, in case he disapproved.
In a halting manner, Mary began to explain all that had transpired to her father; Mr Parsims' blackmail of both Mrs Walker and Mrs Wickling, that Mrs Walker had finally found happiness with Canet but that it might soon be snatched away, and the awful hypocrisy of Mrs Wickling and Mrs Canards.
"It's not fair," Mary surmised, "Poor Mrs Walker is to be punished again, when she is so good, while Mrs Wickling can carry on with her appalling behaviour."
"Life is not fair," Mr Mifford replied sagely, as he sipped upon his brandy, "Well, to the untrained eye it can seem that way, at least."
Mary sipped on her own brandy--though only once, for it was vile--and waited for her father to continue.
"In my line of work, we often focus too much on punishment in the afterlife, and forget that people can be punished by their actions in the here and now too," Mr Mifford said, his beard twitching as he smiled, "You think that Mrs Walker is the only one suffering, but think how Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling suffer every day. The only friend they have is each other."
"Not even," Mary replied, thinking of how Mrs Wickling had sabotaged her friend's roses out of spite, "They're both too horrid to show even each other any kindness."
"There you are," Mr Mifford waved a hand, "Is that punishment enough for you? Or would you rather God was bit more Old Testament in his punishment?"
"No," Mary shook her head, "There has been quite enough blood shed in Plumpton."
"As for Mrs Walker," Mr Mifford continued, "If Monsieur Canet does turn out to be guilty of murder, I can only say that she has perhaps had a lucky escape."
"Oh?" Mary raised an eyebrow, but her father was not to be swayed.
"A woman who falls for a rake once, is a sure target for a second one," Mr Mifford said, before changing the subject, "And I will speak to Mr Fairweather; though this is not the first time I have been asked to talk to him regarding this, and I don't want to give you false hope that it will be the last. If you marry, Mary, I implore you to please choose your husband carefully."
"I will not marry now, father," Mary replied, with a heavy sigh, "I am far too old and now fully committed to a life of spinsterhood."
"Is that so?" Mr Mifford reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a letter, sealed with a red-wax stamp, "If that is the case then, would you rather not read this letter which came for you from Northcott Manor?"
"Oh, no," Mary jumped from her chair to retrieve the missive from his hand, "I mean, it might have important information about Northcott's investigation."
"Indeed," Mr Mifford looked terribly amused.
Mary could not bear to read Northcott's words under her father's knowing eye, so she excused herself and ran to her bedroom, where she might read it in private. With trembling hands, Mary opened the letter, quickly scanning its contents.
Miss Mifford,
&n
bsp; It has been brought to my attention that Monsieur Canet did leave his rooms on the night of Mr Parsims' murder, despite stating otherwise. I shall confront him this evening with Mr Marrowbone as my witness. I feel we have our man.
N.
Oh, Mary sighed. She was both glad that the wretched situation had reached its end and sad, at the same time, for Mrs Walker, whose hopes for the future would be dashed once again. She pondered life's wretchedness for a good five minutes until, to her shame, she picked up the letter to read the duke's intimate signature once more.
"N," she whispered aloud, falling onto her bed to gaze up at the ceiling.
Having never received a letter from a gentleman, Mary was uncertain if they all signed their names this way, or had this abbreviation been a particular sign of Northcott's affection toward her? And, he had not said "the" man, he had said "our" man, as though Canet was something which belonged to them both. Though, Mary thought with a frown, perhaps that wasn't so romantic after all.
Despite all her insistence that she wished to be a spinster, Mary allowed herself a few minutes to daydream about the duke. A few minutes turned into a few minutes more, and Mary felt herself drifting off into sleep.
"Mary!"
Jane's voice roused Mary from her deep slumber, and as she blinked her eyes awake, Mary saw that darkness had fallen--she must have been asleep for hours.
"What is it?" Mary groused, annoyed with herself for having fallen asleep in her good walking-dress.
"It's Monsieur Canet," Jane said, her face pale.
"Did he confess to the murder?" Mary asked, sitting up, feeling wide-awake now.
"No," Jane shook her head, "He's dead. Mr Marrowbone and the duke went to his rooms this evening and found him lying in a pool of blood. Someone had stabbed him, Mary--someone has murdered Monsieur Canet."
Chapter Ten
In the aftermath of discovering Guillame Canet's body lying lifeless in a puddle of blood, Henry was ashamed to admit that the one thought which plagued him was what would Miss Mifford think of him now?
He fervently wished that he had not sent a footman to Primrose Cottage with a missive declaring that they had caught their man. In fact, he wasn't even entirely sure why he had sent it in the first place. He could have simply told her in person after the fact, and not wasted a good hour--a full hour--agonising over what signature to use on the now utterly pointless note.
That he had wasted another hour wondering if she would note the intimacy of his simple initial was a secret that Henry vowed he would take to his grave.
Love was a messy business, though not as messy as murder.
"There's blood everywhere," Mr Marrowbone complained, so sincerely annoyed that one would think he was the one who might have to clean it.
"He stabbed him right in a vein," Henry retorted, feeling nauseous as he looked down at Monsieur Canet, who lay motionless on the wooden floor.
A knife of some sort was protruding from Canet's neck and had Henry the stomach, he might have removed it to examine it further. As it was, his stomach was full from his dinner and he did not want to risk adding to the mess on the floor by casting up his accounts. He would wait until the physician had arrived, then inspect it further.
Think of the devil and he will appear, Henry thought, as a second later Dr Bates arrived, huffing and puffing through the door.
"I came as soon as I was called," the doctor said, though the crumbs in his moustache suggested otherwise.
"Mr Canet has been stabbed," Henry said, stepping back for the doctor to examine the body.
"Oh, dear," Dr Bates covered his mouth with his hand, his face pale, "I can see that."
The physician stepped past Henry to peer down at the recently deceased Canet. "Well, he's definitely dead," Dr Bates said, after a moment's silence, "Will that be all?"
"It would be most helpful if you could remove the knife," Henry answered, through gritted teeth. He already had a work-shy constable to deal with, he did not need to add an idle doctor to the mix.
Dr Bates grimaced and stooped down to retrieve the knife which was protruding from Canet's neck. Henry, his stomach roiling, looked away for fear of debasing himself. He could feel sweat forming on his brow and he hastily picked up a handkerchief from the washstand to mop at it--having forgotten his own.
"Look at this!" Marrowbone called, distracting Henry from the task at hand.
The constable had been poking through Canet's belongings--out of curiosity, rather than competence--and he was staring down wide eyed at a drawer he had just opened.
Glad of the excuse to leave Dr Bates to carry on his macabre work alone, Henry crossed the room to join Marrowbone.
"There must be hundreds of pounds 'ere, Your Grace," Marrowbone whistled admiringly, as he gazed down at the drawer which was filled with bags of coin.
Another dead body, another stash of money. The people of Plumpton were most industrious, Henry thought, as he fished a scrap of paper from the drawer.
"A b of p, two crowns," Henry read aloud--what on earth was a "b of p"?
"That's quite a good price for that," Marrowbone commented, unaware of Henry's ignorance. The constable was untying the bags of coin and emptying them out for inspection, his eyes alight with reverence.
"Would you care to illuminate me further?" Henry said dryly, "Or are you simply going to stand there counting coin all night?"
"It's a brace of pheasant," Marrowbone replied, "Monsieur must know someone in the market in Stroud, if he was buying them for that price."
"Or," Henry said slowly, as he stared down at the money in the drawer, "He was selling them himself."
"I suppose he was shooting them on the grounds of his sprawling estate?" Marrowbone chuckled, "Have over!"
Henry allowed a silence to fall between them, so thick with disapproval that even the doltish constable could note it.
"I mean, have over, Your Grace," Marrowbone corrected himself, tugging nervously at the collar of his shirt.
It would have to do, Henry thought with a sigh, before quickly assessing all that he knew of Canet; a faux revolutionary who wore Lobby boots. Such a man would have no qualms in stealing from others for his own gain. Others being Henry.
Henry could have cursed his stupidity and all the clues which he had missed; Mr Feathers, the gamekeeper, raising the alarm that the game-stock was low, Mr Hargreaves' tales of hearing late-night shooting on the estate. Henry had been so caught up with investigating Mr Parsims' murder, that he had failed to notice the blindingly obvious; someone was poaching on his land.
"Would it be possible to sell poached game at the market in Stroud?" Henry asked of the constable.
"You could sell your mother if you were so inclined," Mr Marrowbone replied, with a conspiratorial wink.
"I am not seeking to sell poached game, Marrowbone," Henry sighed, "I am asking if it's possible that Canet was involved in some sort of poaching ring. He may have acted as an intermediary for someone; they handled the hunt, he handled the sales."
"There has been some talk of poachers down The Ring," Marrowbone offered, as he none-too-subtly scratched his backside.
"And, as constable, you felt no need to follow such talk up?"
"Wouldn't want to mix myself up with no poachin' ring, Your Grace," the constable looked nervous, "They can be mighty dangerous and, as I have said before, this is only a voluntary position."
"One wonders why you volunteered at all," Henry sighed, thoroughly tired of the man.
"I didn't," Marrowbone replied mournfully, "I fell behind on my rent to Lord Crabb, one month, and he volunteered me for the position in lieu of payment."
That explained the man's complete disinterest in upholding the law, Henry thought. Though as he turned his eyes away from Marrowbone, the scene which greeted him only confirmed what the constable had said. Poaching rings were dangerous; Guillame Canet's dead body attested to that.
"I am struggling to remove the knife," Dr Bates said, looking very much as thou
gh he were about to retch, "Once I do, would you like me to arrange to have the body removed?"
"Please," Henry instructed, his mind no longer on the grizzly murder scene or murder weapon, but on poachers instead.
"Come with me," Henry ordered Marrowbone, as he decided on what his next course of action should be. He needed to interrogate the inhabitants of The Ring'O'Bells, to try to learn the name of those they suspected of poaching. For Henry was certain, once he found his poacher, he would find Canet's murderer.
Henry marched from the Frenchman's rooms, with Marrowbone on his heels. Downstairs, the entrance hall of the inn was crowded with guests who had heard of the gruesome scene upstairs. The room buzzed with whispers, which grew to a deafening crescendo at Henry's appearance.
Edward, ever present, was attempting to restore some order to the chaotic scene. Henry hailed him over the heads of the crowd, and the footman rushed his way.
"Did you notice anyone acting suspiciously in the hours before Canet's murder?" Henry questioned, "Or did you see anyone unusual go upstairs?"
"No, Your Grace," the footman shook his head, "Monsieur returned from Stroud in the early afternoon and went straight upstairs to rest. It was only when he did not appear at dinner time, that we realised something was amiss."
"Can't cook dinner without a cook," Marrowbone nodded.
"I sent Delilah up to look for him," Edward continued, "She is the one who discovered him. He might have been lying there for hours; who knows how many people have passed through the door between this afternoon and this evening."
"Probably too many to bother counting," Marrowbone interjected, with a hopeful look to Henry.
"Thank you, Edward," Henry thanked the footman and ignored the work-shy constable's remark, "If you think of anything at all, come find me. Marrowbone and I shall be working late into the night."
Behind him, Henry heard the constable mutter something about there being a difference between working and volunteering, but Henry paid no heed. There was much to be done and Marrowbone would just have to lump it.
A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage Book 1) Page 12