The Case of the Puppet Constable (A Justice and Miss Quinn Mystery Book 2)

by Felicia Rogers

  She sat on the floor and drew her purchases close. Tears pooled in her eyes. Today she’d spent all the money she had, and for what? A few meager vegetables and a slice of meat. What was the point? With no wood she had no way to cook it.

  Tears cascaded along her cheeks and she swiped them away. Light filtered through the house’s cracked slats. Shadows danced past.

  Brigitta leaned her head against the wall. How had she gotten into such a sorry state? Since her childhood, her father’s position as pianoforte maker had allowed him to travel extensively and to visit those of means. Most of the time she’d traveled with her father, but on the rare occasion she’d been left behind, her father had returned and regaled her with vivid stories of his journeys. She had imagined that she played in well-manicured gardens and hid in topiaries of the grandest kind.

  He described one patron who had lain on a chaise longue with a servant feeding her grapes while he had tuned her instrument. Brigitta had visualized the scene until she felt she was the one relaxed on the longue.

  Brigitta pulled her legs to her chest. The ripped lace edging her gown dragged the floor. What would her mother say to see her in such attire? Rat holes chewed in her sleeves, threads dangling from the seams.

  If only her parents hadn’t died and left her alone. The impromptu trip, with a less than secure mode of transportation, had been an idea planned in folly. If only she had conceded to spend her birthday at home instead of insisting they visit the coast.

  Spoiled by her nomadic lifestyle, the idea of a birthday in Stockport seemed boring. Besides, with her father’s traveling, and her mother and her often going along, the opportunity to develop friends her own age had never occurred.

  She sighed. Maybe if she had tried to share her grief and loss with others in the village, they would have assisted with her plight, if nothing more than offering her a place of employment. Self-pity continued to well within her until she felt physically ill. Her parents would be greatly disappointed if they knew she had given up and allowed life to consume her.

  Basket of food in hand, she stood, squared her shoulders, and strode to the cottage next door.

  Timidly, she knocked. The flimsy material shook and put the rickety house in motion. The basket at her feet, she clasped her hands in front of her and knotted her gown.

  “Yes?” The door cracked open. One eye peered out and thinned as Jewel recognized her.

  Brigitta felt the wash of unfriendliness, which made her feel even more alone. Bravely, and fighting a tremor that threatened her voice, she asked, “Jewel, how are you?”

  “Good.” Jewel appeared hesitant as she peered through the chink.

  “I wanted to offer you a gift.”

  The door opened a little farther.

  “I bought meat and fresh vegetables today at the market, and—”

  “What do you want for them because I ain’t got no money.”

  Brigitta sighed. “I don’t want money. I was hoping you would cook and we could share the meal.”

  Jewel laughed uproariously. “I see what this is. You’re out of wood again.” Jewel yanked the door open and poked Brigitta’s chest. “Let me tell you something. Just because your pa worked for fancy people and you speak all proper like a lady don’t make you important.” Brigitta opened her mouth to explain but Jewel crossed her arms over her chest and said, “Besides, my man has brought food home today and I don’t plan on sharing my wood with you or anyone else!”

  The door slammed shut. Brigitta groaned aloud, grabbed her basket, turned on her heel, and stalked away.

  Instead of heading home, she hoisted the basket under her arm and took the path to the River Mersey. She found a clearing in the woods and set about gathering broken sticks and rocks. Depressed by the thought of returning to her lonely abode, she built a fire pit where she was. However, the fire wasn’t so easily started. She had to rub the flint pieces over and over. Finally, a spark caught the tender, and the flame spread. Hunger gnawed at her gut, and she thought of throwing the meat directly into the fire, but instead she washed a rock and set it in the center. The meat on top, and the potatoes sitting in the ash, she hoped to eat soon.

  The wind kicked up and Brigitta huddled closer to the flames. She inhaled deeply, the aroma of the cooking food made her stomach rumble. Jewel, the old hag, didn’t deserve any part of her meal.

  She flipped the meat and studied the waves on the water. Wind whistled through the trees, rattling the leaves, and Brigitta pushed the potatoes farther into the ash. Impatiently, she tapped her foot. In the distance, sunlight glinted off the windows of the baron’s estate. Rumor held that the estate was built so close to the ancient Stockport Castle that they shared the same hallways.

  Brigitta laughed at the thought and narrowed her gaze. Even through the trees, she could make out the Stockport Castle ruins. The motte-and-bailey castle had been demolished in 1775, at around the same time Baron Luther Andrews had built the west wing of his estate. Her father had told her many stories about his visits to the castle, filling her head with notions of grandeur and wonder most girls couldn’t even hope to dream about.

  If she closed her eyes, she could almost visualize the grand balls with women dressed in gowns that doubled the size of their bottom. How they must have looked! Turning sideways to walk through doors, bending to ensure their feather-plumed hats stayed atop their heads, and even struggling to stay upright as they wobbled like ducks during their dances.

  Brigitta covered a snicker. She was ever thankful that styles had changed. Now gowns were more simplistic. Restriction of movement was a thing of the past. Finery of course was still a part of a noble’s life, but it wasn’t as gaudy as it had once been. It did take away the humor when one poked fun, but there were always ways to make that occur.

  The potatoes blackened before her eyes and Brigitta used a stick to roll them from the flames.

  The afternoon was alive with sounds. Distant voices, horses neighing, crickets chirping, and birds tweeting filled the air.

  Brigitta froze. Overhanging tree limbs rattled and in front of her, the underbrush spread apart. She widened her eyes and jumped to her feet, holding the stick in front of her for protection.

  “What are you doing here?” asked a man dressed in livery as he pushed into her clearing.

  She gulped and pointed at the fire.

  “Cooking? On the baron’s property?” The footman crossed his arms over his chest.

  Angry, Brigitta said, “I don’t think the baron owns the sticks.”

  “Oh, you don’t, do you? Well, I guess we’ll just have to see about that.”

  The man grabbed her arm and hoisted her over his shoulder.

  “Hey, what are you doing? Put me down!”

  The man struggled to talk and hold her. “Be still!”

  “I will not!”

  He adjusted her position and she used her fists to whack his back, but it availed nothing, for his grip only tightened.

  Her head bobbed and her stomach churned. “If you don’t stop I’m going to be sick.”

  The man laughed. “If you had anything in your stomach to lose, then you wouldn’t have been in the baron’s forest cooking. What did you do? Did you use a slingshot and kill one of the baron’s fowls? Or perhaps you hit a squirrel?”

  “I don’t feel so good. You should set me down.”

  The man’s answer was to continue walking. The nausea increased and she was powerless to control her next act.

  ****

  Luke lifted the tails of his jacket and settled on the parlor sofa next to Zilla Elis. Her mother and father sat across from them on another sofa, while young men and women clustered nearby on lone chairs. The informal gathering took place in the Elis household and was just one of many that had occurred throughout the month.

  Luke sipped at his drink. The parlor was entirely too fancy for his tastes. Floor to ceiling shelves lined one wall, again cluttered with those fatuous dolls. The waste of funds left his stomach tied in kno
ts. A servant offered him a sweet and he declined.

  Zilla leaned forward; her heavy perfume preyed on his increasing nausea. She grabbed a sweet and popped it into her petulant mouth. “Oh, your lordship, you must try this. Cook makes the best desserts.”

  Luke grimaced. “That cannot be denied.” He had been sampling cook’s desserts at least three times a week for the last four weeks. The nausea he experienced, he partially attributed to the Elis’ cook.

  Zilla slapped him with her closed fan and remarked to her friend, Lilli, “You must ignore his lordship. He is used to eating a simpler fare at Stockport and his stomach is unused to the delights London has to offer.”

  Sitting in a chair across from them, Lilli fanned her face and blushed furiously at her friend’s unspoken implication. Lord and Lady Elis remained oblivious to their daughter’s antics.

  In the short time Luke had remained in London and attempted to woo Zilla, he’d learned a few things. One, Zilla was a spoiled brat who needed to be turned over her father’s knee. And two, Zilla’s fortune was highly sought after.

  At the various entertainments, when the dances began, like an intrusion of cockroaches men came out of the woodwork to court her. Zilla was never without a companion. Her governess became her constant chaperone, implicitly trusted by Lord Elis. Little did he know that the woman was a gossiping old biddy who directed any wholesome fellow as far from Zilla as possible.

  Upon his first meeting with Zilla, Mrs. Thomason had pulled him aside and said, “Your lordship, you seem like a very nice young man. Because of this I fear I must warn you that Zilla is not the wife for just anyone.”

  Luke had taken the words to mean that Zilla needed someone special and was too good for the ordinary, but he soon realized what Mrs. Thomason meant. Zilla would never concern herself with making a man happy. If her husband wanted happiness then he would be forced to bend to Zilla’s will.

  Several times he’d come close to leaving London and returning to Stockport only to stop himself as he boarded the carriage. At thirty, time was escaping him. He needed to marry and produce an heir. The possibility that he wouldn’t produce an heir, and subsequently would leave Chadwick in charge of the estate, made him ill. It was enough to encourage him to meet with Zilla once more.

  Suitors vied for Zilla’s attention. Today every man attending the private ball was promised only one dance. Discreetly, Luke had given up his turn and found a place to sit.

  Of course his slight had been soon discovered and Zilla found a way to sit beside him and berate him for his choice of food, as well as other matters.

  “I dare say Stockport is a dreadfully boring place. Lilli and I were just talking the other day that being so far from London would be dreadfully boring.”

  “Stockport has its advantages,” said Luke.

  “Oh, yes, Zilla, don’t you remember? Stockport has the silk factory,” said Lilli, seemingly proud that she’d contributed to the conversation.

  “Oh, yes. The silk factory and the rope factory!” Zilla laughed and stared at her friends until they joined her.

  “True, the rope factory is not as glamorous as some trades, but it is a needed commodity,” said Luke, fighting his rising temper.

  “Commodities! What do I care of commodities?”

  Zilla’s attempt at intelligence fell on deaf ears and the laughter died. Everyone in the room depended on the hemp and rope constructed in Stockport, while the London and Parisian designers of ladies’ gowns desperately sought Stockport silk for their fashionable concoctions.

  Zilla cleared her throat. “As I was saying, I believe Stockport would be terribly boring.”

  “Perhaps,” said Luke.

  “Of course, I have heard that the Andrews estate is rife with pleasant gardens and excellent fishing.”

  Luke puffed out his chest with swelled pride. “Indeed, it is.”

  “Humph. That is too bad, because I detest pleasant gardens and fishing. They are both entirely too much work. I think servants are better put to use inside the home. Why, it takes at least five servants a day just to keep my baubles in the library dusted.”

  Luke shrank back against the cushions and eyed the wall of detestable objects once more.

  “Do you like to read, your lordship?” asked Lilli.

  “Yes, actually I do. I just finished Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift and found myself most entertained.”

  Zilla fanned her bosom. “I detest reading. What does a woman need with dusty books and useless knowledge? It is not like she will ever be allowed to put it to use. Much better that she stay in the home and instruct her husband.”

  “But, Zilla,” said Lady Elis, shyly, “how can you instruct your husband wisely without knowledge?”

  Zilla replied, “Seriously, Mother, I can’t believe you, of all people, asked this question. You’ve survived all this time without intelligence or wit, so I would think the answer would be obvious.”

  The crowd shifted uncomfortably as Lady Elis buried her chin in her chest and gazed downward.

  Cold rage surged through Luke’s veins as he stood and bowed; the slight to her mother was more than he could handle. Perhaps marrying the twit would be worth it just so he could place her over his knee. Tugging his coat in place, he said, “I do apologize, but I must be on my way.”

  Zilla fluttered her lashes over the edge of her fan. “Must you be going so soon?”

  “Aye, I must. I’ve received word from my family that I’m needed at home.”

  Zilla jumped to her feet and grabbed his arm. “Oh, do tell me you plan to return? The party circuit will be so boring without you.”

  Luke studied her face. Short dark-blond hair mingled in thick curls around her thin face. Her pointed nose and high cheekbones combined with hazel eyes had often been touted as a noble trademark. Tall and reed thin, she would never be a beauty. Her wealth, however, would continue to draw attention.

  She batted her thin lashes. Was she really as heartless as she seemed? Or was her attitude born more from a sense of immaturity and boredom? Did he care if he ever discovered her true nature?

  He answered, “I cannot promise.”

  She protruded her lip like a child who had lost a favorite toy. “But you must promise! I will simply die if you do not!”

  Luke bowed again. “I will endeavor to return.”

  Zilla must have taken his words as a pledge because she clapped and said, “Excellent. We shall make plans to receive you in a month. That should be plenty of time for you to take care of your family business and return to my side.”

  Luke didn’t answer. He paid his respects to Lord and Lady Elis, thanking them for their hospitality before quitting the room. No sooner had he turned his back than he heard Zilla calling after another gentleman.

  Other works by Felicia Rogers:

  The Renaissance Hearts Series

  Book One: There Your Heart Will Be Also

  Book Two: By God’s Grace

  Book Three: Labor of Love

  Book Four: Beyond a Doubt

  Book Five: Letters in the Grove

  Stand alone works:

  Love Octagon

  The Painted Lady

  The Perfect Rose

  The Holiday Truce

  A Month in Cologne

  Andrews Brothers

  The Ruse

  The Rescue

  Southern Hearts Series:

  Millicent

  Amelia

  Cora

  Wounded Solider Series:

  Diamond Mine

  Pearl Valley

  Emerald Street

  “Justice” and Miss Quinn Mysteries

  The Case of the Missing Cross

  The Case of the Puppet Constable

  The Case of the Secret Love (coming soon)

  The Board Series by F. A. Rogers

  (novellas are listed in order)

  Maralie

  Reuben

  Vanessa

  Simon

  Darla />
  Daniel

  Irving

  Levi

  Francesca

  Benjamin

  James

  The Return to Eden’s Hollow