Page 17 of A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford
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.
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.
