Page 41 of A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford
Henry turned on his heel and set off across the square, ignoring the curious gazes of the villagers which followed him as he passed. He stopped briefly at The Ring, to retrieve Marrowbone who had decided to conduct an investigation into a pint of ale.
"I was just about to begin questioning the patrons," the constable swore, as Henry dragged him from his perch.
"No need," Henry replied, "For I have found our man."
Henry frogmarched the constable outside to his carriage, which was waiting outside The King's Head. He instructed the driver to stop first at Northcott Manor, where he retrieved his gun, Mr Feathers--also armed--and another footman to swell their numbers.
"I knew it was poachers," Mr Feathers sighed, as the carriage bounded along the dark country road, "Well, I didn't know, but I did. I asked Mr Partridge, Lord Crabb's keeper, and he said he was missing birds too, but just put it down to the inclement weather."
"Perhaps they rotated estates, so as not to arouse suspicion?" Henry suggested; he was rather fond of Mr Feathers, who had been gamekeeper since his grandfather's time, and wished to assuage his guilt.
"Aye," the old man scowled, "I'd say that's what they did. When I spot this Mr Fairweather, I'll aim straight for the spot between his eyes."
"Our guns are for self-defence," Henry counselled, slightly alarmed by his bloodlust, "We want Fairweather alive so that he can be tried in a court of law."
"Well, if he tries to escape," Mr Feathers responded, stroking his rifle as affectionately as one might stroke a cat, "I might not be able to restrain myself."
As it was, there was no need to shoot a fleeing Mr Fairweather, for when Henry and his entourage arrived at the Fairweather's farmhouse, they found that the farmer was not home.
"He's out," Mrs Fairweather said in reply to Henry's query into her husband's whereabouts.
"Out where?" Henry pressed, though Mrs Fairweather gave no answer.
She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, her face pale and her hands shaking. She was a remarkably striking woman, Henry noted absently, even the bruise which marred her cheek could not take away from the beauty of her features.
"I cannot say," she finally answered, allowing her green eyes to meet Henry's.
Cannot and would not, Henry thought, were two very different things. A wife would never condemn her husband and Henry found that he admired her courage--even if it was an impediment.
"Do you know where he was today?" Henry pressed, "Or this afternoon and evening?"
"In the morning he went to Stroud for the market," Mrs Fairweather replied, obviously thinking this an innocent enough remark to make, "As for his whereabouts after his return, I really cannot say."
"Does your husband trade at the market weekly?" Henry queried, and as Mrs Fairweather paled, he knew instinctively that she was well aware of her husband's escapades.
"He is a farmer, Your Grace," Mrs Fairweather offered, her voice shaking slightly, "Of course he does."
"I am not talking of tillage and dairy," Henry's voice was cool, "I am talking of poached game. Did you know what your husband was up to, Mrs Fairweather? It is doubtful that you would have failed to notice the extra money his activities brought in. Did he share with you that his scheme was discovered, and that Mr Parsims was bribing him?"
At the mention of Mr Parsims' name, Mrs Fairweather began to shake so uncontrollably that Henry took pity on her and guided her to a chair.
"Do you think your husband capable of murder, Mrs Fairweather?" Henry questioned, "For it seems likely that he killed not only Mr Parsims, but Monsieur Canet too. Is that something you think possible?"
Mrs Fairweather let out a long, shuddering breath, and stared down at her hands, which were worrying the material of her skirts. After a moment, she lifted her head to look at Henry, her eyes bleak.
"As I said, Your Grace," she whispered, "I really cannot say."
Henry did not have the heart to press the poor wretch further, though he also did not have the opportunity, for the sound of shouting came from outside. Mr Fairweather must have returned, Henry thought, and he rushed out the door.
Outside, illuminated by the light which shone out through the windows, Henry saw his two footmen struggling with the enraged farmer, as Mr Feathers stood guard with his rifle.
"That's enough, Fairweather," Henry called, afraid that Mr Feathers might let loose a volley of shots in the excitement of it all, "You're caught."
"Caught capitally, Your Grace," Mr Feathers cried, "He'd a sackful of pheasant with him when he rode in."
Henry, who was more concerned by the murders than the poaching, cast an eye around for Mr Marrowbone, who had disappeared. The constable arrived on the scene a moment later, whistling a tune as he buttoned up his breeches.
"A call of nature," he offered in apology to Henry's quelling glare.
