Page 48 of A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford
"My apologies, Miss," he grumbled, as Mary approached, "The groomsmen are tardy today, as they always are when there is inclement weather."
"Doesn't matter, never mind," Mary parroted, snatching the reins from his hands, "I'm in a rush."
"It's raining," the footman protested, "There's a terrible storm coming, Miss."
Mary did not listen to his words of caution. She flicked the reins, urged Daisy into a brisk trot--her fastest pace--and hared off down the driveway. At the gates, she saw Dr Bates approaching from the direction of Plumpton, but she did not stop to chat. She veered out onto the road, heading in the opposite direction, heedless of anything else except snaring the murderer.
As she drove the gig along the Bath Road, Mary chided herself for her stupidity. How on earth had she managed to overlook the very first clue presented to her? Perhaps it was because it had surfaced before Mr Parsims' murder and she had been too taken by the rector's list to recall it. Though the list itself had been a clue, but Mary and Northcott had been too blind to see it.
Canet. Walker. Wickling. Fairweather.
Four names, each with no prefix; though Mary and Northcott had seen fit to ascribe one themselves--the wrong one.
Mary was shivering now and soaked to the bone, but she urged Daisy onward, hoping against hope that she had not missed her opportunity. As she approached the Hangman's Bridge, which crossed the River Churn at its widest point, she spotted a figure halfway across it.
"Mrs Fairweather," Mary called out into the rain, "Stop!"
As Mary approached the bridge, Daisy gave a whinny of distress; the old girl was taken out mostly for pleasant jaunts and was obviously frightened by the turgid swell of the river as it gushed past.
"You stay here," Mary cautioned the mare, as she leapt from the gig to continue on foot. It would not do to risk Daisy rearing in fright and throwing Mary into the water, nor was there much fear that she would wander if left alone, for Daisy rarely moved unless under duress.
"Mrs Fairweather," Mary shouted again, as she raced over the bridge, and the figure ahead of her stopped and turned.
"It was you," Mary panted, as she finally reached her, "It was you who killed Mr Parsims and Monsieur Canet."
"Well," Mrs Fairweather smiled, "Aren't you the clever girl?"
It was not a compliment. The seamstress' eyes were dark with malice and the smile upon her lips was mocking. Fear engulfed Mary, for in her haste to catch Mrs Fairweather before she caught the stagecoach, she had not planned what she would do once she had caught up with her.
Mary was now acutely aware that she was now alone with a woman who had killed not once, but twice. Not only that, a woman who appeared completely deranged with anger.
"Mr Parsims discovered your affair and was bribing you," Mary stated, hoping that by speaking she might afford herself some time to plan an escape, "You tolerated it well enough until the night of the assembly, when he went too far in front of your husband. You were enraged; you waited for him to leave, followed him to the bridge, and battered his skull in with a rock."
"So what if I did?" Mrs Fairweather hissed, "That weasel deserved to die screaming for all the anguish he caused me. He knew how I suffered from my husband's violent tempers, yet he sought to further my pain."
"And Monsieur Canet," Mary continued, "He was bribing him as well."
"Guillame said that it was our affair which Parsims had discovered," Mrs Fairweather spat, her face now contorted in rage, "Though, thanks to you, I found out that he had been dipping his wick into two pots of ink. When I discovered that he wanted to marry that blowse after swearing that he would run away with me, I was fit to kill."
"Which you did," Mary pointed out, "You did so easily because you realised that Monsieur had played you like a fiddle; he persuaded you to talk your husband into going into the poaching business with him, then when he'd had enough of that and had found a more legitimate source of income, he decided he would leave you both in the lurch."
"Another dreadful man, another just killing," Mrs Fairweather shrugged, her plump mouth twisted into a snarl, "If you are trying to make me feel guilty for what I have done, Miss Mifford, then I'm afraid that you have failed. Your prattling has merely reminded me of why I did it."
"And your husband?" Mary challenged, glad to finally see a flicker of uncertainty in the seamstress' cold eyes, "Does he deserve to hang for two murders that he did not commit?"
"He deserves to hang for promising me the world and failing to deliver," Mrs Fairweather cried, as tears began to pour from her eyes, "I was happy in Bath when he met me; I had a business, I had friends, I had a life. He swept me off my feet and told me that I would be a lady of leisure if I married him, then brought me here to this God-awful village and would not let me step one foot outside the door."
"But he does not deserve to die," Mary argued, taking a step toward Mrs Fairweather as she spoke. The seamstress was no longer angry, she was paralysed by grief. Her body shivered and shook as she sobbed for the life she felt had been stolen from her; she looked so wretched that it was impossible to believe she was capable of murder.
"Come, Mrs Fairweather," Mary said, reaching out a hand to grasp the woman's arm, "Come back with me to Plumpton and we shall make things right."
Mary's touch seemed to rouse Mrs Fairweather from her self-pity. Her eyes flew open and she stared down at Mary's hand on her sleeve, as though it burned her skin.
"I'll never go back to Plumpton," she snarled, as she grabbed Mary and dragged her toward the wall of the bridge.
Mary, who had been taken unaware by the sudden show of strength, was momentarily too shocked to act. It was only when she realised Mrs Fairweather's intent that she began to struggle in earnest.
"No," she cried, as the seamstress dragged her with Herculean power toward the bridge's low stone wall, "Stop."
