Page 14 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“Aconite,” he stated, pausing at the door. “Dr Bates is quite certain. Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity,” she replied lightly, struggling to keep her gaze from shifting to the cupboard. “I do hope whoever it was is found soon.”
“I’ll see to it that they will,” he replied, determined. “Good afternoon to you both.”
Captain Thorne offered the two women a bow, then took his leave. Nerves bubbled in her stomach as Flora watched him go. Despite his kind smiles and lovely shoulders, Flora was not yet certain that she trusted him enough to implicate herself—or her grandmother—by telling him of the jar of open wolfsbane in the press.
She waited a beat after hearing the front door shut, before turning to her grandmother anxiously and whispering; “I think the poison used to kill Sir Ambrose came from our stores.”
Mrs Bridges’ expression faltered for a moment, then she reached for the kettle.
“I expect we’ll need more tea.”
CHAPTER SIX
CAPTAIN THORNE RETURNEDto The King’s Head in spirits far more buoyant than they had any right to be. Yes, a man had been murdered. Yes, Miss Bridges was considered by the village to be the prime suspect.
But, oh—how she had smiled at him. Shyly, sweetly, and—if his instincts were correct—with the same delightful bubbles of excitement he himself had suffered during their exchange.
“Afternoon, Captain,” Edward said, springing to attention as James entered the foyer. “Lord Crabb left a missive for you.”
The eager young lad rummaged through several pockets until, at last, he produced a much-rumpled sheaf of paper.
James scanned the lines quickly: Lord Crabb had been called away to a drainage-related emergency and would be much obliged if James could take a cursory glance around Sir Ambrose’s cottage while the housekeeper was temporarily indisposed. The note said the key could be found with Mr Marrowbone.
“Do you know where I might find the constable?” James asked the footman.
“The Ring o’ Bells, Captain,” Edward replied, without even having to think on it.
And so, James turned on his heel and made his way back through the village to the public house. He found it busier than expected for so early in the afternoon—though he knew that when a man felt the need for a pint, he would prioritise it over almost anything, including honest labour.
Case in point: Mr Marrowbone.
The constable was leaning against the bar, regaling his fellow patrons with a tale. As James approached, he realised that he was, in fact, describing the murder scene in ghoulish detail.
“His face was frozen in a state of terror,” the constable declared, waving the pint in his hand for emphasis. “I reckon Miss Bridges stood and watched the whole thing unfold. Pretty girl, but you must remember there’s a coldness in her heart—she’s a witch, after all.”
He had barely added the full stop to his sentence when James caught him by the lapels and backed him to the wall.
“You will retract your statement, sir,” James said, low and calm. Though his voice was even, he was filled with a rage so blistering he was astonished the man remained conscious.
“Well—maybe Sir Ambrose didn’t look that terrified,” Mr Marrowbone stuttered, glancing at the barman for rescue.
“Not that statement,” James growled. “The one about Miss Bridges.”
“Oh,” the constable blinked. “She ain’t a witch.”
“And she is not a murderess,” James continued, eyes narrowed.
“No, Captain, of course not,” the constable agreed hastily, all sincerity now.
James released him, and Mr Marrowbone sank back onto his stool with a shaky sigh. The bar had fallen utterly silent. Every man present watched the pair with avid interest.
James turned slowly, sweeping his gaze across the room. He met each set of eyes in turn.
“If I hear of anyone else maligning Miss Bridges’ reputation,” he said evenly, “you’ll have me to answer to.”
He was met with a chorus of murmurings and mutterings, the loudest of which came from the white-haired man behind the bar.
