Page 23 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“Miss Bridges always looks wonderful,” he replied easily, causing Flora to flush.
Mollified by his answer, Mrs Mifford leaned back in her seat and began conversing with Miss Vale, who was seated beside her—leaving Flora alone to deal with the mortifying aftermath of her unwanted intervention.
She turned her eyes apologetically to the captain and was surprised to find his cheeks as rosy as her own. As their eyes met, Flora felt a jolt of longing, deep in the pit of her stomach. Startled by the strength of feeling, she nervously reached for her wine glass to distract herself, only to realise as she brought it to her lips that it was empty.
“Did Mrs Fitzhenry reveal anything during your interview?” she asked, as she awkwardly set the empty glass back down on the table, wondering if she could crawl beneath it to hide.
“I believe our London gent is none other than Mr Goodwin,” the captain replied softly, with a discreet nod down the table.
Flora followed the line of his gaze to Mr Goodwin, who was seated near the Marquess of Highfield. His hair gleamed gold beneath the chandelier and his expression was open and eager as he nodded along to whatever Highfield was saying.
“He doesn’t look like a criminal genius,” Flora murmured, trying to hide her disappointment. If the local gossips were to believe in her innocence, she suspected they’d require a villain that looked, well, villainous. Mr Goodwin put one in mind of a cheerful spaniel—she could almost imagine his tail wagging beneath the table.
“I don’t believe he’s anything of the sort,” Captain Thorne agreed. “Rather, I believe that once he realised he’d been hoodwinked by Sir Ambrose, he decided to kill him in a fit of anger.”
Flora nodded silently, though inwardly she questioned this theory. A murderous rage—as she knew from Plumpton’s previous murders—was usually a more bloody event.
The footmen glided in with the first course, ladling steaming soup into bowls as the company fell momentarily quiet. Flora lowered her gaze politely, though her thoughts remained on the murder.
“Did Mrs Fitzhenry say that Mr Goodwin called on Sir Ambrose frequently?” she whispered, tearing her gaze away from the young gentleman down the table.
“No.” Captain Thorne frowned down at his soup. “She said that any time he called, Sir Ambrose refused to receive him.”
“Then how did he get to slip the poison into the brandy bottle?” Flora wondered aloud.
“And where did he get the wolfsbane?” Captain Thorne asked with a sigh. “These are all questions which will need to be answered if we are to prove he did it.”
Flora’s mouth turned dry; now was her chance to reveal to Captain Thorne her suspicion that the poison had been stolen from her grandmother’s stores. She paused, wondering if it was a good idea to share her secret at a packed dinner table, when Mrs Pinnock loudly interrupted.
“Did I hear you mention brandy, Captain?” the elderly woman queried, peering intently at Captain Thorne from behind her spectacles. “I’m quite the connoisseur—well, a collector really.”
Flora grappled with a mix of relief and frustration at the untimely interruption—would she ever get to tell Captain Thorne her secret? Beside her, Mrs Mifford stirred with interest.
“A brandy connoisseur, you say?” the vicar’s wife leaned forward, her eyes glinting competitively. “Why, the late Lord Crabb—my dear uncle—kept a cellar that was spoken of as far asCheltenham. He had a wonderful collection of Cognac. I daresay I’ve inherited his palate.”
“Cognac?” Mrs Pinnock sniffed, unimpressed. “If one is going French, then nothing compares to a good Armagnac. It’s stronger and full of character—rather like myself.”
“Cognac is the smoother of the two,” Mrs Mifford’s nostrils flared as she replied. “It’s more refined—just like me.”
Flora began to worry that there might be a call for the pair to meet with decanters at dawn, when Mr Goodwin cheerfully interrupted them all.
“Did I hear you say that the late Lord Crabb’s cellar was renowned, Mrs Mifford?” he called down the table, determined not to be left out of the conversation, whether he belonged in it or not. “Why, we’ll have to test that claim after dinner; won’t we, Mrs Pinnock?”
“I never say no to an offer of brandy—even if it is a Cognac,” Mrs Pinnock sniffed. “Though I doubt that anyone’s collection could rival my own. Isn’t that right, Miss Vale?”
“She never says no to a glass of brandy,” Miss Vale agreed earnestly, with a bright smile at the table.
Mrs Pinnock gave a squawk of annoyance, though Flora rather thought the sweet Miss Vale more naïve than mischievous in her answer.
“Speak out of turn again, Miss Vale, and you’ll soon talk yourself out of employment,” Mrs Pinnock called sharply to her poor companion.
“H-how did you come to work for Mrs Pinnock, Miss Vale?” Flora stuttered, in a desperate attempt to smooth the waters.
“I’m sure it’s an interesting tale,” Captain Thorne added, aiding her attempt to steer the conversation to safer waters.
Flora cast him an appreciative glance for his assistance. The crooked smile he offered in return caused her stomach to givea queer squeeze, so she hastily redirected her attention to Miss Vale.
“You’d most likely find a dozen ladies in the Cotswolds alone with a tale similar to my own,” Miss Vale demurred, gently deflecting their attention. “My circumstances were such that I needed to seek employment, and I was blessed indeed that a family friend acquainted with Mrs Pinnock heard she required a companion. We have rubbed along nicely since—mostly, I believe, because I also hold very firm views that Armagnac is far superior to Cognac.”
