Page 35 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“Well then,” Mrs Bridges said gruffly. “If that’s the case, you’d best have tea.”
She turned away to set the kettle on the stove—but not before Flora glimpsed the satisfied smile that crept across her face. The whistle of the boiling kettle soon filled the room, and before long the three of them were seated at the kitchen table, steaming cups in hand. Flora noted that her grandmother did not insist on thegood biscuits today—Captain Thorne was not quite back in her good books.
“About this wolfsbane business,” Mrs Bridges began briskly, “Flora knew immediately when she saw it that someone had tampered with the jar. It’s not something I use often—it’s for pests and the like, not people. I rarely touch it.”
The captain inclined his head gravely. “Then the question is who might have had opportunity to pilfer your stores?”
“We compiled a list,” Flora interjected, eager to help now that she could speak freely on the matter. “Mrs Fitzhenry, Mr Goodwin, Mrs Pinnock, and Miss Vale all called for remedies on the day of the murder.”
“Don’t forget young Henderson,” Mrs Bridges added. “He brought a delivery of offal that morning.”
Flora gasped; she had completely forgotten his visit. An idea struck her so forcibly she nearly upset her teacup. Both her grandmother and the captain turned to look at her.
“Helen told me this morning,” she explained in a rush, “That she suspects Henderson is up to something. He had been courting her—saying he meant to call at Brackenfield—”
“Probably to see you,” Captain Thorne muttered darkly. “Mrs Mifford said he’d set his cap at you since you inherited.”
Flora flushed bright red, secretly warmed by the jealous note in his voice. She took a moment to gather herself before continuing.
“Well, Helen said that Henderson dropped her quite suddenly a few weeks ago, and now he struts about in new clothes, with coin in his pocket that could never have come from a butcher’s wages.”
“Miss Vale told me he’d been paying calls on Mrs Pinnock,” the captain’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Flora felt a stab of jealousy at the thought of the captain and Miss Vale speaking privately.
“I had assumed the new breeches came from her purse,” the captain continued. “But perhaps he was only trying to impress her. After all, some men—like some women—hope to marry into money.”
“Indeed,” Flora nodded, trying to sound knowledgeable of such matters though she feared her shocked expression gave her away. She gazed down into her cup to hide her blushes, when something occurred to her. “The argument I overheard when I was outside Sir Ambrose’s cottage—it might have been Mr Henderson arguing with him!”
“What does all this mean?” Mrs Bridges demanded, glancing between the two impatiently.
“It means,” Captain Thorne said somberly, setting down his cup, “That we have another suspect. And we must decide how best to smoke him out.”
Flora felt a thrill—not at the thought of unearthing another suspect, though she knew she should—but at the word he had chosen: we.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AT FLORA’S SUGGESTION, James did not return to The King’s Head after taking tea at Mrs Bridges’ cottage, but instead made for Sir Ambrose’s.
“Mrs Fitzhenry sees everything that goes on,” Flora had said. “She’ll be able to tell you at once if Mr Henderson had visited.”
“If she says she saw nothing, then ask her how that’s possible when she’s so beady-eyed,” Mrs Bridges had added unhelpfully. James had decided this advice was best disregarded.
His journey to Sir Ambrose’s cottage took longer than expected, for he was waylaid by several villagers bemoaning the aftermath of the storm. Both the London Road and Bath Road were impassable, according to Mr McDowell the grocer. And Mrs Canards had stopped him to relay the same, adding with relish that Mrs Walton’s drawers had blown off the washing line and were now lodged atop the church steeple.
“Poor dear,” she had said unconvincingly, before scurrying off to spread the news to the next passer-by.
Shaking his head in wonder at the woman’s ability to turn calamity into gossip, James pressed on. Passing through the gate of Sir Ambrose’s cottage, he caught a glimpse of a face withdrawing hastily from one of the windows. His arrival had been noted.
“Captain Thorne, what a surprise.”
James had only lifted his hand to knock when the door was thrown open by a scowling Mrs Fitzhenry.
“I hope I’m not interrupting?” James answered her greeting politely, though he had already removed his hat and was making to step inside.
“Heavens, what notions you men take. I’m a busy woman with a house to clean—of course you’re interrupting. Best come in and make it quick.”
It was not the warmest of welcomes James had ever received, but he did not let it deter him. Following Mrs Fitzhenry into the parlour, he caught a faint tang of brandy lingering in the air. She gestured him curtly toward a chair but remained standing, arms folded, her expression flinty.
