Page 37 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
No, he would act calmly, fetch Lord Crabb to interview young Henderson, and only when he confessed would James allow himself to bask in the thought of Miss Bridges’ good opinion.
“Ahoy, Captain!” Mr Marrowbone shouted from across the road as James passed. “Someone looks happy. Did you take a walk down to see Mrs Walton’s drawers?”
James frowned; his face, it seemed, had not yet caught up with his wish to display composure.
He did not deign to offer Mr Marrowbone a response, instead he hurried to The King’s Head where he intended to fetch his riding jacket. In the entrance hall, Mrs Pinnock and Miss Vale stood before Edward, engaged in a heated conversation.
“I’m afraid I just don’t know when the roads will be passable,” James overheard the footman say. “We’ll get news soon enough of when the stagecoach is next due.”
“Mrs Pinnock has a long-standing appointment with Lady Wetherby in Bath. You can’t expect a baroness to be made to wait upon the whims of the weather!” Miss Vale grumbled.
“The Churn has burst its banks a few miles up,” Edward replied evenly. “So unless you and Mrs Pinnock fancy a swim, I’m afraid waiting on the weather’s whims is the only option available.”
Mrs Pinnock looked most affronted at this pronouncement and drew breath for a scathing reply—at which point James took the opportunity to slip quietly up the stairs to his room.
He snatched up his riding coat and made straight for the stables, where he saddled his mare with quick efficiency. The rumours had not exaggerated: the roads were in a sorry state, churned to mud and treacherous with standing water. More than once he feared his horse might lose a shoe in the suckingmire, but he pressed on at a careful pace until the gates of Crabb Hall came into sight.
At the front door, a horrified Mr Allen took one look at James’s boots and declared he would fetch the viscount.
“Just wait there, Captain,” he called over his shoulder as he scurried along the sparkling tiles.
Lord Crabb appeared a few minutes later, already beginning an apology, then caught sight of James’s mud-spattered boots. His expression suggested he thought the butler’s horror not entirely misplaced.
“What brings you out in this weather?” Crabb asked curiously.
“I believe we may have found our murderer,” James answered grimly, and went on to explain: the wolfsbane discovered in Mrs Bridges’ cupboard; the maid’s claim that Henderson had been acting suspiciously of late; the quarrel Flora had overheard between Sir Ambrose and an unknown man; and finally, Mrs Fitzhenry’s account that the butcher’s lad had indeed called on Ambrose shortly before his death.
“It all points in one direction,” James finished. “I would like you to accompany me to interview Henderson.”
Lord Crabb’s gaze dropped once more to James’s mud-spattered boots, his expression one of thorough amusement.
“Very well,” Crabb gave a sigh. “I know that when a man is in love he thinks of nothing else—not even his Hobby boots.”
With that he called for the footman to have his horse saddled, and a few minutes later they were riding off through the mud to the village.
The air in the butcher’s shop smelled of sawdust and blood, a combination which made James’ nose twitch. Behind the counter, the proprietor, Mr Hamley, blinked in surprise as the magistrate and James entered together.
“Mr Hamley,” Crabb said with crisp authority, “Forgive the intrusion but we’d like a word with your apprentice.”
Crabb nodded toward Mr Henderson, who turned pale as suet. The butcher gave him a shove forward, and he stumbled—though James suspected that was less nerves than the consequence of moving too suddenly in breeches that tight. Every step, James thought, must have to be carefully considered.
“You heard his lordship,” Mr Hamley grunted, before turning back to Lord Crabb, “The back room is free, my lord, if you need privacy.”
James and Lord Crabb followed Mr Henderson—who trudged with the air of a man walking to the gallows—into a room at the back of the shop. There, knives of every size and purpose dangled from hooks above a block table. As Mr Henderson slouched insolently against the wall, James reached up and plucked one down. He examined the edge with careful deliberation, gratified that the afternoon sun streaming through the window obliged him by making it glint menacingly.
Mr Henderson’s eyes followed the knife in James’s hand, his bravado draining away with every heartbeat.
“What’s all this about then?” the young man asked, standing nervously to attention.
“We believe you killed Sir Ambrose Quill,” Lord Crabb calmly informed him.
The accusation hung in the air for a moment, before Henderson replied.
“I never!” he blurted, making a good show at indignation.
“That,” James remarked coolly, turning the knife in his hand deliberately, “Is precisely what a man who doesn’t wish to swing from Tyburn’s tree might say.”
At the mention of the notorious gallows, Henderson went ashen, the cocky gleam in his eye vanishing.
