Page 43 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“Imagine,” Goodwin sighed again—more contented this time—as he picked up his teacup with a hand that trembled faintly. “This time next week I could be a man of great fortune. I’ll recall you all fondly.”
“I’ve no doubt you will,” James said dryly, doubtful the young buck would ever stand him all the drinks he’d cadged.
“Say, Thorne,” Goodwin went on, setting down his cup. “You don’t have a cheroot on you, do you? This tea isn’t doing much to blast away the cobwebs.”
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, James reached into his coat and drew out his cigar case. He handed over three cigars to Goodwin, who accepted them wide-eyed, scarcely believing his luck.
“Very generous of you, captain,” he said, patting his breast pocket—no doubt checking his hip-flask was still in place—as he rose. “I’ll just slip into the smoking-room for a spell.”
James brushed off his thanks; his generosity had been inspired not by camaraderie but by opportunity. He wasn’t sure when he might next have a moment alone with Miss Vale.
Once Mr Goodwin had left, James engaged the girl in pleasantries until Edward arrived with her eggs. He dawdled over the rest of his own breakfast, until she had finished.
“I should look in on Mrs Pinnock,” she said, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. “She may require a tisane for her headache.”
James set his cup down. “Could you spare me a moment first, Miss Vale?”
She paused, tilting her head. A flicker of interest lit in her eyes—quickly veiled, though not before James caught it.
“Of course,” she answered lightly, lifting a hand to pat her hair.
James inclined his head and led the way from the dining room to the entrance hall, then the little annex beyond. The inn advertised it as a library, though the shelves contained more dust than books. A scattering of stuffed chairs and a few well-thumbed periodicals made it more a refuge for idlers than scholars.
James closed the door behind them, the quiet making him suddenly aware of the intimacy of the space. He cleared his throat.
“Miss Vale, I wished for a word—about Mrs Pinnock.”
Her lips, curved into a smile of expectation, parted in surprise before she quickly recovered.
“About Mrs Pinnock?” she echoed, all polite confusion.
“Please.” James gestured toward one of the chairs as he took the one opposite. He leaned forward slightly, the gravity in his voice at odds with the cosiness of the little room. “Forgive me, but I must ask plainly—do you think Mrs Pinnock bore Sir Ambrose a grudge strong enough to wish him dead?”
“Goodness no,” Miss Vale gave a quick, startled laugh.
James did not return her hesitant smile, he merely tilted his head, watching her carefully.
“It is not so preposterous a suggestion,” he said evenly. “There are clues which are difficult to ignore. Mrs Pinnock lost a portion of her fortune to Sir Ambrose’s investment advice. Poison was slipped into a bottle of 1776 Armagnac—a rare bottle and as she said herself, she’s a collector. And she was present in Mrs Bridges’ cottage on the day of the murder—Mrs Bridges later discovered her jar of wolfsbane had been interfered with.”
“Then perhaps the old witch did it herself,” Miss Vale shot back darkly.
James regarded her steadily. Her cheeks flamed under his scrutiny, and she lifted her chin in a bid for composure.
“Forgive me,” she said quickly, her voice softer now. “It is the shock of it all. I cannot help but feel protective toward Mrs Pinnock—she saved me from a life of destitution. She can be snappish—yes, even cruel at times—but it is the drink that sharpens her tongue. I fear it has addled her mind more than she knows.”
“You do not want to end up homeless?” James guessed, feeling a stab of pity for the girl despite her barbed retort about Mrs Bridges.
“Homeless again,” Miss Vale replied, with a dry laugh at her misfortune.
“I am sorry for your troubles, Miss Vale,” James said, lacing his words with sincerity. “But if you believe it is possible that Mrs Pinnock is guilty of murder, you must tell me.”
She sighed, her eyes drifting to the window, as she mulled over his request. At last, she turned her gaze back to him, her fingers plucking nervously at her skirts.
“It is possible,” she admitted softly. “Sir Ambrose and Mrs Pinnock both belonged to the same society. He inveigled himself with its members—persuaded them to make investments. Years later, when they sought to draw upon their returns, there was nothing left. The money was gone.”
“And Mrs Pinnock lost hers?” James pressed.
“Yes,” Miss Vale sighed. “She was luckier than most of the other members, in that it was not her whole fortune that had disappeared. Enough to wound her pride and her purse, mind. She has never forgiven him. It was she who suggested the trip to Plumpton, and I agreed, not knowing he would be here. From the moment we got here she has been plotting; she set about befriending Mr Henderson and got him to bribe Sir Ambrose.”
