Page 53 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“There he is—Henderson!” someone cried.
She rushed toward the sound, elbowing her way through the crowd of villagers just in time to glimpse the butcher’s lad darting from the side door of The Ring. His face was red, his legs bare, and in place of breeches he wore a half-barrel strapped about his middle like some ludicrous kilt.
The sight brought a collective gasp from the gathering villagers, followed at once by shrieks of laughter as Mr Marrowbone lunged forward and caught him by the scruff.
“Unhand me, Marrowbone!” Henderson cried, clearly aggrieved to find himself manhandled by Plumpton’s constable.
“Unhand you?” Mr Marrowbone retorted. “When half the men of the village have been searching for you all morning?”
“Searching for me? Was my mother that worried when I did not return home?” Henderson asked, his handsome face a picture of confusion. He glanced around, noting the angry expressions of the crowd, then looked back at Marrowbone.
“I reckon she was more upset to hear that you’ve been accused of murder,” the constable replied, beginning to march him along.
“Murder?” Henderson halted abruptly and nearly lost his grip on the barrel that protected his modesty. “I’ve murdered no one!”
“That’s not what I heard,” Marrowbone said grimly. “I heard you poisoned Sir Ambrose, then pushed Mrs Pinnock down the stairs last night to keep her quiet.”
“Lies!” Henderson cried, his gaze darting wildly until it landed on Flora.
“Miss Bridges,” he called desperately over his shoulder, as Marrowbone dragged him onward. “I didn’t push Mrs Pinnock! My breeches split and I was hiding in the attic above the hall until I could escape the assembly without being seen. I must have fallen asleep—I only woke a few moments ago. I was soravenous that I decided I cared not a fig if anyone saw my calves.”
Flora hurried after them a few steps, uncertain whether to believe him. Mr Marrowbone tugged him down a side lane that led toward the stables of The King’s Head, where Flora guessed he would be kept until Lord Crabb’s return.
“My calves are shapely—I have nothing to hide!” Henderson’s plaintive cry echoed down the lane as he vanished from view.
Flora paused her step, unable to follow any further. Her stomach churned with unease—Sir Ambrose’s murder was a puzzle and she could not help but feel that one piece did not quite fit into place. And she was quite certain she knew which one.
Determined now, Flora turned on her heel, marching back toward the green where she had spotted Mrs Canards. When she arrived, she found the market half-empty, the villagers having abandoned their shopping to watch the circus with Mr Henderson instead.
Flora sighed and turned to traipse back to The Ring, when she spotted a familiar figure, hurrying away from the village toward the bridge.
“Mrs Canards,” Flora called, chasing after her.
The village tabby—who could be relied upon to hear a pin drop two towns over—feigned a case of acute deafness and continued on her way.
“Mrs Canards,” Flora called again, as she lifted the skirts of her dress to give chase.
The older woman gave an exaggerated start, as though only just realising someone was behind her. “Oh, Miss Gardiner,” she said airily, not breaking stride. “I didn’t hear you.”
Flora quickened her step until she drew alongside.
“Perhaps your hearing is going as well as your sight?” she said pleasantly, as she matched Mrs Canards brisk pace.
“What are you suggesting, Miss Gardiner?” Mrs Canards sniffed, turning now to look at her.
Her face—Flora saw with a jolt—was rather pale. In fact, if she didn’t know any better, she might have said that Mrs Canards was afraid. Though that would be ascribing to the woman the ability to experience emotions—something Flora doubted she was capable of.
“I’m suggesting, that in the cold light of day, you might not be quite so certain if it was Mr Henderson you saw at the top of the stairs,” Flora suggested, gently.
“Well, perhaps I didn’t see quite as clear as I thought,” Mrs Canards agreed, exhaling with relief as she fiddled with the ribbons on her bonnet. “It was very dark, you see. And when Miss Vale said that she saw him—”
“You agreed,” Flora finished, her pulse quickening at the revelation.
“I was trying to be helpful,” Mrs Canards clarified, keen to exonerate herself of guilt. “I didn’t think that it would cause quite such a fuss. I should hate to see the Henderson lad hanged—he should be flogged for his crimes against public decency, of that there’s no doubt—but hanging is a stretch too far.”
“Just a smidge,” Flora agreed faintly, wondering at the way the woman’s mind worked.
“And, Miss Vale is still certain it was him,” Mrs Canards finished smugly, as though this settled the matter. “If he hangs, it will be on her conscience. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Gardiner, I must get to the church vestry. I polish the brass candlesticks every week—it makes me feel closer to God.”
