Page 54 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
Flora hid a wry grin as she bid Mrs Canards goodbye—she suspected it would take more than gleaming brass to bring Mrs Canards any nearer to heaven.
As she watched the woman hurry away, a feeling of disquiet rose again in her chest. Something was amiss, though she could not quite put her finger on what it was. What she needed, Flora realised, was someone to talk things through with—and that someone was Captain Thorne.
With more hope than expectation, she set off in the direction of The King’s Head, hoping she might learn that the search party had returned. The path along main street was thronged with villagers, gossiping with delight over Mr Henderson.
Flora had almost reached The King’s Head when Mrs Fitzhenry emerged from Mr McDowell’s, her basket heavy on her arm and her face set in a scowl.
“Daylight robbery,” the housekeeper muttered, giving Flora a curt nod. “His prices would beggar a duke, never mind a poor servant.”
“I try to stock up in Stroud when I can,” Flora replied absently, still scanning the street for Captain Thorne.
“I’d be wasting away if not for that hamper Miss Vale dropped off before Sir Ambrose died,” Fitzhenry went on. “Cold beef, elderflower cordial, pickled walnuts, and a jar of potted shrimps—though he’d guzzled half of it before I even found it.”
Flora’s gaze snapped to her. “When did you say she brought it?”
“Just before he died,” Fitzhenry sniffed. “Miss Vale said it was a gift from the Bath Philanthropic Society, arranged by Mrs Pinnock. You should have seen the treats inside; that’s what charities are handing out, I’d happily present myself as poor to receive one.”
Flora backed away, her mind racing. What did it mean? Was it possible Miss Vale had unwittingly delivered brandy poisoned by Mrs Pinnock’s hand to Sir Ambrose? But Mrs Pinnock now lay unconscious in her bed, hovering between life and death,purportedly pushed by Mr Henderson—though only Miss Vale had witnessed him.
Her thoughts tangled, Flora hardly noticed where she was going until she collided with a solid figure. She gave a startled gasp.
“Miss Bridges—I do apologise,” Mr Goodwin exclaimed, steadying her by the elbow. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. I need to gather a few things before I catch the stage—thank heavens it’s running again at last.”
His boyish grin widened. “And I’ll not be lonely on the road either—Miss Vale has agreed to accompany me part of the way. She is bound for Bath, to fetch some of Mrs Pinnock’s kin.”
“Miss Vale is leaving too?” Flora echoed, her heart lurching as, in her mind’s eye, the puzzle pieces finally slid into place.
“She’s at The King’s Head packing,” Goodwin explained cheerfully. “She near had to be torn from Mrs Pinnock’s side.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Flora murmured darkly—she was probably hoping to finish her mistress off before she left.
She thanked Goodwin and turned away, her steps quickening toward the inn as her thoughts spun.
Miss Vale—the orphan whose parents had once moved in the same circles as Sir Ambrose and Mrs Pinnock. The girl who had so conveniently “delivered” that hamper, which Fitzhenry swore Sir Ambrose had half-finished before his death—keeping the brandy for himself. The girl who had stood at the stairwell last night, accusing Henderson—knowing that Captain Thorne already suspected the lad of trickery. And the wolfsbane—her grandmother had said Mrs Pinnock had lingered in the garden admiring roses when she’d called, leaving Miss Vale ample time to slip the poisonous roots into her pocket.
It was her. It had always been her.
Flora’s breath came faster as she hurried on, her heart pounding with the desperate hope she might reach The King’s Head before Miss Vale vanished for good.
CHAPTER TEWENTY
THE FRUITLESS SEARCHhad been called to a halt with the arrival of a young lad to tell them that Henderson had been apprehended and was being held in the stables of The King’s Inn until Lord Crabb decided what to do with him.
James had not waited to see the viscount’s reaction—instead, he had turned his mount in the direction of Plumpton and galloped there at great speed.
He arrived at the stables covered in a sheen of sweat and handed his stallion—similarly perspiring—over to the groomsman.
“They’re inside,” the boy said, picking up a brush to wipe down the panting beast.
James entered expecting grimness and recriminations. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of Henderson—with a barrel strapped about his waist like some absurd toga—holding court. Opposite him, Marrowbone leaned forward eagerly, scribbling into a battered notebook.
“—and never, under any circumstance, should a gentleman allow his whiskers to grow uneven,” Henderson was proclaiming. “It suggests dissipation. Trim twice weekly, always with the grain, and finish with a dash of lavender water. A man must smell as refined as he looks.”
“Remarkable,” Marrowbone breathed. “Lavender water, eh? I’ll note it down.”
“For pity’s sake,” James muttered, striding forward. “Is this an interrogation or a toilette tutorial?”
Both men started—Marrowbone snapping his notebook shut guiltily, while Henderson sniffed with offended dignity.
