Page 9 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
James would have felt relief at the viscount’s certain support had he not suddenly felt an unsettling surge of jealousy at hearing him use Miss Bridges’ given name so casually.
“I’m afraid, however,” Crabb continued, oblivious to James’ inner tumult, “That unless the true murderer is found, that her reputation will forever be blackened. There are some who would relish seeing her fall from her newly elevated position in life.”
“I heard mention of a recent inheritance,” James said casually, hoping he did not sound too eager to learn the background of the young lady who had taken up residence in the forefront of his mind.
“Yes, it was the talk of the village,” Lord Crabb agreed, before obligingly shedding light on Miss Bridges’ history.
Her parents had fallen in love and eloped after Mr Gardiner—Flora’s paternal grandfather—had refused to permit the match. Her father died not long after, lost in a skirmish against the French, shortly after enlisting in the navy. In her grief,Flora’s mother succumbed to a wasting illness, leaving the child to be raised by her grandmother, Mrs Bridges. Unbeknown to Flora, she had grown up right beside a grandfather who refused to acknowledge her. She learned her new identity only when, on his deathbed, her grandfather repented, leaving his fortune to the girl he had ignored all her life.
“Poor Miss Bridges,” James said, quite sincerely, as the viscount finished the tale.
“Indeed,” Lord Crabb agreed, his expression troubled. “She is a sweet girl, I fear the gossips will do their best to try break her spirit.”
“She is made of sterner stuff,” James replied, recalling the determined tilt to Flora’s chin the night before. After a decade in the navy, James knew a fighter when he saw one.
Lord Crabb said nothing in reply, instead he broke into a smile that—to James’ eye, at least—looked a little smug.
“Is there something you’d like to share, my lord?” James enquired dryly.
“Only that in Plumpton it has been observed that murder can often lead to marriage,” the viscount answered cryptically, before returning to business. “I must call to Sir Ambrose’s cottage and speak with Dr Bates.”
“I’ll come with you,” James offered, keen to see the scene of the crime for himself. His mind was already raking over every possible motive someone might have had to kill Sir Ambrose. The first that sprang to mind, naturally, was money—especially that which had been acquired through means of deception.
“The duties of a magistrate are far less entertaining than a hunt,” Lord Crabb apologised.
“The pursuit of justice is never dull,” James assured his old friend, who smiled knowingly in return at his enthusiasm.
The two men traveled by horseback to the cottage, their journey keenly observed by the cluster of villagers gathered on the village green.
“News travels fast in Plumpton,” Lord Crabb sighed as he noted them.
“Murder is an unusual occurrence, especially in a small village,” James answered, which for some reason caused the viscount to turn somewhat red.
The exterior of Sir Ambrose’s cottage remained resolutely charming, despite the macabre scene that lay within. The thatch roof gleamed gold in the autumn sun, while a late climbing rose added a touch of red around the door. The only obvious difference of note, was the addition of an older gentleman seated on a stool outside the front door.
As they approached, James did a double-take, as he realised the man had a pint of what looked like ale clutched in his meaty paw.
“Marrowbone,” the viscount greeted the man tersely.
“My lord,” he replied, remaining resolutely in his seat. “Dr Bates is inside waiting for ya.”
“Are you joining us?” Lord Crabb arched a brow in question.
“I would but my back is still giving me bother since that morning at Long Acres,” Mr Marrowbone replied with a shrug. “I’ll stay here and guard the scene.”
He took a hearty sip of his pint, his expression one of stoic martyrdom—ruined only slightly by the foam clinging to his moustache.
Lord Crabb gave a sigh of annoyance and stalked inside. James followed him quickly, catching the end of a muttered tirade that concluded with; “I knew he’d milk that shot for years.”
Once inside the cottage, Lord Crabb made straight for the parlour room, with James following in his wake. The roomlooked much as James remembered except for the body in the armchair, mercifully covered by a bedlinen.
“Dr Bates,” Lord Crabb called a greeting to a small, bespectacled man standing by Sir Ambrose’s desk.
“My lord,” the doctor returned the greeting, his eyes averted from the body. “It’s a tragedy, an absolute waste…”
James shifted uncomfortably at the note of grief in his voice, though Lord Crabb was less sympathetic.
“Enough of that now, Dr Bates,” the viscount scolded, surprising James with his abruptness.
