Page 12 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“But you’ll have a cup of tea first, Captain?” Mrs Bridges cut in quickly, fearing he might dash off in pursuit of justice before she’d had a chance to meddle in her granddaughter’s love life.
“I never say no to tea,” he answered with a smile, and Mrs Bridges immediately urged him to take a seat at the table.
As she put the kettle on to boil, she threw questions over her shoulder at the captain. Was news of the murder widespread? Was it definite it was murder? And, finally, were there any suspects?
At this question, Captain Thorne threw Flora an apologetic look.
“So far, only one person has been mentioned in relation to it,” he said.
Flora groaned softly and dropped her head into her hands.
“But I am certain,” he added quickly, “that with a little digging, we shall soon unearth a host of people who wished Sir Ambrose dead.”
“Well, I never liked him,” Mrs Bridges agreed, a little too enthusiastically. She paused, before adding. “Not that I killed him, of course.”
“Somebody did and we need to put our heads together to work out who,” Captain Thorne replied, his words directed toward Flora.
For a moment—despite the severity of her situation—Flora allowed herself a flutter of hope at his concern for her. And another flutter of something strange, as she imagined their heads close together, leaning in, conspiring…
“There was someone in the house with Sir Ambrose when I called yesterday,” she suddenly recalled, glad that the memory had distracted her. “I could hear them arguing from the gate, but when I went inside with Mrs Fitzhenry there was no one else there.”
“How did Sir Ambrose seem?” the captain pressed.
“Belligerent as always,” Flora could not help but roll her eyes. “Then we heard the back door slam. When Mrs Fitzhenry asked if anyone was there, he accused her of leaving it open before she left.”
“A deliberate distraction,” Captain Thorne decided, his certainty giving Flora a flicker of hope.
Outside, a fine mist of rain had begun to fall. As Mrs Bridges finished pouring the tea, she glanced out the window and let out a regretful sigh.
“I’ve been waiting for rain all week so I could harvest some mugwort,” she stated, undoing her apron strings as she spoke. “If you’ll both excuse me a for a few minutes…”
Flora tried to catch her grandmother’s eye to warn her that her ruse was quite obvious, but she resolutely refused to look at her. Instead, she grabbed a scarf and a basket, and hare-footed it out the door murmuring something about the mist preserving the plant’s oils.
Sir Ambrose wasn’t the only one with a flair for timely distractions.
Flora stared down at her teacup, afraid to meet the captain’s eyes in case he’d seen through the ruse. But he only sipped his tea, oblivious to her grandmother’s scheming, and resumed their conversation as though nothing at all were amiss.
“We have our first suspect,” he said, setting down his cup. “And, I must inform you, that I was investigating Sir Ambrose myself. I believe he was involved in a false investment scheme, which a friend fell victim to.”
“He was?” Flora gasped, wondering why her grandfather had made such an unscrupulous man trustee of her fortune.
“I cannot yet prove that he was directly involved,” the captain conceded. “But it looks likely. And there is no better motivation for murder than money.”
“Except passion,” Flora replied without thinking, recalling some of the Minerva Press novels she had found at Brackenfield.
There was a pause, during which Captain Thorne eyed her with a knowing amusement.
“Not that I think Sir Ambrose was engaged in any passionate affairs,” she stressed, her cheeks burning as she wondered why she had repeated the word.
“We must not discount any motives,” he reassured her, “No matter how unlikely they might seem.”
“Yes, that’s what Lady Crabb said when she was conducting her murder investigation,” Flora agreed, recalling how the former Miss Mifford had assisted Lord Crabb with proving his innocence when he was suspected of murdering the man he had inherited his title from.
“Monsieur Canet’s death?” Captain Thorne guessed.
“No, that was a different case,” Flora corrected him, “And his death only came after that of Mr Parsims, the old rector at St Mary’s.”
“Just how many people have been murdered in Plumpton?” the captain asked, half-laughing, though a slight furrow of concern crossed his brow.
