Page 4 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“Then, on Edward’s advice, we went to old Mrs Bridges’ cottage for a remedy for Mrs Pinnock’s gout,” Miss Vale added softly. “It’s been flaring up this past week.”
“Edward sent me her way for a tincture of rhubarb for my dyspepsia,” Mr Goodwin offered in turn. “The lad must be working on commission. He feeds us rich, heavy fare, then sends us to his accomplice for the cure. A nice little earner for the lad.”
“Oh, I don’t think anyone could be so duplicitous,” Miss Vale argued, glancing nervously across the dining room at the poor footman.
As Mr Goodwin thought everything a money-making scheme and as Edward was not the sharpest tool in the box, James rushed to reassure Miss Vale that she had not been hoodwinked.
“I expect Edward is accustomed to dealing with guests who overindulge in a way they would not at home,” James said, averting his eyes from Mr Goodwin who was on his second helping of beef. “And as Plumpton lacks a druggist, I would assume that this Mrs Bridges is the only person he can direct them to for relief. Where did you say you found her?”
As Miss Vale helpfully sketched directions to the herbalist’s cottage, James idly wondered if she might have anything to help him sleep. The shoulder injury which had ended his naval career early was acting-up again, but he was loath to use the bottle of laudanum his London physician had prescribed.
The lunch continued without incident, bar the occasional bellowed remark from Mrs Pinnock. When it ended, the two ladies retired to their rooms, while James accepted Mr Goodwin’s invitation to partake in a brandy and cheroot in the smoking room.
“I expect Lord Crabb’s cabinet is far superior to the stuff here,” Mr Goodwin commented, as he morosely swirled the brandy in his glass.
“And Lord Chambers too,” James replied pointedly.
Mr Goodwin was visiting Plumpton under the auspices of catching up with his old chum, the Marquess of Highfield. James was beginning to suspect that Mr Goodwin had issued his own invitation to visit.
“Old Freddie’s too loved up to even think about his drinks cabinet,” Mr Goodwin grumbled. “If he’s not talking about his wife, then he’s talking about his son. It’s unseemly, if you ask me. A man of his means should spend his days drinking and carousing, not doting on an infant.”
“I expect the novelty of it will wear off soon,” James dryly reassured the young man.
Mr Goodwin’s ears were obviously not tuned for sarcasm, for he perked up considerably at the idea that fatherhood was a phase one might grow out of.
“I hope he does before the week is out,” he said, as he knocked back his glass in one go. “I don’t have the blunt to fund all my drinks for the month.”
“Then might I suggest you savour them a little longer?” James advised sagely. “It might also assist your dyspepsia, if you refrain from bolting them so quickly.”
“But where’s the fun in that?” Mr Goodwin shrugged, then helped himself to a cheroot from James’ box on the table.
Sensing that the lad wished to spend the afternoon getting inebriated on his coin, James finished his brandy and cheroot, then hastily made his excuses. As he left the smoking room, Edward hurried over to him, his expression anxious.
“Captain Thorne, sir,” the footman stuttered, “I just wanted to clarify that you did, in fact, wish for that bottle to be billed to your room? Mr Goodwin was quite insistent.”
James stifled a sigh; that would be the last invitation he’d accept from Goodwin.
“Just this once,” he informed the footman, for he didn’t want Edward’s wages garnished. “Though next time come fetch me, before he decides to add anything to my bill.”
“Yes, sir. Captain, sir,” Edward nearly saluted with relief.
Though a bottle of brandy would hardly dent James’s fortune, he had no desire to fund the excesses of a lad like Goodwin. They were both second sons, but that was where the resemblance ended. James had purchased a naval commission straight out of Oxford, earned his captaincy through hard work and dogged perseverance, then amassed a tidy fortune in prize money during the war.
The only thing Goodwin had ever worked at, as far as James could tell, was burning through his quarterly allowance from his father in the space of a week.
The walk to Mrs Bridges’ cottage took James through the village, at the bottom of which he crossed the bridge that led to the London Road. He followed it for a spell, enjoying the crisp autumnal weather. The trees were just beginning to turn and formed a canopy overhead of warm red, orange, and gold.
As per Miss Vale’s directions, James turned off the main road just after the field which contained a donkey behind a red gate—which, of course, required a quick greeting.
He then found himself on a winding lane, at the end of which stood a charming cottage of yellow stone, complete with a thatch roof and smoke curling from its chimney.
He hesitated a moment, wondering if it was impolite to call unannounced on an elderly woman, but was relieved of debating any further as Mrs Bridges emerged from the open front door. She was a small, wiry woman, though despite her tiny stature she gave the impression that she was perfectly hardy.
“Can I help you, sir?” she called across the garden.
“Edward at The King’s Head sent me, Mrs Bridges,” James called back, as he removed his hat.
“I’ve told that lad before to warn the guests that the chef uses too much butter,” Mrs Bridges rolled her eyes as she beckoned James inside. “I’ve a tincture for dyspepsia but if you want my advice—and to save yourself a few coins—prevention is always better than cure. Nothing wrong with saying no to seconds.”
