Page 10 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
The doctor turned at last to face them, his eyes blinking owlishly at them from behind his spectacles.
“It’s just,” Dr Bates heaved a sigh and waved his hand at the desk, “It’s not just any brandy, my lord. It’s a 1776 Armagnac; you can’t buy spirits like this anymore, not since the French…”
He trailed off then, too despondent to even finish his sentence. James stole a glance at Lord Crabb, who was throwing his eyes to heaven at the doctor’s sorrow.
“Are you certain it’s poisoned Dr Bates?” James questioned quickly.
The doctor nodded glumly and poured a glass from the cursed bottle to demonstrate.
“Have a sniff,” he invited them, “And note the cloudiness and yellow tinge to the liquid. When you couple that evidence with the state of the corpse, I’m afraid that it’s quite certain Sir Ambrose was poisoned.”
The two men followed Dr Bates’ gaze to the linen-covered mass upon the armchair.
“His lips are blue, his limbs contorted, and there’s a look on his face I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy,” Dr Bates murmured, noting their curiosity. “Wolfsbane causes paralysis before death, Sir Ambrose would have been aware he was dying but unable to even call for help.”
“Someone must have really disliked him,” Lord Crabb commented wryly. “I wonder who?”
“I heard it was Miss Bridges,” the doctor answered cheerfully, as he began to pack his instruments into his bag. “Dreadfully pretty girl, such a shame.”
“Miss Bridges did not murder him,” James interjected hotly, surprised to find his hands had formed fists at his side.
Dr Bates blinked at him a moment, before his lips gave a quirk of amusement.
“By all means, sir,” the doctor smiled. “Feel free to prove me wrong.”
Having delivered that challenge, Dr Bates took his leave. As the door clicked shut behind him, James turned to face his friend.
“What do you make of it all?” he ventured, gesturing to the body and the bottle of brandy.
“It looks like murder,” Lord Crabb sighed, his expression troubled.
“It wasn’t Miss Bridges,” James said fiercely, earning himself a look of exasperation from his friend.
“I know that and you know that,” the viscount placated, though there was an impatient twinge to his tone. “But Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling will make certain the whole village knows that Flora was wishing death upon Sir Ambrose the night before his murder. If only someone else had had the courtesy to threaten him publicly the night before…”
He trailed off wistfully, his gaze drifting back to Sir Ambrose’s covered corpse, as though hoping he might helpfully reanimate for a moment and give them a list of possible suspects.
“I didn’t tell you when I first arrived but I had a second motive for visiting Plumpton, outside of renewing our friendship,” James said on a rushed exhale.
Lord Crabb arched a brow and James quickly filled him in on the investment scheme his fellow officer had fallen victim to.
“It was called the West India Transport and Trade Company,” he explained. “Supposedly, they were outfitting a fleet of merchant vessels to sail between Bristol and Jamaica—trading in rum, sugar, and cotton. Sir Ambrose lent his name to the venture, while a London gentleman acted as its face, charming investors with promises of guaranteed returns and backing from a Jamaican plantation owner.”
“I assume all papers presented turned out to be forged?” Lord Crabb deduced sagely.
“Of course,” James nodded. “And when my first lieutenant went to their offices after his first set of dividends failed to arrive, he found—”
“—That there were no offices at all,” Crabb finished for him, with a rueful shake of his head. “A tale as old as time, I’m afraid. You’re certain Sir Ambrose was involved? It’s not unusual for these tricksters to use the name of some obscure gentleman of standing to lend credence to a scheme.”
“That’s what I was trying to ascertain yesterday, when I called on him,” James sighed. “I suffered through an hour of talk about his paper on the Romans and when I finally managed to wheedle in a question about investing, he then declared himself too tired to discuss anything else.”
“That does sound suspicious,” Lord Crabb agreed thoughtfully.
“Well, I was half-asleep too at that point, so perhaps not,” James jested, before turning serious. “I wish I could be more certain he was involved, it would make the investigation much easier.”
“If I have learned anything about murder over the past few years, it’s that it is surprising how many people might have a motive to kill someone when you do a bit of digging,” theviscount consoled him. “We’ll need to start off by interviewing those closest to Sir Ambrose first.”
“His housekeeper?” James ventured, recalling the hard-faced woman who had served tea the day before. “She’d know who called on Sir Ambrose in the past few days.”
