Page 13 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
“Then we may rule out any longstanding family feuds,” Lord Deverell said with satisfaction. “If Mr Hardwick has no historical ties to Plumpton, then the grudge which killed him is a fresh one.”
“He was killed because of his plan to divert the stream, my lord,” Sarah responded, “I’m certain of it.”
“Thatisthe most likely reason,” the earl conceded, ignoring her slightly exasperated tone. “However we must look for others. After all to exonerate your father we must look for different motives, ones that he does not share.”
Feeling slightly chastened, Sarah gave a quiet nod.
“This might surprise you to learn,” Lord Deverell continued, his cheeks curiously pink. “But for a period I enjoyed readingThe Newgate Calendar. What I can tell you from my reading isthat there are usually three reasons for murder; money, lust, and revenge.”
Sarah could not help but smile at learning that the stiff and stuffy earl indulged in reading the so-called Bloody Register—a sensational periodical that detailed the lives, trials, and executions of famous criminals. Its usual audience was schoolboys and maids seeking a vicarious thrill.
“Hardwick’s determination to divert the stream covers both money and revenge as a motive,” Sarah said pointedly. “And it was not just my father who stood to be financially ruined by his plans. There were other landowners—like Jem Browne, Gordon Stockwell, and even Mr Leek!”
Sarah shivered as she recalled the custodian of Long Acres shooting dead the crow that had dared to try interfere with his plants. Silas Hardwick had threatened to deprive Mr Leek’s gardens of its life-source of water—surely that was as clear a motive for murder as any?
“We will place Mr Leek at the top of our list of suspects,” Lord Deverell agreed, “As for Mr Browne and Mr Stockwell, I believe they were still in The Ring when the shooting occurred. Can you think of anyone else? I heard rumour that Mr Hardwick considered himself something of a local Lothario.”
Sarah flushed at his words, unaccustomed to discussing such matters with anyone—let alone a gentleman.
“There was some talk that Mr Hardwick was conducting an affair with a local woman—Mrs Fawkes,” she said, struggling to keep her voice composed. “Though I don’t know if there is any truth to the rumours. People are wont to gossip about beautiful women, especially in a village as small as Plumpton.”
The earl gave Sarah a strange look at this statement, as though assessing her with new eyes.
“You are very kind,” he eventually said, not a question but a statement of fact. Nor was it a compliment either, for his tone suggested that he found this characteristic a little troubling.
“I am just conscious that some gossip can be malicious,” Sarah bristled. “Especially where beautiful women are concerned.”
She thought for a moment of the recently widowed Lady Albermay, a friend of the Mifford’s from London. The glamorous viscountess needed only to walk past a man on Bond Street and by the time she reached its end, the gossip columns would be hinting at a scandalous affair.
“As admirable as I find your commitment to fairness,” the earl answered, the corners of his generous mouth twitching with a suppressed smile. “In this instance, it rather behooves us—and your father—to be a bit more suspicious.”
“Of course,” Sarah agreed, feeling a little foolish. She was seeking to clear her father’s name, not deliver the earl a lecture worthy of Mary Wollstonecraft.
“Is this Mrs Fawkes widowed?” the earl continued.
“Married,” Sarah answered, now feeling even sillier as she intuited the direction of his thoughts. “To Colonel Fawkes; he’s won the shooting competition at the village fête three years running.”
The earl halted his long strides and turned to her, a dark brow arched in clear amusement.
“Oh, don’t look so smug,” Sarah could not help but grouse, though a smile tugged at her lips. “The Colonel is often out of town—there’s every chance he wasn’t even in the county last night.”
“And every chance he was,” the earl retorted with a grin. He gestured for her to lead-on and they resumed their walk.
The riverbank was full of life; tall rushes swayed in the gentle breeze, dragonflies danced over pink water avens, and the airwas filled with the scent of meadowsweet. If they hadn’t been discussing murder, Sarah might have found the scene romantic.
“We now have two suspects, Mr Leek and Colonel Fawkes,” Lord Deverell summarised, counting them off on his fingers. “Can you think of anyone else? Anyone at all that Mr Hardwick might have upset—no matter how unlikely a suspect you think they might be.”
Sarah frowned as she tried to summon up a third suspect. Her eyes tracked a lazy bumblebee drifting toward a tangle of yarrow, and suddenly she started.
“Mrs Bridges,” she said aloud, then instantly felt guilty. The yarrow had reminded her of how the old woman had used it once to staunch Sarah’s bloody knee when she had tripped as a child.
“You’ll have to elaborate, I’m afraid,” Lord Deverell prompted. “My knowledge of local characters is quite limited.”
“She’s a healer of sorts,” Sarah explained, reluctant to use the word witch. “She witnessed Mr Hardwick nearly knocking me over in his phaeton the other day and she was so angry—”
“I don’t blame her,” Lord Deverell interrupted.
“Unusuallyangry,” Sarah clarified, damping the mild thrill she felt at his protective scowl. “She had a clear dislike for the man, though she did not say what he had done to upset her so.”
