Page 15 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
The constable brushed his hands together, as if to declare the matter closed.
“So you are just going to allow Mr Hughes’ name be dragged through the mire?” Lucian questioned, struggling to quell his annoyance.
“The man won’t have to put his hand in his pocket for a pint for the rest of the year,” Marrowbone answered wistfully, as though this settled matters completely.
“Lud, man,” Lucian growled. “It does not matter that everyone wanted Hardwick dead, the point is someone killed him and despite your certainty, I don’t believe it was Mr Hughes. There is a murderer running loose in the village. Don’t you care about justice?”
Marrowbone’s only response to Lucian’s question was sulky silence.
“Even Mr Tresswell don’t care about justice for Hardwick,” Marrowbone huffed eventually. “And he was the man’s solicitor. All he’s annoyed about is having to start the search for one of Mr Gardiner’s relatives again.”
Lucian touched an exasperated hand to his brow; it was obvious that Marrowbone was now attempting to obfuscate and divert. Unfortunately, from behind the bar, Angus took the bait.
“If Mr Gardiner hadn’t been such an ornery so-and-so, Mr Treswell’s job might not be so difficult,” Angus commented.
Thus ensued a long conversation between the two men about the late landowner’s legendary sourness, which—according to Angus—resulted in his wife’s early death and ensuing estrangement from his late son.
Lucian who had little interest in Plumpton’s ancient history, listened only absently to their chatter as he finished his pint. While his conversation with Mr Marrowbone had been anything but helpful, the pint of ale had at least cured the worst of his hangover.
“I do believe I am cured,” Lucian said, setting his empty glass down upon the bar. He paused a moment, during which Marrowbone eyed him nervously, as though expecting to be collared into work.
“Are either of you acquainted with Colonel Fawkes?” Lucian ventured, adopting a tone of nonchalance. “I’m told he lives in the area but is not often at home.”
“He’s at home, alright,” Marrowbone answered. “Arrived back from Bristol a few days ago. According to Mr McDowell he’s already complained twice that the papers are only delivered once a week.”
“A man never likes to fall behind onThe Salisbury and Winchester Journal,” Lucian was diplomatic as he tucked the information about the colonel away for later.
“He’d be better employed keeping tabs on his wife, rather than the papers,” Marrowbone commented. Being a gentleman, Lucian feigned a case of acute deafness at this remark.
He bid Angus and the constable goodbye and slipped outside. There, he was forced to blink several times as his eyes adjusted to the bright glare of the morning sun.
Outside the dim pub he found the village alive, as its residents hurried about their day. Villagers darted in and out of this shop or that, while carts trundled past delivering goods. Across the road, on the village green, stood a cluster of women of varying ages, engaged in what sounded like a boisterous conversation.
“Lord Deverell!”
One of the women had detached herself from the group and was waving her hand furiously in the air to attract Lucian’s attention. It was, he realised after a moment of disorientation, Mrs Mifford.
“My lord,” she cried, as Lucian—who couldn’t well ignore her—crossed the road to join the group of ladies. “I’m glad you’re here. You can help us settle our heated debate.”
“Oh?” Lucian hoped his expression did not betray his alarm. He did not wish to get dragged into a public conversation about Hardwick’s murder with a brood of clucking hens.
“I’ve taken the liberty of consulting Mrs Bridges about the weather,” Mrs Mifford began rather confusingly. “According to her bonesandher almanack we’d be best placed to hold the village fête a week earlier than planned.”
“Is that so?” Lucian’s surprised reply was so high-pitched he worried only dogs might hear it.
“It is,” Mrs Mifford said firmly, before casting a dark scowl in the direction of one of the other ladies in the circle. Lucian might have felt sorry for the scowl’s recipient but her expression—that of someone who had just caught a whiff of something foul—and general sourness kept his pity at bay.
“Mrs Canards, my lord,” the plump woman sniffed as she introduced herself. “I am sorry Mrs Mifford has dragged you into this fracas. I’m certain that matters like organising a village fête are far beneath the notice of an earl.”
As Lucian suspected that Mrs Mifford’s burning desire to hold the fête early was tied to her burning desire to see Lucian matched with Miss Hughes, he shook his head in disagreement.
“I’m afraid that I have a vested interest in the fête being held at an earlier date, Mrs Canards,” he replied, mustering up some of his rusty charm and offering the sour-pus a smile. “I am only visiting for a fortnight and Mrs Mifford has regaled me with tales of the superior baking skills of Plumpton’s ladies.”
A few of the ladies in the group giggled and flushed, batting his compliment away with bashful waves of their hands. His charm wasn’t entirely dead, it seemed.
“We had set a date for the last Sunday of the month so that the fête would not clash with the assembly,” a reed-thin woman interrupted, glaring across at Mrs Mifford.
“Mrs Wickling is right,” Mrs Canards took up the baton of protest from her friend. “The Ladies’ Society cannot be expected to host two events the same weekend.”
