Page 29 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
“And she’s burning rosemary and mugwort in the hearth,” Nora continued, obviously put-out that her audience remained un-scandalised. “You can smell it when you walk past. And—”
She paused now, for dramatic effect.
“She was seen wandering the London Road late at night, lantern in hand, on the very night that Silas Hardwick was murdered.”
“Who said that?” Sarah’s tone was sharp. Characters like Mrs Bridges often attracted unsubstantiated whispers.
“Agnes from the bakehouse saw her, when she was driving home from visiting her sister,” Nora was defensive. “Said she was hobbling around by the fork in the road and when Agnes stopped to offer her a lift, she said she was just out looking for an escaped chicken.”
“Perhaps she was just looking for an escaped chicken,” Sarah ventured, massaging her temples to ease her growing headache.
“All I know is that a man ended up dead, not an hour later,” Nora shrugged. “Though Mr Henderson seems to think it was Mr Leek. He said you can’t trust a man with more interest in peonies than petticoats.”
Nora paused for a moment, her expression confused. “Though I don’t exactly know what he means by that. You wouldn’t want a man to be interested in petticoats, would you?”
“I think the more pertinent point to note, Nora,” Sarah replied, skimming over her question, “Is that you shouldn’t be in the company of a man who thinks he can mention petticoats to you at all.”
On that note, the tea ended. Sarah thanked her hostesses for their company and the delicious crumpets, then left Primrose Cottage via the back door. She picked her way down the garden path back out to to the road, then set off in the direction of the village.
The usual cast of characters loitered around main street. Mr McDowell was outside his shop, leaning against the door-frame as he puffed on his pipe. Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling lingered near the village green, watching the comings and goings of all. While Mr Marrowbone had placed a stool outside the door of The Ring and was enjoying the sun whilst he sipped his pint.
Sarah could not help but cast a glance through the window of the butcher’s as she passed. She was rewarded with a glimpse of young Mr Henderson; tall, blonde, and gifted with a face that could only have been carved by the gods. Sarah could see why any young lady might be taken by his good-looks, but she fervently prayed that both Nora and Anne might turn their attentions elsewhere.
A kind man would be better, Sarah thought; one who was thoughtful, considerate, and knew what it truly was to love. It was only when the attributes she was ascribing to Nora and Anne’s new imaginary paramour began to include dark hair, grey eyes, and a fine pair of shoulders, did Sarah realise she was picturing Lord Deverell.
She gave herself a little shake as she continued on over the low stone bridge that led to the London Road. It wouldn’t do atall if she was to fall in love with an earl who hadn’t the faintest of interest in her. Though, while she tried to scold herself that she was being fanciful, Sarah couldn’t help but wonder if—despite her lack of experience—she was interpreting the earl’s words and actions correctly.
Surely a man did not speak so openly and eloquently about love to just any woman? Nor hold her eyes for far longer than necessary, or gaze at her wistfully whilst discussing children. Or take such obvious pleasure in teasing her; as Sarah knew from her brothers, teasing was a very male way to express affection.
She reached the end of the village and crossed the low stone bridge that led to home. The London Road was quiet, the only sound that of the birds bustling in the hedgerows. Sarah had just paused to admire a yellowhammer perched on a branch, calling cheerfully for a “little bit of bread no cheese”, when the sound of shouting up ahead drowned out the bird’s call.
Startled, Sarah lifted the hem of her skirts and took off at a run. The shouting, she soon realised, was coming from Mrs Bridges’ cottage. It sat a little back from the road, a squat building with a thatched roof and a red door, its garden a chaotic riot of colour. Sarah slowed her pace as she neared, just in time to see Mr Treswell stumbling backwards, his face ashen.
“What on earth?” Sarah cried, then she halted her step as she caught sight of Mrs Bridges standing at her front door, holding a shot-gun that was aimed squarely at the poor solicitor.
“She’s mad,” Mr Treswell cried, as he careened down the lane.
Mrs Bridges watched for a moment, to make certain he was gone, before turning back inside the cottage and closing the door, without a word of acknowledgment to Sarah.
Mr Treswell was, Sarah was forced to uncomfortably concede, correct on that score. Mrs Bridges did seem to have gone mad, but did that mean she was a murderer?
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE MORNING AFTERthe outing to Rosemount, Lucian took himself on a social call to Crabb Hall.
Lord Crabb received him graciously in his library and insisted that, despite the early hour, Lucian accept a glass of brandy.
“It’s noon somewhere,” Lucian agreed, parroting the line he had used with Colonel Fawkes.
The two men settled in on the pair of well-worn Chesterfields and, after some idle chat, Lucian revealed the true purpose of his visit.
“I offered to help Miss Hughes investigate Mr Hardwick’s murder,” Lucian began.
To his surprise, the viscount gave a groan of annoyance.
“I do hope I haven’t stepped on your toes, in your role as magistrate,” Lucian said, a little bewildered. He hadn’t marked Crabb as a fusspot.
“It’s not that,” Lord Crabb smiled. “It’s just now I owe Northcott a pound. He swore your courtship of Miss Hughes was real, whilst I guessed it as more a figment of Mrs Mifford’s imagination.”
