The girl flushed red, her expression crestfallen. She bowed her head, looked at her feet, and mumbled something indiscernible to her boots.
"I didn't catch that," Henry replied, a little irritated by her carry-on.
"The reason that I witnessed him sneak back in," the maid raised her head, her eyes pleading with Henry for understanding, "Was because I was sneaking back in too."
Was everyone in Plumpton harbouring secrets? From the maid to Mrs Wickling, the whole town appeared to be involved in subterfuge, Henry thought with alarm. The Cotswolds were supposed to be restful, but they were just as bad as London by the looks of things.
"I can assure you that you will not suffer any repercussions for sharing this with me," Henry advised the girl, before adopting a paternal tone, "But you must do your utmost to keep out of trouble, Miss--?"
"Delilah," the maid smiled, unaware of the connotations her name brought.
"Yes. Well. Do take care of yourself," Henry instructed, "And do not tell anyone that we have spoken."
"Yes, Your Grace," Delilah nodded, before flitting away to continue on with her work.
Once outside, Henry exhaled a deep breath and wished that he was alone, so that he might punch the sky in celebration. He had Canet by the proverbial profiteroles, he thought with triumph. There was no way the Frenchman could wriggle his way out of things now that he had been caught lying not once, but twice.
With a spring in his step, Henry made his way to The Ring'O'Bells, certain that the pub was where he would find Mr Marrowbone.
"'E's not 'ere, Your Grace," Angus, the inn's proprietor offered with a shrug, when Henry entered the bar to find it devoid of its favourite son.
"I wasn't aware he went anywhere else," Henry's reply was delivered through gritted teeth.
"It's market day in Stroud," Angus shrugged again, though his expression was wistful, "'E's probably spending all his hard-earned pennies in a pub there as we speak."
"Wonderful," Henry sighed in frustration; he was now missing both a suspect and the constable to help him apprehend said suspect. "I ask that you would oblige me by telling him that his presence is required at the manor when he returns."
"Yes, Your Grace," Angus nodded, "If 'e can stand, I shall send him."
Just marvellous, Henry thought, as he stalked back out onto the village square. He had been all fired up to get the dirty business of capturing a murderer over and done with, now here he was at noon, with nothing exciting to fill his afternoon bar a sackful of correspondence.
Though he did have the memory of Miss Mifford clutching his hand to keep him warm, he reminded himself--and suddenly, things did not seem so bad after all.
Chapter Nine
After His Grace had galloped off, Mary had spent a few minutes mooning over him, like a smitten green-girl. She had never walked alone with a gentleman before--in fact, she had never been alone with any gentleman before--and she was astounded at how easy it had been.
She had not felt nervous, silly, or on edge in His Grace's company. To walk alongside him had felt perfectly natural, as though she had been walking with Jane or Emily. Though, of course, Jane or Emily did not unleash swarms of butterflies in her stomach when they looked at her like Northcott did.
It had been touching, as well, to learn that Northcott was more than his title; he was a man who lived, breathed, and hurt just like any other. Mary was certain that she had offered him wise counsel; men were forever bottling up their feelings, not realising that by doing so said feelings would ferment within that bottle until so much pressure built up that the cork popped off in a messy climax. Not that she would have used that analogy with Northcott, not after her disastrous "better out than in" comment, which could have only put him in mind of flatulence.
Mary blushed, squirming with embarrassment at the memory. Northcott had been kind and had carried the conversation elsewhere, to spare her blushes.
The only disappointment had come at the end of their walk; for a fleeting moment, when Northcott's eyes had flashed with what Mary had thought was desire; she had believed he was about to kiss her. The moment had passed without a kiss and Mary had been forced to accept that it was not desire which had caused Northcott's eyes to burn so bright. Perhaps it had just been indigestion, she decided, feeling most foolish for her incorrect interpretation.
The duke does not think of you that way, Mary reminded herself, as she set off along the path which Northcott had just disappeared down. He simply thought of her as an accomplice to his investigation--and not a very important one at that.
Feeling a little dejected, Mary continued her walk, absently admiring the ferns, sweet woodruff, and foxgloves which charmingly decorated the path. The trees grew thinner and Lower Plumpton came into view, looking charming as ever in the soft summer sun.
Sunlight glistened on the river as Mary passed over the bridge, and the flowers in the window boxes of the cottages were bright as any jewel. Plumpton was a treasure, Mary thought happily, and it galled her to think that Mr Parsims had tarnished its light with his nefarious deeds.
The matter of his list of victims pressed on Mary's mind. Northcott was certain that Monsieur Canet was guilty, and although Mary did not wish to question the wisdom of a duke, she wondered if there was a chance that he might be wrong.
Even if he was right and Monsieur Canet was guilty, Mary still felt a burning desire to talk with Mr Parsims' victims and let them know that they had not suffered alone.
With her mind now set, Mary squared her shoulders and set off for Mrs Walker's cottage, which stood on the easterly side of the village square.
"Miss Mifford, what a pleasant surprise!"
The young widow offered Mary a cheerful greeting as she opened the door, her eyes bright with joy that had little to do with Mary's arrival.
"Do come in," Mrs Walker said, ushering Mary inside, "You called at a most fortuitous time--I have just made a cake."
Mary followed Mrs Walker inside, down a small, neat hallway to a parlour room which was decorated in varying shades of pastel. The furniture was a little old--the velvet chaise which Mary sat on had been patched in different places--but feminine touches and an air of warmth gave the room a charming feel.
A bunch of hot-house flowers--such a luxury for Plumpton--stood in a vase by the window. Mary made suitable noises about their beauty and Mrs Walker beamed with happiness.
"They were from a friend, who purchased them in Stroud," she said, lifting a hand to touch her cheek, "I have put bicarbonate of soda in the water, in the hope that it will prolong their life a little. Now, let me fetch you some cake. Tea?"
"Yes, please," Mary called after Mrs Walker, who had already bustled from the room.
There was an air of energy and jubilation about Mrs Walker and Mary wondered if perhaps the widow was celebrating. Though the room was cosy and warm, it was obvious to a discerning eye that Mrs Walker was not a wealthy woman; who knew what anguish Mr Parsims had caused by extracting coin from a woman who obviously did not have much to spare. To know that Mr Parsims was now buried beneath a mound of dirt was probably a solace to she who had suffered at his hands.
"Here we are," Mrs Walker called, as she returned to the parlour carrying a tray laden with tea and cake. Mary, who was very much partial to a good sponge, tried not to look overly enthusiastic as Mrs Walker handed her a plate with a large wedge. Two buttery yellow sponges sandwiched a layer of clotted cream and strawberry jam and as Mary took a forkful, a sigh of happiness escaped her lips.
"Heaven," she declared to Mrs Walker, who preened with delight.
"I got the recipe from a friend," Mrs Walker confided, her cheeks rosy with happiness.
Both ladies munched silently for a few minutes, though as the silence began to stretch Mary realised that Mrs Walker was waiting for her to explain the reason for her visit. The cake now felt rather dry in Mary's mouth and she gave a cough as some crumbs stuck in her throat.
"Well," Mary said, after taking a sip of tea t
o clear them, "I suppose you're wondering why I called."
"Is it to do with the Ladies' Society?" Mrs Walker asked, her brow marred with a slight frown, "Mrs Canards has called once or twice, asking if I would like to join, but I'm afraid at the moment that it is impossible. I am too busy with the house and Benjamin to manage organising village fetes and assembly dances."
As ever, Mrs Canards' ability to vex was astonishing. Mrs Walker's previously jubilant air had disappeared, replaced by slight aggravation. Mary did not doubt that Mrs Canards had tried to corral Mrs Walker into helping more than once, and probably not very politely.
"No, it has nothing to do with the Ladies' Society," Mary assured her, and Mrs Walker looked visibly relieved, "It has to do with Mr Parsims."
At the mention of the late rector's name, Mrs Walker paled. Her eyes shifted from Mary's and she looked so uncomfortable that Mary almost wished that she had left well enough alone.
"It has been discovered that Mr Parsims was bribing some of his parishioners for his own financial gain," Mary ploughed on, determined to finish what she had started, "And that he did the same thing in his last parish, which is why he was removed from his post."
"The fiend," Mrs Walker exhaled loudly, her shoulders sagging under the weight of her emotion, "Oh, if he wasn't already dead, I would kill him myself."
"Yes, he did seem to inspire that feeling in a lot of people," Mary offered, sympathetically.
"The moment he arrived, he set his claws into me," Mrs Walker said, her eyes looking not at Mary but into the past, "He knew me from Abingdon; he knew of my history, and knew that I was not a widow at all."
"You're not?" Mary could not stop the startled question which sprung from her lips.
"No," Mrs Walker gave a rueful laugh, "Though I do often wish death upon Benjamin's father, it would not make me a widow, for we were never wed. He was a part of the local militia who were based in Abingdon at the time. He whispered sweet words, promised me the moon and the stars, then disappeared the moment I announced I was increasing."
"Oh," Mary murmured, sympathetically. There was not much difference in age between herself and Mrs Walker and as Mary recalled how she had been at eighteen--foolish, impulsive, and easily swayed--she could not say that the same might not have happened to her, had a charming soldier set his sights on her.
"It caused quite the scandal," Mrs Walker continued, "My parents were enraged, and I would have ended up in the poorhouse were it not for my aunt, Matilda. She offered me the use of this cottage and an annual stipend--not much, but enough to get by. I arrived in Plumpton hoping to put the past behind me, then three years ago, the past returned in the form of Mr Parsims."
"You poor thing," Mary sighed, "You must have been so frightened that he would reveal the truth."
"Do you know, I was," Mrs Walker was thoughtful, "But it is a relief now, to have it out in the open."
The truth of her words was visible to Mary's eye; Mrs Walker's face no longer looked pinched with fear and anxiety, and her shoulders no longer sagged. She looked radiant, Mary thought, for the truth had set her free.
"And soon," Mrs Walker continued, her face breaking into a smile, "My past will not matter, for I shall have the protection of someone's name."
"You are to be married?" Mary asked, this time not bothering to hide her surprise. Plumpton was so small that one could not sneeze without the whole town knowing, let alone get engaged.
"Yes," Mrs Walker looked fit to burst with happiness, "We decided on the night of the assembly that we would ask your father to begin reading the banns next week."
"We?" Mary prompted, finding the pronoun too vague for her liking. She was so happy for Mrs Walker to have found happiness after such an arduous journey that she wished to know the name of the Prince Charming who was rescuing her.
"Monsieur Canet and I," Mrs Walker replied, and all of Mary's happiness sank like a poorly formed blancmange.
"He does not mind that Benjamin is baseborn," Mrs Walker continued, oblivious to Mary's dismay, "They're quite pragmatic about those sort of things, the French."
"He knew about your past?" Mary prompted, as her stomach churned with nerves.
"Not at first," Mrs Walker, replied, "Though when it became apparent what course our friendship was going to take, I confessed all to him--my past, Mr Parsims' bribery, everything."
"And when was that?" Mary enquired, her voice sounding shrill to her own ear.
"A few days ago," Mrs Walker was too blissfully happy to draw the same conclusion that Mary had, "Guillame was livid that I had been treated so badly by the church--they feel strongly about the power the clergy wield in France--and offered me the protection of his name at once."
"How romantic," Mary squeaked, as inwardly she realised that Northcott had been right about the chef after all. Poor Mrs Walker; her happy ending was not to be.
"Well, thank you for your time, Mrs Walker," Mary said, standing abruptly for she did not feel she could look the other woman in the eye for a second longer, "I can assure you that your secret is safe with me."
"Thank you, Miss Mifford," Mrs Walker replied, not noting anything amiss in Mary's sudden decision to depart, "I wish that I had shared my secret with someone sooner, it really is such a relief to be unburdened of it."
Mrs Walker walked Mary to the door and waved her off with a cheerful goodbye, which Mary struggled to reciprocate.
Whilst she hoped that Northcott was mistaken in his belief that Canet had murdered Mr Parsims, Mary had a sinking feeling that the duke was right. Monsieur Canet had probably confronted the rector in a fit of passionate rage; if he hadn't bludgeoned the man to death and had merely boxed him instead, it might have been regarded as a romantic gesture.
Mary shivered as she thought on the primal act that had been committed. She had not thought much on the actual murder before, but now that she understood the rage which had inspired it, she found that she could picture it better and it was not pleasant. It frightened her to think that a person was capable of loving one person and murdering another. Canet had brought Mrs Walker hot-house flowers, then bashed in Mr Parsims' skull with a rock.
Mary quickened her step, wishing to be safely ensconced within the gentle warmth of Primrose Cottage, but as she hurried up High Street, she collided with someone hurrying in the opposite direction.
"Oh, I am sorry," she said, looking up to find that it was Mrs Fairweather with whom she had collided.
The list! For a moment Mary thought that fate had sent Mrs Fairweather her way, in order to interrogate the seamstress on what she knew of her husband's inclusion on Mr Parsims' list of victims. But as Mrs Fairweather lifted her face, the shawl she wore around her head slipped a little to reveal that her cheek was swollen and bruised.
"Oh," Mary could not help but exclaim, "You're hurt."
"This?" Mrs Fairweather lifted a hand to her cheek, her voice flat and devoid of any emotion, "It's nothing. I simply walked into the door."
Mary was old enough to know that Mrs Fairweather was lying, and why. Marriage was an institution played out behind closed doors; for some women it was their haven, for others their hell. There was little that Mary could do to help Mrs Fairweather, but she would tell her father what she had witnessed, in the hope that as vicar he might be able to intervene somehow.
"Forgive me for bumping into you," Mrs Fairweather continued, adjusting her shawl, "I was rushing to return Mrs Wickling's tablecloth, before my husband's return from Stroud."
Mary was not much superstitious, but as fate made an appearance for a second time in as many minutes, she decided she could not ignore it again.
"I was going to call on Mrs Wickling," Mary said, deciding to forgo the comfort of home for a spell longer, "I can take it to her if you wish?"
"That would be very helpful, thank you," Mrs Fairweather answered, breathing a sigh of relief, "I have been asked to make a wedding-gown as well; with the extra time, I should be able to begin cutting it."
"Oh,
there's no rush on that," Mary blurted, hoping to spare Mrs Walker the expense of ruined material, "Mrs Walker and Monsieur Canet have not even had the banns read yet."
"It is not for Mrs Walker," the seamstress replied, her eyes wide with surprise, "I did not know that she and Monsieur were engaged."
"Oh," Mary could have cursed her careless tongue; she had promised Mrs Walker that she would keep one secret, only to reveal another, "Perhaps it is not known yet. Please, don't say anything to anyone."
"I promise I shall not," Mrs Fairweather grimaced and lifted a hand to her swollen cheek, "I am afraid that I don't regard news of a marriage with the same enthusiasm as others."
For a second Mary worried at how she was supposed to respond to such a statement but, luckily, Mrs Fairweather relieved her of that task.
"Thank you again for your help," the seamstress said, as she thrust the bundle she was holding into Mary's hands, "Do pass my regards onto Mrs Wickling."
Mrs Fairweather turned on her heel, scurrying away quickly toward home. Mary likewise turned and traipsed off in the opposite direction. Mrs Wickling lived in Lower Plumpton, in one of the cottages which lined the road after the bridge.
The elderly lady was in her front garden when Mary called, enthusiastically dead-heading her roses, which still held blooms so late in the season.
"Mrs Wickling," Mary hailed her from the garden gate, "Mrs Fairweather asked me to drop this into you."
Mrs Wickling turned from her rosebush, a frown marring her face. She wore a wide-brimmed bonnet, which looked decades old, to protect her face from the sun and she squinted out from under it at Mary.
"Oh, it's you, Miss Mifford," she said as she approached, "I should have known only you or one of your sisters would think it appropriate to shout in such a manner."
Mary bit her lip, as she struggled to remind herself of her quest to be a good, charitable spinster. The problem with being good, she thought with a sigh, was that it required little effort with pleasant people and buckets of effort with the not-so-pleasant ones.
A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage Book 1) Page 11
