Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The Mifford household awoke the next morning, unaware of the news which was about to transpire. Jane, who always woke first, was already at the breakfast table when her father arrived, holding a copy of the most recent newspaper sent over from Northcott Manor, looking bleary eyed.

"I"ll make it down before you, one of these days," Mr Mifford said with a smile, as he slipped into his seat at the head of the table.

"Perhaps," Jane replied, "But even Nora cannot manage to beat me, and she is employed to do so."

"I beg you don"t complain to her that you had to start the fire in the kitchen," Mr Mifford looked momentarily pained, "The last time your mother mentioned it to her, we were forced to eat burned kippers for a month."

Jane grinned; her father was many things, but he was not a man who liked to stir trouble—especially if it might interfere with his daily comforts. And, to antagonise Nora was a sure-fire way to ensure that the Miffords would be nibbling on charred foodstuffs for the foreseeable.

Nora appeared, as though she had sensed she was being discussed, with a pot of coffee in hand. She poured Mr Mifford a cup, topped up Jane"s half-empty one, before disappearing to the kitchen, only to reappear a moment later with two plates of food.

"Heavens, Nora," Mr Mifford smiled, as he gazed down at his plate of eggs and blood pudding, "There is no doubt that I will pass before you, and when I reach St Peter"s pearly gates, I shall sing your praises to him."

"Thank you, Mr Mifford," Nora smiled; a rare event. "Though don"t go telling him I want to be a maid when I get up there; eternal rest should be restful. I"ve no mind to spend eternity cleaning up after others."

"I imagine," Mr Mifford replied mildly, "That you will have others to clean up after you; perhaps Mrs Mifford herself might be assigned to you as a maid."

Nora"s eyes lit up with mischief at the very thought and she struggled to hide the smile which played at the corners of her lips. "Let me check in the larder, Mr Mifford," she said, "I think I might have some sausages hidden away there."

She left the room, humming happily to herself, and as the door closed behind her, Jane shot her father a withering glance.

"You are wicked, Papa," she whispered, "Not to mention blasphemous; you are a vicar, you should know better!"

"All I know," Mr Mifford shrugged, "Is that I am now being offered sausages when I was not before."

Jane snorted and turned her attention to her plate. She was ravenous, having spent half the night awake, reading Byron"s newest work, which Mary had kindly sent down from London. It was still a marvel to think that her sister was now a duchess, with money to spend on whatever she liked. The Mifford family were subscribed to the circulating library in Stroud, but their catalogue was not nearly as extensive as Jane might have liked.

Jane munched happily for a few minutes, as her father perused The Times, occasionally emitting a little laugh of amusement at something which he had read.

"Oh, look," Mr Mifford called, as something caught his eye, "They have mentioned Mary."

Mr Mifford slid the paper across the table to Jane, so that she might have a read of it.

"The Duke of Northcott attended The Theatre Royal last night, in the company of his new wife, to view Mrs Sarah Siddons" breeches performance of Hamlet."

Jane furrowed her brow a little, as the column went into grand detail about Mary"s gown—a dusky pink crape over a lighter sarsnet slip, with a full rouleau of beaded crape at its hem—yet said little else about the play.

Jane sighed with envy; she had never visited the theatre—not even the modest one in Cirencester—and to imagine that Mary had witnessed Mrs Siddons perform her most famous role, was almost beyond comprehension.

"You will get there one day, Jane," Mr Mifford smiled, "Most likely sooner than you think; your Mama is making plans for you to come out in the Spring."

Jane, who usually objected to the very idea of having a season, remained perfectly quiet as her father delivered this news. Mr Mifford raised no suspicion at her silence—just an eyebrow to let her know it had been noted.

Jane was grateful for his tact, for she would not like to explain to him the reason for her sudden acquiescence to the idea of having a come out—and, from that, the implied inference that she was thinking of marriage. She would not like to tell her father that her decision had centred around wanting a life apart from her Mama—nor was she willing to allow herself to acknowledge that her meeting with Mr Bonville also played a part...

Thankfully, further discussion of a season was averted by a series of loud knocks upon the front door.

"Who on earth is calling at this hour?" Jane pondered, as her father gave a harrumph of annoyance. As vicar, his flock called regularly to the house for counselling and guidance—though most knew better than to approach him before he had finished his breakfast.

It was Nora who answered the knocking, and Jane could hear her exclamation of surprise as she opened the door.

Footsteps sounded urgently in the hallway and the door was thrown open to reveal Mr Marrowbone, the local constable, looking worse for wear. Well, more so than was usual.

"Lord Crabb is dead," he called, by way of greeting, "Poisoned, according to Dr Bates. Oh, Mr Mifford, whatever shall we do?"

We?

Jane could almost read her father"s thoughts and despite the gravity of the situation, she could not help but be amused at his irritation at having been assigned a task which had nothing to do with him.

"We shall have a cup of tea, Mr Marrowbone," Mr Mifford replied, gesturing for the constable to take a seat at the table.

Mr Marrowbone"s appearance was even more dishevelled up close and he exuded a strong smell of stale smoke and alcohol. His blue eyes were bloodshot, darting nervously this way and that, and the act of sitting down had caused him to break out into a sweat.

"Perhaps I shall ask Nora to fetch you a medicinal spirit, rather than a cup of tea?"

Mr Mifford"s wise suggestion was met with an enthusiastic nod from the constable and Nora was duly summoned. She appeared instantly, having—Jane guessed—been standing on the other side of the door eavesdropping.

"A brandy and port for Mr Marrowbone, please, Nora," Mr Mifford instructed. Nora bobbed her head and fled the room, her haste an indication that she did not want to miss out on any gossip.

"From the beginning, if you please, Mr Marrowbone," Mr Mifford instructed, once the door was closed.

"Well," Mr Marrowbone heaved a sigh, "I woke up at the crack of dawn, with a head as rough as a badger"s ar—"

"The beginning of your dealings in Plumpton Hall," Mr Mifford interrupted, his face pained. "I don"t wish for a retelling of your whole day."

"Oh, right," Mr Marrowbone"s tone indicated that he was inclined to take umbrage with Mr Mifford"s shortness, but Nora"s reappearance with his drink offered a timely distraction.

"Well," the constable continued, once he had drank half the glass in one gulp, "I was at home, tending to my business, when a footman from the Hall came banging on the door. He said that when Lord Crabb"s valet went to rouse him this morning, he couldn"t be roused—what with "im being dead and all."

"Perfectly understandable," Mr Mifford murmured in agreement.

"The valet noted a rash upon Lord Crabb"s person and instructed a footman to fetch Dr Bates, in case his lordship had succumbed to some contagious infection that might strike down the staff."

"Very wise," Mr Mifford offered; smallpox or scarlet fever could spread like wildfire through a household, if precautions weren"t taken.

"Dr Bates arrived a short while later," Marrowbone continued, "And he knew with one glance that his lordship had not suffered from any illness, but had been poisoned!"

"And how, pray tell, did he know for certainty with just a glance?" Mr Mifford pressed.

Jane noted the hint of suspicion in her father"s voice and guessed the cause of it; if Mr Marrowbone had woken up with a sore head this morning, then it was certain the good doctor had too. The two men spent almost as much time in The Ring"O"Bells gambling and drinking as they did attending to their duties.

"He said he recognised the rash at once," Mr Marrowbone answered, "He witnessed poisoning with deadly nightshade before, when he practised in Cirencester. You recall the case of Mrs Hound, Mr Mifford? Poisoned all "er husbands. Probably wouldn"t "ave been found out, if she hadn"t tried to do a third one in so soon after the other two."

"Ah, yes," Mr Mifford nodded, "The Black Widow of Cirencester."

Jane made a mental note to query her father about this tale later, for she had never heard the story before. Mr Marrowbone, whose tongue was now loosened considerably by brandy and port, was still talking, and Jane drew her attention back to the matter at hand.

"There were other signs too," he explained, "Froth at the mouth, signs of a fit. Dr Bates said he would bet his house on it being deadly nightshade what killed him."

Which wasn"t very reassuring, Jane thought, for Dr Bates would take a punt on most anything.

"A fascinating tale, Mr Marrowbone," Mr Mifford said, as the constable fell silent, "But if you don"t mind me asking, where do I fit into your investigations? Do you wish for me to help you unmask the murderer?"

"Lud, no," the constable assured him, "We already know who the murderer is, and therein lies the conundrum which I face—and I shall need your help in deciding how to proceed, Vicar."

"Well, I"m all ears, my good man," Mr Mifford replied, looking genuinely curious.

Jane too was eager to learn who the murderer was; they must have revealed themselves, for the bone-idle Mr Marrowbone had certainly not solved a murder case in mere minutes.

"It was—" the constable paused for dramatic effect, as Jane and her father leaned forward in their chairs, "—Mr Bonville."

"Lord Crabb"s heir?"

"The very one. He was the last person to be alone with Lord Crabb before he went to bed for the night."

Mr Marrowbone waited expectantly for Mr Mifford to offer comment, but none was forthcoming for Mr Mifford was speechless.

"Is that all you"re basing your opinion on?" Jane pressed, feeling as perplexed as her father. Was Marrowbone really so lazy that he would condemn a man as a murderer, rather than going to the bother of actually investigating?

"He had the means," the constable replied, glaring at Jane, "As well as the motive."

"And that would be?" Mr Mifford drew two bushy eyebrows together.

"He wished to inherit the title and the fortune that goes with it."

Mr Mifford heaved a sigh, and cast Marrowbone an irritated glance. Jane"s father was usually a patient man, but patience rarely lasted when faced with wilful ignorance.

"It is my understanding that Mr Bonville has a fortune of his own; one which eclipses that of the late Lord Crabb."

Jane blinked at this revelation; how had her father come by such information? He had not shared it with his family, though—Jane guessed—perhaps he had not wished to excite his wife into doing something silly. Like throwing her single daughters in front of Mr Bonville in the hope that he might marry one.

"That might be true," Marrowbone blustered in return, "But he did not have a title or an estate—which he now has."

"An estate which is in need of a great deal of funding to bring it up to standards," Mr Mifford muttered, before continuing. "Very well, you have decided that Mr Bonville—or Lord Crabb as he should now be styled—is the perpetrator of the act, where do I come into all this?"

"Well," Mr Marrowbone wiped the sweat which covered his top lip away with a meaty hand, "The problem arises when you consider that as Mr Bonville is now Lord Crabb, he is also magistrate of Plumpton."

"And unlikely to send himself forward for trial," Mr Mifford smiled.

"Aye. Were the Duke of Northcott at home, he might be inclined to step in to intervene, but he is not..."

"...And?" Mr Mifford prompted.

"And, I was thinking that, seeing as though His Grace is not expected back anytime soon, that the best course of action would be for me to do...nothing."

Jane exhaled the breath she had been holding, almost weak with relief that Mr Marrowbone would not pursue the matter any further. Though, that she had expected the laziest man in Plumpton to do some work was foolish on her part.

"Would you consider that, perhaps, someone else might have poisoned Lord Crabb?" Mr Mifford suggested, reluctant to let Mr Marrowbone off the hook completely. "I can list a dozen people off the top of my head who have wished him ill over the years."

"Such as?"

"Mama, for one," Jane said, without thinking, for Mrs Mifford was forever complaining about Lord Crabb.

"And where was Mrs Mifford last night?" Mr Marrowbone asked suspiciously, perhaps thinking that he might ingratiate himself with the new Lord Crabb by offering up another suspect as sacrifice.

"Sleeping in bed beside me," Mr Mifford was firm, "If you cared to use your noggin, my good man, you might examine those who are holding a recent grudge against Lord Crabb. A member of his staff. Or someone who was upset by his refusal to allow his lands be used for the construction of the leat."

"So, you"re saying the Duke of Northcott did it?" Mr Marrowbone furrowed his brow, now confronted by another conundrum.

"I said no such thing," Mr Mifford sighed, "Though I do agree with you on one score—you should not arrest Mr Bonville for murder, for you have no evidence."

"Right you are, Mr Mifford," the constable replied cheerfully, as he stood from his chair, "If you think I should do nothing, then who would I be to argue against your wisdom?"

"That wasn"t what I suggested—"

"Goodbye now," Mr Marrowbone called over Mr Mifford, "My thanks for the drink."

With that, the portly constable took his leave, nearly knocking an eavesdropping Nora over as he opened the door.

"I was just coming in to tell you that I have to pop down to the village to buy some more tea, Mr Mifford," Nora said, with an admirably straight face.

"That"s perfectly fine," Mr Mifford smiled, "Just try be quick in your gossiping; I"ve no wish to listen to Mrs Mifford complaining that she had to cook her own breakfast."

"No fear of that, when she only rises at lunchtime," Nora snorted, before vanishing back out the door.

"Should you have allowed her go, Papa?" Jane questioned, as she furrowed her brow. She cast her mind back to yesterday, when she had thought Nora"s retelling of Mr Bonville"s arrival as being comparable to a game of Whisper Down the Line. Who knew what Nora had managed to hear from behind the door, or how she would choose to retell it.

"There are few advantages to having a vicar as an employer," Mr Mifford shrugged, "Save access to a little gossip. Lord Crabb"s death will reach the ears of the whole village before noon, let Nora play her part in telling people, if that is what she wishes."

"What if she says anything about Mr Bonville?" Jane blushed a little, as she revealed her true concern.

"Then she will only be saying what everyone else is thinking," Mr Mifford was blunt, "His arrival coinciding with Lord Crabb"s murder is rather a large coincidence to expect people to swallow without question.

"Oh, but he—"

Jane halted her speech abruptly, as she realised that she could not say that she did not believe Mr Bonville to be the perpetrator because he did not seem like that type of man. For to say so would be to reveal that she had already met him, and that would only lead to further questions.

"It"s just too obvious," Jane said, lamely, after a pause.

"That"s true. Perhaps whoever wanted Lord Crabb dead recognised the opportunity Mr Bonville"s arrival presented. I fear, however, that with Mr Marrowbone on the case, we may never know for certain."

It was a rather defeatist attitude to take, Jane thought with a frown. Solving a murder was not completely impossible. Why, only a few months ago, her sister had solved not one, but two!

Jane feigned a renewed interest in her breakfast, but inside her mind was racing. Was it possible that she might discover who had poisoned Lord Crabb, if she put her mind to it? For a moment, she wished that her elder sister were at home and not dashing about London, for Mary would surely have offered her some advice on how to proceed with her investigation.

When her breakfast was done, Jane took her plate—and her Papa"s—back to the kitchen, where she quickly washed them, before setting them to one side to dry. Upstairs, she could hear the sound of her Mama and sisters stirring, and she suddenly felt a great urge to leave the house.

Mrs Mifford had not been overly fond of Lord Crabb—in fact, she quite detested him—but she was fond of a spot of amateur dramatics, and Jane had no desire to offer comfort to crocodile tears.

With an urgency to her step, Jane raced for the hallway, where she snatched a shawl that one of her sisters had discarded.

"I am going out for a walk, Papa," she called to her father, who was still seated at the breakfast table.

"Don"t get lost," came the absent response.

Outside, Jane made for the village, curious to see for herself the villagers" reaction to the news. The square was busy, though there was very little movement, for everyone was huddled in groups whispering between themselves.

"Miss Mifford," a familiar voice called.

Jane glanced up to spot Mrs Canards—the village snoot—bearing down upon her, with her eternal shadow, Mrs Wickling, scurrying in her wake.

"Miss Mifford, I have heard a terrible rumour, and I wish to have it confirmed," Mrs Canards said, as she came to a halt before Jane, "Is it true? Is Lord Crabb dead? And did his heir really bash his head in with a candlestick?"

"Lord Crabb was poisoned," Jane corrected, through gritted teeth. If she hadn"t felt such pity for poor Mr Bonville—or rather, the new Lord Crabb—she might have taken a moment to marvel at how quickly gossiping mouths could transform the truth so quickly.

"So, he poisoned him?" Mrs Canards held a gloved hand to her chest, as though horrified, "How truly terrible—do tell me more."

"Mr Bonville," Jane replied, before correcting herself, "I mean, the new Lord Crabb did not murder the late Lord Crabb. Anything that you have heard is based on conjecture."

"Is that so?" Mrs Canards raised a thin eyebrow, "Is there another suspect? Had they actually married, one would naturally assume that young Miss Hughes had played a part in his lordship"s demise. As it is, I cannot think of another soul who might have reason to kill Lord Crabb. Except, perhaps, Mr MacDowl in the haberdashery—he has Irish blood, you know."

Jane was too irritated by the irascible woman to offer a true defence of poor Mr MacDowl. Instead, through gritted teeth, she simply informed Mrs Canards that though there were no other suspects at present, that there was very little evidence to suggest that the viscount"s heir had played a hand in his death.

"How disappointing," Mrs Canards sighed, upset that she was to glean no extra news from Jane, "And we shall have to cancel the assembly next week, it wouldn"t be right to hold a dance when the whole town is in mourning."

Across the square, a cheer went up, from a crowd of men outside The Ring"O"Bells. Angus had just opened the door for the day, and Jane suspected that some of his customers were going in to celebrate the news of Lord Crabb"s death. Some, she reasoned, had probably also won money on the silly book which had been running since the viscount"s engagement had been announced.

Though she felt a surge of distaste for the display, Jane found that she could not condemn the men too harshly. Lord Crabb had been a terrible landlord; raising rents when it suited him, evicting some without due cause, and refusing to assist his tenants with funding much needed repairs. He had ruled his estates with a hard fist and a cold heart, and many a man would—mistakenly—raise a toast to Mr Bonville this evening.

"Tut-tut," Mrs Canards clucked, pointing her face in the direction of the fracas. Without even a farewell to Jane, she began to stomp across the square toward The Ring, shadowed by Mrs Wickling, no doubt to make a note of which men were present, so she could talk about them later.

Jane, relieved to have been excused from Mrs Canards" company—even rudely—continued with her walk. She waved hello to those she passed, for she knew most in the village by name. Nora stood outside the greengrocer"s, holding court with a group of women. She nodded at Jane in acknowledgement, though her gaze was caught by something—or rather, someone—across the square.

Jane surreptitiously glanced in the same direction as Nora, and saw that the maid was staring longingly at a young farmer, who—if Jane recalled correctly—was Mr Jack Bennett. The farmer was deep in conversation with someone Jane did not recognise; a servant, judging by her clothing, perhaps from Northcott Manor or Plumpton Hall. Though they kept their distance, it was clear from the look on Mr Bennett"s face that he was besotted by the young woman.

Not wishing to pry into Nora"s private affairs—for unrequited love was a pain one usually wished to keep to themselves—Jane turned her gaze away. She continued on her walk, thinking to head toward the river, and as she approached the low, yellow-stone bridge, which passed over the stream which divided Upper Plumpton from Lower, she spotted another familiar figure.

"Sarah," she called to her friend, who was watching a pair of mallards search for food along the stream"s banks.

Miss Sarah Hughes was Mary"s particular friend, but as is the way with sisters, that meant that she was also Jane"s. Sarah gave Jane a cheerful wave, her eyes bright and warm under the rim of her bonnet.

"Jane," Sarah smiled, "How lovely to see you. Thomas brought me to town this morning, and I thought that I might bump into you in the square, once I had finished my shopping."

Sarah held a basket in her arms, which was filled to the brim with goods. Jane glanced at it pointedly, and Sarah gave a wan smile.

"Once I had finished, however," she continued, "I discovered that the square was the last place I wished to be, given the news. People kept coming over to me to ask me about Prunella, though I—and I hate to say it—I do not think they were concerned, more curious."

Jane could picture Mrs Canards in her mind"s eye, determinedly trying to extract what information she could from poor Sarah about her cousin—like an overly zealous member of the Spanish Inquisition.

"So, I decided to hide down here," Sarah gestured to the stream, "To pass the time before I have to meet Thomas."

"Would you like to come to Primrose Cottage for tea?" Jane offered, for it was a chill day, but Sarah shook her head.

"I do not have the time," she replied, "I am due to meet him soon enough. Oh, what wretched news for poor Prunella to have to bear."

"Indeed," Jane was tactful; she herself could not quite picture a young lady of eighteen mourning the passing of a gentleman she was marrying for his title, more the loss of the title itself.

"She is a good girl," Sarah said, perhaps sensing Jane"s scepticism, "She was never the type to care for wealth or status, which is what makes me think that she was truly fond of Lord Crabb. The only person who might be relieved by all this, is Sir Charles."

"Really?" Jane could not help her exclamation of surprise, "Excuse me, I did not mean to sound so shocked. It is just, given the difference in age between the pair, I would have expected that Sir Charles was the one who engineered their union?"

"Not at all," Sarah looked uncomfortable, "It was all Prunella"s devising. It really was so out of character for her; she had always been such a sweet girl, who wanted nothing more than to have her come-out and wear pretty dresses."

Perhaps Prunella thought she might have the chance to own more pretty dresses as a viscountess, Jane thought shrewdly, though she did not voice her suspicions to Sarah. Sarah was a kind and gentle soul, who took people at their word.

The sound of the church bells peeling a quarter to the hour drifted across the frigid air. Sarah blinked, as her mind registered what it meant, and cast Jane an apologetic smile.

"I must dash," she said, "I promised Thomas that I would meet him at the crossroads at noon."

"Do call into Primrose Cottage, the next time you are in town," Jane replied, to which Sarah agreed, before she left to meet her brother.

Jane remained at the bridge, idly watching the slow moving stream pass beneath her. She might have stayed there for longer, had someone not soon interrupted her.

"Miss Mifford," Mrs Canards puffed, her breath ragged as though she had been running, "Was that Miss Hughes I saw you with?"

Behind Mrs Canards trailed Mrs Wickling, red-faced from exertion. The pair had clearly spotted Jane speaking with Sarah, and had raced down to try to accost her. Irritation flared in Jane"s belly, which in turn inspired her to mischief.

"Why, yes, it was," Jane replied, pasting a false smile across her face, "She just left to take a stroll along the riverside—if you hurry, you might catch her."

Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling both beamed at Jane, and duly took off in search of their prey. Jane felt a moment of triumph, as she watched the pair scurry away, in the opposite direction to that which Sarah had taken. She was half inclined to follow them, so that she might witness their annoyance when they found no sight of Sarah, but that would be too petty.

Though sorely tempting, nonetheless.

With her chosen path now taken by Plumpton"s two tabbies, Jane decided that there was little else she could do but head for home. She began her journey up High Street, her mind now mulling over Sarah"s revelation about Miss Hughes.

Was it odd that the girl had suddenly decided she wished to marry for money? Or had Sarah been mistaken about her cousin"s true character? Jane felt it was important, though perhaps she was only wishing it so. After all, as Mrs Canards had so aptly put it, Miss Prunella Hughes was the one who had lost out most upon Lord Crabb"s death.

As Jane passed The Ring"O"Bells, a customer was just leaving, and through the open door she could see a crowd of men merrily drinking.

"To Mr Bonville," she heard Mr Marrowbone shout, as he raised a tankard of ale to the ceiling.

"To Mr Bonville," his companions echoed.

Jane sighed, and continued on her path. It would appear that the whole village believed Mr Bonville the culprit, and only Jane believed in his innocence.

And her belief, Jane thought nervously, was based on nothing more than kind green eyes, and a fine pair of shoulders...