Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

After his encounter with Miss Mifford, Ivo set off for Plumpton Hall, determined to continue his investigation. His renewed vigour for solving the mystery of who killed Lord Crabb was not fuelled by a desire to learn the truth, instead it was fired by a fervent wish to restore his sense of dignity. He was a wealthy, important man—and a viscount to boot—yet he had spent half the morning like a love-sick puppy, lingering along the riverside in the hope that he would bump into Miss Mifford.

"I had just stopped to rest ," Ivo mimicked himself, as he rode home, his excuse sounding false to his ears. He had been standing in that spot for nearly an hour, when his patience had been rewarded with her appearance—though, thankfully, Miss Mifford did not know that. Then, instead of capitalising on their moment alone to say something romantic, Ivo had blurted out his whole sorry history.

His ears burned as he recalled how he had shared his deepest regrets with her, yet he sensed the shame he felt was mostly masculine pride. Miss Mifford had not appeared to judge him, in fact, he had almost been certain that her eyes had brimmed with tears as he finished his tale.

Still, kind as she had been, Ivo"s pride still rankled. He was a man, he should have done something manly before her, like split a log, or lift something particularly heavy, not gripe about his feelings.

As Ivo cantered up the driveway of Plumpton Hall, his mind was filled with the various masculine pursuits in which he might engage in Miss Mifford"s presence. He was just wondering if he could somehow stage a fencing match on the village green, when he sighted Allen peering out at him from one of the upstairs windows.

What would really impress Miss Mifford, Ivo reminded himself, was solving the mystery of Lord Crabb"s murder.

Thus, once he had dismounted and handed his reins over to the groomsman, Ivo went in search of James the footman.

After enquiring with Mrs Hardbottle, the housekeeper, Ivo found James in the decker"s room, polishing the silverware.

"My lord," the young footman—who had been staring into space rather than working—jumped as Ivo entered the room.

James was a young lad, about twenty by Ivo"s estimate, with dark hair and the lanky physique of a man who had only recently been a boy.

"James," Ivo gave a slight smile as he addressed him, "No need to panic, I haven"t come to check up on you. I was merely wondering if I might pick your brains a moment?"

"Of course, my lord," the footman nodded, a little uncertain but eager to help.

"I am of a mind to purchase a new chandelier for the entrance hall," Ivo began, before proceeding to detail a completely unsuitable plan for overhauling the lighting in the entrance hall.

"I wish to know your opinion on the matter, James," Ivo finished, his tone modest, "Before I part with any money. As the gentleman in charge of cleaning said chandeliers, I believe you would have a better insight than I into the plan"s feasibility."

"If you"ll forgive me for saying, my lord," James answered, hesitant to contradict Ivo, but not wishing him to lose money, "It does not sound like your plan will work. The modern crystal chandeliers are much prettier, to tell the truth, but they"re heavier too. You could not just change the ones you have there for the newer ones, you would have to change the ceilings as well as the levers and pulleys to lower it. T"would involve ripping out the wood panelling and having the whole thing plastered over and reinforced to support their weight."

"And if I have to replace the ceilings, I suppose I would have to redecorate the whole entrance hall," Ivo mused, "Thank you, James, your help has been invaluable."

Just as Ivo had hoped, the footman was tickled pink at the compliment. Gaining trust was always difficult, but even more so with one"s staff, who were naturally wary of their master.

"You have saved me from losing money," Ivo continued, hoping he was not laying it on too thick, "And earning Mr Allen"s ire in the process."

James gave a frown at the mention of the butler"s name.

"He"s very particular about the house, my lord," the footman agreed, with a roll of his eyes, "And you don"t want to be on the receiving end of his temper, or you"ll end up in here beside me, polishing the silverware."

"Ah," Ivo could not have hoped for a better response, "Has Mr Allen been wielding the stick with you of late?"

The footman gave a sigh of the long suffering and nodded his head.

"I don"t know what I did to deserve it, my lord," he said, happy to plead his case while he could, "But ever since I mentioned to the late Lord Crabb that the portrait in the parlour room was missing, Mr Allen"s had it in for me. Told me I was on probation and to watch myself; he wouldn"t even let me have the morning off when the viscount died, sent me on an errand to fetch Mr Just."

Ivo stilled at this news; to the best of his knowledge, Mr Just had already been asked to call that morning by the late Lord Crabb. Ivo had been there when Mr Allen and the viscount had argued over the latter failing to ask the solicitor to stay on after the marriage contract talks with Sir Charles had ended.

"Perhaps Mr Allen was simply upset at Lord Crabb"s death," Ivo ventured, "They were very close, were they not?"

"Hardly," the footman snorted, "Why, a few nights before his death, they had an almighty row in the library."

"How awful," Ivo sympathised. Outwardly he feigned mild interest, while inside he longed to take James by the shoulders and shake him until he told him everything he knew.

"I"ll say," James looked aggrieved, "I was in the library"s antechamber, moving the furniture so the maid could wax the floor. I couldn"t very well walk out into the middle of an argument, so I was stuck in there for an hour."

"Truly awful," Ivo tried to fight against smiling at the lad"s self-centred view of things, "Did you happen to catch what the argument was about?"

"Something about Mr Allen crossing the line," the footman shrugged, "Lord Crabb was threatening to cut his pension, but he was always threatening that, so I doubt Mr Allen paid any heed. It all blew over after a few minutes and by the time they both left, they were laughing about something or other."

Had it all blown over though? Ivo"s mind was racing as he tried to imagine how the events of the past had played out. Had Lord Crabb decided to follow through on his threat to cut Allen"s pension? If he had, and Allen was aware of it, then of course he would have failed to ask Mr Just to return, for what man would willingly summon the solicitor who was about to do him out of his retirement?

"Thank you, James," Ivo said, wishing to be alone so he could ponder what he had learned, "You have been most helpful."

"A pleasure, my lord," the footman replied cheerfully, "It"s not often I"m asked my opinion on anything."

"Which portrait was it?" Ivo ventured before he left, "That went missing?"

"It was a painting of one of the viscountesses with the lazy eye," the footman answered, with a shrug, "No loss, if you ask me."

Ivo retreated from the decker"s room to the library, where he sat down to muse over what James had told him. Mr Allen, by his account, did appear to be the most likely suspect. A likelihood, however, was not a certainty, and Ivo knew that he would have to have more proof before he could accuse the butler of anything. Besides, he rationalised, his own view toward Allen might be biased by his dislike of the man.

After attending to some correspondence, Ivo decided to take a walk around the grounds to clear his head. Though his mind had been occupied by estate business, it had still insisted on drifting toward solving the murder. Mr Allen was not the only suspect, there was also Flora to consider.

Ivo had not spent much time in the gardens of Plumpton Hall, so he enjoyed a quiet hour exploring its nooks and crannies. The layout of the garden had obviously not changed since the house"s inception and was in keeping with the style of the seventeenth century . At the front, the long driveway was bordered by rigidly symmetrical topiary hedges, while to the rear the terrace led to a privy garden. This in turn led to a knot garden, where Ivo idly admired the intricate design of the hedges and herbs, which had been painstakingly tamed into submission. It struck him as rather mad for Lord Crabb to have wished to change it all for something new and modern, when what was already here was living history.

Off the knot garden, shielded from view by an ivy-covered wrought iron fence, lay the kitchen gardens. Here, the layout was similarly formal, though most of the beds were bare, given the time of year.

At the far corner of the garden, Ivo spotted one of the maids—with a wool shawl around her shoulders—hunched over one of the beds. Though she wore a mobcap and was some distance away, Ivo knew that it was Flora by her tiny stature.

Never one to turn down an opportunity when it was presented to him, Ivo sauntered over to her, the gravel beneath his Hessian boots, crunching as he went.

"Good afternoon," he called, as he approached.

Flora turned her face at the sound of his voice, and offered him a shy smile.

"Good afternoon, my lord," she replied, standing to her feet, "Cook sent me out to pick some chard for her soup, but I"m afraid I became distracted."

Hesitantly, she opened her hands, so that Ivo might see what she held so carefully.

"I think he must have flown into the glasshouse and become stunned," Flora said, as she looked down at the redwing in her hands, "I shouldn"t like to leave him here, or one of the cats might decide to have him for their lunch."

"Will you bring him back to the house?" Ivo asked, finding himself concerned for the fate of the little bird she held in her hands.

"Mr Harold will look after him for me," Flora replied, shyly, "That is if your lordship does not mind me taking a few minutes away from my work?"

"Lead the way," Ivo answered, with a smile, "I was of a mind to call on Harold and see how he is faring in his retirement."

And so, Flora led Ivo from the kitchen gardens to Mr Harold"s cottage. They passed through a gate, which led to the informal gardens, then from there they crossed a field filled with grazing sheep, until they reached the old valet"s humble abode.

Mr Harold"s new home was a small, yellow-brick cottage, which overlooked the river. Rosebushes—now merely a mass of twigs and thorns—grew at the front door, which was painted a cheerful red. It was not at all grand, but it was cosy; the perfect place for a man to live out his retirement.

The valet was quick to answer Flora"s knock and as he opened the door, Ivo marvelled at how healthy he looked in comparison to the last time that Ivo had seen him. Retirement clearly suited Mr Harold, but perhaps that was not surprising, given his age.

"Have you brought me another wounded bird, Miss Bridges?" Harold chuckled, as he smiled down at Flora, "You"ll be bringing me spiders to care for next—oh, my lord, I did not see you there."

"Afternoon, Mr Harold," Ivo said, offering a smile in the hope that it might ease the man"s sudden nervousness. "I chanced across Miss Bridges in the garden and when she said that she was on her way to see you, I asked to tag along. I hope I"m not an imposition?"

His humble words set Harold at ease.

"You could never be an imposition, my lord," the elderly man assured him, "May I offer you tea? Had I known you were coming I would have purchased some sweetmeats in the village."

"Tea is more than enough," Ivo answered, as the valet ushered he and Flora inside.

Harold brought them into a small parlour room, complete with chintz furniture and a merry fire. He begged leave to go make the pair tea, but Flora insisted she had to return to the Hall before she was missed, and Ivo refused on the grounds that he would soon be returning home.

"I think he is stunned," Flora proffered the bird toward Mr Harold, "A rest might be all he needs."

"Aye," Mr Harold answered, as he peered at the poor bird, "You"re right, she is stunned. You can tell she"s a female because her plumage is so plain, the males are more showy."

"Males always are," Flora sniffed, "What shall I do with her?"

"Pop her in the kindling basket for now," Harold waved a hand to the basket beside the fireplace, "I shall bring her outside in an hour or two."

Flora followed his instructions, then, when she was done, bid both Mr Harold and Ivo a quick goodbye.

"I shall be accused of dallying," she fretted, as she made for the door.

"If anyone seeks to reprimand you, you may inform them that I had urgent business I required your assistance with," Ivo offered gallantly, earning himself a smile of thanks from the maid.

Once she had left, Mr Harold began making noises again about tea, and Ivo reluctantly agreed to a cup. Though his title afforded him the right to be waited on hand and foot by others, Ivo could not quite make himself comfortable with the idea of an nonagenarian bringing him refreshments, when by rights, it should be the other way around.

Mr Harold returned, a few minutes later, with two cups of weak tea and a slice of slightly stale rout-cake for Ivo.

"Delicious," Ivo fibbed, as he took a bite of the cake, "Tell me, Harold, how have you been faring since you left the Hall?"

"I"ve been very well, my lord, thank you for asking," Harold replied, before launching into the detail of how he now spent his days. His itinerary included a lot of sitting and reading, accompanied by occasional forays into the village for a visit to the Ring"O"Bells.

"Then," Mr Harold finished, "I am kept busy around the house; always something to do. Miss Bridges has a knack for finding wounded animals—birds with broken wings, hares with thorns stuck between their paws."

"Never a dull moment," Ivo opined, "Tell me, what do you know of Miss Bridges? I am aware that it is she who brewed the tonics for Lord Crabb—do you think it is in any way possible that she might have been persuaded into poisoning him? Perhaps by a gentleman friend?"

"Bless my heart," Mr Harold exclaimed, setting his teacup down on the table before him, "You think Flora might have been involved in the murder? Flora Bridges?"

"I don"t think that," Ivo stressed, "I was wondering if you thought it possible that she might be. She is a kind-hearted young girl, but perhaps outside pressure might have influenced her into doing something out of character?"

"Did you not see the bird?" Mr Harold grumbled, "Anyone else would have left it fend for itself. I once caught her sobbing over a mouse in one of the traps in the scullery. I don"t think anyone could influence such a girl to go so against her nature, my lord."

"You"re probably correct," Ivo conceded, for the valet was most upset, "It"s just that she was the person who brewed the tonics for Lord Crabb, I had to consider her."

"Miss Bridges prepares her recipes in bulk in the still room," Mr Harold responded, belligerently, "As I already told you, the tonic was not the route used to poison Lord Crabb, for he had drank half of the bottle the night before."

Mr Harold did not say it, but his belief that Lord Crabb"s nightly tonic had not been the thing which killed him lightly implied that he believed that the murderer had found an opportunity earlier in the day. As it was well documented that Ivo—a stranger to Plumpton Hall—had been one of the last people to be alone with the viscount, it was then not a great leap for Ivo to presume that Harold thought him guilty. Which irritated Ivo no end, for in his mind, as the last person to see Lord Crabb alive had been Harold when he had helped him dress for bed, he was just as implicated as Ivo was...

Except Mr Harold had not possessed any motive to kill Lord Crabb, while Ivo—in everyone"s opinion—had, Ivo recalled, with a sigh.

"Is there any way that anyone else might have poisoned the bottle?" Ivo pressed, desperate for some sort of clue.

"The bottles were kept in the still room at all times," Mr Harold shrugged, "Under lock and key."

As a still room was often used as a distillery to prepare homemade wines and ales, as well as medicines, it was not surprising to learn that its contents were locked away from the servants.

"Who else holds a key?" Ivo questioned.

"Mrs Hardbottle, of course," Harold shot Ivo a dark look, as though daring him to even try to implicate the housekeeper, "Myself, and Mr Allen."

That was it.

Ivo had been so busy trying to connect Flora to the poisoned tonic, that he had not even thought of Mr Allen.

"Thank you, Mr Harold," Ivo feigned surrender, "I see I have been misdirecting my efforts in this matter; there is no way that Miss Bridges might have been able to taint the tonic."

"I am glad you have seen sense, my lord," Mr Harold replied, "Plenty of villains in Plumpton, without having to try paint Miss Bridges as one."

In order to make peace, Ivo instigated a conversation about the next races at Cocklebarrow, a topic which Mr Harold had a great interest in. After swearing that he would take a punt on one of Mr Harold"s tips—and gifting him a shilling so that he might do the same—the atmosphere in the cottage had returned to one of congeniality.

"I"d best return to the Hall," Ivo said, as Mr Harold made to offer him another cup of tea.

"You haven"t finished your rout cake, my lord," the valet observed, "Let me wrap it in a handkerchief so you might finish it later."

And so, with a pocket full of cake and a mind filled with trouble, Ivo returned to Plumpton Hall.

He would have to confront Mr Allen, Ivo decided, as he made his way through the front door to the entrance hall, but he would have to bide his time. Perhaps he might unearth some more evidence, which implicated the cold butler, for he was not the type of man who would willingly confess to such a thing.

Ivo"s mind was so firmly transfixed on Mr Allen, that he failed to note that the man himself was standing inside the door waiting for him.

"A letter just arrived for you, my lord," he intoned, as he handed Ivo a sheet of paper folded in two.

"Thank you," Ivo answered, accepting it and hurrying away quickly, lest the butler spot the suspicion in his eyes.

Once he was safely ensconced in the library, Ivo unfolded his missive and read it in seconds. It was a letter from Mrs Mifford, writing on behalf of the Plumpton Ladies" Society to invite him to an assembly in his honour the next week.

Though Ivo had been expecting an invitation, the sight of it cheered him up greatly.

It was not all murder and mayhem in the Cotswolds, he thought happily, there were opportunities for romance as well. Then—despite the fact that he had some very important things to mull over—Ivo went off in search of Newman, to request that his best attire be prepared, so that he might impress Miss Mifford on the night.