The strangled servant, p.21
The Strangled Servant, page 21
“Ohhhh!” She collapsed and toppled to the ground. People turned around to see and then a pair of men saw Neville holding a dagger.
“Oy, what are you doing?” one called.
“Bugger!” He moved back.
In an instant Poppy was surrounded. “She needs air! She’s fainted!” a voice said.
A woman bent to her. “Miss, are you all right?”
Poppy moaned. “I am sorry, what happened?”
A familiar face looked down over her. “Let me through, I know the young woman. Miss Morton? Are you unwell?”
“Mr. Turnbull.” She pushed herself into a sitting position. “Mr. Neville Conn is there.”
Neville looked up and met the eyes of Nicholas Turnbull. “You!” he uttered. He stepped around Poppy and said, “You, sir, have offended me in every way and I demand satisfaction.”
“What? Who the devil are you?” Neville cried, backing up. The knife fell from his hands, and he backed up against a wall.
“My name is Nicholas Turnbull and you sir, might know me through a close acquaintance of yours. Miss Maria Langland.”
Neville paled. “I don’t even know you.”
“No, but I know you.” He pulled his gloves from his pocket and whipped them across Neville’s face. The slap sounded in the small area and one woman gasped.
“How dare you.” Neville’s voice shook.
“The honor of a young lady demands it,” Nicholas said. “I shall see you on the village green, tomorrow at dawn.”
“So be it.” The men bowed to each other stiffly and Neville walked away, shooting Poppy a murderous glance.
She accepted the help of those around her and got to her feet, just in time to see Nicholas disappear. After reassuring those that she felt quite all right, she heard a cough at her shoulder and turned around. A serious face looked down at her.
“Hello, Constable.” She curtseyed.
“Miss Morton.” His dark eyes burned into hers. “I am glad to see you.”
“And I, you,” she said warmly.
“I must speak with you,” he said.
“I need to apologize,” she uttered. “I never meant to hamper your investigation, truly. I only meant to stay true to my friend.”
“I know. But she was no friend of yours,” he said. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I was a fool.”
“What?”
“I thought you a silly girl, and I did you a disservice. But I need to tell you—”
“Poppy!” Her aunt approached her. “Oh, and Constable, you’re here.”
Constable Dyngley grunted with annoyance. “Mrs. Greene.”
Before she could continue, he turned to Poppy. “Would you care to dance?” He held out his hand.
She accepted it as he led her to the head of the line, waiting for the next dance to start. He stood in silence and she held his hand lightly, feeling the tension in his arm. She darted a glance at him and saw his serious expression. He didn’t look happy at all.
“Constable?”
“I do not normally talk while dancing,” he said coldly.
“Then why did you ask me to dance?”
The music began, the warm strains of violins filling the air. The constable and Poppy faced each other in a line and swept to either side as the instruments played.
His dark eyes met hers. “Perhaps I wished to dance with you.”
She tried to hold her tongue, eyeing the set line of his mouth. They moved through the formation of the dance and hardly exchanged a word, although their hands joined more than once, sending a thrill through Poppy at each feather-light touch.
He held her hand as she glided through the steps and she tried not to think of him as a man, but as her counterpart in sleuthing.
She had no doubt that Mary had taken her shawl that evening, she’d seen Mary help herself to things more than once. But to have her servant be strangled with it too, that was horrid. The servant girl Margie didn’t deserve such treatment, and her only crime was accompanying her mistress.
But the Potters, who held her employ, surely would have known of Mary’s plan to leave with one of their servants. She doubted they would take kindly to the idea of Mary taking one of their hired help for her personal use. Unless they knew her destination and had been assured of the servant’s return. Did Margie expect she was returning to Hertford? She would have to ask Betsey.
Did the killer mean to use her scarf to strangle Margie? Was it just a convenient tool at the time or did the man have more devious intentions in mind? She could not think of anyone she had angered so, to deserve to be framed for murder. But equally, she knew that the scarf was a gift to her from Mary, and only a handful of people knew that scarf was hers. Her aunt and uncle could be dismissed as guilty, they were her guardians and above reproach.
But as she dwelled on who would know of her scarf, her circle widened to the Potters. Could one of them be behind the attack?
No, surely not. They adored Mary to a fault and enjoyed the popularity and attention they received from the neighborhood when Mary visited. When she was in town the Potters were invited to all the major households, so they were to be sure of receiving at least enough free dinners for a week. So many people were touched by Mary’s charm and impressed with her saucy tongue and captivating beauty, Poppy felt her loss keenly, like a weed missing a flower.
But the Potters had been furious and had quickly blamed Poppy for Mary’s circumstances. Could they know of Mary’s secret? Could one of them have wished her ill, and on that fateful night used the cloud of her public fight to bring about her accident? Not to mention her debts they were now honor-bound to pay.
It was possible. But she knew it was equally unfathomable. Mr. and Mrs. Potter looked upon Mary as quite their own daughter, and made such a show of taking her around the village and introducing her to anyone of their acquaintance they encountered, Poppy was sure they would rather die than lose that social ornament Mary offered them.
Then there was the matter of the caltrops in the road. One or two might be mistaken as a farmer’s mistake, but the ground had been littered with them. It was intentional, it was dangerous and it had led to the injury and death of a young woman. But when she had confronted Tom’s cousin, the man seemed ill at ease when faced with the very evidence of his guilt. Did he realize he was complicit in a crime? Or had he knowingly made them for a murderer?
She must ask the constable what he thought of this. She hadn’t told him she had interviewed the blacksmith. But then the dance was at an end, and she found herself facing the constable’s angry face.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Poppy said, “Constable? Why are you—” When a press on her arm whirled her around. “Tom.”
“Poppy. I’m glad to see you’ve broken free of your guardians, I thought they’d never let you out.” He flashed her a winning smile, and she felt warm in his gaze.
Her heart gave a treacherous flutter. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. May I have the next dance?”
“Oh, I’ve promised Constable Dyngley…” she turned to the man whom she had admired in secret.
He stiffly nodded his assent. “By all means.” He gave Poppy a formal bow and walked off, not giving her a chance to curtsey in return.
Tom said loudly, “That was rude.”
“Tom,” Poppy said.
“What? It was. I don’t know what you see in him. There’s no reason you should be keeping company with such a man.”
Poppy smiled and stayed quiet while Tom led her into the queue for the start of the next dance. The first pipe began, and she and Tom joined another couple for a reel.
He gripped her hand warmly and raised it up as he turned her in the dance. As she skipped by him he murmured, “I need to speak with you.”
“What about?” she asked lightly.
“Us. I must ask you something,” he said as she finished another twirl, “Privately.”
Uttered from his lips, those words would have once made her swoon. Tom, the man of her dreams for so many years, was now asking for a private audience with her. Could there be a luckier girl?
And yet she felt nothing but a pleasant fondness for him. Indeed, what she had previously experienced as an all-consuming passion for him now had faded to almost nothing. A mere flutter of feeling that had once felt as mighty as a bird of prey.
She hardly noticed the music that played, or the other dancers reeling beside them. She moved mechanically through the motions of the dance and wondered where Constable Dyngley was. Why had he sought her out for the first two dances and then given her away after the first? Did he care nothing for her?
And with Mary now gone, her wistful dreams of romance that had encompassed her thoughts had disappeared, dissipated like the morning dew. What could Tom possibly wish to ask her?
Perhaps like Constable Dyngley, he wished to discuss the investigation with her. He might have heard some news about Mary. Since her disappearance, their friendly trio had broken irrevocably and she felt the poorer for it.
As they weaved around the other couple in their set, she searched the crowd and caught a glimpse of the constable watching them from the sidelines. She began to smile when Tom’s cousin, the blacksmith, spoke to him.
The constable listened, eyeing Poppy dance. His expression darkened as he listened to the man, who was pointing at her.
Poppy swirled in her dress, feeling the folds of her gown whisper around her hips. Even at a distance, she did not feel safe. She would have to own up to the fact she has spoken to the blacksmith, and she knew that Constable Dyngley would be angry at her interference. Just when they were on good terms again too. He would be furious. Would they always be at odds?
The dance ended, but Tom refused to release her hand. She became conscious of the other dancers eyeing them and gently pulled her hand from his, resting it by her side. She met his gaze briefly and curtseyed solemnly, deeply, as she thought might befit a lady of much higher social standing than she.
He blinked and gave a half-hearted bow. “Now. Let us get some fresh air…” he extended his arm, which she took as he led her away from the dancing, toward one of the few balconies.
With Tom’s dashing looks they made a stately couple as they walked past other dancers, but she cared not. Where was the constable now? She couldn’t see him. Why had he not come seeking her as a dance partner? He owed her a second dance, she would hold him to it.
Tom opened the glass-paned doors to lead her onto the outside balcony, letting a breath of cool night air enter the room. He shut the doors, confining them in privacy. “I am glad you came tonight. I have missed your company.”
She smiled. “We are good friends.”
“We are more than that. Oh, Poppy, if only we could all be here together. Mary would have enjoyed it so. I only wish that you two had not exchanged such words…”
She swallowed. “We stood on this very balcony when…”
She had twisted her lavender shawl around her false friend’s neck and shoved Mary hard, forcefully enough that she flew through a glass door and with a horrifying crash, landed before the entire assembly. For an instant, Poppy had felt gratified. She had silenced Mary with the sound of shattering glass. Then she became filled with horror at what she had done.
Mary pointed a bloody finger at her and screamed. “Help me! Help! Poppy, she’s mad!”
An astonished silence filled the room. People came forward, helping Mary to her feet. They shot Poppy darting little accusatory looks. One man asked, “What’s happening here?”
Mary had burst into tears while Poppy quit the room to get some air. Her aunt and uncle took her home, asking for details. But she was silent. She had gone to bed in tears, not waking up until the constable had come knocking on their door in the early morning.
Tom’s warm hand covered hers, bringing her back to the present. “You fought. I know. I have heard tales of what happened, but do not know the particulars. What did she say to make you act with such violence?”
Poppy rested her hands on the iron railings, feeling the night air whisper against her bare neck. “She wished me to tell you she was rejecting your marriage proposal.”
She turned to him, drinking in the sight of his comely face, his tousled dirty blond hair, the sly quirk of his mouth that she’d fallen in love with.
He laughed. “She was a vain girl. And imaginative, I’ll give her that.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Poppy, she told you a lie. I brought you out here to tell you something that I have wanted to say for a very long time. Poppy, I love you.”
She blinked. “But… What about Mary? And Miss Hawkes?”
He blushed. “I admit she did take my fancy for a time, but I came to realize that we are not suited and that my feelings for her were no more than friendship. What I feel for you, Poppy, is much stronger.”
“Tom, this is no time for jests.”
He took her hands in his. “I make no jest, Poppy. I have loved you all my life.”
She started, slipping her hands free. “How can you say that to me? Do you know how long I have…cared and admired you?”
His smile was confident. “I know. But what Mary gone, it made things so much clearer. I love you, Poppy. I want to be with you the rest of my life.”
Those words would have once made her heart sing. Her heart gave a treacherous flutter. “But you proposed to Mary.”
“It was a joke. I’d told her that night I’d planned to propose to you.”
“But what about that afternoon, when you told me you were going to ask her to marry you?”
“It was a mistake. That night, I realized that I truly loved you, and wanted to propose to you instead. I told her at the dance, I thought she would understand.”
He flashed her that old self-assured smile that she knew so well. She wondered if he was telling the truth. “She didn’t, did she?”
He looked away. “No. She left, and I thought nothing of it, but then I saw her take you aside for a private conversation. When I saw your outburst I realized she must have provoked you to have her revenge.”
“But this whole time I spent searching for her killer and you stood by. I heard you telling women that I had threatened her.”
He shrugged. “Women will gossip. It is nothing to me.”
She frowned.
Tom took her chin in his hand. “Don’t think of that now. Not when there are happier things to dwell on.” He pulled her roughly against him, bent his head and kissed her.
She stiffened as she tasted him. The man she’d dreamt of kissing was finally pressing his lips against hers. Her dreams had come true. But as her eyes closed and she felt the kiss, she felt…nothing. No heat of passion enflamed her.
His touch didn’t overwhelm her senses, not even a little. Indeed, his breath smelled and she squirmed in reaction. He mistook her movement for passion and tried wriggling his tongue down her throat.
She recoiled and moved back, wiping her mouth with her gloved hand.
Their embrace broke and his eyes were dark. “Why, Poppy, I never knew you were so affectionate.”
“Tom, I didn’t mean to…”
“No need to be so modest, Poppy, there will be time enough for that when we’re married.” He reached for her.
She pressed her hands against him, brushing against his palms, which were rough with scabs. She touched the cuts, feeling them only partially healed. “Tom, what are these cuts? Did you get into a fight?”
He was the least likely to get into a fight out of any man she knew. He fancied himself a lover, not a fighter.
“Tom?” she asked.
“It is nothing. A bit of work, helping my cousin in the smithy. Never was good at horseshoes.”
But it wasn’t nothing and she knew it. The cuts were almost marks he’d get if he’d fought something like an animal, a human, or a blade.
She stepped back. “It was you. You killed Mary’s maid.”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous. You’re talking nonsense.”
“Where did you get those cuts on you? It looks like you’ve been attacked.”
“I was beset by highwaymen.”
“If so, why did you not speak of it?”
“I did not want you to worry.”
“I don’t believe you. I think you used my shawl to strangle an innocent girl. I think you knew Mary was leaving and you went through Wright’s farm and cut your hands stealing caltrops on the way. You threw them into the main road, knowing Mary would leave by that route, and you waited.”
His eyes spoke the truth when his tongue would not. “You’ve played at truth-finding long enough, Poppy. You should leave it to your constable and stop playing games you don’t understand.”
“You forget, Tom, I know you too well and can tell when you are lying. You meant to kill Mary. You knew she was leaving. You were in love with her.”
His eyes burned into hers and he gripped her wrists, pinning them tightly together. She struggled and was stuck fast. He sneered. “Do you think I would relish in the knowledge that the girl I’d loved for many a year had thrown herself at another man?”
“My God. You did propose to her.” A small pain burst in her heart.
His face was ugly. “That silly little strumpet laughed at me. Me, after all those years of showing off her charms and leading me along by the nose. This whole time she was dallying with someone else. And do you know the worst of it?”
“What?”
“When I told her I’d have her anyway, she laughed at me. Me. Tom. Do you know how many women I’ve turned down for her? She said, ‘Oh Tom, you could never be rich enough to afford me.’”
“I’m sorry, Tom.”
He spat on the ground.
“If you couldn’t have her, no one would. But you failed. You killed her maid instead. Did you think it was Mary?”
“Aye. When the carriage overturned I was waiting. I thought it was Mary, but the horses were shrieking and the girl was screaming bloody murder and she was wearing that scarf of yours. Foolish girl. Thinking she could run away from all her problems.”
“Not her problems, just you,” Poppy said.
