A rude gesture greeted his question. “Sir Hector is a loud-mouthed dunghill, and I’m glad he’s got no hold over the inn. Bastard calls me a bog dweller to my face one more time, I’ll give ’im a basting, the bloody buckeen.”
That was fairly conclusive. “And the dead girls? I heard rumours that Bridget was rather free with her favours.”
“I’d say flirtatious more than free. Had a man in the army couple of years back, but he got killed. I’d say she was just a little lonely and wanted some attention. I liked her and so did Lottie. She did mention a new fella, but never said a name. I tried to tell Sir Hector but…”
He didn’t need to finish as Lucas was painting a decent picture of the magistrate already.
“Miss Risley?”
“Never graced the inn with her presence. Saw her in church, of course, but her mother kept her very close. Not to talk ill of a grieving woman, but Mrs Risley thinks herself above an old Irish soldier – probably right. We’ve seen things, Major, that would make her hair fall out.”
“True enough. I’m talking to the farmers and working men tomorrow – any advice?”
“I’ll put in a good word as these northerners can be suspicious of London types. God’s truth, I can’t think of anyone who would do this. I know all the locals and although we have the usual troubles, there’s no one here capable of such violent deeds. The girls were so different as well.”
“I am grateful to you, O’Carroll. I must admit this village does seem an idyllic place. Full of handsome, pretty and prosperous people – too bloody perfect.”
He hoped bitterness didn’t sound in his voice but it obviously had done.
“Come now, Major. Everybody has their flaws; ya just have to dig deep enough. Someone here has a flaw that drives them to kill.” O’Carroll’s eyes sharpened. “Better to have a prominent flaw like us, than one that stains ya soul.”
Raising a tankard to that, Lucas drank. The man was right, damn him. “Thank you for everything, Lieutenant. I’ll be by again.”
“You certainly will, and I’ve got the old barking irons on the wall there if ya get into trouble. Maybe want a bit of a clean but still work.”
Lucas looked at the brace of pistols and hoped to God he wouldn’t need them. “I’d best get back. Otherwise they’ll lock me out of Stonebridge Hall.”
“Could stay here the night. Maggie’s not taken her eyes off ya – she likes brawny men.”
“You are still a scoundrel, O’Carroll.” Irish eyes twinkled back at him. Lucas wasn’t even tempted.
“I have to live the rascal life through other men now, otherwise Lottie would have me cods off with the meat knife.”
Lucas laughed. The man may pretend but he had seen the besotted look he’d given his wife.
“Some nice-looking women up at Stonebridge Hall, anyhow. Eh, Major?”
Lucas refused to take the bait. “Oh, I was supposed to give you both Miss Trewent’s regards.”
“A lovely girl that. More to her than meets the eye. Lottie lost a babe early this year and they had one of those female chats. My Lottie was a lot happier after, so Miss Trewent has my respect. Not many ladies would comfort a landlord’s wife.”
A lovely girl, indeed.
“A toast.” O’Carroll stood, swaying slightly. “A toast to the major,” he yelled even louder. Most of the other patrons staggered to their feet, well used to the Irishman’s blessings…and curses.
“May you live as long as ya want,
And never want as long as ya live.”
Dinner this evening was a quiet affair. Benedict hadn’t turned up, apparently he had business in town, and Lucas was still at the inn. So, although the syllabub was delicious, the conversation was desultory.
“I believe,” Mrs Mereworth was saying, “that you would benefit tremendously from readingMiss Pikesworth’s Guide to Etiquette. It really would help with one’s dinner conversation, especially when there are gentlemen present.”
The lady was another of Benedict’s stray relatives but Rosalind had never been able to extract a full story out of either of them. She eyed her chaperone over the dessert wine.
When the pale blonde first arrived five years ago, supplanting a rather elderly relative that had gone to her eternity box, the lady had barely said anything and when she did, it usually referred to manners or decorum.
Asking Benedict for details, he had said that it was Mrs Mereworth’s story to tell and that wasn’t Rosalind just the same? Damn the man…she hated it when he was right. She had not shared her past either and she doubted she ever would.
