“What!” James protested.
Mr. Vernon gave a tight laugh. “That one was a mistake on his part. Lord Mortlake and Dr. Patterson heard the story and went to see Inglewood. I don’t know what was said; however, I was released, and all the more vile of Inglewood’s accusations stopped.”
“I should hope so,” James declared.
Mr. Vernon nodded. “Lord Mortlake said that rumor would be death for the Mortlake Brewery if it got bandied about far and wide. He would not tolerate that.”
“I would imagine not! One would suppose a magistrate would be above lies.”
Mr. Vernon sighed. “One would, yes.”
The Sheep’sHead Tavern was not an old building in Mertonhaugh, as the original structure had burned down some twenty years past. The tavern stood out from the Kentish stone of most of the village with its clean, symmetrical Georgian design and white stucco exterior. Inside, however, the new pub owner, Mr. Gilbert Hopkins, had disavowed the open Georgian style as too uninviting. He’d paneled the walls with darkoak, expanded the fireplace, and placed settles around it to encourage customers to relax and stay awhile.
For this reason, James considered Mr. Hopkins an intelligent and shrewd man who saw more and said less. He had been summoned to the inquest jury and had sat to the side, his thick arms crossed, resting on his ample stomach.
After leaving the Mortlake Brewery, James walked to the Sheep’s Head for a chat with Mr. Hopkins. A few of the older residents were gathered at tables, eating their midday meal from wooden bowls. He nodded to them as he threaded his way through the empty tables to the bar.
Mr. Hopkins approached him. “Ken I git youse a beer, sar?” he asked, rubbing the already clean bar in front of where James stood with the cloth he carried.
“Just ale, Mr. Hopkins,” James said as he settled his foot on the iron boot rail near the floor. He leaned his right arm on the bar top. “What did you think of the inquest the other day?” he asked as Mr. Hopkins slid a mug of ale in front of him.
Mr. Hopkins frowned. He leaned his elbows on the bar. “Squire Inglewood ken be a bit officious, wantin’ everything to go his way.”
“Why do you suppose he wanted Mrs. Jones’ death ruled a suicide?”
“’Cause he were afraid that chit of his committed suicide,” said Mrs. Hopkins, interrupting as she entered the bar area from the kitchen. A handsome woman, she was probably ten years younger than her husband, with gray only beginning to visit the dark-brown hair she wore in a tight bun. “Shows he didn’t know his own daughter well. I tell you, sar, if she couldn’t get rid of the babe, that tart woulda found a way to turn it to advantage. That she would,” she said, her voice rife with disgust. “Now, can I bring you a hot, fresh pastie, Sir James?” the woman added.
James laughed. “You were not sympathetic to the young woman?”
She shook her head. “Not that one. A witch she were, and she had her parents, her brother, and others in the village feelin’ beholden to her, if you can imagine that.”
“Beholden?” James asked, his brows coming together in a questioning frown. “Why do you saybeholden?”
She flung her hands up. “She had people fallin’ over each other to help her. They thought her clever—too clever to ever be wrong, and that’s a fact. Now, can I git you a pastie or not?” she demanded, her hands on her hips.
James laughed slightly and told her yes, she could. He pulled up a stool and sat down.
“Your wife is not behind in her opinions,” James observed to Mr. Hopkins when his wife went back into the kitchen.
“No, not that one. I hope she didn’t give you a distaste for her, bein’ too forward like that, Sir James.”
“Not at all!” James assured him. “Reminds me of my wife, Lady Branstoke. The two of them would get along.”
Hopkins’ eyes widened. “Kind of youse, Sir James?—”
James laughed at his expression. He’d nearly forgotten that in this village there was decided class bias, engendered, he suspected, more by Squire Inglewood than anyone else in the village—including the Earl of Mortlake! “My wife was a widow when I met her. Her first husband was a merchant trader.”
“But I heard she is the granddaughter of a duke!” Mrs. Hopkins said, sliding a pewter plate with a pastie in front of him.
“She is,” James said, eyeing the aromatic pastie. “This smells delicious, Mrs. Hopkins.”
Mrs. Hopkins frowned. “Excuse me for asking, Sir James, but how’d she come to marry a merchant?”
“That is a complicated story,” James said, thinking of how the arranged marriage had actually saved her from the sex trade.But that was not a story he could tell these good folk. “Suffice it to say, her father had debts.”
Mrs. Hopkins folded her hands against her apron. “Ah,” she said sagely. “That is not an uncommon fate for girls. Most have no say to their lives.”
“And perhaps what happened to Miss Inglewood happened because she tried to have control of her life,” James said calmly as he cut open the pastie.
