He looked quizzically at her.
“For being you,” she said.
He smiled down at her and pulled her close again for a quick hug, then he let her go.
Cecilia swiped at the tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. “Silly me; I knew what we were doing this morning and failed to carry a handkerchief with me,” she said with a little laugh.
James reached into his waistcoat pocket. “I didn’t,” he said. He drew out his handkerchief and handed it to her. He watched her as she wiped away the evidence of her tears.
“Well now,” she said, with a bit of forced calmness, “we have much to do today. I am glad I read the journal before my encounter with Mrs. Hester. I’m certain Mrs. Hester knows the magistrate’s role in his daughter’s death.”
“She’s likely terrified,” James warned her.
“I know, I shall have to question her carefully. I do not want the magistrate to suspect she has told us anything—if she does.”
“She will. She won’t be able to resist you,” James assured her.
“Please don’t say that. It reminds me too much of Georgia.” Cecilia drew in a deep breath and let it out. “As I wait to hear from Mrs. Hull, I’m going upstairs to spend some time with Hugh. I need to hold my son against me and relish in his life.”
James nodded. “I will see you later. I’m going to see if I can talk to George again. I would hazard that he will be at the tavern. He won’t return to Folkestone until after Mrs. Jones’s burial.”
CHAPTER 14
THE INGLEWOOD HOUSEHOLD
James stopped at the door of the Sheep’s Head Tavern. He smiled slightly and found a certain sympathy within himself for the young man sitting at the bar, a mug of coffee before him. He walked up to the stool next to him and pulled it out.
“I’m somehow gratified to see you are not indulging in spirits at this early hour,” he said as he sat down next to Mr. George Inglewood. He motioned to Mr. Hopkins that he’d like a coffee as well.
Mr. Inglewood had forgone his cravat, his shirt open at the neck; however, all other aspects of his attire were pressed and neat. He turned his head and nodded to James. “Good morning. I’m surprised to see you at this fine establishment so early in the day,” he said, gesturing with his hand to encompass the entire, empty tavern.
“I was looking for you. I had a notion I might find you here,” James said calmly. He nodded his thanks to Mr. Hopkins when that worthy passed him a glass mug of coffee. Steam curled up from the hot brew. He lightly placed his hands around the mug.
“Looking for me? I’m the least person in this village. What could you want with me?” he asked despondently.
James frowned slightly. “Why do you call yourself the least person? You’re the son of the local squire and magistrate.”
He barked a humorless laugh. “I would that I wasn’t.”
“Having had some dealings with your father over Mrs. Jones’ death, I would hazard a guess your discontent stems from him.”
His shoulders slumped. “You have that right.”
“May I ask you a question?”
“Ask away.” George stared into his mug.
James kept his expression neutral, his tone flat. “Is your father cruel?”
George’s head jerked up. “Why would you ask that?”
“Your sister’s friends told my wife of seeing bruises on her,” he told him matter-of-factly.
George looked at him. In his eyes, James thought he saw conflicting thoughts racing. Finally, he breathed out as if he’d been holding his breath for a long time.
“That’s true,” he finally said. He shifted on his stool to face James. “He liked to squeeze her arm or her hand until she couldn’t help but whimper in pain.”
“Did you never try to stop him?”
