“Me?” Bridget asked.
The babe in Mrs. Groby’s arms began to fuss and stuffed her small fist into her mouth. Bridget handed her one of the hard biscuits. The child clutched it with her tiny fist and began to suck furiously on it.
“You are clever. You solved two murders last year. You’re the only person who can save my John.”
“Mama, where have they taken Papa?” Edmund looked up at his mother, his blue eyes wide.
Bridget’s heart twisted, but she did not want to give false hope. “I—that’s not something I can promise.” Things did not look good for John Groby. Not only the people but the magistrate believed him to be guilty, and she didn’t have a clue as to who could have committed this murder.
“But say you’ll try. Please. If John hangs, we will suffer his shame forever.” She gestured to her little boy at her feet. He’d barely touched his milk and biscuits. “Your papa had a murderer’s burial. You know what this will mean for my children.”
Bridget swallowed the pain that rose in her throat and threatened to choke her. She had known the butcher her whole life and desperately wanted to believe in his innocence, but she’d recently learned that no matter how well you thought you knew someone, you could never know all their dark secrets. Still, she had to try.
“I’ll do all I can to help, but you must be honest with me. I will need to ask you some difficult questions.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Groby frowned. “I have nowt to hide.”
“Very well, then. Tell me, what happened between you and Mr.Otis that made your husband so upset?” she asked. “Why would Mr. Groby threaten to carve up George and feed him to his pigs?”
“Nowt happened!” A blue vein pulsed under the pale skin on Mrs. Groby’s neck.
“Rupert said you were taking lessons from Mr. Otis,” Bridget nudged the woman.
“He were teaching me to read. But John didn’t like it. He said he needed me to cook and care for our little ones, not read all day. But you see, I wanted to learn so I could teach my children one day. It might seem like a grand notion, but I thought it could help give them a better chance. People who can read have the respect of others. It makes them—well, you can read. You understand.”
Bridget nodded. “I think it’s wonderful you want to learn how to read and teach your children. Did Mr. Groby force you to stop learning?”
“He didn’t forbid it—at first. But then he refused to let me pay for the lessons, and when Mr. Otis said he’d give me lessons for free, John became cross. He said men didn’t do acts of charity out of generosity, and eventually George would want another sort of payment from me.”
“I see.” Bridget frowned.Why would Mr. Groby say something like that? George had always behaved like a perfect gentleman.
“I told him I could take care of myself. But John wouldn’t listen. He said he knows men like George Otis. And that’s when he ordered me to stop the lessons.”
Bridget worried her bottom lip.So, Mr. Groby had been jealous, but had he been jealous enough to murder?
“But I didn’t want to stop my lessons. I thought John were wrong, and I don’t like being told what to do. So, I refused. And now, someone has killed him, and my John will hang for nowt!”
Bridget glanced at Edmund, who looked fearfully up at his mother. She wished Mrs. Groby would stop talking about hanging in front ofthe child. He was young yet, but children were accustomed to seeing public hangings in town just like adults were. Thankfully, young Edmund Groby may have been spared as much, living in Westmorland, where crime was minimal—at least it had been until last year.
“And you believe Mr. Groby to be innocent, despite his suspicions and threats?” Bridget asked.
“John wouldn’t do a thing like that—he wouldn’t kill anyone.” Mrs. Groby pulled her daughter close. “He says silly things sometimes when he’s had a little too much to drink, but he wouldn’t actually…no, he couldn’t have.”
Bridget bit her lip. Mrs. Groby didn’t sound too confident that her husband was innocent. “Was he home with you all of last night?” she asked.
“He were at The Black Horse, and I were asleep when he came home.”
“So, you don’t know when he returned home?” Bridget asked, her heart sinking.
“I can’t think what we will do now,” Mrs. Groby said, ignoring the question.
“Do you have any family? Someone who can come and stay with you and help with the children, at least.”
“I have nowt. Even young Miss Evans, who were helping me in the house and watching the children when I took my lessons, has abandoned me now. I saw her papa in the crowd today. He will never let her return.” She gazed at her daughter who still sucked contentedly on the hard biscuit. “How could they?” she said, her voice a whisper. “How could they turn on him—our neighbors and friends? John were good to everyone. He were always helping those in need, letting them pay when they could. He never wanted people to go hungry.”
“Do a lot of people owe him money?” Bridget asked.
“A few people, I think. But most are good about paying.”
