Chapter Five
When Bridget arrivedhome, she was met by the gardener, Thomas, and his apprentice, Fred Smythe—a quiet but strong young man of about seventeen who’d come from Cockermouth and was a distant relative of Thomas’s.
“Miss De Lacey.” Thomas removed his cap, and Fred followed suit. Bridget smiled at the men. Thomas had been serving Villa De Lacey for years, well before Bridget’s birth. He’d known Bridget’s mama, who’d died when she was four, and he’d been a dear friend of her papa’s, who’d promised Thomas that he could spend the rest of his days in the gardener’s cottage on the property. Bridget intended to persuade Nate to honor that promise. But that was not yet necessary as Thomas was not ready to put away his shears. Despite approaching sixty years of age, Thomas still had a handsome face, a full head of thick silver hair, and a muscular physique. He worked as he always had—with alacrity and precision—on his beloved garden.
“Thomas, Fred,” she said, and it suddenly occurred to her that she had not seen them at all that morning despite the commotion in the garden.
“Are you well, miss?” Thomas asked. “I heard…” He shook his head. “It’s unbelievable…there were another body in our garden.”
Bridget sighed. By ‘another body in our garden,’ Thomas was referring to one of the horrific murders which had occurred at Villa De Lacey in the summer. She rubbed the back of her neck, which suddenly ached with tension. “I know. It’s rather shocking, isn’t it?”she said, for what else could she say?
“I wanted to apologize, miss.” Thomas fiddled with his tweed cap, turning it around in his earth-soiled fingers.
“What for? Surely, you don’t blame yourself for the body ending up in the garden?”
“No, but I ought to have been the one to find the body, not you, miss. You ought to have been spared that upset. Only I were off the grounds with young Fred here, teaching him about the berries and mushrooms and such. You remember the problems we had in the summer with the mushrooms.”
“I do.” Bridget nodded. Some guests had arrived with knowledge of the hallucinogenic properties of area fungi, leading to some embarrassing—and dire—consequences.
“So, the lad must be knowledgeable about the plants.” He shook his head. “We got an early start this mornin’ an’ left through the east gates, so we didn’t go past the daffodils. I thought I were doing right, but I ought to have done the rounds first, miss.”
“Oh no, Thomas! You mustn’t blame yourself. How could you have known there’d be a dead man in the daffodils?” Her voice faded with the latter part of the sentence as the horrific image of George’s desecrated body reemerged in her mind.
“Have I upset you, Miss Bridget? I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’m sorry.”
Bridget tasted blood in her mouth and became aware that she was biting down on her lip. Instinctively, she put her gloved hand to her mouth and pressed it against her wound. When she pulled her hand away, a bright red spot stained her white glove. The sight of it sent her back to the daffodils, where George’s blood had stained the lovely golden flowers. Her legs seemed to lose their strength, and she felt unsteady on her feet. Thomas’s face became a blur.
“Miss Bridget!” Thomas caught her by the arm. “Are you hurt? Let me take you inside.”
Bridget blinked, and Thomas’s lined but still handsome features came back into focus. She steadied herself. “No, I’m fine, Thomas. It’s only that…well, the way the killer violated Mr. Otis’s body after his death was an act of pure evil. It scares me to think someone of that nature lurks among us.”
“Aye, but you needn’t fret. I have me hunting rifles at the ready, and Mr. Squires has instructed me to start locking the gates after dark. It seems he isn’t convinced Mr. Groby is guilty.”
“That’s a good idea,” Bridget said, although the notion saddened her. In all the years she’d lived at Villa De Lacey, there had never been a reason to lock the gates. She’d always suffered from worry when her papa was away, fearing he might not return safely, but she’d never feared for her safety at home. Thomas, who had a stock of hunting rifles, was a constant presence on the grounds, and aside from the previous summer, Villa De Lacey had been the most peaceful place on earth.
Now, many of their guests enjoyed late-night stargazing and moonlit walks by the lake. So, she imagined, they would object to this new situation. Still, it would be for the best, at least for the time being.
“You agree with Mr. Squires, then?” Thomas said. “About Mr. Groby, I mean.”
“I’ve learned the hard way that we never really know anyone. Some people harbor deep, dark secrets, and they hide them well.” Bridget swallowed. She hated that she no longer trusted people, and so she fought against this skepticism.I must remember that most people are good and have honorable intentions.
She took a deep breath and continued to speak, “That said, we’ve been purchasing meat from Mr. Groby for years. I’ve known him since I was a child. Papa always spoke highly of him. And he seems to be a caring husband, father, and neighbor. So, I cannot believe that he would do such a heinous thing—at the very least, I don’t think we should be too quick to condemn him. We all need to be certain that aninnocent man doesn’t hang. That would be another murder, in my opinion.”
“Aye. I cannot agree more. I was mighty sorry to hear of Groby’s arrest. He’s a good man. He said a stupid thing, but he wouldn’t do such wickedness to another man. I’m sure of that.”
“You were at The Black Horse last night, then? Did you hear what Mr. Groby said?”
“Aye, we both did.” Thomas nodded. “Groby were mighty drunk, weren’t he lad?” He turned to his apprentice, who nodded in agreement.
“And was that unusual for Mr. Groby?”
“Not for a Sunday evening after a long week. The Black Horse is a place to relax with the lads.”
“So, would you say most people were inebriated last night?”
“Everyone was certainly enjoying their ale and cider. They were jolly, to be sure, but none were as bad off as Groby. I’ve never seen him like that before.”
“Was he drinking something stronger than ale and cider, perhaps?” Bridget asked.
