A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,20

was on the Bath Road until the spires of St Mary's came into view. Mary paused, brushing away the tears which dampened her cheeks; though she had not intended to come here, surely there was some divine reason as to why she was now standing before the late rector's abode.

Perhaps there was some clue as to who had murdered Parsims inside, she thought with excitement. A threatening letter perhaps?

If Mary was being sensible, she might have decided that breaking into Mr Parsims' home the day after he had been murdered--allegedly by her--was unwise. Sadly, being wrongly accused of murder did strange things to a lady's brain, and Mary did not think twice before opening the garden gate of the rectory and making her way toward the front door. She tried the handle, but it did not budge.

Rats, she thought, taking a step back to survey the small cottage. All the windows were shut, and Mary knew, from having observed Northcott all those days ago, that they would also be locked against intruders. She was just beginning to ponder whether she should risk breaking the glass in one of the panes when the mewling of a cat interrupted her shockingly criminal thoughts.

"Hello, kitty," Mary said, absently, to the cat which was now rubbing itself against her skirts. The creature, a sweet thing if one liked cats, which Mary did, gave a mewl of approval, before suddenly darting away. Mary watched its progress absently; it slithered along the wall, intent on some invisible prey, before leaping onto the fence which divided the front garden from the rear.

The back door!

Had she been the type of girl who uttered profanities, Mary would have cursed her stupidity; the people of Plumpton rarely locked their kitchen doors.

Silently and with no little excitement, Mary followed the cat's path to the rear of the house--though, thankfully, a gate meant that she did not have to resort to also climbing the fence. There, she found a neat vegetable garden--with plots full of brassica, liliaceae, and solanaceae--which was overlooked by the kitchen.

Mary rushed to the door, tried the handle, and let out a breath of relief when she found it unlocked.

As she had not given her plan much thought, Mary was surprised to note a sense of eeriness wash over her as she entered the late rector's kitchen. Upon the rough-hewn table lay reams of pages--Sunday's sermon, no doubt--besides which was a cup of tea, half-finished. It was strange to think that Mr Parsims had left this room fully expecting to return to it, yet now he was no more.

Mary shivered, though it was not cold. She imagined that if Mr Parsims was watching her from beyond that, he would surely be so vexed by her intrusion that he would come back and haunt her. Not wishing to incur the wrath of a spectred Mr Parsims, Mary decided that she'd best find what she needed and leave.

She glanced around the kitchen, unsure where one might leave a menacing note, had one received such a thing. She opened a few of the cupboards marvelling at the abundant supplies a single man had access to but found nothing of note.

Mary sighed; perhaps she had been too optimistic to think that a murderer would have left a helpfully signed note detailing their intentions atop Mr Parsims' kitchen counter.

She glanced around the kitchen once more, wishing to leave but not quite ready to give up just yet. An apple with a single bite taken out of it stood atop the mantelpiece--such wastefulness--and in the far corner of the room, Mary spotted the bushel from which it came. Her stomach gave a growl of longing, and she realised that she had not eaten since the night before.

"It would be a shame to leave them go to waste," Mary decided aloud so that any ghosts might note her intentions were merely motivated by frugality and not greed, before wandering over to the basket to select one.

The apples were small, probably an early crop, and many were afflicted with canker and rust. Mary did not doubt that whichever farmer delivered these to Mr Parsims had done so with a reluctant heart.

She picked up the ripest of the apples, wiped it idly on her skirts, before taking a large bite. It was sour at first, but once her mouth adjusted to its sharpness, Mary happily continued munching--she really was famished.

As she ate, her eyes flickered about the room, finally coming to rest upon the mantelpiece. Beside the half-eaten