he was not looking at his companion, rather his eyes kept flicking nervously toward Henry.
Having only just mounted his horse, it was rather a pain to have to dismount again so soon, but Henry, keen to have a word with the farmer, did just that. He hopped from the saddle to the ground quickly, calling out for Mr Fairweather to wait.
"Your Grace," the farmer acknowledged him as he turned at Henry's call.
"I wish to have a word with you, Mr Fairweather," Henry replied. He glanced around and saw that the half-dozen or so people who had been watching the earlier fight between the two farmers were still lingering conspicuously. Mrs Canards--the woman who had been so quick to point the finger of blame at Miss Mifford--had actually taken a seat on some crates outside the haberdasher's and was munching on a bag of sweets as though at a play in Drury Lane.
Henry cast a withering glance Mrs Canards' way, "Perhaps it might be best if you take a walk with me."
"Yes, Your Grace," Fairweather agreed, his top lip slick with sweat.
The man was a nervous wreck, Henry noted, though he knew that his title often induced fear in even the most brawny of men--and Fairweather was just that. He stood almost as tall as Henry himself, though his shoulders were wider, and his forearms were thick and wiry with muscle. Henry's physique was toned from exercise--riding, fencing, sparring matches in Gentleman Jackson's club in town--while Fairweather's was a testament to a life spent manual labouring. No matter that Henry was fit, he still would not like to chance upon Fairweather down a dark alleyway.
"I wish to know where you went after you left the assembly last night," Henry said, as he and Fairweather walked down High Street. It was best, Henry thought, to get to the point immediately rather than faff about with small-talk.
"Why is that, Your Grace?" the farmer questioned in response; his tone was light, but his sweaty brow belied any attempt at nonchalance.
"Why?" Henry gave a bark of impatient laughter, "A man was murdered, Fairweather; a man who is reported to have vexed you by flirting with your wife. That is why I wish to know where you went last night after you left the assembly in a temper."
"Oh," Fairweather emitted a shaky laugh, which to Henry's ear could almost be mistaken for relief, "That. No, Your Grace, I did not kill Mr Parsims, I went straight home after the dance with my wife. She will confirm it if needs must."
"Needs must," Henry was serious, "Your name was also included on a list of people who appear to have owed Mr Parsims money, do you mind if I ask why?"
"No idea," Fairweather appeared genuinely perplexed, "I paid what tithes I owed annually, like everyone else. There was no need for Parsims to come scrounging after me for more, not when he had calculated his dues down to the last half-penny."
Henry liked to think that he was a good judge of character--the error in appointing Mr Parsims notwithstanding--and he believed Fairweather when he said that he did not know why he was on Parsims' list. However, his earlier twitchy behaviour warranted suspicion. Mr Fairweather was hiding something, of that Henry was certain--though the reason as to why was less obvious.
"Tell me," Henry continued, wishing to return to the matters of the previous night, "Did you notice anyone at all on your way home? Monsieur Canet, perhaps?"
The farmer's cheeks had lost their earlier pallor, but it returned once again at the mention of Canet.
"No, Your Grace," Fairweather removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket to mop his brow, "I did not see him at all."
"You're certain?"
"Most certain."
"Right," Henry gave a shrug, as he realised that he would get nothing more out of Fairweather. "That is all. My thanks for your time."
Henry spun on his heel and returned to his horse, which he had tethered outside The Ring'O'Bells, then set off for Northcott Manor. His mind, which just a few minutes earlier had been certain of Canet's guilt, was now filled with confusion. Fairweather was just as untrustworthy as the Frenchman, but which one of them had killed Parsims? Or had neither of them killed the rector? Or both?
Thoroughly befuddled, Henry took off at a brisk canter, hoping that a spot of brandy by a roaring fire might inspire the cogs of his brain into motion.
Alas, as soon as he returned, he was set upon by his mama.
"I find I