A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,43

different places--but feminine touches and an air of warmth gave the room a charming feel.

A bunch of hot-house flowers--such a luxury for Plumpton--stood in a vase by the window. Mary made suitable noises about their beauty and Mrs Walker beamed with happiness.

"They were from a friend, who purchased them in Stroud," she said, lifting a hand to touch her cheek, "I have put bicarbonate of soda in the water, in the hope that it will prolong their life a little. Now, let me fetch you some cake. Tea?"

"Yes, please," Mary called after Mrs Walker, who had already bustled from the room.

There was an air of energy and jubilation about Mrs Walker and Mary wondered if perhaps the widow was celebrating. Though the room was cosy and warm, it was obvious to a discerning eye that Mrs Walker was not a wealthy woman; who knew what anguish Mr Parsims had caused by extracting coin from a woman who obviously did not have much to spare. To know that Mr Parsims was now buried beneath a mound of dirt was probably a solace to she who had suffered at his hands.

"Here we are," Mrs Walker called, as she returned to the parlour carrying a tray laden with tea and cake. Mary, who was very much partial to a good sponge, tried not to look overly enthusiastic as Mrs Walker handed her a plate with a large wedge. Two buttery yellow sponges sandwiched a layer of clotted cream and strawberry jam and as Mary took a forkful, a sigh of happiness escaped her lips.

"Heaven," she declared to Mrs Walker, who preened with delight.

"I got the recipe from a friend," Mrs Walker confided, her cheeks rosy with happiness.

Both ladies munched silently for a few minutes, though as the silence began to stretch Mary realised that Mrs Walker was waiting for her to explain the reason for her visit. The cake now felt rather dry in Mary's mouth and she gave a cough as some crumbs stuck in her throat.

"Well," Mary said, after taking a sip of tea to clear them, "I suppose you're wondering why I called."

"Is it to do with the Ladies' Society?" Mrs Walker asked, her brow marred with a slight frown, "Mrs Canards has called once or twice, asking if I would like to join, but I'm afraid at the moment that it is impossible. I am too busy with the house and Benjamin to manage organising village fetes and assembly dances."

As ever, Mrs Canards' ability to vex was astonishing. Mrs Walker's previously jubilant air had disappeared, replaced by slight aggravation. Mary did not doubt that Mrs Canards had tried to corral Mrs Walker into helping more than once, and probably not very politely.

"No, it has nothing to do with the Ladies' Society," Mary assured her, and Mrs Walker looked visibly relieved, "It has to do with Mr Parsims."

At the mention of the late rector's name, Mrs Walker paled. Her eyes shifted from Mary's and she looked so uncomfortable that Mary almost wished that she had left well enough alone.

"It has been discovered that Mr Parsims was bribing some of his parishioners for his own financial gain," Mary ploughed on, determined to finish what she had started, "And that he did the same thing in his last parish, which is why he was removed from his post."

"The fiend," Mrs Walker exhaled loudly, her shoulders sagging under the weight of her emotion, "Oh, if he wasn't already dead, I would kill him myself."

"Yes, he did seem to inspire that feeling in a lot of people," Mary offered, sympathetically.

"The moment he arrived, he set his claws into me," Mrs Walker said, her eyes looking not at Mary but into the past, "He knew me from Abingdon; he knew of my history, and knew that I was not a widow at all."

"You're not?" Mary could not stop the startled question which sprung from her lips.

"No," Mrs Walker gave a rueful laugh, "Though I do often wish death upon Benjamin's father, it would not make me a widow, for we were never wed. He was a part of the local militia who were based in Abingdon at the time. He whispered sweet words, promised me the moon and the stars, then disappeared the moment I announced I was increasing."

"Oh," Mary murmured, sympathetically. There was not much difference in age between herself and Mrs Walker and as Mary recalled how she had been at eighteen--foolish, impulsive, and easily swayed--she could not say that the same might