Tuppence (The Tipton Hollow 3)

“But you must know how busy life on a farm is.”

Mark lifted his brows. “Is that what has made Tuppence so upset of late?”

“Harriett might have been pressuring Tuppence to go to the village, with all good intentions of course. However, she has not understood how busy Tuppence is. Tuppence has been working far too hard, Mark,” Isaac replied. “Taking time out, even for an afternoon to take tea in the village, puts her hours behind schedule with her chores on the farm and means that she often has to work late into the night, gets less sleep, and is more tired the next day because she hasn’t slept properly. Sometimes, it is worse because she doesn’t finish all her chores in one day and so they must be completed the next day instead, but with the next day’s chores as well.”

“Mother of God,” Mark hissed. “Harriett has no idea. I need to have a word with my wife. When this is all over, we all need to sit down and clear the air and find a way through this so we can eradicate the misunderstandings. We cannot allow this murdering bastard to ruin our friendships as well.”

Isaac pursed his lips but withheld comment on the matter because he wasn’t at all sure if he could ever work past the annoyance that he felt toward his friend for what he had put Tuppence through. Yes, he could understand Harriett’s determination to keep Tuppence a part of the village, but there had to be some give and take in the situation and it didn’t appear to Isaac that there had been any. Tuppence did work hard. To be a farmer she had to, and it wasn’t always convenient for her to traipse into the village, especially if she knew it was going to keep her away from her chores for half a day. Harriett should have been aware of that. She had, after all, been friends with Tuppence for many years.

“I think a clearing of the air is called for after this,” Isaac murmured, although made no promises about it being able to repair their shattered friendships.

Mark seemed mollified by that, though, and eventually flicked the horse into a steady walk. A silence settled between them throughout the remainder of the journey was tinged with tension, but it was no longer uncomfortable.

“It appears that word has gotten out about Mrs Girdling’s death,” Mark mused with a heavy sigh as he studied the various groups of people dotted about the street, all of whom were villagers, all of whom were most probably discussing the latest murder.

“I am going to call upon the grocer. He is the first to open his shop in a morning. Maybe he saw something.” Isaac jumped down and began to make his way toward the shop in question just as soon as Mark pulled the carriage to a stop.

“Mr Finchay,” Isaac murmured once inside the shop. The grocer nodded warily at him.

“I am here on official business, Graham,” Mark began somewhat officiously as he closed the shop door behind him and flicked the ‘closed’ sign over. “Now, tell me who you saw out on the street this morning.”

“Me? I-I didn’t see anything.” Mr Finchay looked nervous.

“But you saw people out on the street. Pedestrians. You must have done when you were setting up. You put baskets beneath your window outside on the pavement, don’t you? Tell me, who did you see?” Mark asked.

Mr Finchay stared at him for a moment before tugging his waistcoat down and coughing to clear his throat. Squaring his narrow shoulders, Mr Finchay stared over Isaac’s shoulder so steadily that Isaac turned to look behind him to see who was trying to enter the shop. His brows lifted when he saw that there was nobody there. It took him a moment to realise that Mr Finchay was behaving like he was at a formal court hearing.

“I got up as usual this morning. A-about five o’clock this morning. I got dressed, made a cup of tea, and started to sort out the coins for the till,” Mr Finchay began, his voice crisp and monotone as if reciting the details from a list in his mind.

Isaac stared at the man. From the neutral, almost dull tone of the man’s voice it was obvious he was recounting the ordinary facts of his regular routine. Rolling his eyes, Isaac settled one shoulder against the wall and turned to stare outside while he listened to the man’s day.

“Go on,” Mark prompted when Isaac’s turning around interrupted Mr Finchay’s monologue.

“I put money in the till and set up a new counter display. Mrs Finchay cooked me breakfast.” Mr Finchay squinted at Mark. “Do you want to know what I had?”

“Er, no, Mr Finchay. That is a private matter between you and your wife,” Mark murmured ruefully. “What happened then?”

“I lifted the blinds on the shop window and opened the door. I carried out the first basket and put it onto the pavement. Mr Benwell was on his way to his office. He lifted his cane and called ‘good morning’.”

“Is that normal?” Mark interrupted.

“Yes. Oh, yes. Mr Benwell would never harm a fly.”

Mark nodded and didn’t doubt that. The bank clerk was too timid to even squat a fly let alone murder someone almost twice the size of him.

“Is that all?” Isaac prompted.

“I came back inside and fetched the basket of potatoes. I saw Mr Balders, your Farm Manager, sir. He came out of his house and headed straight toward your property. I mean, he cut through the woods as he does every morning, sir.”

Isaac nodded.

“Then I saw Mrs Timmins. She hurried past and called out to me. She was on her way to go and see to the vicar. She does his cleaning and the like.” Mr Finchay sniffed and shifted before frowning a little. “I came back inside, and then I saw Mrs Glover and Mr Todmanton.”

“Mr Todmanton?” Mark squinted because he couldn’t recall having met the man before. “Is he local?”

“Oh, no. Mr Todmanton lives over in Great Tipton, but he works for the blacksmiths you know.”

“Ah, yes. He started there last month, didn’t he?” Mark murmured, mentally envisaging the heavy-set man with the bulging muscles and triple chin. “Do you know much about him?”