Page 12 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Eleven

Minerva

“Church first,” Paul insisted as they drove the battered buggy through Stratford in the direction of the steeple. “There’s bound to be a curate around. I’ll introduce myself, ask if the rector is in. I suspect a curate will know the orphans’ family better.”

With the promise of the solicitor’s young clerk meeting them at Beanblossom Cottage, Minerva was eager to find an end to the mystery. Unfortunately, her husband made sense, as always. They needed to present themselves to the rector, if possible, and learn more about the Turner family.

The gothic spire was the prettiest part of the blocky stone church. They found the curate harvesting the last rose hips in the yard. An older man, with thinning gray hair and a burgeoning belly on his thin frame, the curate nodded at Paul’s introduction.

“Heard of you. The rector is visiting in London this week or he’d speak to you. Your vicar complains you are holding back the tithes from the rich manor folk.” He didn’t appear overly concerned, just interested.

“The manor folk live off a trust they don’t control and have few funds of their own. They tithe time, food, and labor for the well-being of the community, as they can and as they should,” Paul replied evenly.

Minerva could have added spitefully that the vicar expected a curate to live on goodwill, alone, but these were Paul’s fellows. He didn’t interfere in her librarian duties. She offered him the same respect.

Although, at some point, he’d have to be curious on how she spent her salary. Well, without Willa, it wouldn’t be on bread. He’d soon notice missing toast. She fretted that it might be too late for them to communicate about domestic issues. They had both learned independence as children.

But solving mysteries. . . That’s what had brought them together.

“We’re actually here at the manor’s request,” Paul continued.

“The carriage we arrived in,” he gestured at the drive, “lost a wheel outside Gravesyde and crashed yesterday. The driver died and no one recognizes her. We are hoping someone will identify the vehicle or this sketch.” He produced Arnaud’s image of the woman.

The curate removed spectacles from his pocket and examined the portrait. “Excellent work, but I can’t say I know her, sorry.”

“The two children she had with her are also unidentified. They say they are a Daniel and Daphne Turner from Beanblossom Cottage, but no one in Gravesyde recognizes them. We are trying to determine where they belong. Might you know the family?”

The curate nodded toward the graveyard. “We just laid their mother to rest a few days back. Her solicitor paid for a decent burial, but there were no mourners.” He wrinkled his nose as if he’d say more but resisted.

“What name was she buried under?” Minerva asked. She hadn’t missed Mr. Browning calling her a “mistress.”

He looked relieved at the question. “Smith, Peggy Smith. We knew her as the Widow Turner, but I assume a solicitor knows best.”

Paul grimaced. “Do you recall the solicitor’s name? What firm he represented?”

“Not rightly. He spoke with the rector, and I just followed orders.”

Minerva refrained from rolling her eyes. A woman would have asked and remembered. But if she remembered correctly, the rector was a widower. Perhaps the housekeeper. . . ? But they wouldn’t be seeing the rector this trip.

“Were the children baptized here? Under what name?” Paul brought out one of his ever-present tools—just a small knife, this time—and began cutting rose hips to add to the curate’s basket.

Thankful for her gloves, Minerva snapped off the hips and listened.

“Turner,” the old curate answered, sounding puzzled.

“After her burial, I asked if I should notify the registrar of an inaccurate entry. The father signed the baptismal papers under Turner. Neither of them were a member of the parish originally, so we had no reason to believe they weren’t married.

They bought the cottage just before the boy was born. ”

“Were the records changed?” Paul asked with a frown.

“I believe the rector spoke with the solicitor and was to take it up with the bishop.” The curate looked uncomfortable with the notion of changing his records.

“Did the parents ever say where they married?” Minerva inquired, her suspicious mind circling. They needed to ask Browning if it was legal to change the records.

“I really didn’t know the couple well,” the man said apologetically. “He was often away, a soldier, I believe. She didn’t have a carriage and had to walk to services, which didn’t happen often enough because she was sickly.”

And had babies who fretted and got ill. Mothers without servants had a hard time walking anywhere.

“This is helpful, thank you. Although Smith isn’t any easier to trace than Turner.

Might you make us official copies of the birth records in case we find their family?

That would help tremendously.” Paul handed him his card.

“We’re to meet a solicitor at the cottage, so if you would just send the documents to me when they’re ready? ”

Brilliant! So even if the records were changed, they’d have a copy of the original documents. Minerva didn’t like the path her thoughts had taken.

Paul slipped the curate a coin for the service, then took her arm to steer her back to the carriage.

“Now he will think you are richer than he and start looking for a new position,” Minerva murmured in amusement as he handed her up.

“He most likely has the perpetual curacy, as I do. He’s unlikely to leave and the rector knows it. I imagine Hunt will reimburse us if we help solve the case.” He shook the reins and sent the horse back to the lane.

“Do you find the conflict of information as suspicious as I do?” Minerva settled back in the seat. Jostling wheels had been a part of her itinerant childhood. She accepted the discomfort if it accomplished her task.

“You have a naturally suspicious mind, my love, but yes, I agree. The children called themselves Turner. They had no reason to make that up. The husband apparently claimed them and his name was Turner. It’s only this unknown trust solicitor calling her Smith and a mistress, not a wife.”

“Thank you. Mr. Turner might be an utter rogue and rakehell with mistresses and children scattered over the countryside, but she believed herself married, so she must have had marriage documents. We need to find them. Do you think Browning’s clerk will allow us to search?”

“No, not too obviously. But we could ask him to look through desks and such in search of the children’s identity—provided any desk or papers remain.” Paul hurried the mare into a trot, glancing at the overcast sky.

They didn’t have much time before dark. Less, if it rained.

Mr. Browning’s clerk had already tethered his horse and gone inside by the time they drove through the open gate.

Rose briars covered the cottage wall. They must have smelled heavenly in summer.

The yard was merely a square of well-maintained grass.

The old two-story stone and thatch cottage sprawled to either side with newer additions.

“Not elegant but, for a young couple, expensive to buy and maintain,” Minerva whispered as Paul handed her down.

“We’ll need to ask after the staff. They might help.” He took her arm to lead her down a flagstone walk.

Wearing a frown, Mr. Dryden, the son of one of Mr. Browning’s partners, greeted them at the entrance.

A well set-up young man with blondish hair and a round face, he gestured at a cart behind an enormous rhododendron.

“It seems someone has started removals, but we have not authorized any. We shall have to write the estate to verify approval.”

The young clerk lacked Minerva’s worldly experience.

She left Paul talking with him and drifted over to examine the cart’s contents.

Whether it had been loaded legally or illegally, why had it been abandoned?

It was obvious no one guarded the cottage.

She tested a trunk lid, found it unlocked, and peered in.

Silver. She dropped it back and looked under the second.

Clothes. No books. Thieves seldom recognize the value of books. Movers from an estate would.

She returned to Paul and Mr. Dryden. “Does the silver belong to the estate or has family claimed it?”

Dryden stared at her in alarm. “It all belongs to the estate! We’re authorized to permit removal of personal objects, but the silver— No, no, I’m quite certain that is a part of the inventory to be sold.” He rushed to examine the trunk.

“Really, whoever owns the estate is a complete gudgeon to not keep servants to guard the place.” Minerva entered the house, leaving Paul to help the clerk haul the trunks inside.

She hastily scanned the front room. Not luxurious but charming, with lively chintz upholstery and a pretty blue velvet drapery.

A Chippendale writing desk had been ransacked, the drawers hastily closed, leaving papers sticking out the edge.

Minerva sorted through them but found no legal documents.

She suspected they’d been stolen if there had been any. Her nose for trouble tingled.

The right-wing addition contained a formal dining room, from whence the silver had been pilfered, if the rings in the dust on the empty shelves were any indication.

The left addition contained a generous study and library. The books about head height appeared scattered and shoved carelessly in place. Searching for a safe? The desk was empty. Mr. Turner’s effects may have been removed upon his death.

While the men were otherwise occupied, she hastened up the stairs.

A portable writing desk in the main bedchamber held receipts and a few unopened letters addressed to Mrs. Thomas Turner.

Unlike Willa, the deceased must have thrown out all correspondence to which she’d replied.

There was nothing here from parents or any other family.

A quick search revealed no neatly stored letters.