Page 13 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Minerva opened the letters and made note of the signatures, but the names didn’t ring any bells. The letters didn’t include more than a date and salutation. But they verified she was known as Mrs. Turner, not Smith.

The clothing had been emptied from the wardrobe. Any jewel case had been removed. They’d probably find one in the cart. Surely, her jewels were among her personal effects and belonged to the children, but there had been none in their bag.

She could hear the men downstairs by the time she reached the nursery. She should hurry. An open trunk sat between two small beds. Children’s clothes and shoes had been tossed in—not neatly folded as a nanny might.

On the pink bed, she found a cloth rabbit and a doll with a porcelain head. Schoolbooks still sat stacked on a child’s desk. These thieves really did not value books. She added all of them to the trunk but found nothing that would help locate family.

“I haven’t checked the chambers over the wings,” she told Paul when he joined her. “I assume she had servants, but they would have packed up their belongings when they left. Do you think they may have returned to ransack the house?”

He lifted the children’s trunk and carried it to the head of the stairs. “It’s a very real possibility. Have you found any bookkeeping journals of whom she may have paid and when?”

That he acknowledged her snooping without criticism made her smile. “Not yet. She doesn’t appear to be someone who cared much for writing.” She indicated the trunk. “But the children had books. She read to them.”

“I’ll search the remaining rooms. Go sweet talk Mr. Dryden and convince him we need to remove the children’s belongings. He’s in a state and attempting to do a complete inventory on the spot.”

Knowing the search was in good hands, Minerva trotted downstairs to distract the clerk. He was counting pots and dishes in the kitchen.

“We should take the silver back to your law office,” she offered. “And if you don’t think the estate will mind, we’ll take the children’s personal items. Someone has conveniently begun to pack everything upstairs.”

He looked at her, wide-eyed. “Do thieves pack clothes? Should I consult the previous staff? Call a constable?”

Mr. Dryden’s son was very young and needed to learn cynicism.

“Staff did not heave everything they could lay hands on into trunks, willy-nilly,” she informed him.

“So, yes, call a constable, if you have one. The estate should be notified. Perhaps they’ll hire a guard.

I’ll write a receipt for the trunk we take for the children and refer them to the church if they have questions.

” The Stratford church, not Paul’s. She didn’t want thieves looking for them.

He bobbed his head anxiously. “I don’t know who she employed. I’ll speak with the neighbors. She must have paid them somehow.”

True. “Mr. Bosworth claims it wasn’t through his bank. Perhaps Mr. Browning can make inquiries of the other solicitors.”

“Yes, I’ll do that. We need to take that silver back to town immediately. It should fit on the back of your carriage. If you have what the children need—”

A woman’s voice shouted from the front room. “Halloo? Anyone home? The door was left open!”

Minerva lifted her skirt and raced down the passage. The neighborhood busybody might impart useful information. She slowed down to enter the front room in what she hoped was a ladylike fashion. “Yes?” she asked, as if she had every right to be here.

A middle-aged woman with an enormous bonnet concealing her hair, wearing the black bombazine of a matronly housekeeper, studied her expectantly. “Are you the new owner?”

“We are packing Mrs. Turner’s trunks. Did you need to speak with her solicitor? He’s taking inventory.” That was only a little fudge. Dryden wasn’t anyone’s solicitor as far as she was aware. She simply wanted to establish that she was no thief. And discover the name the lady had been known by.

“Well, that’s a relief, it surely is. I’m Mrs. Middleton, from next door. There’s been all sorts of coming and going here and I was that concerned, I was. How are the children faring? Do you know?” She didn’t exhibit a bit of inhibition at her nosiness—and didn’t question the name Turner.

Minerva didn’t have time to be coy. “Their carriage overturned and the driver died. We are trying to determine where they were being taken. The solicitor thought the children had gone to the family.” Well, she’d learned to lie as a child.

Mrs. Middleton covered her mouth in shock.

“Oh, my, those poor tykes! I had my worries. I tried to talk to the people who were clearing out the house, but they were. . . not friendly. Told me to mind my own business, if you will! But I looked after them since they were babes and I was so fearful. . .”

“Then you might know the family? Where we should take them?” Minerva bobbed a curtsy. “Forgive me, I’m Mrs. Upton. Our church has the children now.” She deliberately refrained from saying where. “They are too young to tell us more than their names and the name of their home.”

Mrs. Middleton shook her head in sorrow.

“Such a tragedy. I had no idea she was so ill. Not well, certainly, but to die so young. . . I’m sorry.

I never met her family. She wasn’t one to talk much, kept to herself.

But you can tell when children are well loved.

Their father came home whenever he could, until he was sent to the Continent.

She held services for him but there never was any body or burial.

He just didn’t come home, as so many didn’t.

The children only stopped wearing blacks this past year. She never did.”

Dashitall, she needed names, places. . . “Well, if you learn anything more about the family, let the rector know, please? The cottage’s solicitor claims not to be aware of more family. Do you know the names of her servants or where they might be found?”

Mrs. Middleton frowned. “She only had a maid and a man of all work. They packed up and left right after the funeral. There was a fine carriage here, so I thought the family had taken them away. I cannot remember her ever having visitors other than the neighbors. I will ask about. Those poor tykes! I cannot imagine. . .” She hurried off, no doubt to canvas the neighborhood for a lovely morning of gossip.

The widow must have led a very lonely life with no family about—and such a peculiarity did lead one to imagine the worst. Minerva had the sinking sensation that even should they find Daniel’s teacher, no one in Stratford knew the children any better, and they had reached a dead end.