Page 18 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Sixteen

Brydie

Rather than mixing more bread dough, Brydie scrubbed Willa’s kitchen, leaving it tidy for whoever owned the cottage now. She accepted that she couldn’t shirk her other duties any longer—

Until Rafe stalked into the kitchen with a scowl as black as a thundercloud. “Is Cooper here?”

Brydie blinked at his harsh tone. “I have no notion. Ask Damien or Paul. They’re in the parlor.”

“Gather your niece and nephew and take them home, Brydie.”

Gaping at the usually gentle giant’s curtness, she didn’t form a question before he stomped into the front room, slamming the door between them.

Something was very wrong.

And she wasn’t leaving until she knew what, not after she’d worked her fingers to the bone, then gone out investigating all day, leaving all her own chores undone.

She wiped her hands on Willa’s apron, hung it on a hook, slammed the parlor door open again, and marched into the front room.

Startled, the three men glanced up expectantly.

Still standing, Rafe glowered, but Paul and Damien rose in respect, acknowledging she was not a servant, especially since she was empty-handed, to their obvious disappointment.

Brydie propped her hands on her hips. “I am not meekly bringing you tea or supper. You can go home for that. If you are plotting, I want to be part of it. I have lived here all my life and know everyone in this village better than any of you.”

Rafe and Paul seemed dubious. Damien frowned.

She gave them a minute to think about it.

She could tell when her beloved reached a conclusion he didn’t like.

His handsome visage wrinkled with displeasure and the sparkle left his eyes.

She glared and waited. If he didn’t accept her as his equal partner. . . She dared not consider it.

“As much as I detest admitting it, Brydie has a point.” Damien glared back and continued unwillingly, “She will not only recognize anyone or anything out of place, she’s also capable of defending herself better than most men.

Plus, her mind is convoluted enough for two lawyers.

” He handed her a sheaf of yellowing papers.

Startled, Brydie accepted them. The elegant handwriting had faded with time and was barely legible.

She ought to be angry at her fiancé’s reluctance, but she understood to some extent.

She might not appreciate his male protectiveness, but Damien was just learning to live with others. His family had been a pack of wolves.

“Letters from Willa’s cousin, Margie,” he explained.

“The ones from nearly a decade ago talk about her visit to Bath. Later, she announces her betrothal to a fine young man of good family whom she calls Mr. Turner. The letters are brief, presumably because she knows Willa can’t read and has to pay the postage.

Some of them apparently contained bank notes, which may explain some of Willa’s income. ”

“And?” Picking up a pillow to comfort her fears, Brydie settled in a low rocking chair none of the men would take. It was uncomfortable, but Willa was dead. She could suffer a little discomfort to find justice for the baker.

“Our fear may be far-fetched,” the curate warned, sitting down again.

“The children say their last name is Turner, but the woman living in Beanblossom was buried as Peggy Smith, not Margery Turner, Willa’s correspondent.

Only—Daniel recalls being called ‘baterds,’ excuse my language.

It’s a bit of a leap, admittedly. But if the Turner estate believed their mother wasn’t married.

. . An orphanage or workhouse is where they’d be sent, unless they had family. ”

Setting aside the pillow, Brydie looked at the letters in bewilderment. The letters said Margery had married a Turner. . . her children couldn’t be baseborn, if this was the same family. Then who was Peggy Smith? “And this has what to do with Willa?”

Rafe practically growled. “Oswald tells us that Willa received a letter some months ago asking her to visit someone who was ill. Willa’s reply merely indicated she couldn’t travel, but someone could come to her, that the place was theirs. Oswald can’t remember if that’s plural or singular.“

Damien added, indicating the letters she was holding. “The odd part is, even though Willa saved every letter she ever received—and few of them indicate where the writer resided—we couldn’t find that one or any from this past year, except the most recent, from Cooper.”

Returning the letters, Brydie vaguely grasped the connection, and her mind nearly boiled with horrible possibilities. She picked up the pillow again and hugged it against her.

Paul confirmed her worst fear. “The children said their mother had written to family, but no one came for them. While still calling them bastards, their nanny claimed to be taking them to their mother’s family.”

On a road that only led to Gravesyde—where no one knew them, except—Willa?

Brydie was glad she hadn’t eaten yet. Her stomach churned while she ran all the likelihoods through her head.

“So it is possible that the nanny may have been told to take the children to an orphanage, which would be in Birmingham, and given coins for the toll. Instead, she kept the coins and was bringing them to Willa instead?” That was beyond far-fetched. . . but the puzzle pieces almost fit.

“We can’t know anyone’s intentions,” Paul admitted.

“But the children say their name is Turner and the neighbors confirm it. Admittedly, their mother wasn’t buried as Margery Turner, but the letters Willa received were from Margie.

And the one Oswald remembers indicated Margie was ill.

It is possible Peggy Smith and Margery Turner are different people. . .”

But unlikely. The children and Mr. Oswald had no reason to lie.

There seemed to be only one horrifying conclusion.

Brydie simply couldn’t accept it easily.

“You are saying all the recent letters from Margie are missing—presumably stolen from Willa’s desk?

I assume no thief perused the cellar, which is why you have the old letters.

And we have only Oswald’s word about the new ones? ”

Damien nodded. “Willa’s clutter is mostly organized.

The boxes in the cellar had letters dated until December of last year.

Someone who can’t read must memorize what the letters say if they need to find them again, but after a year—Willa most likely carried the old ones down and started collecting the new ones with the new year. ”

But there would be no new year for her. Brydie bit back anguish at how abruptly life could end. Willa should have had more time. Would she have been a good mother for the orphans? Given her occupation, possibly not, but she never had the chance to find out.

Still angry, Rafe crudely stated their conclusion. “Meera is performing tests, but she’s convinced the nanny died of an opium overdose from a tin of candies meant for the children.”

In horror, Brydie hugged the pillow and tried not to rock the chair too hard. It was almost too much to comprehend. The monster who had killed Willa might have tried to kill children? She wasn’t ready to accept that insanity, but safety first. . . “Verity knows this?”

“I’ve taken her and the orphans up to the manor.

They are setting up beds near the schoolroom with the tutor and the manor’s heirs.

It’s safe, but Verity insists on staying with them.

She still has nightmares, and this. . .” Rafe’s usually open face mirrored his anger and concern. “I want this. . . brute. . . caught.”

And there was the reason for Rafe’s fury—fear for his family.

Brydie had little experience in pure evil.

She sought logic. Children harmed no one.

Willa might have had knowledge someone wanted hidden but children.

. . “Surely, Willa’s killer will be long gone.

He killed Willa and—if I accept this wild theory—believes he’s poisoned the children and maybe the nanny.

He’d escape as fast as he could. The village is suspicious of strangers. Lingering would be foolhardy.”

“Cooper is a stranger,” Damien corrected.

“Parsons, Willa’s neighbor, just arrived.

Jasper at the hardware. Even Cratchit, the assistant at Paul’s woodshop, is new.

We’ve been bringing in any number of strangers now that the manor is open.

And even the manor has guests from London visiting for the holidays.

For all we know, Fletch or any of the men who visited Willa could have stolen her letters or tried to poison her family. ”

Brydie had been comforting herself with believing the killer gone. Damien shattered her illusion. “But why, if he found what he wanted?” And even as she said it, she knew the answer.

“Any of them could have heard about the crashed cart and Verity finding the children,” Damien said softly, forcing her to understand.

Brydie shut her eyes and shook her head. “It makes no sense. If Willa’s killer lingers, it means he didn’t find what he was after. But why, by all that is holy, would anyone want to kill two orphans, their nanny, and a recluse who probably never set eyes on them?”

“Two murders and an attempted two more just don’t happen in one night without reason,” Paul said gently.

“And Willa wasn’t exactly a recluse. She received and sent letters, entertained gentlemen who brought news of the outside world.

Since it appears she may have known the mother of those two children—”

“Then Willa may have known their father.” Brydie thought that solved part of the mystery, until she followed the thought further.

“But he died years ago, if the children are out of blacks. I can understand a brother or greedy relation wanting to claim his estate, but why wait until now? Why not right after Mr. Turner died? And why kill children if they’re born on the wrong side of the blanket? The heir has nothing to lose.”

“We have no way of knowing until we learn who their family is.” Damien pointed at the stack of paper she held. “We’ll question Cooper some more. You need to sift through all that, see if you can find family names you recognize, other people we might question.”

“I’ve already written our vicar for church records of marriages for a Margery Bartlett and a man named Turner at the approximate time of those letters, but if the marriage took place in Bath, as these letters indicate. . .” Paul sighed. “We need to write more letters.”

Brydie frowned in dissatisfaction. “Perhaps what we ought to be doing is inventing new names for the orphans and telling everyone they’re Verity’s cousins. Do you really want to find who they are if their family is trying to kill them?”

That shut them up.