Page 19 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Seventeen

Minerva

Glancing at the parishioners huddled inside their coats in the chilly chapel, Minerva decided Willa’s funeral had a respectable showing. She didn’t need to know how many of the men sitting beside their wives mourned Willa’s loss as more than their baker.

Cooper, still looking haggard, at least managed to attend this funeral, if not the one he’d been sent to attend.

Damien and Rafe had questioned him last night.

He’d confirmed that his mother had written of the death of his cousin Margery Bartlett Turner and asked him to represent the family.

He claimed ignorance of nannies or children or even the estate.

The funeral had been over by the time he arrived in Stratford at noon.

The gravediggers knew nothing. So he’d simply gone on to Willa’s.

Since the sun set early at this time of year, he’d arrived well after dark, expecting her to let him know if there was more to be done.

The killer must have arrived first.

As a baker, Willa quite likely retired when darkness fell, if she wasn’t entertaining. . . clients.

Cooper hadn’t seen the buggy, knew nothing of his cousin’s children, and had been out of the country at the time of Margery’s marriage. Minerva thought she and Brydie might dig a little deeper, but it would be good to have answers to their letters first. She continued studying the congregation.

The women who relied on Willa’s baked goods lined a few of the benches.

Brydie and Damien were there, along with Major Fletcher and Rafe.

Patience and her husband attended, because Patience always brought flowers and sat in on her brother’s services, and Henri drove the cart that would carry the coffin to the cemetery.

The poor, unnamed nanny would be buried, unmourned, in a pauper’s grave at the same time. The manor couldn’t keep a body in the crypt until someone identified it.

Minerva had hoped some of the single men who had knocked on Willa’s back door might put in an appearance at the chapel so they might question them, but that was a little too much to ask. At least Fletch had the manners to pay his respects.

Paul spoke of Willa’s contributions to the community and her life without close family and sermonized a bit about community being family, but he kept it short. Minerva’s perceptive husband would note any strangers at the cemetery, as would Rafe.

As the men trudged up the manor hill from the chapel to tend to the business of burying the dead in the former priory’s graveyard, Minerva and Brydie detoured to the manor.

Instead of letting them slip up the servants’ stairs for the attic schoolroom, the tall, barrel-chested butler marched them to the main marble stairway.

Minerva had lived here for months and knew her way around.

She wasn’t arguing with Quincy about propriety.

He and his staff were the guardians who kept the inhabitants safe.

A trio of laughing male guests emerged from the former ballroom as they passed.

Wearing country tweeds and leather breeches worth more than most villagers earned in a year, they paid no attention to Brydie and Minerva in their unadorned church attire.

Minerva preferred anonymity. Brydie charged up the stairs without even noticing.

They found Verity in the new schoolroom with Mr. Birdwhistle, the manor’s handsome tutor.

A former attic storeroom, the space wouldn’t be opened for a schoolroom until after the first of the year.

It didn’t yet have much in the way of desks, but chairs and benches had been acquired.

Lovely windows overlooking the drive below would let in air once the weather warmed.

A teacher’s desk had been positioned with a large chalkboard on the wall behind it—far better than the pub where Verity had been teaching.

Books filled the shelves. The one advantage Gravesyde had was books, lots of them.

The four boys, Daniel, Brydie’s nephew, and the two eight-year-old earl’s heirs, were arranging furniture in proper rows.

Daphne and Brydie’s niece had opted out of furniture pushing and were sitting on the floor by the bookcase, evidently hunting for books with pictures. They glanced up with interest when Minerva and Brydie entered, but noting they carried nothing exciting, returned to the books.

Verity led Minerva and Brydie away from the activity and into Mr. Birdwhistle’s smaller schoolroom where they had privacy. “Any news?”

Minerva shook her head. “Other than Cooper, none of our newcomers attended the service. We’ll have to find some other way of questioning them. We miss your ability to engage people who visit the inn.”

Verity turned anxiously to Brydie, who made a wry face as she explained, “I’ve been reading through Margery’s letters to Willa.

The ones from this past year have disappeared.

The most recent we can find occasionally reference Margery’s parents in the Americas.

The really old ones mention aunts in Bath.

Margery calls them Bee and Boo, so one assumes Willa knew them.

We have no notion of their family names or where they are now.

Margery didn’t reference them again after she married and left their home nearly ten years ago. ”

“Paul is writing the vicar in Bath to have him search the registry for the marriage, but we can’t trace a Bee or Boo.

If Willa knew them, then perhaps Mr. Cooper does.

The men didn’t ask.” Minerva produced a notebook she kept her notes and tasks in.

“What we need to do is start a list of questions we must ask the people who knew Willa, or might have known her, and the strangers who arrived about the time she died.”

“You don’t think Willa’s killer has left?” Verity asked worriedly. “Surely, he would not stay to be caught.”

Minerva examined the schoolroom tables, noting only slates scribbled with unfathomable sums. Her notebook would have to suffice. “The men fear the killer wants something and may not have achieved it. If Willa’s death is related to the death of the nanny. . .”

Looking very pale but determined, Verity had apparently reached the same conclusions. She retrieved paper from a shelf and sat down at a student desk. “Did this Margery mention any names after she married? People who visited?”

“There were fewer letters once she married, mostly mentioning excitement at setting up her own household, at learning she was to have a child, and worry over her husband when he left for war.” Brydie paced the room, examining the view from the windows.

“If Margery had visitors, Willa probably didn’t know them.

She occasionally asked for recipes, although how Willa would have sent them, I don’t know.

We need to have the recipe book copied. Perhaps we could sell copies to raise funds for the chapel. ”

“Concentrate, Brydie.” Minerva settled in the small chair across from Verity. “What questions do we need to be asking and to whom? And how?”

Minerva had a high respect for Verity’s astuteness—or cynicism. The former sailor’s daughter had spent a lifetime observing people. She might be quiet and ladylike, but she understood human nature better than most.

“We should probably give the list of questions to Rafe and not try to ask them ourselves,” Verity suggested. “We really can’t be talking to people like the hardware clerk or a chicken thief. And who wants to volunteer to question Fletch?”

Brydie laughed and continued exploring the schoolroom. “Fletch just walks away. Even Rafe can’t question him. We ought to have my sister do it. No one can be impolite to Kate.”

Verity cleared her throat to catch Brydie’s wandering attention.

The innkeeper’s wife generally maintained a proper decorum, with her golden-brown hair brushed into a tight chignon and her good broadcloth gowns topped with fine linen and pinned with brooches.

Since Verity had come into her inheritance, her wardrobe had been helping keep Lavender’s sewing ladies employed.

But Minerva had seen the polite lady in full warrior mode. Long lashes concealed a militant gleam now.

“Kate and I have spoken,” Verity admitted. “She agrees it might be unwise to have Lynly and Rob at the inn, but with Christmas and Boxing Day on Monday and Tuesday, school won’t start for over a week.”

What else had she and Brydie’s older sister spoken of? Fletch? Minerva waited.

Brydie paced, wearing a worried frown. “Kate needs to work. She’s helping Lavender sew new gowns for several of the ladies for the festivities.

Thank you for taking her children while we attended the funeral, but I told her I’d look after them.

Only, if I keep them home, there is no one to watch the inn while Rafe investigates. ”

Ah, now it became clear. Minerva enjoyed it when she didn’t have to be the one manipulating. She watched Verity expectantly. The lady had obviously been plotting here in her lonely tower.

“Kate has suggested that she might do her sewing at the inn, if I will look after the children here. And as you say, few men dare ignore Kate. She might not be large, but she could intimidate a queen, if required.”

Minerva wondered how a quiet, polite woman like Kate Morgan had developed that defiance, but she was a Calhoun, like Brydie.

There might be little physical resemblance, but upbringing would tell.

They had been the daughters of a wealthy squire, raised to take a role in the community.

Older than Brydie, Kate had quietly raised her children through turbulent times.

Having recently cast off her widow’s weeds, she was apparently ready to start taking her place in the village.