Page 21 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Eighteen

Brydie

A spew of unintelligible curses emerged from the inn, not in just Fletch’s baritone.

As Brydie raced into the muddy inn yard, Damien attempted to restrain her, but she dodged his protective embrace and strode for the open door, calling over her shoulder, “Have you never heard a tantrum before? We should send Kate in. It will be amusing.”

Brydie checked to see her shorter sister lagging only slightly behind Rafe. Minerva and Paul had slowed down, though, presumably so as not to sully their ears.

“We need to enforce the cursing fines,” Kate declared, not hesitating but marching ahead of the laggards, with Rafe on her heels. “If Arthur is anywhere within hearing, I’ll have that lout’s tonsils out.”

Brydie snickered and let her older, exceedingly capable, sister proceed inside. “You see?” she whispered to her bewildered intended. “She is not a little girl any longer.”

The three of them, along with Damien’s brother, had grown up together. Only recently returned to Gravesyde, Damien hadn’t spent much time with busy Kate. He was still adjusting to the fact that Brydie was no longer the na?ve adolescent he’d once left behind.

“Neither of you are little girls,” he agreed, which didn’t stop him from following her. “That still doesn’t mean you have to do your own fighting.”

“Maybe we’ll learn to send the pawns ahead,” she laughed. “But right now, with a killer on the loose, we’re too confused, angry, and terrified to be logical.”

“I think we’ll be on our way,” Paul called from the yard. “We have a list of tasks waiting and the inn is in good hands.” He turned Minerva around and steered her toward the parsonage. Staying out of a brawl was probably a wise decision on the curate’s part.

Reluctantly, Damien took Brydie’s elbow and followed Kate inside.

In the lobby, Fletch bunched his fists and glowered thunderously, but he snapped his mouth closed when Kate snatched up the basket he’d taken from her.

“The fine for cursing is a copper per word, gentlemen. You can put your coin on the counter where the bailiff can collect it. I think by now, both of you must owe a shilling. This isn’t a sailing ship.” Kate glared at both men.

From her observation, Brydie decided neither of them appeared to be gentlemen in any sense of the word. Fletch had at least cleaned up a bit for the funeral. His opponent, with his back to the door, appeared to be a ruffian in a worn coat, wilted linen, and overlong black hair.

In the sudden quiet, Rafe stalked to the desk, crossed his arms, and glared, waiting for the coins to be deposited on the counter. Brydie wished Verity were here. She’d know how to handle this brangle in a proper manner.

But when the stranger grumbled and turned to depart, she gasped at the familiar visage. “Parsons! The chicken thief!”

Pushing Brydie behind him, Damien swung, punching the thief in the jaw before Brydie had a chance to kick Parsons’ shins. The thief staggered but didn’t fall.

Kate swung her sewing basket at the back of his head. Parsons dropped to his knees. Fletch guffawed.

Which had everyone turning to him in amazement. He never laughed.

“They’s my sister’s chickens. I didn’t steal nothin’!” Parsons shouted, staying on the floor rather than be hit again.

“You nearly strangled me,” Brydie retorted, unable to kick his shins while he kneeled.

He’d shaved the worst of his heavy black stubble, but his dark hair still straggled over his graying linen. He’d apparently been sleeping in his wrinkled clothes. He didn’t stink, at least, so he must have washed.

Brydie really hadn’t needed to be defended or avenged, but having the rotter on his knees soothed her savage response to his appearance in public.

With his back to the counter, Rafe rested his elbows on the polished old wood and studied the newcomer. “I went looking for you the other day. Were you off stealing more chickens? Threatening another woman?”

Brydie tugged Damien’s arm and whispered, “He was stealing Willa’s chickens. Is he claiming to be her brother?”

And that’s when she realized— In the bright light of day, Parsons looked almost exactly like Willa: broad, square chin, nearly black eyes with thick lashes, coarse black hair.

Willa, of course, had been voluptuous, but she’d been of similar height, raw-boned, and broad-shouldered, just like the thief.

“You said you didn’t know Willa!” Brydie cried before anyone else worked it out. They were all newcomers and hadn’t known Willa well—except Fletch, of course, who was looking a bit smug.

“You didn’t ask! Besides, my sister’s name’s Rose! I don’t know no Willa.” Parsons stood again, out of Damien’s reach, and regarded them warily. “Ain’t seen Rose since she started growin’ her bubbies.”

Brydie winced.

“But you knew they were her chickens?” Damien asked in his courtroom voice of disapproval.

Fair point. Brydie’s mind raced through all the questions they’d been gathering, but this connection threw out everything they’d assumed about Willa.

Parsons twisted his hat nervously, presumably seeking the right words.

“She always raised them cackling pullets. Old Bartlett said he’d let her take them with her after Ma died and she’d come to live here.

Reckoned if that were still his place, they’s hers.

But with all the fancy folk over there, I stayed out of the way. ”

“Fancy folk?” Brydie laughed, shaking out her dull wool skirt. “Where have you been that we look fancy?”

“New South Wales.” He backed warily toward the door. “I only stole what Ma needed, but I was young and stupid and got caught.”

Brydie wanted to believe him. The penalty for first offenders was transportation if they stole even a shilling. But she disliked his showing up now.

“Willa said she had a thief for a brother.” Fletch removed the basket from Kate again, this time hiding it behind the counter. “He might be telling the truth. I caught him harassing Miss Butler, demanding to see whoever’s in charge.”

Kate sent Brydie a meaningful look. “We should check on the staff, reassure them we’re not being invaded by barbarians.”

Brydie smiled and took Damien’s arm, resisting her sister’s order. “Tell them I shall be there shortly, as soon as I settle everyone in the pub with a mug of ale. They should start luncheon. I have a few questions first.”

“Brydie. . .” Damien said warningly.

“It was my neck he throttled. I understand now that he may have learned to live rough, but I will not be left out. We need information.” She dropped his arm and strode for the pub when he did not immediately follow her lead.

Two strong characters. . . She and Damien had to learn how to act together, if they meant to marry.

“I’ll mind the counter.” Fletch returned to his usual surly self. “Convicts also learn to lie, and I’ll not be hearing his tall tales. Willa deserved better.”

Fletch actually talking— Brydie liked him better when he was silent. In the pub, she slid behind the bar and brought down mugs so Rafe could draw ale. He was experimenting with making his own and she didn’t know one barrel from another.

“You said you were living in your granny’s house. Is that true?” Waiting until Parsons took a seat, Damien took the mug Rafe handed him and sipped.

“Oncet was hers, long time ago. Didn’t look like no one there. Didn’t see no reason not to use it. Thought maybe old man Bartlett bought it for Rose when granny passed.” Parsons warily accepted the drink handed him.

“When did you get here?” Rafe didn’t offer Brydie a drink but glanced toward the kitchen door. He’d be wanting to oversee dinner preparations.

“Only day a’fore you brought me food.” Parsons bowed awkwardly at Brydie. “Mighty appreciative. I hoped Rose would feed me, help me find work.”

“But you didn’t visit her.” Brydie wasn’t ready to forgive him for his shocking assault on her person. He may have learned to survive by attacking first, but he shouldn’t have been stealing chickens.

“Like I said, there was gentry all about. I thought I’d catch Rose at the henhouse of a morning.” He glared at her. “Then you showed up.”

“Decent folk knock on doors, not lurk in henhouses. You’re back in civilization now.

You have to behave civilly.” Brydie opened the kitchen door and noted with relief that Kate had the ladies assembling a cold collation.

Expecting hot food out of the new staff was asking too much.

They might learn to take initiative in time but not yet.

“You haven’t seen Willa since she was a young girl? Twenty, thirty years?” Damien asked, taking his mug to a table. “Did you write to her, let her know you were coming?”

“I don’t write. She don’t read. What’s the point? Either she takes me in or she don’t.” He took a defiant drag on his ale.

Parsons passed that little test, Brydie thought. But she didn’t doubt he was related to Willa. In a closely-knit rural village of blue-eyed blonds and red-haired Irish, the Willoughby’s square faces, black eyes, and coarse hair stood out. “What brings you here now?”

He shrugged uncomfortably in his ill-fitting coat. “Earned enough to take sail home from that hellhole, but oncet I got here, couldn’t find a place to hire me.” He flashed the branded hand exposing his conviction. “I thought maybe I could help Rose, if the old man weren’t still around.”

“Bartlett?” Rafe asked. “He’s your uncle?”

“Rose’s uncle. We share a ma, not a pa. He hates my guts, says I’m a scoundrel. But if nobody gives me a job, how’m I supposed to eat? Not all of us was born well equipt.” Parsons didn’t even look up. Defeated, he sipped his ale.

“You know we just buried Miss Willoughby?” Brydie was tired of skirting around the subject. She was hungry and wanted to be in the kitchen.

“I worked that out when that fine fellow in t’other room tried to punch me for not attendin’ her funeral. Unless you want to throw me in a cell for bein’ ignorant, I guess I’ll just be movin’ on.”

“Not if we arrest you for killing her.” Rafe swigged his ale.

Terrified, Parsons heaved up from the table.

Damien shoved him back down. “Or you can stay here and help us find out who did. Do you know a Geoffrey Cooper?”

This was one of those times when Brydie knew she and Damien were meant to be together. Her cautious heart filled with love, and knowing the interrogation was in good hands, she sailed off to help Kate direct the kitchen ladies in preparing luncheon.