Page 22 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Nineteen

Rafe

At the end of a long, miserable day, Rafe dragged a chair from the pub to set before the dying embers of the lobby fire.

He needed a few good leather chairs here, like the ones in the manor.

He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to afford even third-hand ones.

Dreaming of a fancy posting-inn wasn’t the same as building one from the bottom up.

He desperately missed Verity’s wise assurances.

They’d allowed Parsons to stay at the inn with the promise of finding him work in the morning—if only to keep him around for questioning. Rafe had no idea if that was the right thing to do, but Brydie hadn’t pressed charges.

Fletch had left to pick up the post in Stratford.

Kate had taken her children and Brydie home.

Damien was still dragging shelves and tables into a room down the east hall, setting up his office on the ground-floor.

With more rooms than guests, the inn didn’t need ladies’ parlors or private dining or whatever the damned room had once been.

The bloody inn was a village all on its own.

He'd been mad to invest all his earnings in a sprawling, ramshackle, medieval barn. With Verity at his side, it had made sense. He’d wanted Verity.

She’d wanted a home. She’d been raised in a huge mansion and deserved better than a cottage.

So he’d given her a barn. And she’d quite rightfully taken the first opportunity offered to move into the manor.

All those years on his own and now he longed for the company of a banty hen of a lady.

He wanted to hear her clucking about this and that.

Worse, he wanted to know what the little imps were equal to.

In his years of fighting across the Continent, he’d never given children any thought, but now she’d put the notion in his head, he could imagine the inn full of little gingers raising a ruckus.

And a pair of towheads, too, he supposed, if no one claimed them.

They’d have a heritage to be proud of one day, if he made the inn work.

But this bailiff business. . . He wasn’t cut out for it.

He wanted to be up at the manor, protecting his wife and the children.

He didn’t want to be suspecting men of being monsters.

He was a soldier. He was aware that, given good reason, all men were monsters, including himself. He resented the reminder.

Carrying his heavy greatcoat, his new tenant emerged from the east hall, looking as weary as Rafe felt. “You could lock up for the night,” Damien suggested. “It’s unlikely you’ll have anyone arriving after dark.”

“Can’t leave the maids alone. Can’t go up to my wife. What else can I do? I’d hire a night clerk, but who can I trust? Parsons is a filching cove. I can’t believe a word he says.”

They’d interviewed Cooper again, introduced him to Parsons, but they’d learned almost nothing.

Neither of the men claimed to know each other, which made sense, Rafe supposed.

Cooper was related to Bartlett, not Willa.

She’d just been an orphan Bartlett had taken in for his wife’s sake.

Neither man claimed to know much of Margery Bartlett.

They needed to question every damned man in the village.

Fletch had not been helpful either. Rafe suspected his lonely partner had hoped to persuade Willa to make him exclusive.

She evidently wasn’t the type. From what Rafe had learned from Parsons, Willa had learned the oldest trade from her mother.

Baking, she must have learned from the Bartletts.

A tart baking tarts made utter sense for Gravesyde, where everyone had multiple employments.

Rafe sighed and sprawled deeper in his chair. “Cooper is a deuced slippery fellow. How can he not know anything of his family?”

“A gentleman generally does not use names like Bee and Boo to address ladies, so we can’t expect him to understand the reference in Margery’s letters.

And they may be on the mother’s side of the family, if they’re related at all.

” Damien shrugged into his caped coat. The wind was freezing at this hour.

“We can hope Fletch will return with a few answers in the morning post. If he doesn’t, I’ll ride to Stratford, see if I can bully information out of Browning.” Damien donned his hat. “He knows the Turner estate. He can tell us who might benefit from the children disappearing.”

“Except he claimed to know nothing of the children, and even if he did, I can’t arrest some toff in London.” Rafe swung his feet down from the fender. He’d have to add expensive coal if he meant to keep the fire burning.

“But now that the Uptons have announced to the world that the children are still alive, anyone interested will know. Word has reached London and possibly even Bath. Perhaps Bee or Boo will show up,” Damien suggested.

Rafe grimaced and took a shovel to the coal bucket. “What are the chances a killer will proclaim his arrival by stopping here when we have an entire village of empty cottages to hide in?”

“If the culprit isn’t local, it will depend on who they send—a criminal or a respectable sort.” Damien glanced out the mullioned window. “Speak of the devil, that might be them now. There’s a proper carriage coming down the road—lanterns and driver.”

“Respectable company or killers?” Rafe stirred the fire, doffed the greatcoat he’d been huddling inside to keep warm, and straightened his neckcloth. “This is Gravesyde. I know the answer to that.”

“Killers in a barouche? Unlikely. The manor has guests for the holidays. . .” Damien grimaced as he watched the window. “Any weapons on you?”

Rafe sighed. And here he’d thought life would be easy once he left the army. “Shotgun under the counter. Sturdy fire irons.” He wielded the poker to stir the coal. “An innkeeper carrying a sword is not a welcoming sight.”

“I’ll linger in the pub. I have a pistol, sword, and knife.” Damien lit a lantern from the counter and carried it into the empty pub.

An illusion of company might deter a villain from storming the lobby, but Rafe had the notion that guests arriving in a fancy carriage didn’t intend an armed raid. Still, he was glad the children weren’t here.

One of the lads ran out to the horses. Priory Manor’s stalls often overflowed, so they usually kept a well-trained man or two at the inn’s nearly-empty stable. It had room for both horses and servants. The fellows worked for tips and food and a roof over their heads.

Rafe carried a lantern to the door. A barouche ought to have a footman, but it was the driver who climbed down to let out two gentlemen passengers.

For once, Rafe thought he might be ahead of the game. “Damien, would you mind hauling Parsons out and smartening him up a bit? He can fetch and carry. Let’s throw some oil on the fire and see if any of them know each other.”

He could hear Damien snort before he strode off to dig out Parsons. Rafe liked keeping an eye on troublemakers. In the army, they sometimes straightened out. And if they didn’t. . . well, he knew how to squash them.

Watching his fancy new guests, Rafe decided the damned inn needed a name.

He and Verity had discussed it but never made a decision.

Still, he’d grown up with an excellent example and knew how a good innkeeper behaved.

He stepped out with his lantern. “Welcome to Wycliffe Inn, gentlemen.” That name didn’t quite suit now that the earl’s title was retired, but it would work for now.

“I hope we have not arrived too late for a room and a bit of supper.” The younger, more slender man spoke first. He wore a decent but inexpensive cloak and hat—not the barouche’s owner.

“Cold night for travel. Not many on the road, so we have room. Visiting for the holiday?” Rafe gestured for the ostler to unhitch the animals and let the driver unload the baggage. Only two valises—his guests weren’t here for long.

“Business.” The second passenger was older, bulkier but not better dressed. Odd. When he removed his hat, he revealed a balding head with a few greasy strands of blond hair combed over it.

Parsons stumbled out, his thick black hair pulled back in a string, his linen hastily tied. Rafe gestured at the bags. “If you’ll carry those up to the first rooms at the top of the stairs, I’ll see about mustering up some supper.”

Wearing his usual disgruntled expression, Parsons did as told.

A convict knew how to take orders. Rafe prayed the filching cove didn’t open the bags and search the contents.

He’d meant to run a respectable inn. The likelihood grew slimmer every day.

He should hire lazy Cooper as clerk and give up the dream.

The passengers followed Rafe inside and warmed themselves at the hearth. Decent-looking fellows, Rafe concluded, but not gentry.

“If you’ll sign yourselves in here, I’ll give you the keys. It’s a shilling a room per night, breakfast included. If you want ale, that’s extra. We carry only the best.” Rafe pushed the guest log toward them.

The younger man signed them in and set a small purse on the counter. “Mr. Browning says you run a respectable house. I’ll trust you to take what you need and return the rest when we leave.”

Interesting. The man couldn’t count coins? Or thought Rafe might keep the purse from his companion? Rafe took what he needed, put the coins in his pocket, then locked the purse in a box nailed under the counter.

Browning most likely owned the barouche. “The solicitor in Stratford? He sent you?” Rafe checked the register—Dryden and Elton. Elton. Hadn’t the curate mentioned an Elton? He tried to recall while listening to his guests.

“He did. I’m Dryden, his clerk. A Mr. and Mrs. Upton brought a sketch to our office of a woman who died in a carriage mishap?” Dryden shed his cloak, revealing a decent coat and trousers, although not tailored or good quality.

“We buried her today. Very sad. Do you have a name for her?” Rafe heard Damien stirring the hearth in the pub. The man might be a wealthy landowner, but he’d earned his living on the road. He knew what needed doing.

“The sketch looked like my sister, Mary Elton,” the larger, older man said.

Fat jowls sporting a grizzled beard, Elton didn’t remove his cloak to reveal his attire, but his neckcloth was properly tied and clean.

The “nanny” hadn’t been exactly gentry, either, from the looks of what remained of her—although she’d had black hair, not blond.

For Verity’s sake, Rafe wanted to prove he lied, but looks alone wouldn’t do it.

“I’m sorry,” Rafe said honestly. “We had no way of identifying her.” He couldn’t say she died of opium poisoning. He was basically an honest man but he didn’t have to flap his tongue. No sense in letting a killer know that they suspected murder.

“The children are too young to know their nanny’s name?” Dryden asked sympathetically.

And now Rafe remembered. . . the children had said their father had sent Elton. Elton had called them bastards.

Shaken now that he faced the first danger to those beautiful children, Rafe was relieved when Damien stepped out of the pub as if he were a departing customer. A smooth-talking lawyer knew how to finesse this conversation.

“The children?” Damien asked, distracting the pair. He swept off his hat and bowed. “Damien Sutter, at your service.”

The clerk bowed. “George Dryden, sir. Mr. Browning has mentioned your name. I have a letter for you.” He produced a missive from his coat pocket. “He says you’ve made inquiries about Miss Smith’s estate?”

“Mrs. Turner’s estate,” Damien corrected with authority as he hastily scanned the letter in the dim light. “Her parents, unfortunately, are in Virginia, and cannot be easily reached to verify her marital status.” He tucked the letter into his coat and turned to the second man.

Rafe had to admire how Damien smoothly directed, distracted, and twisted what little they knew into plausibility.

“And you are? A trifle late for traveling. Have you come from Stratford?” Damien shoved his greatcoat back by putting his fists on his hips in an intimidating stance that revealed his tailored frockcoat, silk waistcoat, and buff trousers, every inch a London gentleman.

“James Elton, sir,” the older man said gruffly, shying backward into the shadows. “I come too late for my sister, but I’ll be takin’ her children with me. She would have wanted that.”

“She had children with her?” Somehow, Damien arranged to look shocked. “Upon my word, I did not know that. Do you think they’re lying dead in the ditch like your sister? It wasn’t a pretty sight. Animals are hungry this time of year.”

That was mean, and disgusting, but if it protected the babes. . . Rafe didn’t know whether to laugh or gag at the unhappy faces his guests pulled.

But instead of expressing concern for his sister or her children, Elton regained his composure and glowered. “We was told there was two lost childern. That’d be my sister’s babbies.”

Rafe wanted to hide in the kitchen, prepare food as he was brought up to do. But he had to witness whatever Damien told them, so he could give an honest reply if asked.

“Well, no,” Damien said, returning the tall hat to his golden-brown locks, tilting it stylishly.

“The physician said the driver of the carriage was well past child-bearing age. You may have come all this way for nothing. Sorry, gentlemen.” He bowed and glanced at the clerk. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Certainly, sir.” Dryden spoke politely, as if his companion weren’t turning purple with rage.

“Them babbies were hers!” Elton shouted as Damien stepped into the night.

Taking Damien’s indifference as example, Rafe gestured toward the pub. “If you’ll have a seat, gentlemen, I’ll bring you a cold collation and ale shortly.” Pretending to be completely ignorant of the conversation or children, Rafe strode toward the kitchen.

Leaving Elton howling his outrage.

The man had claimed his sister’s name was Elton, like his own. She hadn’t been married then, and she’d been too old to have children that age. The man was a liar. So who was that poor woman?

Rafe feared this was the Elton who had worked at Beanblossom and terrorized the children.

How the hell did he interrogate him when he couldn’t arrest him for lying?