Page 25 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Twenty-two

Brydie

Furious over learning the best suspect to come along had escaped, Brydie stalked down the village’s main street to the hardware, accompanied by a silent Minerva. A silent Minerva meant she was plotting. And that was always dangerous.

But Brydie understood the need. The thief and possible killer could be anywhere!

How would they sleep nights unless he was caught?

Christmas would be exceedingly grim if everyone cowered at home in fear.

Verity was likely to flee to the Outer Hebrides to protect the children.

Rafe would follow, the inn could close. . .

Reaching the new hardware, Minerva stopped to study the collection of cooking pots in the mullioned display window.

Brydie examined the traditional Tudor exterior.

The stucco had recently been whitewashed and the door and timbers had been painted a shiny black.

Having a hardware next to the mercantile was convenient for folk bringing their goods to market, even if the stack of baking pans currently displayed left much to be desired.

Well, the store wasn’t yet open for business.

Perhaps the display would be rearranged.

She wasn’t letting any more suspects escape without interrogation.

The door was open, so Brydie boldly strode in, with Minerva trailing behind her. The gray winter day reduced any light to dim. Brydie concentrated on verifying that her nephew was alive and well. Arthur nodded at her and continued prying open a crate.

A sturdy counter held a few household items that might interest her once she had a kitchen of her own. Behind the counter, the walls held shelves and hooks with mysterious inventory she assumed of more interest to men. She recognized garden implements in the crate Arthur unpacked.

Realizing her librarian companion was cataloging the interior and not socializing as a good parson’s wife should, Brydie led the charge. “Does your family live here, Mr. Jasper?” she asked while admiring a large mixing bowl. “We would not wish you to be alone at Christmas.”

Mr. Cratchit, one of Paul’s carpenters, was straightening a poorly attached wall shelf. Arthur had told them that Mr. Jasper might be good at selling hardware, but not at using it.

“No, ma’am, it’s just me and my uncle, and he’s back in town.

He heard there was business to be had here and came down and bought this place.

Said I needed to stand on my own feet.” The skinny young man ran a broad hand through his disheveled brown hair and glanced around.

“I know how to sell but I don’t know nothing of setting up, so it’s taking a bit of time. ”

That much was obvious when he carried the shiny new gardening tools to a dark corner where they’d never be seen again.

“It must be difficult not having family with you. Have you met anyone here yet? Your uncle should have introduced you about.” Brydie thought the gangly clerk to be an unlikely killer, so now she had to wonder about the uncle.

“Oh, he gave me a letter of introduction to Captain Huntley and I’ve met a few of the manor gentry, right enough.” He studied the empty shelves Cratchit was straightening. “And I met some nice fellows at Monk’s.”

Well, a tavern was the place to meet his customers. He did know a little something.

Minerva carried over a baking pan. “Will you list prices when you’re open or will we need to inquire?”

“I’ll post a list of popular items,” the young man said, eager to be distracted from shelving. “Maybe make a list for window displays like that one. I’m hoping that window will bring in the ladies.”

Brydie hid a snort. Ladies did not bake. The poor wives of the village made do with what they had. Besides, women had no money. Perhaps some day, there would be a surge of newly married couples building their households. . . If all these murders didn’t scare everyone away.

“I don’t suppose your uncle gave you an introduction to Mrs. Willoughby, the baker who just died?” Minerva examined the heavy baking pan as if planning on buying it.

Brydie took the pan away and returned it to the window. Every kitchen hereabouts had more than one baking pan. The curate’s wife shouldn’t have to waste coins on what she didn’t use.

The clerk seemed a little twitchy at the question. “He mentioned her, ma’am.”

Ah, helpful uncle, that. Brydie eyed him carefully as he picked nervously around the subject.

“He didn’t introduce me. He said I’m to make myself known to the right people who will buy our goods.

” Mr. Jasper brightened, finding another tack.

“But I’m that sorry about the baker. I’ll be setting up housekeeping above, and I like a bit of toast of a morning.

” He turned his attention to Arthur opening a crate of hammers.

Remembering her odd exchange with Willa’s neighbor, Brydie asked, “Did he mention the king’s shilling to you?”

Mr. Jasper turned a bright red and stuttered, “May have, in passing.” He bent quickly to take an armload of hammers and looked around to find a place to shelve them.

Mr. Cratchit began to whistle loudly and beat a nail with his hammer. Ah, so he knew of Willa too. And the king’s shilling was some kind of. . . code?

Fine. One must assume they both knew of Willa, but she had no means of knowing if they visited her.

Interrogation wasn’t easy when one had to be discreet.

Brydie wondered what Mr. Jasper had been up to back in town that his uncle thought it necessary to tell him of the village prostitute, then send him off on his own.

But opium? How did one question if he knew of its existence? And stabbing a baker. . . The notion was ludicrous. Mr. Jasper could barely wield a hammer. He might have killed Willa by accident had they been playing with knives—an unlikely situation.

Minerva evidently came to the same conclusion. She offered invitations to church to Mr. Jasper and Mr. Cratchit, then praised Arthur for his hard work before they took their leave.

“Should we have questioned Mr. Cratchit as well?” Brydie asked, unsatisfied with their visit.

“Paul has done that. Willa entertained a number of single men, including the former soldiers working at the manor. Cratchit is one. None of them have coin to spare, so visits were rare. They have no jealous wives, so she couldn’t extort them.

Fletch was her only regular, it appears.

I don’t believe the good major is capable of faking his grief.

So let us learn more about chicken-stealing Mr. Parsons and the vanishing Mr. Elton. ” Minerva marched toward the inn.

“I wish to talk more to Mr. Cooper.” Brydie slowed her stride to match her petite companion’s.

“He seems to do as little as possible but has lost interest in leaving. I appreciate that he’s waiting for letters from his family, except a man who spends his life gambling and drinking but does not appear to starve is very suspicious. ”

“Or owner of a significant annuity,” Minerva said dryly.

“London is quite full of wastrels like that. If we are to believe him, he is only a second cousin to the orphans’ mother, so I cannot see how he would inherit her husband’s estate, or even the bakery, for all that matters.

He has shown as little interest in that as the children.

Besides, he didn’t knock himself over the head. ”

“Parsons is equally unlikely as a killer,” Brydie had to admit.

“He does not stand to inherit the Bartletts’ cottage since he isn’t related to them.

I just don’t like that he attacked me, and violence is quite likely the only way he knows to survive.

Do you think Willa might have known something about him that he didn’t wish known? Perhaps she threatened him?”

Now that she’d said it, that possibility seemed far more likely than most.

“Parsons is a convict and looks like a killer, so he’s easy to suspect.

You may be right and he had an argument with Willa, then hit Cooper when he walked in.

It’s just hard to believe the nanny’s death isn’t related.

How might we connect Parsons to a nanny?

” Minerva halted outside the inn gate to see who was about.

“The nanny. . . do we call her Mrs. Elton now?” Brydie shoved her gloved hands under her arms while they lingered in the wind.

“I think I just want this to be simple and believe the nanny is linked to Willa’s death.

If she’d been leaving Gravesyde, the connection might even make sense.

But the children and the position of the carriage rather prove they hadn’t arrived yet.

So anyone giving her those pills had to have been in Stratford, not here.

We may have to accept that we are wrong about coincidences.

How could the killer be in two places at once? Who else is on our list?”

Two killers. It barely bore consideration. Brydie shivered.

“There is the mysteriously vanishing Elton, who probably was just in it for what he could steal? I haven’t seen him, so I cannot be prejudiced by his looks or lack thereof, as we are with Parsons.

” Minerva scanned the yard again before opening the gate.

“Elton has proven himself a thief and a liar. That does seem to make him the most likely suspect to have provided the candies—if he thought the children had something worth stealing.”

But they’d arrived with nothing. Studying the sprawling inn, Brydie wanted to grab her family and run home. So very many places a killer could hide. . .

“I fear it is out of our hands,” Minerva admitted unhappily. “We must wait for letters from the Americas, from bishops, from Cooper’s unknown family. . . It is not quite the same as being useful. I may as well help the ladies plan a Christmas market. Am I expected to bring something to sell?”

“Do you have any wedding gifts you can’t use?

Anything new or remotely fancy will be pounced upon.

Christmas encourages generosity.” Brydie picked up her old woolen skirt and proceeded into the inn yard.

It hadn’t rained recently, so the mud wasn’t too bad.

And one of the stable boys was cleaning up after the horses.

She needed to return to her baking, but she’d like to see Damien first. Once she’d left Willa’s, he’d left for his new law office.

Not that anyone in Gravesyde could afford a lawyer, but he was trying to settle down for her sake.

At the grand old age of thirty, she didn’t have the same giddy illusions of romantic love she’d had when they were younger, but she still loved him for many excellent reasons, despite his trying to make her into the fragile lady she was not.

Apparently tired of his own company, Cooper sprawled in a leather armchair that hadn’t been in the lobby yesterday, while Damien, Paul, and the blacksmith examined Rafe’s damaged counter. A middling sort of man in expensive attire, Cooper folded his hands over his waistcoat and watched.

Damien’s worried frown disappeared at sight of Brydie. “More bread baking?”

“I’ve sold the first loaves. The others are rising.

This isn’t market day, so I needn’t do much.

How did the thief break into Rafe’s cash box?

And where did the chair come from?” Brydie cast a glare at Cooper, who belatedly dragged himself upright to bow a greeting.

His fashionably cut hair fell in a neat curl over his unmarred brow.

“I’ll have to start locking up my shed,” the carpenter-curate admitted ruefully.

Damien came around the counter to press a discreet kiss to her temple.

“Our thief slammed the lock open with an awl and hammer from the workshop. Cash box is still here but the lock is worthless now. And the chair is an ugly castoff from my father’s unused study.

Whoever guards the lobby ought to have a place to rest.”

“I thought you meant to use that chair in your office.” Brydie squeezed his hand, then skirted around the counter to see what the blacksmith was doing.

“I cannot bear using a chair he may have sat in even occasionally,” Damien admitted, unapologetically. “Thea said she’d find a good chair for me next time she goes hunting for the manor. It’s a shame we can’t ask her about safes.”

The ethereal heiress knew about ghosts, art, and old furniture. Safes were definitely not her expertise. If fairies disliked iron. . . Brydie shook off that silly thought.

“Has there been any sighting of Mr. Elton?” Minerva perched on the now unoccupied chair, giving it a bounce, leaving Cooper standing about awkwardly.

“Now that I am here, Rafe is gathering men to search vacant cottages. He assigned Parsons to go through the inn’s empty rooms and search the stables.

One wouldn’t think Elton could go far at night, on foot.

Even the soldiers have quit sleeping rough in this cold.

” Damien offered the young blacksmith a coin but he waved it off and wandered off to return to his own work.

Rafe could be heard from the stable yard, barking orders like a good sergeant should.

“If Elton came here to claim the orphans, then wouldn’t he be looking for them?” Cooper suggested. “Have they been taken somewhere safe?”

Brydie frowned, trying to remember when or if Cooper had heard about the children, but she supposed everyone knew by now. Verity had chosen a good hiding place if even he didn’t know where they were. Of course, he was a stranger and ignorant of the manor inhabitants and their generosity.

“They have.” Kate came down the stairs with her sewing basket and addressed Damien. “Will Mr. Cooper be watching the front desk? I’d like to set the staff to preparing tonight’s meal.”

Her sister was losing much needed income by helping Rafe at the inn instead of finishing her piecework. They needed to resolve this mystery soon.

Assured that they could do naught else, Brydie accepted Damien’s escort to the bakery, leaving Kate bossing everyone at the inn, including the lazy Mr. Cooper. She’d straighten him out soon enough.

With a list of her own tasks to accomplish, Minerva waved them off and hurried down the path to the parsonage.

Brydie and Damien hadn’t gone out of earshot before they heard Minerva scream.