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

Three

Brydie

“Lynly, remember not to disturb Mrs. Russell. She’s sad and doesn’t want to hear about your quilt, all right?” Brydie didn’t bother steering the pony cart. The poor old beast made the trip into Gravesyde nearly every day and simply followed the ruts.

“Why is she sad?” her eight-year-old niece asked.

Well, Brydie should have anticipated that. She didn’t have an answer.

“Wouldn’t you be sad if you were a long way from home with no family at Christmas?” Arthur answered. At fourteen, Lynly’s brother considered himself a man and an authority on almost everything.

The real man riding behind them had encouraged Brydie’s nephew to think for himself lately. The boy would be going off to boarding school after the first of the year, so she supposed he needed to grow up a bit, but she’d always remember her nephew as a baby—

A nearly incoherent shriek froze that thought and had her sawing at the pony’s reins. A moment later, they heard a cry—

“Brydie, thank all the heavens!”

Rob, her twelve-year-old nephew, was the first to point out the woman in the upper window of the baker’s cottage. Minerva? What was the curate’s wife doing. . .

Damien rode into Minerva’s view before Brydie could even think to respond. The curate’s wife shouted again. “Mr. Sutter, fetch Rafe, please—and hurry! Someone better fetch Dr. Walker. It’s early. She should still be at home.”

If Minerva needed a physician and bailiff—something bad had to have happened to the baker.

Not at Christmas, please Lord! They’d had so many tragedies this past year.

. . Brydie handed the reins to Arthur. “Leave Lynly and Rob and the pony cart with Mrs. Russell. It will probably be faster if you run for Dr. Walker.”

She set the reins aside before anyone could protest. Damien, her betrothed, rode around to help her down. “Stay outside,” he warned. “Minerva would not be screaming if Mrs. Willoughby is just ill. Persuade her down here until we return.”

At thirty, Brydie had finally found a man to love, one who loved her back. But she was too old to change her managing ways now. Her beloved was accustomed to meek ladies. He needed regular reminding that she’d never be one.

“Don’t go all protective on me, Damien Sutter.” Brydie picked up her heavy woolen skirt, revealing the boots and trousers beneath. “I’ve seen my fair share of death.”

Damien knew that. But apparently now that she was about to be his wife, he’d lost his wits.

Scowling, he leaned from the saddle to kiss her hair. She wasn’t a small woman. “Take my crop.” He handed her the leather he kept for shooing sheep from the road.

Relieved they needn’t argue, she clutched the grip, lifted her cloak and skirt, and ran down Willa’s overgrown walk, stalky weeds and shrubs scattering seeds as she brushed against them.

Damien cantered off, leaving the cart under Arthur’s guidance. The boy urged the pony into its version of a gallop, leaving Brydie with the colonel’s imperturbable daughter and whatever had her screaming.

The few times Brydie had visited the baker, she’d always gone to the kitchen door, but Minerva had called from the front. That door was closer. She brushed past the untrimmed holly and privet and reached for the handle. The door opened before she touched it.

A weary stranger blocked her way. In his caped greatcoat, he appeared broader than Brydie but not taller. From the looks of his pale face, she could probably topple him if necessary.

“Does that woman do nothing but shriek?” he asked grumpily. Not waiting for an answer, he staggered up the front stairs.

Oh, well, if that’s the way he meant to be.

. . Wrapping her cloak around her, glad for her gloves since the cottage was chilly, Brydie shoved past the unsteady gentleman and raced up to the front chamber.

The manor’s librarian had always been somewhat reserved, but one couldn’t marry a curate and remain standoffish. Minerva knew how to ask for help.

The casual habits of the manor’s inhabitants had filtered down to the general populace. Minerva may have taken the name Mrs. Upton when she married, but she was Minerva to most of the village—especially since the original Mrs. Upton, the manor’s housekeeper, was the curate’s mother.

The petite librarian barred the door to the front bedchamber. “We can’t do anything. It’s too late. If Mr. Sutter has gone for Rafe, then start a fire. Fix tea. This looks very bad.”

Acknowledging not just the status of the curate’s new wife, but also her wisdom in a crisis, Brydie did as told. Sometimes, the only adequate response to a problem was tea.

She had to assume Mrs. Willoughby was dead.

The baker couldn’t have been more than forty as far as Brydie knew.

Willa had been an adolescent working in the bakery when Brydie was a little girl.

They used to buy hot cross buns, and Willa had wrapped them up to keep them warm. They’d been so delicious. . .

Hurrying downstairs, she passed the stranger still dragging himself up. He didn’t even express bewilderment at her hasty retreat but continued his trudge.

Kindling had been added to the stove and a fire was catching when she reached the kitchen, so she had a kettle heating by the time Rafe arrived, accompanied by Damien. Mr. Upton followed shortly after. All three ran upstairs. Minerva the General could sort them out.

Walking from the far end of town, plump, short Dr. Walker arrived next. Brydie pointed the lady apothecary/physician up the stairs, then turned Arthur away. “The place is full to bursting. Go help Mrs. Russell and keep an eye on Lynly and Rob, please. I’ll be over shortly.”

“I’m supposed to help Mr. Sutter set up an office,” the boy protested.

“And you will do that when he’s ready. Sometimes, we must think of others before ourselves.

See if Mrs. Russell needs any help. Rafe may be here awhile.

” She watched her tall nephew lope past the hedges, away from whatever grim scene was above.

Children should enjoy Christmastide. He was off to school next month.

This might be the last one they shared with him as a child.

Brydie found the tea and started a pot. She hadn’t known Mrs. Willougby well enough to mourn more than the loss of her sweet buns.

Both Brydie and her sister baked. Since they had few coins, they’d never bought bread, but they liked an occasional holiday treat.

She’d have to learn to bake buns on her own.

How had Willa kept those great ovens fired up? Shivering in the drafty cottage, she peered inside one and found a fresh fire crackling. Had Minerva done that? Or possibly the grumpy stranger.

Damien came down first. “Meera says it’s too late for a solicitor and I am unnecessary.”

“But if the death is not natural. . .” Brydie waited expectantly. If they meant to marry, he must learn to share.

Her intended ran a hand through his thick, golden-brown hair.

In this dim light, the silver threads weren’t visible.

“Someone stabbed her while she was sleeping. It’s not pretty, and you’re not needed any more than I am.

Dr. Walker has a bloodthirsty nature and experience with corpses.

She’s sending Minerva down. Have you found anything she might eat? She looks queasy.”

“Then it truly must be bad. Minerva has patched soldiers on battlefields.” Brydie began opening cupboards.

Damien grimaced. “Dr. Walker said bleeding copiously means the victim was healthy. Rafe wants to arrest the stranger who claims to be a cousin, but the man hasn’t even the strength to stand straight much less drive a knife through anyone. It’s more likely the killer bashed in his head.”

Brydie found a biscuit tin and opened it. . . to a stash of coins, some gold. She held it out to show him. “It wasn’t robbery then, or the thief was incompetent.”

Damien uttered an impolite word. “I’ll start searching the front room. You take this one.”

Searching for something edible for Minerva, Brydie opened another tin that actually contained a few biscuits. The larder was nearly empty since all the flour and whatnot were on the table, ready for the morning baking.

The cottage had a cellar. Feeding people came before clues.

Brydie lit a lantern and dared the rickety stairs.

Potatoes, eggs, carrots, butter, a container of milk.

. . It was so cold upstairs at the moment, the milk might keep up there, until those ovens heated, anyway.

She found a currant cake and a barrel of apples. That would have to do.

Minerva had fixed her own tea by the time Brydie carried up a pitcher of cream, a pocketful of apples, and the cake. The librarian did look a trifle pale. Brydie cut her a slice filled with currants. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”

The curate’s wife shook her head. “I was here to buy bread for Paul’s breakfast. How will I feed him now? I can’t ask his mother to send down loaves.”

Brydie eyed the bread makings on the table. “I can start the dough, but it needs to rise. You’ll have to eat before that. Peel and slice those apples, and we can make a skillet bread.”

She heard Damien rummaging through the front room but didn’t feel guilty for not hunting for something she didn’t know to look for. He’d eventually remember that she didn’t take orders well.

“I haven’t made skillet cakes in years! I’ve let my meager kitchen skills go to waste while living in the lap of luxury.” Minerva grabbed a paring knife—then stared at it. “Was she killed with one of her own knives?”

“Not a paring knife, I assume. Was the weapon not in the room?” Brydie had experience at balancing death with practical reality.

“It was still in her,” Minerva muttered, returning to peeling, apparently also stifling emotion with action.

“But the handle on the weapon was different. I suppose only in places like the manor do handles match. I need to think about anything but poor Mrs. Willoughby. . .” She peeled furiously while studying the room.

“This kitchen is almost as large as the one at the manor.”

“Not quite, but years ago, the Bartletts hired a lot of people to help with the bakery, especially this time of year. They needed space.” Setting an iron skillet on the hot stove, Brydie mixed the apples and butter into it.

“I assume they must have been reasonably wealthy during the earl’s time, maybe before.

They weren’t a large family, if I remember rightly.

The elder Bartletts gave up the bakery and moved away.

. . ten, fifteen years ago, maybe? After their only child married. ”

With the apples sliced and cooking, Minerva began opening and closing cabinets and peering at shelves of baking pans, continuing the search Brydie had abandoned. “Why would anyone kill a lonely widow who obviously had nothing?”

“Willa might have hoarded more blunt than in that tin. Who is the grumpy stranger? I hope Rafe is questioning him.” With the skillet bread cooking, Brydie began on the loaves.

She set the yeast starter warming and began mixing flours.

Willa apparently used the fine white flour sparingly since there wasn’t much of it on the table.

Brydie had been making bread since childhood and didn’t measure, but she’d like the recipe for those hot cross buns they used to buy, when they still had coin. She glanced around for a notebook—then remembered Willa couldn’t read.

From her perch on a chair, Minerva answered, “He says he’s a Geoffrey Cooper and a distant cousin who was in the area for a funeral. Gravesyde hasn’t had any lately, thank all the heavens, so it must have been elsewhere. He doesn’t seem to remember what happened.”

Damien reappeared in the doorway holding a thin sheet of stationery. “This appears to confirm his claim, unless he placed this here after he killed her. I doubt he could hit himself on the head though.”

With her hands coated in flour, Brydie let Minerva read the letter.

“It just says what he told me—he means to attend a funeral and might he stay the night. Curt, to the point of unkind.”

That sounded like the curmudgeon at the door. Brydie dismissed the letter. “Does it look as if someone searched the house?”

“The house is large and she’s stuffed it with everything she was ever given, found, or bought from the looks of it. Searching will take days, but it does appear as if drawers were opened.” Damien looked uncomfortable and left before he could be questioned more.

“He’s not telling us something,” Brydie said. “How did she buy anything on the price of a few loaves of bread?”

“Perhaps her late husband left her an annuity?” Setting aside the letter, Minerva climbed back on the chair to search the top of cabinets.

“I don’t think she ever actually married. We called her Willa when she was just a girl because her uncle called her Willoughby. I’m not even sure what her birth name is. Was. The title was just a politeness.” Brydie checked the skillet bread before starting on the loaves.

Minerva ran a long-handled spoon to the back of the top shelf and exclaimed in triumph as she snagged a thick book, nearly tumbling it onto her uncapped dark hair.

Brydie watched as the librarian opened the crumbling leather notebook with reverence, then wrinkled her nose. “Ancient recipes. The ink is faded to nearly illegible.”

“Hold it for me so I can see.” Working the flour mix, Brydie studied the tiny, spiky, hen-scratching on the stained pages. “I wonder if I could have someone copy it fresh? I’d love to have those old recipes.”

“I’ll ask around. Maybe there are some simple ones I might follow.” At a knock on the back door, Minerva set the book aside.

Rafe’s partner, the disturbingly large and grim Sgt-Major Fletcher Ferguson filled the doorway with his bulk and his frown. “I just heard. Something happened to Willa?”

At the sound of Fletch’s deep voice, Damien immediately returned to the kitchen to grab the former soldier and haul him back outside.

Minerva and Brydie exchanged looks, then as one, eased open the door and blatantly listened.

“It’s none of anyone’s damned business,” Fletch was protesting.

“A copper fine for cursing,” Minerva whispered.

Damien kept his voice lower and forced Fletch to do the same. A moment later, Fletch’s glare broke into sorrow. He shook his shaggy head in vigorous denial.

They couldn’t hear his reply.

Brydie closed the door. “Willa and Fletch? That seems an unlikely match, poor soul.”

Minerva wrinkled her nose and didn’t reply.