Page 35 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Thirty-one

Rafe

Unwilling to disturb their hosts so late in the evening—especially when everyone was foxed— wanting to remove the ladies from the cold attic, Rafe simply locked up John in one of the unused guest rooms for the night.

Spending the night in Verity’s arms eased his inner turmoil so he could think logically again.

If he didn’t have to be a one-man army, he might almost manage this bailiff business.

Having women as his troop was more than a trifle odd.

Except, Gravesyde wasn’t a war zone but a domestic situation where women outnumbered men and had ruled through years of a war that had taken their menfolk.

Rafe was under no illusion that he was smarter than they, just stronger and more experienced in warfare.

The women understood society, a different type of battlefield.

He simply had to adjust his thinking, with Verity’s aid.

After seeing Verity and the children fed, Rafe wound his way downstairs. Not having drunk to excess as the younger guests had, Damien and Hunt were already at the breakfast buffet.

“Understand there was some contretemps in the attic?” Hunt asked. “Our lordly viscount raised the devil when he couldn’t find his valet last night.”

“Chatham passed out before Jacques could do more than remove his boots. Very fine boots, he reports,” Damien said with a straight face.

Knowing Damien’s peevish valet, Rafe assumed Jacques had more than that to say about a cup-shot lordling who’d probably cast up his accounts over said boots.

“Our attic intruder is a Sean who calls himself John and says he’s a manservant aspiring to be a valet.

Which I take to mean he earns half what a valet ought to be paid for the same duties.

” Rafe scooped up half the eggs on the platter and topped them with ham.

He’d worked up an appetite and had missed dinner.

He was also just annoyed enough to not care what the gentry thought of him.

“He also claims a solicitor hired him to search the attic. I locked him up until we can question him at a more decent hour.”

“Ah, thoughtful of you.” Hunt gulped his coffee. “Last night, I might have throttled him. This morning, I’m brimming with Christmas joy and cheer and receptive to prattle.”

Rafe tried not to choke on his ham. The one-eyed captain looked as dour and piratical as ever.

“I understand the women are holding their Christmas market at the inn today? Do you need to be there to prevent Fletcher from terrorizing them?” Damien politely cut his ham into bite-size bits.

More interested in food than etiquette, Rafe rolled his ham up in cold toast. “If I think my family is safe, I’ll be there to supervise.”

He bit off a hunk of his half-sandwich. His family. If they kept the orphans, he’d have an instant family. The idea was growing on him. He needed to quit thinking like that until the matter was resolved. The letter to Willa had indicated someone was expecting them.

“Well then, gentlemen, let’s finish breaking our fast and interview our culprit. I, for one, would like to resolve this wretched business so the ladies will quit fretting and return to singing.” Hunt concentrated on his food after that pronouncement.

Rafe heartily approved the sentiment, but he doubted that a viscount’s manservant would provide sufficient insight to solve two murders.

The curate disabused him of that notion later, as he made his way to question the prisoner, accompanied by Hunt and Damien. “Minerva says the servant mentioned a solicitor sent him?”

“So he claims.” Rafe unlocked the guest room. “But he fears for his position and is likely to say anything to keep it.”

“It was someone from an estate solicitor’s office responsible for calling the orphans’ mother a mistress and burying her under the name of Smith,” Paul reminded them. “It may be good to know the name of the one who hired this person.”

“Excellent idea.” Hunt stormed into the open room, catching the servant hastily yanking on his coat. “What’s your full name, John?”

“Gillespie, sir,” he said nervously. “From County Cork.”

“I’m Captain Huntley, the magistrate. Rafe Russell, bailiff, Upton, curate, Sutter, a lawyer to make certain we stay legal. Lord Chatham is your employer?”

“Yes, milord. . . sir.” Gillespie hastily wrapped his neckcloth. “Is he very angry?”

“He is irrelevant.” The American army captain callously dismissed the viscount.

The room was almost too small for all of them. Rafe was happy to stand in the doorway as guard and hand off the questioning to Hunt. After the servant had terrorized Verity and the children, he’d not be so polite.

“And last night you said a solicitor ordered you to search the attic? What solicitor?” Hunt leaned against a wall and toyed with the cane he no longer needed but used for effect.

“Lord Chatham’s solicitor, sir. He hired me when his lordship came into the title.”

Rafe bit his tongue on his opinion of a man who couldn’t hire his own servants. His foul humor was not helpful.

“And the solicitor’s name?” Damien jotted in a notebook he produced from his pocket.

“Turner, I believe, sir,” Gillespie said nervously. “That’s what his lordship calls him.”

Turner, the name of the orphans. Rafe stirred uneasily.

“You don’t know the firm he works for?” Damien asked.

“No, sir. He hired me when my former employer couldn’t pay my wages, said his lordship would be coming into his funds once they settled matters with the estate.”

“Sounds like we need to question Chatham,” Hunt decided. “Sutter, can your valet dry him out and prop him up? Or should I send mine?”

“Depends on whether you want your newly-minted viscount tormented,” Damien said. “Jacques is insistent that he’s a bootmaker and only acting as my valet as a favor to me. He took a dislike to his lordship.”

“My man was once a sergeant, not a peacock like yours. I’ll send him. While I’m gone, find out why this one thinks he’s hunting through attics.” Hunt strode off to set the fox among the pigeons.

Gillespie looked even more nervous. “He’ll blame me. I’ll lose my place. I’ve told you everything I know. His lordship doesn’t know anything.”

“His lordship needs to grow up and accept responsibility,” the curate corrected. “He should know why his solicitor is telling you to trespass.”

“I was just to see if there was any way in,” the manservant protested. “I heard talk of pirate treasure and jewels. I thought it was some game among the gentry.”

“Did you break one lock and jam the new one?” Rafe wanted a crime to prosecute. He felt sorry for this chap but he was still outraged that his orders had been ignored.

Gillespie twitched nervously. “It was what I was told to do.”

“When?” Rafe demanded.

“Ummm.” Gillespie fumbled with his buttons. “Day you told me not to use those stairs?”

“The solicitor is here, in the manor?” Damien asked with incredulity.

Gillespie shook his head. “No, sir. Elton told me. He works for Mr. Turner.”

Rafe thought he might go through the roof. “Elton? Where is that miscreant? He’s in the manor? I’ve been hunting all over for him.”

“Don’t know, sir. Thought he was at the inn, sir.”

Rafe and Wolfie had scoured the inn, inside and out, but he’d be the first to admit the sprawling monstrosity could hide an army for a week. “Elton is a thief, a liar, and a potential kidnapper. Your lordship and his solicitor keep bad company.”

The servant grew even more pale. “But I know he works for Mr. Turner. I’ve seen them speak.”

Rafe straightened. “You can identify Turner?”

“Yes, of course, sir. He hired me.”

Damien consulted his notes. “Let me see if I have this correct. Mr. Turner, presumably an estate solicitor, hired you to act as manservant for Lord Chatham after his lordship came into his title? Was this in London? How long ago?”

“Yes, sir, in London, sir, about a fortnight ago, after his lordship’s uncle died.”

Before the Widow Turner died. Rafe needed to connect all the nefarious events in some manner.

When exactly had the widow been buried? This was Saturday.

The orphans had arrived last Monday, nearly a week ago.

They presumably left Stratford Sunday evening, which meant their mother had died less than a week after Chatham’s uncle?

Rafe wanted Verity here to prevent him from leaping to terrible conclusions.

He turned to the curate, who merely acted as witness, and murmured, “Did you not say the servants were seen leaving Beanblossom? Do you know what day that was?”

“No, the neighbor simply indicated she saw a carriage shortly after the widow’s death.

I didn’t ask for a death certificate,” Upton whispered.

He wrinkled his brow in thought. “I believe the Stratford curate said they’d buried her a few days before we arrived, which was on Tuesday.

That would make the funeral most likely on Saturday or Sunday? ” Now he, too, looked alarmed.

Good to know the Oxford-educated curate was having the same horrible thoughts.

“And where did you see Elton and Turner together?” Damien continued jotting in his notebook, a lawyer to the bone.

Gillespie wrinkled his large beak in distaste. “In Stratford, sir. Mr. Turner was at the inn there when we arrived on the Friday evening. I believe he brought bank notes for his lordship, because I was paid the wages I was owed from my former employer, as promised.”

Money, always an excellent way to buy loyalty. “And that’s when you saw Elton?”

“No, sir. That was the next day, noonish. Saturday morning, Mr. Turner borrowed his lordship’s carriage to see to estate business.

When he returned, he had Mr. Elton with him, to buy a carriage, I believe.

The delay forced us to finish our journey on the Lord’s day.

Lord Chatham and his friends were displeased as the inn wasn’t to their liking. ” Gillespie tugged at his neckcloth.

Rafe interrupted. “Was there anyone else in his lordship’s carriage with Mr. Elton and Mr. Turner?”

“No, sir, just the two of them. Mr. Turner had his own horse on back. I helped him untie it so he might leave on errands, while Mr. Elton left on foot. I didn’t see Elton again until the other night, when he brought me the message from Mr. Turner about leaving the back stairs open.”

“Would you recognize Turner’s handwriting?” Rafe asked, trying to hold his temper.

Gillespie frowned. “No, sir. The message wasn’t written. I don’t read so well.”

Which meant the message was most likely not from the solicitor at all. Elton was still trying to steal the children.