Page 5 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

He nodded. “Charge extra for washing linen and housekeeping. Include breakfast but anything else is extra.”

A customer for Rafe’s pub! “It sounds like you’ve done this before.” Verity had no difficulty keeping up with his limping stride as they strode down the back hall.

“Been taking rooms most of my life. Better than a tent when I have the coin.”

Wondering where he slept now, Verity introduced Cratchit to Mr. Jasper and left them to talk.

Renting rooms! Of course. Gravesyde might not have travelers, but childless workers who lived here might afford a room easier than renting one of the many vacant, run-down cottages.

By the time she settled the orphans in her private dining room for lunch, she’d heard no more from Cratchit and their new guest than furniture scraping against the attic floor.

They were still eating when Arthur’s loud shouting from the lobby caused the little ones to cringe and Verity to hastily shove from the table. Kate’s eldest was usually a polite lad.

She waved Rob and the orphans back to their seats, picked up her skirt, and hurried to the lobby.

Arthur had Brydie’s height, but with his golden-brown locks, he didn’t look much like either of the auburn-haired sisters.

His tanned cheeks red with the wind, he twisted his cap apprehensively. “Mr. Russell isn’t back yet?”

That was worrisome but Verity tried to act as if all were well. “Not yet. Is aught wrong?”

He swallowed and sought words. “We found a buggy that went off the road. The wheel is bent. Mr. Henri is bringing it in. I brought the bag.” He stepped aside so she could see the tapestry satchel. “But—” He gestured helplessly. “The person. . . the driver. . .”

Arthur had never been erudite but this nervousness was unusual. Before she could draw him out, carriage wheels rattled into the unpaved yard.

“I’ll fetch Mr. Russell.” The lad took off as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. He galloped off on one of the manor’s horses with the expertise of one who’d been riding a horse that size all his life.

What on earth was going on that no one was telling her about? She was feeling decidedly left out.

Well, she had found the children. No one knew about them yet, either.

She watched from the window as Henri drove a two-wheeled—wobbly—vehicle into the yard.

Henri owned Monk’s Tavern and lived at the manor with his wife, the curate’s sister.

Verity rather enjoyed the eccentric connections of the village, but right now, she wanted a town crier to tell her what was happening.

If this was the pony Daniel worried about, it seemed sturdy and unharmed.

The hood of the buggy was turned so she couldn’t see any passengers.

She had thought she’d glimpsed another occupant beside Henri when he drove in, before he turned it sideways.

Should she be nosy and step outside, or just take the bag back to the children?

Having spent these last ten years raising herself in a mansion’s cellar, she’d never quite learned social niceties. That made her timid. But she’d promised herself that she would be brave and learn to put herself forward—if only she knew what was rude and what wasn’t.

The children were fine. They were eating.

They didn’t need distraction. She donned a cloak and stepped into the windy yard.

Presumably summoned by Arthur, Rafe and Damien Sutter raced from the alley behind the shops just as she stepped outside.

Short-legged Dr. Walker, escorted by Mr. Upton, followed in their wake.

Fine, if Meera could be here, so could she—even if Meera was a physician.

Arthur galloped past, off to return the manor’s mare, apparently unwilling to return to whatever was in that buggy.

Henri swung down to intercept Verity before she could reach him. “Don’t,” he warned. “Let Rafe handle this.”

“Handle what, sir?” she demanded with indignation. “What, exactly, is going on?”

Rafe swung up on the far side of the carriage, expressed his anger and dismay in language not fit for anyone’s ears, and swung down again. “I quit. I cannot do this. Battlegrounds are bad enough, but they usually do not involve women.”

Tall, barrel-chested, and muscular, her husband was the largest, strongest man in the village, which was why the magistrate had probably made him bailiff.

Rafe could handle drunks with one hand, but in reality, he was a gentle, ginger-haired, soft-hearted giant.

He wanted to be the genial host of an inn and a pub—but the lack of population demanded that they all hold several positions.

Verity put her arms around him and rested her head against his chest. “Who else could do the job better than a man who cares?”

He hugged her hard and buried his face in her hair and she forgave him for leaving her ignorant. He must have his reasons. As she did hers. Suddenly protective of those two innocent children, she didn’t mention them.

After taking a quick glance in the buggy, Damien left the yard and hurried inside the inn, most likely to look after Kate’s children. Or take notes in his new office. Solicitors took lots of notes.

Even Dr. Walker seemed a little green after inspecting whoever was inside the carriage. She stepped down, shaking her head. “I can’t tell anything until she is taken to the manor. I don’t yet have the space or equipment for this kind of work at home.”

“Fox and rats?” Henri asked, rubbing his nose as if to be rid of a smell. Darkly handsome, he was strong from his years as a peddler, but even he looked unsettled.

“Most likely,” Rafe agreed. “I’ll go over the buggy after she’s removed.”

From that, Verity gathered the vehicle held a dead woman. No wonder the nanny hadn’t come looking for the children.

The curate shook his head and ran his hands through his auburn hair. “Two coffins instead of the nativity scene I meant to build. Will it ever end?”

Two? Verity didn’t wait to hear more. She lifted her skirt and fled into the inn to be certain the children were safe.