Page 6 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Five

Minerva

“Why us?” Minerva demanded angrily, scrubbing the skillet from which they’d eaten the delicious apple bread. She felt better now that Paul had come looking for her and they were both fed with the impromptu breakfast.

Paul and Damien had left when young Arthur warned of still another body. It was almost Christmas. She wanted to be preparing wassails and plum puddings. Well, maybe evergreens and gifts. Cooking wasn’t her forte. “Why must people come here to die?”

“Well, Willa was already here.” Brydie pointed out pragmatically. “And it is quite cold. People die of cold, especially if they’re not healthy. We lose more people in winter than summer. We have a lot of old folk here.”

Despite her thirty years, village born and bred Brydie was very na?ve.

Minerva hated to be the one to force her to see the world’s ugliness.

She’d let her continue believing Willa was just a baker, but whatever had drawn the men away this time would be public knowledge soon.

They hadn’t run off to find an old lady dead of pneumonia.

“I don’t think your nephew would look quite so green or called for Rafe, if this corpse died of cold.” Minerva slammed the iron skillet on the hearth to dry. “Paul will be making coffins instead of sermons. How much room can be left in the cemetery?’

“We could start piling them up in the Priory’s crypt,” Brydie said with dark humor, taking the second batch of bread out of the oven. “Where is Mr. Cooper? Did the men leave him alone upstairs?”

Minerva remembered grim jests from her days of following the troops. That was how one dealt with constant death. But Brydie had never seen stacks of corpses dumped in an impromptu grave. It wasn’t amusing.

“Last I saw, the curmudgeon took himself out to tend his horse. If he’s a suspect, he could just ride away.” Still disgruntled, Minerva peered out the kitchen window, but there was no view of the old shed that probably hadn’t held a horse in years.

“Or if he is a killer searching for something, then he’ll stay and look after we’re gone. Did the men search upstairs?”

Brydie might be innocent, but she was also exceptionally clever.

“They did, but they’re not women. We should look.” Minerva winced at sight of the elderly figure in black rags inching up the back walk. “Mrs. Essex. Don’t sell all the bread, leave me some.”

That was selfish. The village was made up of people incapable of baking due to age, infirmity, or lack of equipment. Willa had provided a valuable service. Brydie might be occupied making bread and dealing with customers the rest of the day.

Brydie answered the knock on the kitchen shutters and Minerva lingered, just in case.

“I saw all the toing and froing,” the old widow said at the opening. “Is Willa well? I been to the tavern last night and brought her the king’s shilling for Saturday night, if you’ll tell her that, please, and give me my bread.” She held out her towel-covered basket.

The king’s shilling? Whoever said such things? And why was she expecting bread in return for the message? Maybe she should ask Fletch, Minerva thought suspiciously.

Brydie took the basket and wrapped a hot loaf in the towel. “Did you see anyone come by last night. . . when Willa was ill?” Brydie asked misleadingly.

Minerva managed a sardonic smirk at her friend’s deviousness. She couldn’t have done better herself.

“There’s always summat comin’ and goin’,” the old lady grumbled.

“But you didn’t see anyone in particular last night? I’d like to warn them, if I can.” Brydie handed out the basket.

“Warn them?” Mrs. Essex asked in alarm. “She has that grippe came around last winter? Didn’t see who was here last night. I was down to the Monk’s, listening to Miss Patience. She’s the voice of an angel.”

“Mrs. Lavigne sings beautifully, doesn’t she? What time did you come home, do you remember? And you saw no one after that?” Brydie waited with puzzlement for payment that Minerva assumed wouldn’t be coming.

The elderly neighbor apparently acted as Willa’s go-between with her customers at the tavern was Minerva’s assumption.

“Ten’s when Monk’s closes. No one’s out and about after that, though I may have heard a horse oncet I was in bed. But I’m a bit hard of hearing, y’know. You tell Willa to get well soon, all right?” Mrs. Essex wandered back down the path.

Brydie shut the door and wrinkled her nose. “That’s an odd way of doing business. So, there may or may not have been a visitor after ten. . .”

“Probably Mr. Cooper. Whoever hit him may have arrived earlier, while everyone was at the tavern. Willa’s yard is a veritable forest of old bushes.

I doubt we’ll find out much from the neighbors.

” Minerva would have preferred Brydie’s company in searching the corpse’s room, but people might go hungry without bread. She needed to stay in the kitchen.

Someone had drawn a sheet over Mrs. Willoughby, thank all that was holy. She’d seen battlefields and knew gruesome, but a woman’s peaceful sanctuary shouldn’t be a bloody battleground, no matter what her profession.

The wardrobe revealed a few silk robes that might have been gifts, but no dinner gowns, just plain dresses a baker might wear.

Among corsets tied with new ribbons—more gifts from her.

. .suitors?—she located a pair of knotted stockings.

Since the other pairs were carefully darned and laid out, the knot seemed odd.

She untied it and removed a small collection of gold trinkets and a silver spoon.

If Willa’s clients came from Gravesyde, they weren’t wealthy, so these might be stolen to pay for her services.

Minerva’s suspicions always leapt to extortion, but if Willa couldn’t write, how would she extort her victims? And really, why bother? Gravesyde scarcely had a society open for scandal broth, unless one of the married gents at the manor was involved.

Fletch apparently was. He didn’t have much coin but he wasn’t married either.

He might keep their relationship quiet out of respect, but he had no other reason to hide it.

What men and women did in their own homes was no concern of hers.

Minerva had lived in a man’s world long enough to know that much, even if she didn’t respect their immorality.

She returned the knot of jewelry to the shelf and continued hunting, with little success.

Mr. Cooper’s voice carried up the stairs.

He must have returned from the stable and be talking to Brydie.

She shouldn’t leave an unmarried woman unchaperoned.

It could take weeks to work through all the victim’s hoards.

Minerva suspected Willa had hidden her valuables from any thieves among her customers.

Whoever was here last night might have robbed her, but they couldn’t have possibly found everything.

Perhaps they were only after one particularly valuable item. Or a personal one.

At least, she didn’t have to search books this time. Those were generally the only valuables in Gravesyde. Minerva traipsed back down the stairs.

“She kept hay and oats in the shed,” Mr. Cooper was saying. “She must have had visitors.”

“Any one of whom could have killed her? But why?” Brydie sliced one of her hot loaves and buttered it. Apparently the gentleman was regaining his appetite.

“I haven’t seen Willa in years. I cannot imagine.” He sat down at the table with the tea Brydie poured for him.

Minerva could imagine, but she saw no reason to speak of it in front of the stranger. There were undoubtedly lonely men all over the countryside who may have availed themselves of Willa’s services.

“Does she have family?” she asked instead. “Is this cottage hers? Money or passion are the usual motives.” Although, if their assumption about the deceased’s occupation was correct, she may have entertained an unscrupulous man who killed because he could. Did murderous urges constitute passion?

Killing someone while they slept seemed more contemptible than passionate.

Minerva glanced out the window and wished this cottage wasn’t so far off the main road. She should probably see if anyone lived in the neighboring houses, but they were scattered and mostly vacant. If killers were still about, she’d prefer an escort—or at least, a weapon.

“I assume the house still belongs to my Uncle Bartlett. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.

I’ll have to write my mother. She keeps up with family better than I.

” Mr. Cooper tentatively touched the bandage on the back of his head.

“Of course, Willa doesn’t have writing paper.

I can’t stay here. I need to be on my way. ”

“You’re in no condition for riding anywhere, and I’m thinking Rafe will not approve of any witness to murder leaving town.” Brydie slapped eggs in front of him to go with the bread. “They have stationery at the inn and the mercantile.”

The stranger squinted at Brydie. “He can’t keep me here. I have business to tend to. I only brought two changes of linen.”

“Tell that to Rafe, and he’ll lock you up. The inn has wash women,” Minerva said callously, wrapping up the last bread loaf Brydie had baked. She could make it last a week, possibly. Could she learn to bake in a week? “If Willa is your cousin, it’s your duty to stay and help us find her killer.”

He rubbed his forehead and ate his eggs, obviously working his way through their demands. “All right, I’ll need stationery and a pen. Since I missed her funeral, I suppose I need to write my other cousin’s solicitor anyway.”

Minerva frowned. “Two cousins died? Willa had a sister?”

He started to shake his head, grasped the wisdom of holding still, and wrinkled his nose.

“No. Uncle Bartlett, from my maternal grandfather’s side, is the one who owned the bakery.

After his only daughter married well, and business here grew bad, he left for the Americas.

Meg’s only my second cousin or whatever.

She’s the one who died recently. Willa was a distant relation to my Aunt Bartlett, not actually any relation to me except by marriage.

She was orphaned young, my aunt took her in, and the girls grew up together.

Willa was probably ten years older, and I assume my uncle left the bakery in her hands because his daughter wasn’t interested.

I doubt there is any connection in their deaths.

I was told Meg has been ill and her death is no surprise.

I’ve been sailing and am only recently home. ”

He didn’t look like a sailor, but Minerva supposed now that his pain was lessening, he wasn’t as pale.

“Does Willa have any other family? You should probably also write your Uncle Bartlett to tell him of her death and warn that the house is empty. It’s a shame to let a nice place like this go to ruin.

Although a letter to the Americas and a reply could take weeks.

” Leaving the town without bread, but Minerva tried to think beyond her own needs.

Mr. Cooper sighed. “I don’t even know if he’s still alive. Let me write my mother first. She has little better to do than harass the family for information and tell them what to do.”

“Is she nearby?” Minerva asked hopefully. “Perhaps she might take over the cottage?”

He almost snorted up the tea he’d just sipped.

Patting his mouth with a napkin, he winced.

“She’s in Edinburgh, married to some fine scholar these days.

I apparently have a gaggle of younger siblings and step-siblings who must be reined in and trained to leap and obey her wishes.

I admit, I only stopped in once or twice in summer breaks at school and haven’t been there in years. ”

“I don’t suppose you know how to bake bread?” Minerva asked, more wistfully than hopefully.

“I know how to stoke a fire and shovel loaves in and out. That was the extent of my lesson the summer I stayed here, many years ago.”

“What can you do, then?” Brydie asked in her usual blunt manner, setting another bowl of dough to rest.

“Drink and gamble,” he said flatly. “I’m very good at both and not much good at anything else.”

Paul walked in at that point, heard this last, and raised his eyebrows.

“Well, you’ll not find much gambling around here, so I hope you have enough coin to buy food.

” He turned to Minerva. “Henri is coming with his cart to collect Willa, and Verity has found children hiding in the stable. She wants to keep them.”

Causing the injured Cooper to flinch, Minerva and Brydie both dropped everything and rushed for the door.