Page 9 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Eight

Minerva

“I think we should visit the rector in Stratford.” Tuesday morning, Minerva buttered her toast—leftover from yesterday. The sun wouldn’t rise for an hour, but curates and their wives had too many duties to lay abed, no matter how much she enjoyed snuggling under the covers with her new husband.

Who was scribbling notes for his sermon at the breakfast table. Paul had lived alone too long and had developed numerous bad habits. He was a busy man. Would he quit listening to her now? They hadn’t married in haste like Verity and Rafe, but they were both such independent people. . .

He lifted his auburn head and squinted at her. “The rector? Why would I do that? I doubt he even knows of my existence.”

She sighed in relief. At least, he had heard her.

“He knows. Your vicar will have complained of the benefice we’ve not rented out to explain why he contributes so little to the rectory.

I doubt he has mentioned that he claimed gold coins from the manor and used them to feather his own nest rather than include them in the church tithe.

He won’t introduce you. I know you think you’d rather stay a curate than take on more responsibility, but you have to think of the future.

You may be the only Oxford-educated clergyman in the entire parish.

” Minerva had learned strategy at her father’s knee.

Paul grimaced. “I had noble dreams in my foolish youth, before my family returned here. Are you saying you would some day prefer to live in town, in the grandeur of a rectory?”

Minerva hid her smile. He listened. He just didn’t understand.

“After one lives in a duke’s palace, no, not particularly.

But the fact that you are better educated and better connected than the vicar might open the rector’s eyes.

It won’t hurt to meet him. The chapel needs funds before the roof falls in.

You have to balance your calling with fund raising.

Besides, he might ignore the letters we’ve written asking about the children. He won’t ignore a personal visit.”

“Ah, enlightenment.” He beamed at her. “You want to solve the mystery. You’re correct. We haven’t traveled anywhere together, and we’re entitled to a brief honeymoon. I doubt we can reach Stratford, make inquiries, and return home tonight, though. Do you think they can put us up at the rectory?”

“Or Bosworth can,” she said with a malicious smile, speaking of the banker who owned mortgages on half the village. “He stays at the manor all the time. He ought to return the favor for manor folk, of which we should be counted.”

He finished his tea and shoved from the table. “You have a convoluted mind. I like it. Do you think we might borrow that dreadful buggy the children arrived in? We’ll make the rector feel guilty that he leaves his possible successor in such poverty.”

Minerva laughed at this preposterous leap of faith.

“Far better than arriving in the manor’s landau and having him think we don’t need funds.

The blacksmith repaired the wheel last night.

I’ll pack a satchel. You ask after the buggy and horse.

If people insist on dying in Gravesyde, we should at least acquire public transportation in return for providing their final resting place. ”

“Which does make one wonder how a nanny would acquire a carriage and horse. It seems unlikely. If we don’t identify her, I fear we’ll have to use the communal coffin and bury her in a pauper’s grave. A most excellent reason for sleuthing.” He kissed her hair and trotted off to his study.

She ought to feel guilty for drawing him away from his work, but her supremely intelligent, dedicated husband was in danger of having no life of his own. Minerva decided it was her task to provide him with opportunities to occasionally escape their busy schedules.

Besides, she hated mysteries. She liked facts. And she’d love to have at least one mystery solved before Christmas. Those adorable orphans deserved better than to be abandoned to strangers, even if Verity would be a lovely mother.

Willa. . . She didn’t know what to make of Willa. Learning the baker sold more than bread had jarred her from complacency. No woman should have to sell her body. Well, perhaps Willa had enjoyed bed play and was lonely. Who was to know? But there was no reason to kill her!

They reached Stratford a little after noon, buried under blankets and still half frozen but well fed from the basket Lady Elsa at the manor had provided.

Minerva hadn’t been out of Gravesyde in months.

After paying the toll to drive the last mile of macadam highway, she sat back in their bouncy, two-wheeled buggy to study what a real village ought to look like.

A stone croft or two and some half-timbered houses with thatching still existed, although these seemed larger and better maintained than most of Gravesyde.

The yards had neat hedges, trimmed rose branches, and patches of seed heads that would be flowers by summer.

But in the town center, brick buildings had replaced much of the stone and timber.

Several had huge gables with double windows, indicating the attic might be tall enough to stand upright in.

There were even several brick buildings three stories high, just like London.

The streets were relatively busy with carriages and horses, not as bad as the city, of course, but far busier than Gravesyde.

With expertise, Paul guided their old mare to a stable down an alley, near a substantial granite building simply labeled BANK. “We’ll have to walk from here. Do you wish to visit Bosworth first or the rector? I can’t be certain where we’ll find either of them at this hour.”

“Since the bank is right here, let’s try that first. I assume the rectory is near that impressive spire in the distance?” Minerva took Paul’s gloved hand in hers to step down, then returned her icy fingers to her muff.

“I believe so. I’ve not visited since my university days.” He held her arm to guide her down the cobbled alley, to the main street. “Anything in particular we’re asking Bosworth besides a bed for the night?”

“About deaths and wills and trusts, perhaps? Those children didn’t come from a poor home. Oh, and Beanblossom. And then, about the tailor and teacher. Elton may be too much to ask.” So many things they needed to know. . .

Minerva had far too much experience to be a foolish miss, but that didn’t mean she didn’t enjoy having a handsome man guiding her into the bank’s grandiose marble interior.

They weren’t fashionable by any means, but her cloak was well-lined and Paul’s greatcoat wasn’t too shabby, if one didn’t look too closely.

And he’d even brought out his tall hat instead of the bedraggled wool cap he tended to wear.

A bespectacled clerk behind a large mahogany counter glanced up expectantly.

Otherwise, the echoing lobby appeared unoccupied.

At their request to see Mr. Bosworth, the clerk frowned and scurried off.

Captain Huntley and the bank were engaged in a lawsuit over property lines, while Bosworth had some claim to ownership in the manor, so the relationship between the bank and Gravesyde tended to be. . . diplomatic, at best.

“Perhaps we should have started anywhere but here,” Minerva whispered. The ceiling was unnervingly tall and the small windows didn’t allow enough light.

“Too late. We beard the dragon now.” Paul indicated the banker’s approach.

Benedict Bosworth Jr. had a slight middle-aged paunch beneath his immaculate gray waistcoat and iron-gray frockcoat.

Even his blond hair had a hint of silver.

He was taller than Paul, but not by much.

He bowed in greeting. “Mr. Upton, Mrs. Upton, I haven’t seen you s-since your n-nuptials. How may I help you?”

They had no money in his bank. He didn’t invite them to his office. But Minerva had lived with dukes and earls and an army colonel accustomed to being treated with respect. She squeezed Paul’s arm and spoke for him. “It is somewhat of a confidential nature, if you don’t mind?”

She could hear Paul chuckling. She loved that he didn’t mind her officious nature. He was quite capable of correcting her if so inclined. But the banker bowed and led the way to his office, which suited them both.

“There is n-nothing wrong at the manor, is there?” Bosworth asked, indicating that they take seats in his much warmer, less intimidating office. He didn’t actually express concern but the bank handled part of the trust for what the heirs now called Priory Manor. He was interested.

“No, although as magistrate, Captain Huntley has authorized us to make inquiries.” Paul sat back in his leather chair and crossed his legs as if accustomed to special treatment by bankers.

“The post isn’t being delivered until the bridge from Birmingham is repaired, so we thought it might be expedient to deal with this in person.

You’ll be receiving a letter from him shortly, but we need to know answers as quickly as possible. ”

Priory Manor was a very large part of the bank’s business, and rumor had it that the banker was a baseborn son of the last heir, so Bosworth paid attention and nodded. “I am at your disposal, of course.”

“A carriage crashed the other night, killing the driver, and leaving two young children abandoned. They can only tell us that their mother recently died after an illness, and it’s possible their father died in the war.

They cannot tell us where the driver was taking them, although we suspect it was to an orphanage.

” Paul gestured with his hat. “Our parish, of course, is too poor to support even a workhouse. We are hoping to find out more.”

Nice reminder that Bosworth contributed nothing to their funds.

Minerva hid her grin. “They are beautiful children, well kept,” she told him.

“We feel sure there must be respectable family who possibly have not heard of their mother’s death.

They say they’re Turners from Beanblossom. Does this mean anything to you?”

Expressing no concern for the orphans, Bosworth sat back, pressed his fingertips together, and addressed the facts.

“I b-believe there may be a cottage a mile or so out of town with that rather p-preposterous name. I do not think we have any accounts for a T-turner, but I have a vague memory from some years ago when the place was p-purchased. You might ask Mr. B-browning, the Priory’s solicitor.

His firm handles most of the p-property transactions here. ”

“Thank you, he and the rector are our next visits,” Paul said. “So you’ve heard of no recent deaths, small estates, anything of the sort?”

Bosworth shrugged. “None of which I’m aware.”

This was turning out to be a most distressing visit.

How could a widow and her children simply disappear from public view?

“The children have also mentioned a Mr. Clapper as a teacher at a small school, and the boy had a tailor, although he did not provide a name. Can you provide any information on anyone of that sort?” Minerva asked.

“T-teachers and t-tailors seldom carry accounts. I’ll ask my clerk, but do not hold out hope there. Now, if that is all. . .” He rose, indicating his generosity had ended.

“It seems we will have to stay all day to make these inquiries.” Minerva didn’t immediately rise. “That means we cannot go home until tomorrow. I don’t suppose you know of a respectable, inexpensive room we might take? The parish does not have funds to spare.”

Paul rose and held out his hand for her to take. “The captain said we were to put ourselves at your disposal, if that will not be an inconvenience.”

Minerva hid her smile. That put the final nail in the banker’s coffin.

Bosworth looked pained, hesitated, then finally offered, “I have room to p-put you up for the night. My father is at home, if you wish to leave your b-bags with the servants. He will arrange it.”

“That is most gracious of you, sir.” Minerva stood and settled her cloak about her.

“Christmas is less than a week away. You should attend service with us. Patience has planned a lovely choral interlude. Not exactly Church of England but a chance to celebrate all we have been given this past year. We’d love to have you. ”

“Thank you. You may tell me what you have found over d-dinner. Good day.” He bowed them out.

“Well, that was fun.” Minerva chortled as they returned to the street. “Do you think he is shy because of his stutter or just made of cardboard?”

“A little of both, no doubt.” Paul indicated a distinguished brown brick building across the busy main road. “Shall we stop with Mr. Browning before returning to the carriage and seeking the rectory?”

Mr. Browning, the lawyer, a vigorous man in his forties, had also visited the manor on different occasions and was much more receptive to their visit.

When Paul gave him their story, he nodded and summoned a clerk to fetch a file.

“Sad story. Mr. Turner purchased the property through a trust fund, if I remember rightly. When he died, he left a life estate to the property to his mistress. I hadn’t realized they weren’t married until she died and the estate reclaimed the property. ”

He took a file his clerk handed him and opened it. “Yes, here it is. Beanblossom Cottage Trust. The file is confidential. I cannot reveal the owners or any other information. The cottage has been placed on the market for sale.”

“And the children?” Minerva asked in horror.

He frowned and studied his documents. “Mr. Turner’s will was written some time ago, apparently upon his coming of age.

It does not mention a wife or even the trust. Admittedly, that is odd.

Normally, the property would revert to the eldest son, but if there are no marriage documents or settlements.

. .” He gestured to indicate this was the result.

Orphans. . . and abandoned by the family that should have taken them in, illegitimate or not.