Page 11 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)

ELEVEN: PAUL

After a request from the manor’s new bailiff, Paul escorted Meera Walker to Miss Edgerton’s—apparently now the widow’s—cottage on Monday morning. As a curate, he was in a position to know most of the village inhabitants, and he’d like a killer brought to justice as swiftly as possible. He simply could not fathom a motive.

Having been warned by the hound’s bark, Mrs. Porter emerged, without her hat but still using her stick, to unlock the gate. The enormous wolfhound sniffed and waggled his tail in recognition, allowing them to pass. Entering the cottage, Paul could hear clomping footsteps and a low mumble overhead that indicated Mrs. Underhill at work.

“She has taken the beds out for airing and has the linen soaking,” the widow murmured, leading them back to the kitchen. “I am afraid once she has scrubbed the floors, she will not allow us to walk on them.”

“I suspect that is her way of saying farewell to the deceased,” Paul explained. “She is sending on the last of Miss Edgerton’s spirit. She may claim not to be superstitious, but it’s ingrained in rural habits.”

She smiled. “Actually, I am grateful. It’s been a bit spooky. I hadn’t seen my governess in ten years, and all of a sudden I am living with her remains... I want to know her soul is content and has passed on. Then, perhaps, I might know how to proceed. I hope.”

Dark circles underlined her eyes. Her grief was almost palpable. Paul didn’t know her well enough to console her. Keeping busy was most likely the best answer.

“Understandable, you need time. Where is Rafe?” Paul asked as the busy apothecary headed straight for the pantry. The kitchen smelled of bacon and coffee, but the remains of breakfast had been cleared away.

“He is taking his new duties seriously. I believe he has gone to the manor to meet as many people as he can. It can’t be easy being a bailiff where he knows no one. I thank you and Mrs. Walker for coming at our call. We don’t know enough about herbs to understand what is safe and what isn’t.” Wearing a dark violet round gown, the widow twisted her hands in a muslin apron that nearly reached her feet—one of the teacher’s, he suspected. The widow most likely hadn’t carried aprons in her meager bag.

Which made one wonder what circumstances she had fled. People seldom traveled to Gravesyde unless they had no choice.

Meera studied the neatly labeled tins and opened a few to test them. “I don’t see anything as a cause for concern. I’ve already removed the few that might cause irritation if taken in large quantities, but on the whole, these are mostly cooking herbs, tisanes, and teas.”

Mrs. Porter produced a letter from her apron pocket. “I found this in her desk, with others. The requests are...” She handed the paper over rather than explain.

Paul raised his eyebrows at the contents and handed it to Meera. “I am no barrister, but I believe these type of things are illegal?”

Meera scanned the request and shrugged. “Not necessarily, but some can be exceedingly dangerous.” She eyed the cabinet again. “Still, I don’t see any... ”

Paul took her place in front of the pantry door, examined the shelves, the width of the door, and ran his hand over the edge. “This shelf isn’t on the wall. It’s essentially freestanding. If there is a means to move it out...” He found a latch behind the door frame.

“He’s a carpenter,” Meera explained to the widow. “He knows how things are put together.”

“Fitting for a man of cloth,” the widow murmured, possibly in amusement. Paul had heard all the jests about Jesus being a carpenter and was happy she refrained from saying more. She gasped as the shelf pulled out, revealing a second set.

Meera pushed him aside to examine the hidden contents. “Bring me a basket, please. Your Miss Edgerton may have been trying to help her former students, but in the wrong hands... My word. Some of these are quite expensive. We can’t grow them here. She had to have ordered them.”

Paul thought the physician sounded more admiring than horrified, one academic to another, he supposed. This was women’s territory, and he wasn’t even married. Neither he nor Minerva had wealth, so they approached marriage cautiously.

Was Meera saying the governess had a closet full of poison? There was motive, indeed.

“Do you think local women may have come to her?” Mrs. Porter asked worriedly. “Might their husbands have objected?”

“I’d say she’s been doing this for a long time to have learned all these ingredients. She knew what she was doing. If so, it’s hard to believe she allowed anyone other than her patients to know what she did, and they had their own reasons for not telling. But if one of her patients passed on the powders to someone desperate, someone who might be too far along, or who used them incorrectly...” Meera sighed and added more tins to her basket. “She could have killed them.”

Which meant both men or women might have wished to eliminate the teacher and her practice. Struggling with the implications, Paul took the heavy basket. “There has been no law in these parts for years, probably for as long as she lived here. If someone, anyone, lost a loved one and suspected Miss Edgerton, they might take justice into their own hands.”

“I suppose it is possible.” Without her dramatic hat, Mrs. Porter had the appearance of any young woman: fair, unwrinkled complexion, long thick lashes, plump lips, attractive in an ordinary sort of way. “But to have it happen the day I arrive...”

“Coincidence does happen,” he reassured her. “Although I suppose it is possible this person knew you were arriving and thought they should act quickly.”

She visibly shuddered. “Even Miss Edgerton did not know I was coming. Perhaps I am meant to be Job and crushed by a thousand ills.”

“That might be a little presumptuous,” Paul said in amusement, although he had to wonder what had happened to make her think like that.

She offered a vague smile of agreement. “Sorry, but my life has become more dramatic than the theater. There are more letters and a ledger in her desk. Do you have time to take a look and see if the initials mean anything to you? I can fix tea, and Rafe made scones this morning. They are quite delicious.”

Meera shook her head. “I cannot help you with initials, and my baby is still nursing, so I must hurry home. Why don’t I take a look at your foot while I’m here? I’m surmising from the bandage that it is injured?”

Paul had deliberately not looked at the lady’s limb. “I can leave...”

Mrs. Porter shook her head. “Another time, perhaps, but my foot appears to be healing, thank you. It looks uglier than it feels. You need to return to your son.”

Meera shrugged. “I’ll slip out the back gate and up the footpath. You should come to dinner at the manor, if you will be staying for long. We always need more hands. I’m sure we can find work for you, if you need it.”

The widow indicated her plain muslin. “As much as I would enjoy a useful occupation, I have no dinner gowns. I understand you have a seamstress?”

“Lavender! Paul, you must bring Mrs. Porter up to meet Lavender. I doubt she has much in fabrics for a widow, but she can ask Henri to find some when he’s in the city.”

The widow blushed. “I am officially out of blacks, but I had nothing else, and they seemed safest for traveling alone. I... lost almost everything to a fire.”

Ah, the reason for seeking a new home. The widow was becoming less of an enigma. Was the injury a result of fire?

Paul opened the kitchen door. “Why don’t I escort Meera back to the manor, and bring Lavender down so you needn’t task that foot? I’ll have Rafe join us. Then we can ponder the ledger while Lavender takes your measurements. You’ll still want to visit the manor to see what she has in stock, but you might feel a little more comfortable if you know her first. She’s quite young but a genius with thread.”

Meera waited until they were out in the lane before murmuring, “Do you really want to know who among your parishioners is paying to rid themselves of children, possibly because the ones they have are starving? Or who might be raping their daughters? Or if someone is attempting to disable an abusive husband? The list of reasons the deceased might have provided those herbs is long and awful.”

Paul’s existence was a result of rape, so he did not ponder the question lightly. It was an age-old problem, never spoken of, so the number of victims were unknown. He was grateful his mother had found an alternative to being rid of him, but she’d been in easy circumstances. As a minister, he’d seen desperate women grateful for miscarriages.

He wasn’t God and refused to judge, despite his teachings. His vicar might have a word or two to say about his rebellious beliefs, but no one paid attention to this penniless parish. His purpose had always been to give aid to the living.

“There aren’t many young women in the village, other than a few new maids at the manor, and they’re under my mother’s care. If those herbs are the motive for Miss Edgerton’s death, then I’d have to say her former students are the more likely suspects.” That would be a relief to him. He didn’t want to judge people he knew. “It takes money to pay for an exclusive boarding school. They would come from wealth.”

“And might be gently extorted later?” Meera suggested.

As his own stepfather had extorted his parishioners for their sins. Paul pinched the bridge of his nose and prayed this wasn’t the situation. The sordidness brushed too close to his own life. “Perhaps we should let this case alone.”

Meera snorted inelegantly. “Hunt is already chafing at the bit. He’ll want his new bailiff to learn the traces and gallop to the rescue. He’s well-pleased at finding someone to do the dirty work.”

They met the bailiff in question heading down the footpath. Rafe eyed the basket on Meera’s arm with displeasure. “That many?”

“Hidden,” Paul explained. “I’m to bring Miss Lavender down to talk new gowns while I go over Miss Edgerton’s ledger. We thought you might like to know if I identify any of the initials.”

“I had thought to go over the church register, but this will be more pleasant. New gowns? She is coming out of mourning?” The burly, red-haired man seemed pleased.

“I’m not at all certain she’s been in mourning,” Meera said dryly. “Her gown is nearly a dozen years old. Your widow may not be what she seems.”

Rafe beamed. “My conclusion, as well. But I’m reasonably certain she did not murder the governess any more than I did. Mrs. Porter brought her hostess apples and candies. I ate both and didn’t die.”

“I’d be careful what you eat,” Meera warned. “If the killer is still about and wants any of those papers in that desk, they might not care who else dies to get at them. ”

Rafe’s smile vanished. “Perhaps we should remove her from that house.”

“Try,” Meera said with a hint of grimness. “I have a suspicion that under her gentle demeanor is a soul as old and stubborn as any mule’s.”

“Gentle? There is nothing gentle about that lady. She appears to have been through hell and is hardened like iron on a forge. I said she didn’t kill the governess. I didn’t say she’s not capable of it.”