Page 13 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)

THIRTEEN: RAFE

Armed with a list of potential local suspects combed from the ledger, Rafe set out down Gravesyde’s main residential and commercial street. As a medieval village, it had originally served a priory. Later, he supposed the locals had served earls and their guests. The village had obviously never been wealthy or substantial, but it certainly had seen better days.

There were signs that was turning around. The larger establishments were still abandoned and deteriorating. But some of the small ones had been recently rethatched and repaired. The mud daub often needed paint but walls had been mended.

The mercantile still operated. Farm ladies lined their carts in front to sell their wares. Jams, jellies, gourds, the last of the summer vegetables... He stopped at each cart, introduced himself, memorized names, and admired goods. He couldn’t expect Mrs. Porter to provide all their provisions, so he purchased what looked fresh and useful and gave a penny to an urchin to deliver them to the cottage.

None of the names matched the names he’d been given.

He had great difficulty believing any of these women would have poisoned the governess. How? Dug the roots in the middle of the night, sliced and boiled them over a kitchen stove along with their children’s morning porridge? Then what? Taken the tea visiting? He should have asked the physician how poison was administered. It had seemed basic until he thought about it.

It made far more sense that the former governess had done the digging and boiling.

He met the lieutenant and Fletch at the inn on the far end of town, talking to a few workmen they’d produced from who knew where. The manor?

“How much of this place do we want to restore?” Fletch asked, gesturing at the sprawling dilapidated inn, from collapsed pub to stable.

“You cannot feed guests without a pub or shelter their horses without a stable. And in between one needs rooms with beds,” Rafe said dryly. “Which part were you planning on leaving out?”

“The stable’s not in bad shape,” Jack, connoisseur of horses and stables, remonstrated. “The blacksmith has been repairing it to use for his customers.”

“Then we’ll start in the middle, shore up the inn floors and thatch the roof, unless we can find tin or tile. Neither is pretty but tin should be cheap. Tile is sturdier.” Rafe really wanted the thatch with the half-timbered walls, but practically speaking, that wasn’t modern and needed constant repair. The whole place should be torn down to the frame.

“We do thatching,” one of the workmen declared. “And we can do the wattle, seal up the outside so you can work inside this winter.”

Rafe nodded at the man who’d spoken. “I’m Rafe Russell, the imbecile interested in restoring this pit. And you are?”

“Nate Blackwell. This here’s my son, George. We have a small property along the river, but we’ve been up in Birmingham these last years. Can’t live off farming these days.”

Most men were shorter than Rafe, but this pair hunched their shoulders to make themselves smaller. Worn caps, old boots... they weren’t earning a fortune in construction. If they’d lived here before—they knew the teacher. His mind instantly called up the list of suspects Mrs. Porter had given him. One or two had the initials B, not that that meant anything.

“Working inside in winter requires rebuilding the chimneys.” Rafe couldn’t believe he was even considering hurling his few coins into this sinkhole.

“Hunt is hiring chimney cleaners for the manor. We can ask about them,” Jack suggested. “Let’s go up and make a few lists, have Walker give us some estimates. He’s the manor’s steward and good with numbers.”

Rafe needed to be interviewing suspects, if only he had some. He couldn’t see workmen or apple pickers crawling into the teacher’s garden to murder her, any more than he could women, but someone had done it. He supposed he ought to meet everyone he could.

“The manor folk think we can work out a deal with the bank to open this place?” he demanded, just to be certain he wasn’t flinging coins down a well.

He didn’t grasp finance, but he loved running an inn. If the manor had funds to help...

Jack shrugged. “Hunt talked to the banker. He didn’t object. Bosworth thinks we’re mad, but that’s not unusual. Hunt’s digging out property maps and deeds. We’ll most likely need a solicitor to draw up proper agreements, but an inn can only be a boon to the whole village, making it easier for people to stay and conduct business.”

Rafe wasn’t much on planning and scheming. He wanted an inn. They wanted an inn. Here one was, such as it was... Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He turned back to the Blackwells. “Can you start by cleaning out the debris? Give us a clean place to start instead of this giant bird’s nest?”

The younger Blackwell grunted at the accurate description, eyeing the rotting straw falling into the interior—coated with guano from nesting creatures. The glum pair agreed and trotted off to look for a starting place. Rafe would suggest a wheelbarrow, but they’d work it out.

He reluctantly followed Jack and Fletch up a footpath to the towering manor on the hill above. “No one will be offended by my slovenly appearance?”

Fletch punched his arm as a form of reply, but they were no longer uniformed soldiers. Rafe’s civilian clothes weren’t up to society’s standards.

A former soldier himself, Jack took long strides up the recently trimmed path. “The Reid ladies won’t care. Bosworth returned to Stratford, but his assistant Smith is still here, trying to persuade a merchant to buy one of the bank’s properties. Miss Talbot is entertaining a Mr. and Mrs. Prescott who are interested in taking away some of our archaic furniture, possibly to restore it. I’m uncertain how that works. There is an architect drawing up sketches for a perfumery under the instructions of two adolescents. The hive buzzes. Really, you think anyone will even notice your existence?”

Ah, opportunity to learn his new occupation. “How many of your guests were here before Saturday? Didn’t the banker arrive then, with Mrs. Porter?”

If she were even a Mrs. Porter. How did he verify that? Rafe feared he was in well over his head.

“Bosworth stops here on his way to Birmingham whenever he feels so inclined. He’s the manor’s trustee and feels it incumbent upon him to oversee our ramshackle affairs. He didn’t arrive until Saturday, but his assistant and the merchant, Sullivan, came on Friday, I believe.”

“I suppose it’s good to have enough wealth for a banker to worry over. If I’m to join with you and Fletch and whoever else takes an interest in rebuilding the inn, we’ll need someone to keep accounts. I can’t.” Rafe believed in being frank.

“I don’t know if Walker will wish to take on another task, but we’ll find someone. You’re right, though, we need to sit down and work out how much money we have for this task before we start spending it. I’ve sunk most of mine into building my stable and buying good horseflesh. Not seeing profits yet. Pity we never found the earl’s jewels.” Jack led the way around to the manor’s carriage door.

“Jewels?” Rafe studied the workers roaming in and out of the medieval stone tower at the corner between the grand front entrance and the portico on the side.

“Legend has it the last earl hid the family jewels. Descendants of pirates and all that. He left nonsense notes of their whereabouts, but all we’ve recovered is a child’s necklace and a bag of doubloons that may help build your inn. We’re on our own otherwise.” Jack strode under the portico, and the side door opened as if propelled by magic.

Rafe had met the ex-prize fighter butler earlier. The man was nearly as large as he but was graying and turning soft about the middle. Rafe hoped the butler acted as guard as well as silent door-opener and hat-handler.

He studied the gloomy hall Jack led him down. The right side sported ugly dark landscapes. To his left, they passed the ballroom/walking gallery where Lavender and her ladies had set up production. Jack stopped to greet Henri, who was taking orders for a purchase expedition in the city.

They introduced him to Arnaud, Henri’s brother, and Miss Talbott, Mrs. Huntley’s cousin, who were apparently directing the tower restoration. Rafe was beginning to doubt if he could even keep track of the manor inhabitants—except all the related ladies had blond hair, blue eyes, and bewitching dimples. The men mostly appeared large and dark, well-fed compared to the villagers. He’d sort them eventually.

Windows , Rafe decided as they continued to the main corridor. The inn should have windows for natural light. These dark halls lit by sconces and a pair of gaslights did not create the welcoming atmosphere of a proper inn.

The lieutenant led them down the long corridor of the manor’s central block to the steward’s office, where Walker, the captain’s African friend, presided. Rafe had already ascertained that the one-eyed Captain Huntley had taken charge of the manor, even if all the heirs owned it. Hunt joined them and suggested they gather in the large study in one of the new wings. The fine details of numbers didn’t interest Rafe, but he needed to know these men he might work with for the future.

He’d never meant to spend his life in the army, but he’d not given much consideration to what he’d do once the war ended. An inn of his own had always seemed out of reach.

Huntley produced survey maps, inn measurements, and a monocle for reading them. Rafe raised his eyebrow in surprise.

“Hunt is a surveyor,” Jack explained. “Likes to keep his hand in, even if his blind eye makes it difficult.”

Another victim of war. Rafe nodded understanding and offered specifications where he could, while Walker took notes. His gut wasn’t entirely certain that he wanted to bury ten years of earnings, for which he’d risked his life countless times, into a project that would never be wholly his. But he was learning about his new home and new position in the process, so he’d stick it out a while longer.

Captain Huntley’s fair-haired wife bustled into the room carrying her own list and wearing a worried frown. Jack and Walker politely rose at her entrance, but the captain merely set down his monocle and regarded her expectantly.

“I have shown these initials—” She glanced at Rafe. “From Miss Edgerton’s ledger, correct?” At his nod, she continued. “Elsa and Thea know society far better than I do. They’ve made a list of possibilities. Most of Miss Edgerton’s students at the boarding school would be about our age now or older, which means many are married. We can’t know if the initials represent their married names.” She handed the list over to Rafe, who didn’t recognize a name on it.

“I appreciate this.” He didn’t know what the devil he’d do with it.

“Thea believes one of them is currently teaching at Miss Edgerton’s former boarding school. I put a mark beside her name. She may be how former students were finding their teacher. We’ll make a few discreet inquiries of acquaintances. But we’re reasonably certain none have visited Gravesyde since we’ve been here these last six months.”

“But we might want to look about for their family members or servants,” Rafe suggested, relieved he didn’t have to distress young ladies.

“Noble family members would stand out.” Captain Huntley spoke up. “They’d most likely send servants.”

“Revenge doesn’t seem likely as a motive for wealthy aristocrats to bestir themselves,” Rafe warned.

“Oh, many of them have little better to do and plenty of funds to do it with,” the captain’s bespectacled wife said with a dismissive wave. “But there is also covering up wrongdoing to consider. If anyone thought their precious daughter or wife had been straying—or that they had told Miss Edgerton of a gentleman’s villainy—” She let the thought dangle.

“Or their companions or maidservants might be ordered to cover up any trace of prior indiscretions...” Rafe shook his head. “All I can do is question the neighbors about visitors.”

“Oh, that might be a problem.” Clare, Mrs. Huntley, clasped her hands and smiled too brightly. “Mrs. Holly is the closest neighbor. She called Miss Edgerton a witch and burned crosses in the yard, repeatedly.”