Page 14 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)

FOURTEEN: VERITY

Verity met Mrs. Holly on Monday afternoon while searching for Marmie among the cabbage leaves. The tall scarecrow of a woman, all in black, appeared like a floating wraith over the hedge. Her harsh, angular face and black eyes under a ridge of dark eyebrows nearly scared Verity half to death.

She assumed her neighbor had a stepstool and wasn’t flying.

“If you’re another spawn of Satan, you’ll meet your fate as surely as the last one. Justice is in the eyes of the Lord!”

“One certainly hopes so,” Verity replied uncertainly, after recovering her nerves. “I’m Verity Porter. May I help you?”

Huh. Apparently the new Verity was as servile as the old Faith. Should she have called the old lady a vile name? She’d learned quite a few from sailors in the street. Maybe she’d work up to name calling. But here was a good suspect for murder!

“Burn those wicked weeds! Lock the gates of sinners!” The old witch glimpsed Marmie scampering up the path to hide under Verity’s skirt. “A familiar! You have a familiar already!”

Verity stiffened her spine and tried to sound authoritative like Rafe. “I believe your nearly dead apple tree is of more danger than my kitten. Someone fell out of it the other night, trying to break in. ”

Verity tucked the kitten into her apron pocket. She had always wanted neighbors to chat with, but a potential murder suspect or mad woman? Well, how else did she determine who might be guilty? “Would you care to come in for tea and discuss solutions before anyone is hurt?”

The neighbor—who had yet to introduce herself—seemed unable to formulate a reply to a reasonable suggestion.

Fortunately, Mrs. Underhill emerged from the cottage and noted the confrontation. “Rosie, climb down from there before you hurt yourself, and come over for a spot of tea.”

Ah, assertiveness! She should emulate her companion.

Rafe found them in the kitchen when he stomped into the cottage later that afternoon. He frowned at their cozy occupation of his worktable.

Mrs. Holly set down the last of the scones and glared. “Who’s he?”

“Sgt. Russell, dearie,” Mrs. Underhill said, finishing her tea. “The manor’s new bailiff. Sergeant, this is Rose Holly. She’s agreed you might cut back her old apple tree.”

Verity had to muffle a laugh at Rafe’s expression while he worked through the conspiracy of old women to put him to work. She hid her smile behind her teacup.

“Mrs. Holly?” He modified his suspicious tone with a quick bow. “Pleased to meet you. Were you using the apple tree branches for your fiery crosses?”

Fiery crosses?

The old witch appeared pleased at the accusation. “Apple trees give off the best scent. Spawns of Satan can’t tolerate pleasant scents.”

“Which is why Miss Edgerton has the best-smelling garden I’ve ever encountered. I’ll be out picking greens for tonight’s supper. Have a good chat, ladies.” He returned his cap to his ginger hair and strode out the back door.

Amazing how a man so broad could fill a kitchen but not feel threatening. Or perhaps dead Faith feared men for good reason, but na?ve Verity hadn’t learned her lesson yet.

Before her cantankerous neighbor could release the deluge of questions forming on her busy tongue, Verity attempted assertiveness in Rafe’s aid. She hastily stood up. “Well, this has been lovely, Mrs. Holly. I’m glad we had a chance to chat. But those rolls won’t bake themselves.”

As far as she was concerned, rolls appeared like magic on a baker’s cart, but it sounded like something a widow lady might say.

Mrs. Underhill blessedly led their neighbor out the front, while Verity sought Rafe in the back.

“Fiery crosses?” she inquired warily as he snipped greenery and flung it into a basket.

He had to bend much too far to reach those plants. He needed a tall planter... Or she needed to learn what the plants were. He made her feel almost petite. She didn’t have massive, muscular thighs to prevent crouching and could reach the plants easily.

She shouldn’t be noticing a man’s thighs, but Rafe was so very large, he filled her vision—a veritable wall between her and danger. She hoped.

“Mrs. Holly,” he said curtly. “She was on the top of my suspect list. She called your teacher a witch and burned crosses in her yard. Repeatedly.”

“She called me a spawn of Satan and Marmie a familiar,” she offered, biting back laughter at his snit. Rafe wore his feelings on his face, making him easy to talk with. “And then she drank my tea and ate all your scones. When I used to go to market, there was an old lady who snarled at all her customers, but she had the most delicious meat pies and would sneak in a free biscuit to accompany it if I was polite. Sometimes, one wins with kindness instead of confrontation.”

She thought about that for a moment when he didn’t reply. “I suppose soldiers look at the world a little differently.”

He grunted. “Possibly. But I can’t unlearn everything I learned these last years if I’m to be a bailiff. You could have been poisoned! I have to suspect everyone.”

“And you don’t like it.” Verity was charmed that he’d worried about her welfare. It had been a very long time since anyone had done so. “Tell me the name of those herbs you’re picking, let me label them so I can pick them for you.”

He straightened and she had to tilt her head to see his expression. His broad face didn’t give much away. She supposed an innkeeper must learn stoicism.

“You go to the market and buy meat pies but you don’t know herbs. Who are you, Verity Porter?”

“Not a lady nor a maid,” she retorted, swinging around and returning to the cottage.

He followed on her heels, looming over her, catching the door and holding it open. “Fair enough. I’m neither gentleman nor laborer. I believe the generous term is middle class. That isn’t what I’m asking.”

This was what one got with familiarity. Perhaps it wasn’t a good thing. “Does it matter who I am? Or who I was? Because I don’t know who I am right now. I want to be a teacher, but without Miss Edgerton’s aid, I am nothing.”

Knowing Mrs. Underhill was in the front room, listening to every word, she stormed upstairs.

Who was she, indeed? A most excellent question. She had enough to put food on the table for years, if she didn’t have to buy a cottage or rent one. So she was not wealthy. Servants had occupied her early years, however, leaving her with no education in keeping house or cooking. Her mother had expected her to be a lady and marry well, so she knew how to play the pianoforte and dance, although she had never played for anyone or danced with anyone. She was singularly useless for all intents and purposes.

Once in the loft, she didn’t know what to do there. Dress for dinner? She snorted. She’d take off her apron and be ready.

Did she dare pry at floorboards with people downstairs? She was unlikely to ever be alone with Mrs. Underhill underfoot. Was she really in danger? Did she need Rafe here? She didn’t feel as if she were in danger, not as she had been in the city streets. But then, Miss Edgerton had thought herself safe.

She took off her apron and tidied her hair. Without a maid, she couldn’t do anything fancy. She simply rolled it up, fastened it with pins, and let a few wisps escape around her ears so her face did not look quite so square. She’d never be a delicate beauty, but she could look neat.

Not ready to face Rafe yet, she studied the floorboards. None of them appeared particularly loose, but she could start a systematic search. Some of the boards were longer than others. The ones under the bed and wardrobe would be difficult to reach. If Miss Edgerton had hidden papers, did she look at them regularly? If so, then the easier boards were more likely. But if she wanted to hide them... Guessing got her nowhere.

Crouching down, Verity started in the outer corner. Nothing wiggled when she pressed on it. She tried every board in the unfurnished corner, without any luck. Surely Miss Edgerton wouldn’t have moved a wardrobe?

Rafe shouted that dinner was ready. She’d been smelling delicious odors all day and was famished.

Who did she tell Rafe she was? She couldn’t mention her uncle or the counting house that had once been her family’s lovely home. Someone might eventually realize Faith wasn’t dead. If her uncle knew she had his money?—

She wasn’t very creative. She didn’t want to invent a tissue of lies.

Mrs. Underhill had set the kitchen table for three. She had apparently accepted Rafe as some kind of boarder and decided it was safe to eat with him. Considering how wholly unorthodox her situation was, Verity could see no reason to object.

They were both middle class, he’d said. Equals.

That meant he shouldn’t be sleeping in the yard.

Verity took a seat where he pulled out a chair. He’d filled their bowls with a delicious stew and set out plates of bread and salad, and what appeared to be wine. Once he sat, she tasted it and frowned. “Do we know what this is?”

“Found it in the pantry. It’s too sweet for vinegar.” Rafe shrugged and lathered a roll with butter.

“Elderberry,” Mrs. Underhill offered. “There’s a few who sell it at the market for medicinal purposes.”

“I trust we won’t be poisoning ourselves in cleaning out the pantry.” Verity was fairly certain Miss Edgerton would label anything deadly—although would they know if something labeled wolfsbane was fatal? The bottles Mrs. Walker had carried away hadn’t seemed poisonous.

“I had a glass before serving it,” Rafe said complacently. “I’m not writhing in agony, so one assumes it’s safe. I’ve found no equipment for distilling, so I think she was limited to powders and herbs.”

“Oh, I didn’t think to ask at the mercantile for her elixir. I wonder who she intended that for?” Verity was relieved at the casual conversation, but the pall of suspicion hanging between them was uncomfortable. She took another sip of wine for fortification. She’d never had spirits of any sort. She couldn’t decide if she liked it.

“If anyone wants the elixir bad enough, they’ll show up at the door.” Mrs. Underhill deigned to contribute to the conversation.

“But we won’t know what to mix with it. She should have kept records on who took what.” Rafe dug into his stew.

Verify froze, her fork of salad halfway to her lips. “What if she did keep medical records? And the killer was after them?”

Rafe stopped eating long enough to swallow.

“The bookshelves,” they both said at once.