Page 16 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)

SIXTEEN: PAUL

Paul studied the medical notes that Meera showed him after the new bailiff delivered them to the manor. With everyone else occupied, Paul was the only connection between manor and village.

As curate, Paul’s duty was to his parishioners, which covered almost anything he chose to do. The apothecary seldom attended chapel—Anglican wasn’t Meera’s religion, after all—but she had reason to be concerned about her patients and the village’s new arrivals.

“I recognize a few of these names,” he admitted. “But the notes are cryptic. I have no notion of what Miss Edgerton is saying. If I mark the names I recognize as villagers, can you tell me if her report might cause anyone harm? Would someone kill to hide them?”

Meera bounced her infant son on her shoulder and flipped the pages. “These are mostly reports of female troubles, what she’s used to treat them, how the medications worked, notes of formulas... The notes may help me treat these same patients if they come to me, but they won’t. That troubles me more than any fear of extortion.”

“You need an office in the village, where the women can find you easily, the way they found Miss Edgerton. Maybe you could set up in her cottage a day or two a week? But that’s getting ahead of ourselves. Someone killed the lady, and until we know who and why, no one is safe. Rafe is too new here to recognize names, so it’s up to us to see if the notes contain any useful information.”

She nodded doubtfully. “I can try, but do not hold out much hope of my being accepted as physician. If I were male, and they needed their medication badly enough, they might ignore my brown skin, maybe. But a brown female... We’ll see.”

She pointed at a page. “The assistant the banker left here is named Smith. Here is a Sheila Smith. This note is from five years ago. Sheila was only seventeen. If I’m reading the abbreviations correctly, the patient was at least eight weeks gone with child. The prescription was for an abortive. The final note indicates the prescription was successful but requires adjustment based on weight due to its harshness.”

Paul frowned. “His daughter? His wife? I cannot imagine Miss Edgerton extorting funds from a seventeen-year-old. And there are too many Smiths to assume the banker is related.”

Paul’s mother had been even younger when she’d been repeatedly raped. To give her unborn child—him—a name, she’d escaped into a loveless marriage. She’d have ended on the streets and starved otherwise. Without his stepfather, he wouldn’t be here today. If she had no money and no husband, he understood this Sheila’s desperation. Carry the child—and they both died a lingering death.

But even if this Sheila Smith’s family had riches... the result was little different. An unwed mother wasn’t welcome anywhere and any chance to marry well was lost. Her family might pay to hide her disgrace and end up an extortionist’s best target.

What worried him was if the banker was somehow involved. Bankers weren’t wealthy enough to pay extortion, especially assistant ones. Might a demand drive him to murder?.

He probably should start preaching about the wages of sin.

Preaching wouldn’t have saved his mother from violence. It most likely would not have helped an innocent miss either. Keeping women ignorant only gave men more advantage over them.

Grimly, he wondered if he could talk the widow or Meera into educating girls.

“So these notes won’t help us find a killer?” he asked, returning to the immediate problem.

Meera grimaced as she flipped through the pages. “People are not always rational. Perhaps this Miss Smith can no longer have children and her new husband blames Miss Edgerton. Perhaps Miss Smith told someone about Miss Edgerton, and Miss Edgerton refused to help a stranger. Some of these notes indicate reservations about treating her patients as they wished. Look at this one.” She pointed at scribbling in darker ink, indicating the lady had pressed angrily with her pen nib.

“ Patient is hysteric. Gave her placebo .” Paul frowned. “And we have no knowledge of whether the hysteric died or lives happily ever after.”

Meera nodded. “This book might be useful as evidence should we ever discover the culprit, but it is of little use in finding them. If you will mark the parishioners you recognize, it might help me later, if I set up an office. Beyond that, I can’t see it making a difference.”

“I’ll tell our new bailiff. He’s going through the orchard, apparently trying to size up the men as a possible culprit for climbing over the widow’s wall and breaking the apple tree. He works hard, but I fear he is not a strategic thinker.” As Minerva was, Paul thought as he left the infirmary and strode down the central corridor in search of his betrothed.

He found her in the library with Hunt, going over faded historical records and intricately drawn maps of the village. She blessed Paul with a smile at his entrance but returned to pointing out relevant plots on the map.

The captain set aside his monocle to nod greeting. “It seems not all the villagers turned to the bank to buy their lots,” he explained. “Despite what he thinks, Bosworth can only claim some of the farmland and the abandoned properties. The others were granted title by the earls or bought them with cash.”

“Abandoned properties, like the inn and tavern?” Paul examined the maps but lines and numbers made little sense to him.

“Well, we established the tavern belonged to one of our local families for centuries, like Miss Edgerton’s cottage, so Henri is fine. The inn was built on the original priory holding and owned and improved by a succession of earls. A local family ran it until the last Wycliffe died. We see no evidence that it was ever sold. The bank’s suit claims the viscount offered to sell off the cottages the estate owned to their occupants, and as a favor to the viscount, the bank loaned those villagers the money to buy them. The bank directly paid the viscount. When the manor closed after the last earl’s death and employment died out, the tenants forfeited their mortgages and scattered. So the estate—or the viscount’s creditors—received the money and left the bank holding useless properties.”

“So no one bought the inn and it’s still in the estate’s name?” Paul left the rights and wrongs of money to others wiser in the matter than he, but the inn directly affected everyone in his parish.

“As far as we can determine, the inn still belongs to the estate,” Minerva assured him. “The last earl did not bother putting money into it. After his son’s death, he had no reason to keep up the property when he had no son to leave it to. As we can attest, he rightfully assumed his daughters and sisters had no interest in operating an inn.”

“Sounds sensible to me. I’ll pass that information on to Rafe when I find him. Your new bailiff covers a lot of territory on his rounds.”

After arranging to see Minerva over dinner that evening, Paul retrieved his hat from the butler and took the side entrance nearest the orchard. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of a liveried coachman polishing the manor’s slightly used but recently refurbished carriage. Would a new carriage driver be another suspect?

Walker was on the drive, speaking with a gentleman on horseback who had apparently just arrived. A far cry from the abandoned fortress it had once been, Wycliffe Manor was returning to life with the aid of its new inhabitants.

Hunt’s invaluable steward waved Paul over, introducing him to the visitor. “This gentleman is a solicitor, regarding Miss Edgerton’s estate. Could you show him to the cottage and introduce him to Mrs. Porter?”

Word of the lady’s death had traveled swiftly. “Of course. I was going that way shortly. Perhaps you would like to rest and have a spot of tea while I finish my rounds, Mr. . ..?

“Culliver, Amos Culliver, at your service. Tea sounds most excellent, I thank you... ?”

“Upton, Paul Upton, curate. I take it you’ve met Mr. Walker?” Paul raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Mr. Culliver was just handing me his reins and stating his business,” Walker said dryly.

As estate steward, Walker was garbed in a swallow-tailed frockcoat and embroidered waistcoat, his doeskin breeches and high boots matching that of any gentleman. Anyone with half a brain and eyes in his head would recognize that he wasn’t a stableboy—if they looked past his skin color.

Paul’s opinion of the solicitor dropped several notches, but he would reserve judgment, for now. He tried to be fair. “Mr. Walker is Wycliffe’s steward, practically part of the family. He’s a busy man. Young Georgie there will look after your mare.” Paul nodded at the young boy running up at Walker’s signal. “I’ll introduce you to Quincy, the butler, and return directly after I finish my errands to take you to the cottage.”

Amos Culliver wore a city man’s side whiskers, a tailored riding coat that fit his portliness, and an expensive top hat. He did not appear the least abashed at insulting Walker. “I appreciate that.” He removed his hat and followed Paul back to the portico .

By the time Paul had the solicitor arranged and had returned outside, Rafe was striding up the hill from the orchard. He waited for Paul to catch up.

“Mrs. Walker figure out that notebook?” the massive bailiff asked without further ado. For his new position, Rafe had exchanged his soldier’s coat for an aging tweed country coat.

“Meera says the records will be of help should she open an office in the village, but they’re more useful as evidence than as a means of identifying anyone who might want to steal it. Some of the names are likely false. Miss Edgerton described her patients by weight, height, and age. I might identify the names of locals, but knowing that they asked for headache powders does not get us anywhere.” Paul jabbed his worn boot heel into the recently leveled dirt of the drive.

Rafe ran a big hand over his ginger curls. “I’m not learning much from the apple pickers. One of them has a London accent, which is a bit strange, but your sister says he’s learning, and he isn’t afraid of climbing trees, if needed.”

Paul nodded in the direction of the new coachman. “Have you talked with the driver? He’s new too. As is the architect working on the tower and the furniture dealers.” He glanced at the hedge concealing the lower entrance to a once-abandoned keep. “I think all the tower’s construction crew is from Birmingham, but I wouldn’t swear to it. And I’m not certain why their homes bear on the case at hand.”

“Doesn’t, yet,” Rafe admitted. “I’m scouting, learning the lay of the land. The captain said the driver just turned up at the door, which is suspicious. His accent is London too.”

Paul frowned. “Do we know where Mrs. Porter came from? If Miss Edgerton was her teacher and they lived in London...”

Rafe nodded. “She’s close-mouthed, but if I put it to her that way, she may tell me. Who is the fancified gent you were just talking with?”

“A Mr. Culliver, solicitor for Miss Edgerton’s estate. You and Mrs. Porter may need to move into the manor, unless he’s here to make arrangements for the cottage. Oh, and the captain says the inn definitely belongs to the manor. There is no question of paying rent to the bank.”

Rafe’s broad face broke into a beam. “That’s the first good news I’ve had this week. So Fletch and I just need to work out an agreement with Walker?”

“Appears so. Maybe you can make up an apartment in the ruins so you can oversee the work while living on the premises. Mrs. Porter should be safe enough living in the manor. I need to take Mr. Culliver down to the cottage. Will you be there shortly?”

“Let me take him down,” usually genial Rafe said with a touch of grimness. “I don’t think the widow is ready to move out. Maybe I can help her work out an arrangement.”

“Good idea. He’s having his tea. If you’ll wait until he’s done, that gives me time to warn her,” Paul suggested.

“I have a notion she won’t be happy. She’s settling in and searching for clues. And expecting replies from all those letters she sent... She has all the old ladies telling her stories of Miss Edgerton over tea and crumpets.” The big man didn’t look particularly unhappy about the situation.

Having helped solve a few murders recently, Paul’s mind immediately leapt to who benefitted most from Miss Edgerton’s death... And that appeared to be Mrs. Porter.