Page 17 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)
SEVENTEEN: VERITY
What Verity really wanted to do was tear up floorboards, but it had belatedly occurred to her that Miss Edgerton could just as likely have hidden papers beneath the boards on the side Mrs. Underhill was using. And so far, she hadn’t had a moment alone to search anywhere.
Should she trust Rafe with her teacher’s last words? Why shouldn’t she? Let her count the ways... But they all boiled down to not trusting men. Listening to the old ladies currently occupying her kitchen only confirmed her nightmares.
Men had all the power. Women had to work around them. She knew that from wretched experience. She and her mother had been powerless to prevent Uncle Warren from turning their beautiful home into a counting house.
“Well, my Sadie says as her Herb gives her enough to feed the young ‘uns, right enough. But she don’t want no more babes. It’s hard on a body, it is. And what would happen to her childern if she wore out and died?”
Mrs. Underhill patted her friend’s hand. “We all understand. Annie’s mama oncet helped me when I was having that terrible bleeding and couldn’t get outta bed.”
Verity really didn’t wish to hear these tales, but they thought her a widow and aware of married women’s troubles. Surely, if these women talked so freely among themselves, they had nothing to hide? Unless a man learned...
Wolfie barked at a knock at the door. Rafe had left the gate unlocked for her visitors.
Verity gestured for Mrs. Underhill to stay seated and unfastened the door latch for the handsome young curate. He was a man, but she felt comfortable speaking with him. “Mr. Upton, welcome. I fear you are entering a bit of a hen fest.”
He took off his cap and bowed as if she were a proper lady. “Rafe sent me to warn you that a solicitor has arrived about Miss Edgerton’s estate. He’ll bring him down shortly. I wanted to reassure you that whatever happens, you are welcome to stay in the manor until you decide what to do next.”
Homeless, again ! Panic was her immediate reaction, but Verity had spent half a lifetime battling demons and suppressing anxiety. She took a deep breath, clasped her hands in her borrowed apron, and spoke as if she were in complete control. “I see. Thank you for the warning and the invitation. But I don’t see how we can find a killer from the manor. The people who knew Miss Edgerton are in the village. I will speak to the solicitor.”
She couldn’t tell if the curate’s expression reflected concern or understanding. He didn’t seem prepared to leave, so she offered him a cup of tea, as one does. He readily accepted, and she settled him on the worn sofa Rafe had slept on last night. Her house guest had neatly tucked all his gear away before she’d even come downstairs.
By the time she had a tea tray prepared, the gossiping old ladies had departed, and Mrs. Underhill had taken up her knitting in the front room, protecting Verity from the dangers of the attractive, auburn-haired young curate, presumably.
After the tales Verity had heard, she was almost grateful for her companion’s presence. Her uncle and his employees had given her reason to have low opinions of men, but they mostly ignored clumsy, dowdy Faith. Had she been in more danger than she’d understood?
Of course, not being wealthy, she had little appeal to her uncle’s employees. And when she went out, a footman had accompanied her—guarding her uncle’s money. Until that last night... Well, Luther was always lazy. She wondered how he’d explained seeing her home, when he hadn’t. Another fine example of manhood.
She was in a nervous state by the time Rafe threw open the cottage door and barged in, followed more courteously by a gentleman in a caped redingote and tailored frockcoat, his linen only slightly wilted from his journey. Miss Edgerton had a fancy solicitor?
“Amos Culliver, Esquire,” Rafe announced. “He’s here about Miss Edgerton’s estate.”
Comfortable behind the shield of etiquette, Verity introduced the curate and Mrs. Underhill, then gestured for the solicitor to take a wing chair, and offered tea.
Rafe settled onto the sofa beside her and helped himself to the last crumpet. Since he’d baked them, he was entitled. “Culliver here wants to sell Miss Edgerton’s family home.”
Verity bit her back teeth, hard, before applying a smile and summoning a sensible reply. “That is natural, since her family is a long distance from here. But I don’t believe Mr. Culliver understands the history of Garden Cottage or the safe haven it has provided the women of the family over the centuries. Have you actually spoken with the heirs, sir?” She had no idea where any of that had come from.
Rafe gave her a long look that said explanations were expected at the cottage name she’d made up on the spot, but he refrained from raising a hairy eyebrow.
“I have only just received news of the lady’s death,” the solicitor admitted. “I had an inquiry and thought it expedient to act on it. Selling these old houses isn’t easy. I thought if I had an offer in hand, the heirs would act more swiftly, rather than letting the old place rot.”
“An inquiry?” Rafe’s tone was ominous. “From whom? Isn’t this a little premature?”
“From another solicitor. I am not able to say more, client confidentiality and so forth. I have only come to estimate the value of the lady’s belongings and report to my clients. If they are not inclined to sell, are you interested in letting the cottage?” He didn’t seem bothered by the lady’s death or the history of her home.
“Yes,” Rafe said definitively, without consulting Verity.
“That would depend on the cost,” she added, ever-conscious of her limited funds. “I am interested, but upkeep, as you say, is expensive in a place this old.” Apparently, some small part of her was still her father’s daughter and prepared to bargain.
“I’ll talk to a few folk, determine what’s the usual around here, then write to the heirs. If, as you say, the cottage has a family history, then they might be grateful to have someone looking after it. I take it you were living here when she died? Do you know of any personal items she might wish sent to her family?”
Verity did not correct his assumption but gestured at the books. “Those are her most precious possessions, but I doubt they have monetary value.”
The curate set down his empty teacup. “My fiancée knows the value of books. I’ll have her take a look, if you wish, but I suspect they are mostly a teacher’s library, good for educating the local children but not much more. I believe Mrs. Porter hopes to step up to that position once she’s settled?” He sent Verity a questioning look.
Yes, yes, please ... But she replied more circumspectly. “If I am given permission to use Miss Edgerton’s collection... I do not want to presume,” she said, lying through her teeth. One way or another, she meant to stay and keep those books.
Rafe might not think highly of her dishonest intentions, but Robin Hood had a point. The village children needed books more than a bookseller did.
So, the new Verity Porter was every bit the thief the old Faith was. Perhaps freedom really hadn’t changed her much. She ought to be appalled. Her mother would have been.
But her father had been a sailor and a ship’s captain. He had not made his wealth by being polite and handing over merchandise he’d acquired if someone asked him to give it back. And she’d listened in on his business discussions with men who wished to take as much as they could for as little as they could—which was essentially what Mr. Culliver was here to do.
She might not be bold, but she knew how to listen, and how to apply what she’d learned.
“Miss Edgerton’s sister and nieces are her heirs?” she inquired politely. “It is unusual for a woman to hold property, is it not?”
Mr. Culliver sipped his tea and nodded. “True, but the deed was bestowed in different times, and the family has arranged it so the females of the line may inherit. As you say, Miss Edgerton’s sister is the only remaining heir. At one point, there was a small fund attached to the estate, but that’s dwindled over the years, as dower portions were parceled out.”
And Miss Edgerton had probably been living off her portion. Killing over wealth might make sense, but over an ancient cottage, unlikely, even more so if the heirs were half a country away. The medical records still seemed the most likely motive.
After exchanging pleasantries, the solicitor took his leave. The curate escorted him out, promising to have the library valued. Rafe stood and stamped out to the kitchen. Verity followed, watching him rummage in the larder for lunch.
“Do you not think it odd that someone has already made an offer on the cottage?” she asked, curiosity overcoming timidity.
His head popped out of the pantry so he could study her. “I’ve been a soldier these last years, so I can’t say, but it struck me as peculiar. ”
“One of the heirs is anxious to sell?” she suggested.
“Most likely. Not much we can do, if so.” He returned to rummaging, producing a loaf of bread, pickled onions, and smoked cheese. He let Wolfie out the back door and returned with a handful of greens. He slapped everything together and shoved a sandwich in her direction. “Eat. You’re pale as a ghost.”
She’d spent the last years living in a cellar. Of course she was pale. She didn’t tell him that, as she wasn’t telling him many things. She cut the sandwich in half to share with Mrs. Underhill.
“What if...” She needed to know this man better before revealing why she asked. “What if there is something in here that someone wants, and they think it easier to buy the entire cottage and empty it out?”
“Meera says the record book we found is a poor excuse for murder.” He poured ale into a mug and studied her quizzically. “Have you found aught else?”
“No,” she said slowly, thinking fast. “But women hide things. We don’t normally have banks and solicitors at our beck and call. What if the thief in the apple tree meant to dig in the garden?”
“For bones?” he asked dryly. “A teacher strikes me as unlikely to possess gold.”
Painfully true. But riches weren’t everything.
“She died for a reason,” Verity daringly insisted. “Did you ever ask Mrs. Walker how the poison might have been administered? How would a killer prepare belladonna or whatever she thinks caused her death?”
“She doesn’t know. Miss Edgerton may have been the one who dug up the monkshood or snipped leaves of the belladonna. She had an entire pantry full of infusions and powders. For all we know, she may have wished to poison her guest.” He stopped and thought about that.
Verity finished the thought for him. “She may have been treating her guest with the roots, made a single cup of normal tea for herself, and the guest switched cups with her? ”
That meant anyone could have killed her, if they knew what the plants could do and how it might affect her heart.
Or it could just have been an accident...
Except for Miss Edgerton’s last words, which Verity hadn’t told anyone about.