Page 18 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)

EIGHTEEN: RAFE

Rafe packed a supper basket while Verity glared icicles at him. She hadn’t taken to the idea of her teacher killing anyone and was even less enthused about accompanying him.

“Mrs. Underhill wants to have supper with her grandchildren,” he admonished. “You cannot stay alone, and I want to see how they are progressing on the inn. We will make a picnic of it.”

“It is growing dark and the wind is picking up. We’ll freeze.” She let him drop her cloak over her shoulders but glanced longingly at the kitten curled by the fire.

The fool woman needed someone looking after her occasionally. Traveling all the way to this outpost of nowhere with only a cat for companion...

“I won’t freeze. This is nothing compared to the Pyrenees in winter. You can’t hide behind four walls forever.” He pulled the hood over her hair and picked up the basket.

Wolfie obediently followed.

Verity dragged her feet. “If it won’t take long, then I can wait here. No one will know I’m alone.”

Rafe took her elbow and dragged her out the door. “Humor me.”

She might be stubborn, but she was a lady born and bred, despite her protest otherwise. She knew she owed him, even if just a little bit. He could hope she also respected his advice, but he wouldn’t push his luck.

The street was mostly empty at this hour, with women preparing meals and the family gathering around the home fires. Rafe wanted that some day, but what he had now suited him fine after years of deprivation.

“No one travels through this village. Who will be your customers?” she asked, studying the empty street.

“They don’t travel now because there is nowhere to stop to feed the horses or themselves. Anyone wishing to visit the manor, like today’s solicitor, must have an invitation to stay at the manor or risk riding at night with a tired horse.” He was trying to convince himself as well as her.

Gravesyde had the same difficulty as his father’s inn—the highways had passed it by. The government encouraging shipping and cheap imports had made it difficult for small farms to survive, which was why half the village had moved to Birmingham, where they could find employment.

He was basing his hopes on the manor’s wealthy inhabitants and the empty land attracting small industries and businesses, thereby drawing enough population to supply the inn with customers. The manor folk were convinced they could make it happen. They were building a future on dreams.

“Start the inn small, with a few rooms and a stable?” she asked, hobbling a little faster to keep up.

His stride was twice that of hers. He forced himself to take small steps. “And a kitchen. And a place for me to sleep. I’ll have to live on the premises.” Which meant finding a killer so he could leave the widow alone. He wasn’t in a hurry to leave her, but he wanted her safe.

“What about your position as bailiff?” She actually sounded concerned.

“I shouldn’t think killers normally haunt the streets. I can handle a few drunkards. Hunt mostly wants me to train his hounds. The soldiers he’s hired have been doing a fine job, so there’s not much for me to do but finish up. They’re good dogs.”

“Am I walking too fast?” he asked in concern when he thought he’d slowed to a crawl and she fell behind again. “Did Mrs. Walker treat your foot?”

“It’s healing. Broken bones take time,” she said dismissively. “I’m trying to imagine this as a real village and not a dead end.”

He was inordinately pleased that she was considering his future. “It may never be,” he warned. “But this is the best offer I’ve found.”

He glanced in the lighted tavern as they passed. Henri had a crowd. Men stood outside, sipping from their mugs, presumably waiting for Henri’s wife to begin singing. Someday, he hoped to have a pub serving his own brew.

They reached the sprawling, aging inn and stopped to study the exterior. Several stone extensions had been added on to the original timber & wattle. The rotted thatch sagged. In the evening gloom, it didn’t look promising. Despite that, he was excited about owning his own place. Ideas circled.

“New roof, good coat of whitewash?” she asked dubiously.

It needed far more than that, but he wouldn’t discourage her. He took her elbow, led her inside, and lit the lantern so they could study the lobby. Workers had carried off the worst of the debris, leaving the worn floor clean. The tall scarred counter waited for a guest book.

Verity limped to the arched doorway on the left. “The pub? Good trestle tables. Will the rats nibble our toes if we eat here?”

She could speak—when it wasn’t about her.

“I have big boots.” Rafe set the basket down and tested the sturdiness of the table legs. “Solid oak, I wager. Honest folks around here if they didn’t carry these off.”

“Too large for most homes. The chairs or benches appear to be gone.” She climbed up to sit on the table and poked inside the basket.

“Probably for firewood. Easier to cut up and carry. I’m waiting for a chimney sweep before I look in the kitchen.” He handed over a meat pie and opened the cider jug. “I don’t even dare start a campfire.”

“You’ve spent years eating like this, haven’t you?” She nibbled at her crust.

“This is luxury. Will you come eat in my pub when it’s ready?”

“Women will be allowed?” She tasted the cider he handed her. “I’d likely starve unless I hire help. I suppose I must learn to cook if I stay. I was hoping Miss Edgerton would teach me.”

If it meant she’d express her thoughts, he should give her alcohol more often. “I might need a separate dining room for ladies,” he said through a mouthful of pie. “Why haven’t you learned to cook?”

She shrugged. “I was more interested in books than food. I like numbers. I could probably keep your accounts should you ever have income to track.”

“I’ll feed you for free, if you do. I hate numbers, and if others invest, bookwork will be required.” He fed Wolfie part of his pie and watched the hound prowl the corners. Apparently no rats had taken up a home recently.

“You are giving a thief time to break into the cottage, aren’t you?” she asked, sipping her cider as if it were tea.

“You’re much too perceptive. Who taught you that?” Unconcerned, he finished off his pie and wiped his hands on a cloth he’d brought for the purpose.

“Life, I suppose.” She handed him part of her pie. “Or maybe I’m just naturally curious. You left the back gate unlocked—to keep the thief from climbing the apple tree again?”

Damn, but she saw everything—even that he was still hungry. No one had cared about his comfort for a very long time.

He owed her honesty, he supposed. “No point in riling our neighbor by forcing thieves to use her yard. I assume there’s nothing of real value in the cottage except you. Just don’t know how closely they’re watching. This may be for naught. I have Henri taking note of who comes and goes from the tavern, but he looked pretty busy with all these new workers around.” He glanced at the enormous pub. “His bar is small. I’ll have difficulty filling a place this size.”

“He doesn’t serve food. People need to eat.”

That made sense. And if he had his own brewery... “I wish I knew somewhere safe to leave you so I can watch the house from the woods.”

Finishing off his piece of pie while she politely nibbled at her portion, Rafe prowled about the pub, picturing a bar and customers. With what he’d learned of brewing, he could have men coming from the city just to buy his ale.

Verity sat silent for a while. Rafe suspected that was a dangerous sign. She had an active mind but seldom spoke it. He really needed to know more of her history, but unlike most women he knew, she was close-mouthed. She had secrets, but he could not see how she might have murdered the teacher.

“If there is anything in the cottage a killer might want, where might Miss Edgerton have hidden it?” she finally asked.

He took a slug of cider and thought about it. “Do we take apart the walls?”

“And what do we look for,” she added with a sigh. “What would a maiden lady teacher hide that anyone might want? She did not have riches, unless she was a thief.”

He shrugged. “Papers of some sort, if we assume extortion and that she wasn’t a thief. Might she have kept documents from some prior position that are valuable?”

“Why now?” She fell silent again, her pale brow pulled down in a V.

That’s when the little light in his brainpan woke up. “Who was her last student, do we know?” He tried to remember the dates in the medical records. They’d only been kept over these last years...

“Me,” she whispered. “She returned here after my father died.”