Page 19 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)

NINETEEN: VERITY

Verity shut up after her admission that Miss Edgerton hadn’t worked as a teacher since Milton Palmer’s death—because then she might have to admit that, as far as the world knew, Faith Palmer, Miss Edgerton’s last student, had just died. She didn’t see how there could be any connection but should Rafe start looking for Miss Edgerton’s last employer... Deception was much harder than she’d realized.

Verity finished her meal, took a handful of hazelnuts Rafe had caramelized, and climbed down from the table. Rafe could carry the basket and lantern when he was done prowling his drafty inn. She was returning to the cottage. She didn’t expect to encounter danger in the village’s one street, where she’d meet no more than stray dogs and an occasional cat. If some thief was creeping into her home, she’d take a skillet to his head. She had worse to ponder than thieves.

Why had Miss Edgerton quit teaching after she’d left London ?

She limped out, stewing. Moments later, she was aware of Rafe’s lantern light following. He could have stayed. He didn’t need to hover. She’d walked London’s filthy streets at this hour without harm for years. She’d have been in far more danger had she stayed in London .

Which gave her another chill. Why had her father’s beautiful home blown up?

That was simply too self-centered and pathetic to consider for long. She was nobody . They hadn’t even searched for her body, so she was quite literally without a body or a grave. No one had cared enough to look. Charming thought.

But after her safe haven had been turned to rubble, her only friend in the world had died. Bad luck? Coincidence? Either notion haunted her, giving her cold chills.

The tavern was even noisier than earlier. She’d heard that the curate’s sister often sang early in the evening. She’d like to listen. She loved music but seldom had a chance for more than the ponderous psalms in church. She never thought she’d miss her piano until her uncle had sold it. She’d only been allowed to attend her first musicale when...

She hesitated outside the tavern. Angry voices, not music, carried through the open doorway. The very small building appeared to be packed to capacity. Was that usual?

Before she could walk past, a man flew backward through the opening, hitting the ground at her feet. Since he was cursing and holding his jaw, she assumed he wasn’t badly hurt. She stepped away just as Rafe arrived, catching her waist, and setting her behind him.

“Hold these,” he ordered, passing her the basket and lantern, ordering Wolfie to stay.

Before she could even think to object, he waded his way into the shouting crowd. His voice of command rang over the noisy argument, and the argument lessened, to some extent.

The tall, scowling young man at her feet staggered up and threw himself back into the brawl.

Luther ? Had that been Luther? Her addled thoughts must have conjured memories of home. Her uncle’s lazy footman never left London as far as she knew. He liked his pretty uniform too much to take another position. The man on the ground... had merely been tall. He wore no gold buttons. Her fear was driving her mad .

She strained to see inside the tavern but it was shoulder to shoulder men. If Patience was singing tonight, she was hiding behind the bar.

A tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man—Henri, the tavern owner, she thought—carved a path through the melee, followed by two gentlemen. One was Mr. Culliver, the solicitor, the other, she didn’t recognize. Once safely deposited outside, they brushed themselves off and warily regarded the tall wolfhound.

“Mr. Culliver,” she said, dying of curiosity. “I hope you are not harmed?”

He jerked his head up, and seeing her, bowed. “Mrs. Porter. We are unharmed, thank you.”

The other gentleman straightened his neckcloth and offered a hasty bow. “Our pardons, ma’am. There seems to be some quarrel over who was where on the day of a lady’s death. I am uncertain of the relevance.”

Verity raised her eyebrows expectantly, a trick she’d learned from her mother.

Mr. Culliver hastily gestured at his companion. “Mr. Sullivan, a gentleman pursuing the possibility of setting up a shop in Gravesyde. We were discussing property prices when the fracas began.”

“I assume it was established that neither of you were in town on Saturday night?” she asked in amusement.

A shop? What kind of shop would anyone open in a dead-end town?

“Well, actually, I have been here this past week,” Mr. Sullivan admitted, almost apologetically. “I have done business with Lady Elsa’s family for years, and she has suggested that I might expand. I sell hardware, everything from pots and pans to ironware made by the local blacksmith. My family was originally from here.”

Then he and his family presumably knew Miss Edgerton. She really needed to learn more about the neighbors, didn’t she? Whatever papers her teacher may have hidden would most likely pertain to people she knew. And who knew her.

She rested her hand on Wolfie’s head, uncertain if the dog would allow her to leave without Rafe. “Very pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Verity Porter. Do you think Sgt. Russell will be very long settling matters? He was escorting me home.”

As if in answer, another man flew out the doorway, skidding shoulders first in the dust. Verity thought he looked vaguely familiar, but faces out of their accustomed setting were often unidentifiable. In church, perhaps?

He scrambled up just as Rafe emerged from the tavern.

“Beat it, Clement. You’re a sot. I’ve told Henri if you ever cross his threshold again, I’ll fling you out of town.” Rafe loomed like a giant over the smaller man.

Ah, yes, she remembered that name from church.

“I got a wife works here,” the worker whined, picking himself out of the dirt. “You can’t do that.”

Taking Verity’s arm, while shoving a long-handled knife into his trouser band, Rafe stepped aside to allow the French tavern keeper to emerge, glowering.

“You are not welcome here or elsewhere, Clement. Walker will give you your last wages. I’ll not have the likes of you anywhere near my wife.” Henri spun around and returned to the lessening noise in the tavern.

Cursing, the maligned Clement glared at the two gentlemen, spat at their feet, and rounded on Rafe. “That’s my knife.”

Wolfie growled. Rafe placed a threatening hand on the knife. Disgruntled, Clement staggered off toward the path to the manor.

In the dark, Verity heard echoes of the curses her uncle’s coachman had thrown at her the night he’d run over her foot. What set men off like that? She had never ridden in her uncle’s carriage. He’d no reason to notice her existence, as she’d barely noticed his. He had merely been a small, grumpy figure on a seat above her head, wearing a shapeless coat, while he waited for her uncle in the evening fog. She had no idea why he’d been angry with her and no idea why she heard echoes of his anger in an apple picker.

Ugly suspicion had made her fearful. That wasn’t like her.

“Well, that was enlightening,” she said brightly, to cover her nerves. “Shall I see myself home while you gentlemen discuss the evening’s excitement?”

The gentlemen raised their hats and the merchant replied, “We’ll see ourselves back to the manor. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Porter.” They strolled in the direction of the footpath up the hill.

Rafe was silent as they traversed the village, Wolfie protectively at their heels. Verity used Rafe’s arm to support her more than the cane. She couldn’t keep up otherwise. She hated slowing him down.

“Can a bailiff really throw people out of town?” she inquired to break his unusual silence.

“Probably only from manor land, which isn’t the tavern. But if I can, I will.” He retreated into silence again, scanning the houses as they passed.

She hesitated as they neared the cottage. He’d been expecting a killer to search after they left. Had the brawl at the tavern been a distraction?

Rafe opened the gate and gestured at his enormous wolfhound. “Search, Wolf.” The dog trotted inside, sniffing the ground.

“Original name,” she said dryly, hiding her nervousness.

“Like Marmie for a marmalade cat,” he retorted. “I am not well read or imaginative. I should think you would be more so.”

“I didn’t think I could keep him, at the time.” She’d lost so much in her life, that she’d seen little purpose in more than a nickname until the kitten fled and was never seen again.

Wolfie yipped, then howled, from the back of the cottage. Rafe handed her the knife. “Stab first, ask questions later.” He dashed off into the darkness, leaving her with the lantern.

She hastily closed the lamp, hoping to be less of a target. The dog howled again. Shouts. Pounding footsteps. How long did she stand here, shivering in terror?

She felt like a fool, holding a knife as if she knew how to use one. Or could. The very notion of sticking it into flesh... She shuddered. Rafe had no doubt used bayonets and rifles these past years. He’d killed people. The genial innkeeper who baked delicious apple cake was a killer.

What in the name of heaven had she done by leaving the city she knew to come here, where she was a fish out of water?

A cat in water. A frog in a desert. A lady without a home.

Her mind couldn’t conjure more metaphors. So, fine, she lacked imagination too. She pushed open the gate and limped into the front garden. She didn’t recognize the floral night scents, but they were growing familiar and comforting.

Rafe hadn’t unlocked the front door but ran around the side, following his hound. Did she do the same?

He had pocketed the key when they left, so the side it was. She tucked the awkward knife into the basket and left it sitting inside the gate. Wielding her cane in one hand and the lantern in the other, she followed the flagstones through the garden. She need only open the lantern if she wanted to see, but she was hesitant to do so. Instead, she held her hand to the house wall and limped down the walkway, trying to make sense of a puzzle created by too many skittering thoughts.

An apple picker with a London accent. A man who resembled her uncle’s footman. A merchant opening a store where there were no customers. A solicitor eager to sell the victim’s cottage. A fight over who was here when her teacher died... Miss Edgerton’s death upon Verity’s arrival...

Perhaps she would end up like the woman in the market who went about pounding her breasts, crying everyone wanted to kill her.

They had proven that Miss Edgerton had been involved in dangerous practices and poisoned with her own herbs. There was utterly no reason it had anything to do with Verity. Or Faith .

Guilt ate at her, making her unreasonable. She’d stolen a fortune, let people believe Faith Palmer was dead, and vanished. No one could possibly have followed her or even been looking for her. Had Miss Edgerton heard of Faith’s death? How could that possibly matter? Would she have grieved?

In the back garden, she found only an open gate and Wolfie. The hound loped up to lick her hand. Fine, Rafe had gone chasing after thieves and left his dog as guard. Who was she to worry?

The back door was wide open. Opening her lantern, she scanned the doorstep for bodies or weapons and finding nothing, stepped inside.

“Marmie?” she cried in distress, seeing pots and flour strewn across the floor. The disorder didn’t cause as much alarm as her missing pet. “ Marmie !”

The kitten mewed from the depths of the ransacked kitchen, and Faith staggered in relief, casting the lantern light over Rafe’s once-neat work space. The light fell on what appeared to be the pantry contents tossed to the floor, along with all the utensils on the fireplace. The hidden shelves had been exposed. Thank goodness Mrs. Walker had taken all the poisons. Anyone could have walked off with them. Had that been the reason for the break in? The thief had wanted medicine? Poison?

They hadn’t needed to make such a muss, if so. Perhaps someone hated her. Or Miss Edgerton, since Verity had very little opportunity to make friends or enemies. Her stomach knotted as she searched for her crying kitten.

In relief, she found Marmie under a soup pot. She wanted to kick whoever had been so cruel, but she supposed they’d done her a favor. With the door left open, a frightened pet might have disappeared into the night, never to be seen again. She cuddled the terrified kitten and fed him a shattered biscuit from the floor.

Clinging to the kitten, leading the dog, she peered into the front room. Wolfie didn’t seem alarmed, so she assumed the thief had departed—leaving a mess of this cozy room as well. Cushions and books had been tossed. Cinders coated the fireplace, as if they’d stuck a broom up the chimney. The wood in the firebox had been emptied.

Someone had been searching for something.

The front door latch rattled and Wolfie yipped a warning.

“Mrs. Porter, it’s just me,” Mrs. Underhill called.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Verity opened the door and stepped aside to let her companion enter. “We have had a burglar. Rafe and I stepped out for a while and when we returned...” She gestured at the chaos.

Someone had been watching to know when the house was empty. Surely they would not have broken in if she’d been here...? She shuddered and wiped the notion from her mind.

“Oh, my, oh mercy me.” Holding the basket abandoned at the gate, Mrs. Uphill clutched her shawl to her chest and surveyed the damage. “You should come back to my daughter’s with me. This won’t do. This is terrible. Whatever has become of this world?”

As much as Verity longed to hide in safety, she didn’t think sleeping on the floor with children and an infant wailing would be conducive to rest. Besides, she couldn’t bear being driven from another home, if she could prevent it. “Rafe has chased off the thief. Let us clean up a little until he returns. Unless you’d rather return to your daughter’s? I can certainly understand.”

“No, no, I cannot leave you here!” The stout woman released her shawl and began setting cushions back in place.

The lady might be an uncommunicative bore, but she had courage and kindness.

“Thank you, Mrs. Underhill, you are a gem. I will try to restore order to the kitchen so we might at least make tea.” She didn’t think she’d seen the tea canister tossed.

They were still hard at work when Wolfie yipped again and pawed at the back door.

Terrified to open it, Verity rummaged in the abandoned picnic basket for the knife and held it unsteadily as the latch rattled and the door opened.

Rafe strode in, clutching his arm.