Page 20 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)

TWENTY: RAFE

“We need to take you to Dr. Walker!” Verity cried, cutting off Rafe’s bloody sleeve. “This looks deep.”

Her eyes were deep wells of fear. He hated doing this to her. “Don’t fuss. Just send Wolfie to fetch Fletch. He’s at the tavern.” Wincing, he grabbed a dish towel to staunch the bleeding. “Open the door and gate. Wolfie knows what to do. Wolf, fetch Fletch,” he commanded.

The wolfhound trotted to the front door.

Clasping her pudgy hands nervously, Mrs. Underhill hastened to follow orders—as Verity didn’t.

Mrs. Damned Porter rummaged through the mess of the larder, producing his jug of ale. “We don’t have wine or whiskey. Will this do?”

He was actually grateful, which didn’t make him any less grumpy. “If you mean for me to drink it, yes.” He grabbed the jug and swilled it, drowning the humiliation of being brought down by a damned woman —and forcing a genteel lady to endure the consequences.

“Even I know a wound needs cleaning.” Glaring like a demented general, she waited for him to return the jug. At least she wasn’t keeling over. “How do I go about this? May I dab it on with a cloth or must I pour it? The kitchen is already a mess, so it’s not as if a puddle of ale will hurt.”

With a sigh, Rafe gestured at the wash basin. “Bring that over here. Heat some water. Find a clean towel. I just need to tie it up.”

“I’ve heard of soldiers losing limbs to infection,” she said in indignation, actually following his orders this time. “Do not treat me as an ignorant miss. You’re losing a lot of blood and it’s deep .”

Now the quiet widow chose to speak...

“The blamed woman was carrying a pistol ,” he muttered in indignation. “I was politely trying not to knock her down, and she shot me!”

“Next time, knock her down. Women don’t break.” She set the tea kettle over the fire. “Even a woman deserves punching for creating this mess.”

Rafe stewed over her admonition. “I’m twice the size of any female. I could break bones. I was taught to treat women with respect. They’re not supposed to carry pistols! Even I don’t own one. The bedeviled things can go off any time!”

“As it did,” she said dryly. “Maybe she thought you were going to kill her.”

“If I’d known she’d shoot me, I would have,” he growled. The pain was setting in.

By the time the water heated, they could hear pounding feet on the walk and Wolfie yipping happily. Mrs. Underhill opened the door to Fletch’s knock.

Rafe’s large friend bounded in, took one look at the carnage, and started for the back door. “I’ll fetch Dr. Walker. You know damned well I can’t handle blood. How did you get yourself cut up after you left the tavern? Should we be hunting the bastard?”

“Watch your language! There are ladies present.” Rafe knew Fletch did not handle blood well, but he couldn’t send anyone else out. “Don’t take the footpath. The culprit has a pistol and was headed for the manor. I don’t need a leech. Warn Hunt, look for a female in old-fashioned black skirts with petticoats. She wore a black hat that looked like Mrs. Porter’s...” He turned to point out the enormous monstrosity usually hanging by the door.

Verity turned, too, and cried in dismay, “My hat! It’s gone! That’s the first new hat I’ve had in years. The witch! If you find her, I’ll personally scalp her if she’s harmed that brim. The lace alone...” She looked as if she’d weep.

Everything the woman had gone through, and she cried over an atrocious hat?

“Give me something that smells like you, ma’am,” Fletch asked, waiting in the doorway, ready to escape. “We’ll set the hounds after your hat, and maybe we’ll find this murderous female.”

She handed him the handkerchief from her sleeve, wiping her eyes first. “Send Dr. Walker, please. I cannot stitch this wound.”

“I can,” Mrs. Underhill said matter-of-factly. “We ain’t had a physician here in a pig’s years. Bring me the sewing kit.”

Fletch turned pale and ran.

Rafe swilled more ale. He’d been knifed, shot, and blown up a time or three. He knew the routine. But to have been brought down by a damned woman in skirts...

After he’d been sewn and bandaged up, the ladies insisted he lie down on the sofa and put his feet up. He wasn’t pulling off his boots and revealing his holey stockings and stinking feet in their presence. He took the sofa and propped them on a chair. He was light-headed enough to topple and didn’t want the women fussing more than needed.

They fixed him meat and cheese on the last crust end of a loaf. There would be no bread in the morning. But the food was appreciated. It might keep him upright until the hounds descended.

“Was she still in the house when Wolfie barked?” Verity asked, sorting through the scattered books and returning them to their proper shelves, cautiously examining each one for damage.

Mrs. Underhill had taken charge of cleaning up the kitchen, muttering about the world coming to an end.

“I caught her running out the back gate, with Wolf on her heels. Where’s Marmie?” He glanced to the empty kitten’s basket on the cold hearth.

“He scampered upstairs. He’s never done that before, so he must be terrified. Could you tell if the thief carried anything? I’m checking to see if any of the volumes are missing.”

“I couldn’t even tell she had a pistol,” he said in disgust. “I got close enough to grab at her skirts, and that’s when she turned and shot me. Next time, I’ll break her bones.”

“Do that,” she said furiously, slamming books into place. “It’s better than you getting shot, and if she killed Miss Edgerton...” She slammed two more books into place.

Ire looked good on her. Nice to know she wasn’t always docile.

“This was my only good shirt,” he said mournfully, feeling the ale a little too much and setting his mug aside. Fletch would have the cottage overrun shortly, and he didn’t need to be drunk.

“I’ll buy you two more. Tell Lavender to make them up.” The stoic woman who had watched over her teacher’s corpse all night had finally unleashed her fury. Steam emanated from her every gesture and word, even if she didn’t raise her voice.

Interesting. Money wasn’t a problem? She’d arrived with one bag and cried over her lost bonnet... But she’d ordered new gowns... He wasn’t in any condition to puzzle it out.

Fletch arrived with Captain Huntley and the little apothecary/physician. Rafe tried not to groan as Meera shed her colorful shawl and checked his bloody bandage while Hunt quizzed him, and Fletch prowled the kitchen... out of sight but not hearing.

“We’ve got men and hounds searching the grounds, but that footpath leads to half the houses in the village,” the captain said, taking the other sofa and propping his bad leg up on the same chair as Rafe used. They needed a proper footstool.

“If anyone shows up on Sunday with my hat on her head, I’ll snatch it right off,” Verity muttered. “Did she come in just to make a mess and steal a hat?”

Treating Rafe’s arm with some concoction that stung like all the fires of hell, Meera glanced around at the disorder. “Have you looked upstairs? Did she have time to search up there?”

Fletch called from the kitchen, “I’ll look. We don’t know if anyone is still hiding up there.”

The little widow finally collapsed in the chair beside the hearth and buried her face in her hands. “I don’t own anything anyone can want. This has to be about Miss Edgerton.”

Well, yes, that was a certainty as far as Rafe was concerned. Had she reason to believe otherwise? Had he been a little too simple-minded about the lady because he wanted in her bed?

“No one up here but a cowardly kitten,” Fletch called down. “I don’t think your thief had time to search.” He clattered back down to the kitchen.

With a lot more finesse than a battlefield bonesetter, Dr. Walker finished tying a clean bandage and produced a bottle of powders from her bag. “This is for the pain. I’d recommend it over ale.”

Now that the blood was out of sight, Fletch returned to the front room. The teacher’s dainty furniture and tiny cottage hadn’t been designed for three hulking men. The women practically disappeared into the shadows—except Rafe was painfully aware of them. Verity was mangling her apron and working herself into a state, and the apothecary was watching her warily.

“Shall I give you something to help you sleep, Mrs. Porter?” Meera asked, gathering up her supplies. “You’ve had a little too much excitement, I fear.”

“I may never sleep again.” Bereft of handkerchief, Verity wiped her eyes on her apron. “I can’t bear that Rafe may have been shot for something I haven’t found but others might.”

That she hadn’t found? What did that mean? Rafe sat up straighter. She knew what to look for and hadn’t told him?

Eyes glittering with tears, Verity studied them helplessly. “I don’t know any of you. I don’t know who to trust. I’m terrified of what I might find. But if the killer keeps returning...”

“Or thief,” Meera suggested quietly. “They may not have intended to kill. ”

The distraught widow took a deep breath and nodded. “Thief, with a pistol, who shoots people and puts poison in their tea. They’re dangerous. And possibly quite mad.”

Hunt tapped his boot with his walking stick. “We’ve dealt with madmen and killers before, Mrs. Porter. Gravesyde appears to attract them, possibly because of the tales of treasure. I cannot think anyone would believe a schoolteacher knew anything about jewels, but one never knows.”

Verity appeared calmer after mulling over that notion. “Miss Edgerton’s family has lived here for centuries and might have knowledge others do not. I had not thought of that. But I should think, if she had any idea where a treasure was buried, she’d have told someone.”

“But if the thief isn’t after treasure,” Rafe interrupted this little fantasy, “then we must look for other reasons. And that’s what you fear, isn’t it? Some old woman did not shoot me because Miss Edgerton kept medical records about her. She did not appear wealthy enough for extortion.”

Weary and resigned, the lady nodded again. Rafe had the ridiculous urge to cuddle her the way she cuddled her kitten. He stifled that urge once she began speaking.

“Before Miss Edgerton... passed on... she whispered something that sounded like...” Verity hesitated, summoning a memory while everyone hung on her words. “She said tea , first. Then, papers . Her final words were so faint, I don’t know if I heard them properly, but they sounded as if she were telling me under boards .”

They all sat in silence for a minute. Tamping down his fury that she hadn’t told him this, Rafe studied the rug-covered planks, then glanced up at the wooden ceiling of the loft. There would be beams up there...

Why the devil hadn’t she warned him earlier about the lady’s dying words ? What was wrong with her?

“Tearing a cottage apart in hopes of finding valuable papers will not do, gentlemen,” Meera admonished, donning her shawl. “ What you might fear is the thief burning the cottage to the ground to destroy them, since it has become quite obvious that they are not easily found.”

Hunt reluctantly rose with her. “I’ll have men patrol the footpath behind the cottage. Does your hound know not to eat anything given by strangers?”

“It had not occurred to me to train him to avoid poison,” Rafe said dryly. “I’ll keep him inside. He’ll let us know if anyone is at the gates.”

“Have Mr. Upton search the cottage walls and floors,” Meera suggested. “As a carpenter, he knows best how to find hiding places.”

“I’ll camp out in the yard,” Fletch offered. “Rafe, you need a good night’s sleep before you go roaring about.”

No one offered a word of sympathy to the young widow who slumped silently in the corner, a keeper of secrets. Rafe could understand that. He wanted to shake her, but his aching arm reminded him that not all wounds were visible.