Page 21 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)
TWENTY-ONE: PAUL
“We could possibly use the chapel as a schoolroom until something more suitable can be arranged.” Minerva, the manor’s librarian and the brilliant woman Paul adored, systematically worked through the late Miss Edgerton’s meager library.
He’d been a little taken aback when Hunt had told him about the deceased’s last words. They could have started hunting for hiding places much earlier. But women took odd notions. He listened as he crawled across the cottage floor, testing planks and pushing aside the curious kitten.
“Are there many children in need of teaching?” the widow asked without inflection. She seemed stunned by their search and merely examined school books as Minerva handed them to her.
Paul had thrown back the rugs and ascertained that the cottage’s foundation was built on bedrock, with very little besides ancient timbers leveling the floor. He didn’t think much could be concealed beneath the parlor. And the kitchen was flagstone.
“It’s hard to say,” Minerva admitted. “Only a few children live in town. Once word spreads, others may trickle in, if they can find transportation. We’ll need chalkboards, but we don’t know how many. ”
She opened one of the larger volumes and studied the pages admiringly. “These are beautiful, hand-painted illustrations.”
“Probably too rare to be in the hands of children,” Mrs. Porter suggested. “Perhaps I could read to them and show them the pictures.”
“Was Miss Edgerton a painter?” Paul asked. So far, all the planks were firmly nailed and nothing a teacher would spend time prying loose. He saw no evidence of scratches on any of the wood. Unless she had no desire to access the papers and had nailed them up...
“Miss Edgerton was a good watercolor artist,” Mrs. Porter agreed. “But I wasn’t interested in art, so I never saw a great deal of her work. I noticed she signed a few pieces in one of the books, but I found no signature on the others.” She flipped pages with more enthusiasm than she’d shown all morning. “Here, this one is hers.”
Paul obediently checked the page over Minerva’s shoulder. “It’s her garden, isn’t it?”
“So she most likely illustrated these other volumes with plants and their qualities? This one is not a printed publication, just a folio.” Minerva pulled a few sheets out. “I wonder if it could be published? I should think the information would be valuable.”
“Would anyone want to steal it?” Verity asked worriedly. “Perhaps there is information about plants that provides proof of guilt that the thief had poisoned others?”
Paul let the women speculate as he worked around the hearth. He checked the bricks, just in case, but everything was neatly mortared. The bricks would have been an expensive addition. The ladies of the cottage had not been poor.
Finishing the parlor, he stood. “Do you mind if I go into the loft?”
Mrs. Underhill appeared in the kitchen doorway, drying her hands. “We’ve put everything up, we have. But that wardrobe is heavy.”
“I’ll work around it to start.” Paul clattered up the stairs in his boots and studied the two neat beds and accouterments. Sparse, but comfortable, he concluded. It was easy to determine which side would have been the teacher’s. He started there.
Apparently ignoring all admonitions to rest, Rafe returned from his rounds and was banging around in the kitchen by the time Paul found the loose board. Not wanting to alert the women, he eased partially down the loft stairs to the kitchen, caught the big man’s attention, and gestured upstairs. If the teacher had hidden body parts under the board...
Rafe nodded, dried off his hands, and followed him up. “They hear us, you know.”
“And they’ll question us thoroughly later. I just want a witness before I pry up the floor.” Paul removed a small crowbar from his tool belt.
Rafe studied the wide board Paul indicated. “She didn’t lift it much, did she?”
“No, that’s why it was so difficult to locate. I was looking for evidence of use, but it was the wobbling that gave it away.” He pried the bar under the loose end and pulled it up. How had the teacher opened it?
The nails popped easily. Using his uninjured arm, Rafe grabbed the end and yanked, and the whole plank pulled off. They gazed into the dark void between the floor and the ceiling below.
Paul donned his work gloves and stuck his hand inside. He’d learned the hard way about the kind of spiders lurking in dark crevasses. He found a string apparently wrapped around a cloth and lifted it gently. It caught on the other boards, too wide to lift through.
“Anything old is likely to crumble,” Rafe cautioned.
“Don’t touch it with your hands,” Minerva appeared at the top of the stairs. “If it’s very old, you’ll ruin the paper.”
“I don’t think it’s that old.” Paul twisted the bundle upright so it would slide through the narrow opening. “The oilcloth looks almost new.” He laid it flat on the rag rug .
Verity arrived after Minerva. Her eyes widened in surprise. “More illustrations?”
The package was, indeed, flat and page-sized. “Would you care to open it, Mrs. Porter?” Paul eased the package across the floor to where she waited, wringing her hands. Her expression was hard to read.
“Verity, please.” The widow kneeled and tugged tentatively at the string. It didn’t open easily. She had to wrangle with the knot before peeling back the oilcloth.
“A lantern,” Minerva suggested. The dark page revealed was nearly impossible to see. “The light from the window isn’t sufficient.”
“We could take it downstairs,” Rafe said dryly.
“Not if we must hide it again.” Paul dashed down to grab a lantern. Punching bread dough, Mrs. Underhill glanced at him with curiosity, but he didn’t stop to explain.
The lamplight illuminated a watercolor painted in blacks, grays, and browns, with only a hint of color here and there. The red...
Verity gasped as she studied the image.
Paul gaped in horror at a nightmare scene of a black carriage racing down a cobbled midnight street—and a man in a dark frockcoat falling beneath the horses’ feet.
“My father,” Verity whispered in horror.