Page 25 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)
TWENTY-FIVE: PAUL
Paul felt like a judge attempting to separate warring neighbors.
He had no understanding of why the usually genial bailiff was practically growling, or why the demure widow had become adamant about investigating business people who might aid the manor. But they’d asked for aid. He should offer what he was able.
“If the Prescotts are merely interested in art, what question do you wish to put to them?” Paul asked, hoping to clear the air, at the very least.
The sergeant had dragged the widow down to the manor’s library to consult with Minerva, who was studying the papers previously hidden under Miss Edgerton’s floorboards. As the manor’s librarian, she followed the conversation but didn’t intervene. Paul knew his intended’s fine mind was focused, though.
“Mrs. Prescott is of an age with the students Miss Edgerton corresponded with. I believe Miss Talbot meant to write to a friend who knows some of those students?” Distracted by the enormous library, Mrs. Porter studied the shelves rather than the company.
“She just received a reply this morning.” Minerva pointed at a folded letter in another of her paper stacks. “Her correspondent says Miss Edgerton was called Fairy Godmother by the students because she provided headache powders and...” She cast a glance at Paul and amended, “Relief for female ailments. She left under a cloud but told them the Gravesyde postmaster would forward her mail, so they knew how to find her.”
“Under a cloud? The headmistress didn’t like Fairy Godmothers?” Paul surmised.
“Usually, a parent complains. It would explain why she took up tutoring instead of teaching at another school.” Minerva studied the widow’s back. “Is there a reason to suspect Mrs. Prescott was one of those students?”
“Not any more than anyone else.” Reluctantly drawn into the discussion, Mrs. Porter picked up the letter. “Mrs. Prescott was here the day Miss Edgerton died. She’s of an age with the students who wrote to her about female ailments, as you call it. She’s a furniture collector but oddly eager to look at amateur artwork.”
The bailiff frowned and took up the letter after she relinquished it. “And Sullivan? The man owns a hardware store in Birmingham. What could he possibly have to do with a female teacher?”
Mrs. Porter replied more curtly than was her wont. “He was here when she died. He seems to know Mr. Culliver, the solicitor who is oddly establishing the value of the cottage before his client is barely cold in the grave. If Mr. Sullivan buys the cottage, then he can tear it down looking for whatever may be hidden there.”
“And you think Mrs. Prescott might be the one who stole your bonnet and shot me?” Rafe sounded incredulous.
“All I know is that she is female and wants to see inside the cottage. I have no notion of how one goes about questioning suspects.” In a huff, she returned to examining book titles.
Paul was starting to enjoy the byplay. He and Minerva had suffered similar misunderstandings when they’d first met. A meeting of minds required a willingness to listen and try to understand what the other was saying, which took practice and patience.
“For the fun of it, might we also add Bosworth’s assistant, Mr. Smith, to our suspect list?” Minerva jotted notes. “He is the one guilty of bringing Sullivan here last week. One of the ladies in Miss Edgerton’s records was called Smith. He does not seem much interested in searching the cottage though.”
“Because he hired someone to do so?” Rafe suggested. “I don’t believe the woman I chased was tall enough to be Mrs. Prescott. And the person who fell out of the apple tree was wearing breeches and had a male voice. Boarding school ladies are unlikely to crawl about gardens or ransack cottages.”
Paul leaned his hip against the enormous library table and reduced speculation to practicality. “Then should we look at men who climb trees? The apple pickers? The construction workmen? The new coachman? And must we consider one of Lavender’s sewing ladies as the party stealing the hat? It will be almost impossible to verify everyone was where they should be at the times involved.”
The big, ginger-haired sergeant frowned impatiently. “Then we set a trap. We will make it clear that Verity and I will be elsewhere for an extended period of time. Mrs. Underhill can return to her daughter’s. Word spreads quickly. The trick will be watching the house day and night without being seen.”
“Lampblack,” Minerva said, unexpectedly. “Messy, but the stuff is near impossible to wash off.”
Paul raised his eyebrows at his brilliant but unpredictable betrothed. “You have our attention.”
“Brush lampblack on surfaces any thief has to touch. They obviously don’t know where to look, so they’ll brush up against tables or shelves or cabinets. You’ll just have to go in and do a thorough scrub later.”
“And the black will have stained their hands or clothes?” Rafe asked. “How do we notice who has turned black? We have a wide range of suspects. ”
The widow swung around, clasping her hands but looking excited. “I have read about... What if we let it be known we will be at the inn from dawn until dusk, cleaning, thatching, not exactly a barn raising but an inn repair? We ask everyone to attend with whatever tools they have. We can hand out brooms and cleaning supplies. I fear we must ask the manor inhabitants to be there, as well.”
Minerva looked interested. “We take note of who is there and who is not. Who disappears and comes back black. Someone can sit in the trees and watch the path behind the cottage. Someone else... sits in the tavern to watch the street?”
“And Quincy can check anyone who sneaks back into the manor to wash off while the rest of us are out.” Paul nodded, searching for all the ins and outs.
“Hard to guard all the manor doors,” Rafe added. “Lock up all but the front and side?”
“Patience can have her apple pickers join us! She says the presses have been cleaned and restored, and they have enough harvest to begin juicing. That should bring out everyone in the area to fill their jugs. They’ll have to lend a hand if they want cider!” Paul almost bounced up and down in excitement. This was exactly what the community needed... to learn to work together.
Mrs. Porter nodded but stuck with the inn idea. “We’ll need lots of brooms. And thatching material?”
Rafe appeared relieved that a possible solution had been found. “I suppose we can hope the culprit will not notice the black or will pretend he got it while cleaning, but we’ll know if they slip back and try to hide.”
Paul knew that catching a thief wasn’t the same as proving a murder, but Hunt was good at obtaining confessions. One could only hope.