Page 27 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)

TWENTY-SEVEN: VERITY

“Brooms, buckets, cleaning supplies unloaded in the lobby,” Henri reported, taking off his ragged cap and swiping his handsome brow. “Misty day for this.”

As if they had a choice in weather. Verity feared her lovely new bonnet would become soggy and bedraggled before day’s end. She hadn’t worn a light color in so long, she felt conspicuous, especially since she was still wearing a black gown and ugly black boots. Until Lavender completed refurbishing her new dresses, she had little choice, though. At least the black trim sort of matched.

After this last day of preparation, she was starting to recognize the manor inhabitants. Henri Lavigne might physically resemble his cousin, Captain Huntley, but he was far more outgoing and cheerful. He had spent the better part of yesterday in the city accumulating supplies, then helped them move Miss Edgerton’s library to safety with his covered cart.

Through the open door, Verity watched men gathering in the inn yard. The thatchers were already setting up ladders, and apple pickers worked on a press under the directions of the farm steward. The manor’s unusual cook, Lady Elsa, excitedly tasted apples, directed kettles, and sorted ingredients she meant to test, impervious to the damp.

Loving every terrifying minute of this new experience, Verity even managed to occasionally forget the reason they gathered.

Had the killer left town? Or would they try searching the cottage again?

“Will mist hurt the thatching crew?” she asked, avoiding grim thoughts.

“Mist will keep the crew cool.” Henri shrugged and ran off to empty more tools from his cart, stopping to hug and kiss Patience while she fretted over placement of the apple baskets her workers carried down.

Mr. Upton, the nice auburn-haired curate, strode into the yard from the parsonage next door and joined Verity in the lobby. “Minerva has the women gathering in the chapel for instructions. Do we have any order for rooms to be done first?”

She checked the notes Rafe had made. “He thinks the children can start on the lobby and pub. Those rooms have mostly been cleaned of debris and just need scrubbing. We’ll need stronger workers for the kitchen—will the chimney sweep be here?”

“Hunt says the sweep should arrive by noon. It might be good if the inn can put him up tonight. He can start cleaning the manor’s chimneys tomorrow.” The curate eyed the inn’s worm-eaten interior with the critical eye of a carpenter.

“Then we should probably clean and arrange the servants’ quarters before the upstairs. Can’t have guests without staff.” Verity could almost hear her mother’s voice falling from her lips. She desperately missed her wisdom, but she was relieved to discover it was still there when needed.

Rafe and his friend, Fletcher, wandered in next, carrying odd tools she hoped went to the roof because she didn’t know their purpose and hated to reveal her immense ignorance.

“Ladders are up,” Rafe declared. “We’ll have men on the roof shortly, more experienced than we are, we hope. ”

“I’ve worked with thatching crews,” the curate said. “Let me take this list back to Minerva and I’ll keep an eye on them.”

Rafe nodded. “Thank you. We’ll go up to look at the attic timbers.”

As the curate left with his list, Verity had the inexplicable desire for Rafe to kiss her as Henri had kissed Patience. Appalling notion! She needed to impress him with her efficiency so she could earn a position here, not terrify him. “Lady Elsa and her kitchen staff are showing the manor ladies how to cut vegetables for your stew. She asked if you had a recipe you follow.”

Rafe set down his tools. “I’ll take a look at what she’s brought down from their garden. I don’t want any more poison ending up in the pot.”

Verity puckered her nose. “I had not thought of that. Surely no one would wish to kill an entire village? Let me go with you so I can see what you recommend and make sure nothing else is added. Lady Elsa has ideas for improving the apple cider. I don’t know if she can watch both juice and stew.”

Poison! One more of ten dozen things that might go wrong. She must have been mad to suggest this. Not leaning on her cane as much as before, she followed him out to the tables. “Do you have your cottage sentries stationed? There are so very many people coming and going...”

“Watching the brook path and the street. We don’t have enough people for more,” Rafe said, stopping at the cooking table. “Lady Elsa, have you met Mrs. Porter? I’m teaching her herbs.” He gestured at the table of weeds women had already started chopping.

Lady Elsa was blond, like all the Reid family, and pleasantly rounded as a good cook should be. She waved at Verity from the other side of the table.

“Knowledge is power,” she said cheerfully. “Rafe, do I have what you need or do you add secret ingredients?”

He sorted through the bundles. “These are fine. The carrots, onions, and turnips add most of the flavor. I always salted the broth because we never had enough vegetables to taste.”

“Beans, you need,” a short, rotund lady asserted, tucking her hat under her arm. “More savory and marjoram.”

“You know herbs?” Verity asked, mostly out of curiosity, but also because she suspected anyone who might know poisons.

The woman glanced at her, frowned with what looked like surprise, shrugged and disappeared into the approaching mob of housekeepers.

“Do you know that woman?” Verity asked.

Both Lady Elsa and Rafe turned to watch her leave and shook their heads negatively.

Verity didn’t trust her instinct to follow. Half the old women here wore black gowns. She was so far out of her depth here—fish out of water died, didn’t they?

She refused to die until Miss Edgerton’s killer was found. So she needed to dive into strange waters and learn to swim with everyone else.

Taking up a knife, she took a seat on the bench carried up from the chapel. She needed to stay off her foot anyway. She propped it on the trestle of the table, followed instructions, and learned to maim carrots before tossing them into a boiling pot of broth.

When the pot threatened to boil over, she almost related to the vegetable.

By late afternoon, the mist had cleared and the day grew warmer, giving her new hat a chance to dry. All the food had been consumed and “tasting” the apple juice had depleted a dozen jugs. The chimney sweep had created enough soot to blacken everyone in the village. So much for their lamp black.

Tired, discouraged, but admiring the amount of work completed in the kitchen, Verity went in search of Rafe so he could see the miracles the village ladies had wrought and thank them before they left. She found him on the top floor, holding an enormous timber in place while his soldier friend nailed a brace into the wall. Covered in grime, he looked jubilant—and exhausted.

She knew better than to remind him that he’d been shot and lost a lot of blood. The man was as stubborn as herself. Instead, she brought up a concern that had worried her for hours.

She waited until he’d climbed down from his ladder before whispering, “The woman in black skirts we didn’t recognize hasn’t returned. I want to check on the cottage.”

He frowned. “You can’t go back there on your own. We have people in place to watch.”

She could go easily, without his permission, but she wouldn’t have mentioned it if that was her intent. “It will only take a few minutes. People are starting to leave and it’s hard to keep track. Everyone is black at this point, and you said we didn’t have enough people to watch the gates.”

He grimaced and yelled up at his partner, “Errand. Take a break, taste some apple juice.” He followed her wearily, wiping at his face with an already filthy handkerchief.

In the kitchen, she showed him the newly working pump so he could wipe himself off and thank the women polishing the final surfaces.

After genuinely admiring the work accomplished, he strode toward the back door, accepting a mug of juice one of the women handed him. “We need to alert Henri or one of the other men we trust, tell them what we’re doing.”

“Henri’s helping Patience haul barrels of cider back to the manor.” She hobbled after him. She’d learned a lot about the town and manor inhabitants this day. “I’ve told Lady Elsa I’m running back to the cottage for a shawl. I don’t want our culprit taking notice.”

“Half the people in that kitchen had black on them,” he noted.

“We can stop at the tavern and ask if anyone passed by clean going one way and dirty the other,” she said brightly, hiding her disappointment. They hadn’t really thought this through as they ought. Well, at least she had him resting and taking liquids. Now, if she could only persuade him to put his feet up...

“Upton’s deacon is an elderly chap eager to sit in the tavern and take notes of anyone passing. He knows everyone. We’ll ask about your woman in black skirts. The captain has a deaf-mute helper sitting in the trees behind the cottage. Clever lad has a rope rigged to catch anyone coming and going from the manor path and a bell to sound an alarm, since he can’t shout for help.”

“I’m glad Mrs. Underhill’s daughter could take Wolfie and Marmie for the day. I would never have thought of anyone poisoning innocent animals!” Of course, that was a bird-witted thing to say. The killer had poisoned a lady already.

Verity checked over her shoulder to see if anyone followed. She was more accomplished at slipping down shadowy city alleys than an open village street.

Rafe stopped at the tavern to check with Deacon Jones and his list of passersby. He pointed at one of the items on Jones’s list and raised thunderous eyebrows. “Lady in black?”

“Only attended church once,” the balding deacon said. “Never learnt her name, but she sat with that lout Clement. Heard the captain threw him out but don’t know where he went.”

“If it’s the same person, she was at the inn earlier, telling Lady Elsa she needed beans and marjoram for the stew. I don’t know where she went after that.” Verity winced. Had she already failed? She didn’t know how to behave outside her cellar walls and London alleys. “I assumed she was one of Lavender’s sewing ladies.”

“Nope, I know them all,” Jones claimed. “If she don’t go to church or the tavern, I won’t know her. Could be Papist, I suppose.”

“Well, if she’s the person who stole my hat and shot Rafe, I’ll snatch her bald.” Guilt at her own failure had made her unreasonable.

Rafe dragged her back to the street. “You’ll stay far away from her if she’s in the habit of carrying a pistol. ”

Troubled by her outburst, Verity didn’t argue. She never said horrible things like that. Or the old Faith hadn’t. Did this new person she was becoming go about making threats on the basis of meager evidence? Irrational or not, it had felt good to express her fury after so many years of quiet inconspicuousness.

Her uncle wasn’t here. She was allowed to speak her mind, wasn’t she? If she still had one, leastways.

“If the thief can carry a pistol, why can’t I?” she asked, waiting to see if Rafe would explode at her daring suggestion.

“Because they’re unstable and dangerous and you’re like to shoot off your good foot. If you want a weapon, I’ll find a dirk you can carry. I’d prefer that you ran, but I can see you might be at a disadvantage in a race.” He glanced down at her cane. “Although that’s quite an adequate weapon if used properly.”

They’d arrived at the cottage gate. She halted and stared up at him. He wasn’t angry? Or calling her too clumsy? “You would teach me to use the cane?”

He shrugged. “Everyone should be able to defend themselves.” He shoved open the gate they’d left unlocked to lure in their suspect and removed a knife from his boot.

“Do you smell smoke?” Verity whispered, letting him shield her. She had wanted him to rest for a few minutes. This was not restful.

He muttered under his breath and started for the side of the house. “Stay here.”

“Alone? No, sir.” She stayed a length behind, her cane clutched tightly. He ran faster—definitely the smell of smoke. A bell rang alarmingly in the distance.

“He’s getting away,” Rafe shouted, breaking into a gallop. “Fetch help.”

And let her home burn? Again ?

Shouting, “Help, help, fire!” Verity followed Rafe to the back, where the pump and pails were.

With his long legs, he was out the back gate, racing toward the frantically ringing bell, before she emerged into the garden. She prayed he caught the culprit, but she had to save her home. Leaning on her cane, she searched for the source of the smoke—so many flammable shrubs and brown flower stalks she should probably cut... What was burning?

Mrs. Holly’s head abruptly bobbed above the hedge. Did she wear springs in her heels? The old lady flung more pails over the hedge. “Back step, dearie!”

Swinging around, Verity discovered smoke billowing from a pile of dead weeds and branches at the back door. Even as she watched, the embers flared into flame in a breeze and licked at the wood, bubbling the paint.

Terrified for Rafe, terrified for her cottage, Verity threw down her cane to pump water into pails. Limping, she lugged them to a fire that had grown in intensity while she pumped. She dumped both pails, sending up clouds of smoke and steam. The flames caught on new fuel.

Striding through the back gate, Mrs. Holly filled two more pails. “Been trying to watch, but I fell asleep. She coulda burned us all down!”

“She?” Verity took Mrs. Holly’s pails and stumbled back to dump them on the fire while the old lady filled the empty ones. The elderly and the crippled did not make a good fire-fighting team.

“Stout old worm wearing a hat like yours,” Mrs. Holly declared. “Thought it was you.”

Her hat ? She still wanted to snatch the thief bald, but she had her hands full.

The alarm bell had stopped clamoring, and a tall lad raced through the back gate. That must be Ned, the deaf mute. Did that mean they’d caught the culprit? His silence verified she couldn’t ask.

While Verity pumped, Ned and Mrs. Holly carried. The stench was dreadful, the flames scorched the door but didn’t spread. Verity kept an eye on the thatch, but the embers hadn’t carried, thanks to good timing and good neighbors .

As they brought the fire under control, shouting voices had her praying for Rafe’s safety. Wearily, she pumped a mug of water for Ned. The poor lad had been sitting in a tree while everyone else ate and drank. She hoped someone had at least fed him. He gulped the water, handed back the mug, and dashed back out the gate, no doubt to follow the shouts. She thought she heard Rafe’s voice, but she couldn’t make out the words.

She swallowed hard and told herself the sergeant could take care of himself. She offered Mrs. Holly a mug and indicated a garden bench. “Please, sit down. I owe you so much?—”

Now that events had settled, tears seeped down her cheeks. She started shaking as she studied the scorched walls and door and saw how close they’d come to losing the cottage. Holding her elbows, she tried to steady herself. She could have lost this home too.

Why her? Was she being punished for surviving?

“Give me a minute to catch my breath, and I’ll fetch a broom.” Mrs. Holly settled her wide skirts on the bench and shook her head. Her salt-and-pepper hair straggled from its tight bun. “I never saw the like. I thought it would be good to have folks in the manor again, but not if this is the trouble they bring!”

“I don’t think the manor folk killed Miss Edgerton. They hired Rafe to find the criminal.” Verity wanted to look inside, but the blackened door was too hot to touch.

She needed to go in the front to fetch a broom, but she feared what she might see and lacked the energy to fight any longer. Using her cane, she dropped wearily to the bench beside Mrs. Holly, wishing for the earlier mist.

The shouting stopped. She’d heard no gunfire. What did she do now? Her safe cellar hadn’t taught her how to deal with the real, frightening, world.

“Shovel in the tool shed, dear,” Mrs. Holly suggested. “Dump the ashes on the burn pile.” She nodded at the tall foliage concealing the far corner .

Burn pile . Rubbish had to be disposed of somehow. She should have explored the yard more.

Wearily, she pushed up, found the shovel in the cobwebbed shed, and had started digging up charred rubble when she heard voices approaching. She didn’t think she’d be offering anyone refreshments yet, but she glanced up eagerly, hoping...

Rafe strode through the back gate, looking even more exhausted but triumphant—and carrying her lovely hat. “We have him! We’ve caught the b—” He cut himself off to stare at Verity. Only then did she realize she must look like a dumpy, broad-beamed Guy Fawkes figure with her scorched hem and soot-coated face. She leaned against the shovel and wished to disappear into the ground—but at least he was safe.

She didn’t know how to express her relief. She eyed her hat, afraid to touch it for fear she’d ruin it with her filthy hands. It looked worse for wear. The lace might be salvageable. But his safety was far more important than a hat.

Studying her charred skirt, Rafe exclaimed in horror, “You could have gone up in flame! Sit down! Let me do that.” He took her shovel and wrapped a burly arm around her shoulder, steering her gently, as if she were made of porcelain.

She was so shocked, she actually sat back down, hastily wiped her hands on her skirt, and clung to her once-lovely hat.

His two big companions entered through the open gate, distracting her more, but his words... She studied the hat and asked in puzzlement, “You caught him ? I thought Mrs. Holly said it was a woman? Wearing my hat?” She had hoped they’d caught the poisoner.

“The scoundrel was wearing a woman’s skirts and your bonnet,” Rafe said in disgust, pumping water into mugs and passing them around.

She was too tired and shocked to ask more. “I hope you’re hanging him tomorrow.” Bitter, angry, grief-stricken, her runaway emotions worried her. She didn’t want to appear weak. Men took advantage of weakness. But only anger prevented another outburst of tears.

“Hunt can’t hang anyone.” The French count leaned inside the shed and found a coal shovel. “He’ll hold court tomorrow, then transport the prisoner to assizes.”

Rafe used the shovel to finish her task. “I shouldn’t have left you alone. A soldier gives chase. Old instincts die hard.”

She nearly wept at his almost apology. He had no reason to apologize to her , not for making them safe again. She accepted a clean handkerchief from Sgt. Fletcher while Mrs. Holly scolded the men for not protecting a lady.

Verity was no lady. She ought to correct her and Rafe, but the niceties eluded her on this occasion. “It’s over then? We’re safe? Who is he?” And why didn’t she feel safe?

“Clement, the old sot Hunt turned off.” Arnaud carted a shovelful of ashes to the burn corner, then doused them with a pail of water.

“He claims he’s innocent, and we only have a deaf mute as witness,” Rafe explained. “But the hat alone makes him a thief. Mrs. Holly, you didn’t see him enter the yard, did you?”

“I did, but I fell asleep, dear,” she said sadly. “I just thought he was Mrs. Porter.”

Verity thought she ought to object to this description, but she’d always known she was sturdy and unfeminine.

“Rafe caught him running up the path.” Fletch dumped water on uncovered embers by the door, creating a cloud of smoke that had everyone coughing. “Mrs. Holly as witness, and the hat as evidence ought to be enough.”

“Won’t be for Hunt, not for murder, leastways. Have you been inside yet?” Arnaud carried off the final clump of wet ash, leaving a puddle of dirty water on the step.

“Stay there,” Rafe ordered when Verity started to stand. “Let me go first.”

“I am not a dog to be told to stay.” Anger carrying her on, Verity stood and limped past all the big men except Rafe, who blocked her path. She ached in every bone of her body, but for now, this was her home. She had to see. “Is the door still hot?”

Rafe used a rake handle to push at the charred wood. “At least stay behind me,” he ordered.

Since he was twice her size, she had no choice.

The door fell apart at his thrust. Cursing, he shoved the remains aside.

Verity peered under his arm. Clement had ransacked the place. Again.