Page 29 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)

TWENTY-NINE: VERITY

Having slept restlessly in her manor guestroom, Verity rose to an overcast Saturday, which didn’t improve her mood. Even the lovely morning gown Lavender had hastily hemmed didn’t raise her spirits. Her few garments in the cottage had to be laundered to remove the smoke. She needed to pack her bags and move—again.

She’d ruined her only good pair of boots fighting the fire.

She had money to buy more, she tried telling herself as she descended the marble stairs illuminated by lovely new gas lights. Things could be worse. All she had to do was find a new life and home.

Downstairs, after picking at toast and tea, she attended the interrogation led by Captain Huntley. Studying the weeping, protesting Clement, she concluded she couldn’t snatch the tosspot bald. He was almost there already.

Where had this chubby, ugly little man obtained a woman’s skirts? And why? Had he really thought to pass himself off as her? Did he have knowledge of herbs and poisons?

A pity they couldn’t prove he’d set the fire meant to destroy Miss Edgerton’s home. Mrs. Holly had seen him in the yard but hadn’t seen him set a fire .

Verity supposed she was inclined to believe his guilt because he reminded her of her uncle’s mean coachman, the one who had let a horse run over her foot. She hadn’t known the man—she wasn’t allowed to ride in the carriage, after all. But all coachmen in their greatcoats and tall hats sitting way above her appeared short and lumpy. None wore women’s skirts that she was aware.

The painting might arouse her suspicion, but her uncle’s coach was old, plain black, and looked nothing like the fancy one Miss Edgerton had sketched. And the painted coachman looked like every other shadowy figure she’d ever seen in a driver’s seat. She didn’t think there was any connection beyond her own ugly thoughts. She wanted someone, anyone, to blame.

Not knowing what else to do after the interrogation ended, she joined the sewing ladies in the manor’s gallery to pick the lace off her once-beautiful black hat.

One thing of which she was certain, after watching Hunt’s interview, the balding old man who’d stolen her hat was not the lady in black who had suggested marjoram for the stew.

She supposed old ladies in black were fairly common. Most women seemed to outlive their men. It was just odd that no one could name the one she’d seen. Everyone in the village knew one another. Where was this one staying? And was she the one Deacon Jones had reported passing the tavern or had that been Clement? Could there have been two people in black at the cottage?

She wanted to ask where Rafe was, but she didn’t know who to ask and wasn’t certain it was something a lady might do. He was most likely glad to be rid of her. He had no reason to ask after her when she was surrounded by servants and the comforts of the manor.

Well, actually, her father’s much newer, better constructed, and well-furnished home had been far more comfortable than this drafty castle with its rattling windows and ancient, threadbare draperies and counterpanes, but she was in no position to complain .

It would be lovely to have a nice female friend to share her fears with. It wasn’t as if she’d ever had close friends, just a few young people her age who had visited with their mothers—before her father died. After that, she’d been in mourning, then forced to give up any form of society when her mother became ill. She was even lonelier now, surrounded by people, than she had been when surrounded only by books.

Everyone was so busy... She didn’t want to take them away from their tasks, especially after they had spent yesterday cleaning the inn.

That didn’t seem to bother anyone else. While she helped picked the black lace from her old hat, the pair of construction workers—the Blackwells—who Rafe had hired to help with the inn, distracted Lavender with questions about some quirk of the tower. She and Sofia ran off to make decisions about the incipient perfumery.

Minerva, the curate’s fiancée, came in a few minutes later to divert her from lace picking. Bored, Verity gladly followed her into the L-shaped library, which apparently took up nearly a quarter of the manor’s main floor. She had to attempt not to goggle at the seemingly endless walls of books just begging to be perused.

Miss Edgerton’s lawyer and the furniture dealers were studying the books from the cottage that Rafe had carried to the manor for safekeeping. Suddenly uncertain, Verity hung back. She didn’t know that Miss Edgerton would wish her drawings made public.

“These drawings are works of art,” the lady—Mrs. Prescott?—declared, flipping the pages of one of the portfolios. “They could be very valuable.”

Verity had to draw closer to see which sketches she perused—the herbal, with all the sketches of dangerous plants as well as useful ones. The books weren’t hers. She wanted to keep them, but if they cost a lot, she couldn’t afford to pay the heirs what the Prescotts could .

So why had they sought her out?

“Do you believe Miss Edgerton drew these?” Mr. Culliver, the solicitor, asked, studying another open book over the top of his spectacles. When she didn’t immediately answer, he glanced up. “Are they part of the estate or might they belong to someone else?”

“Oh.” Verity hadn’t given it a second thought. She took the portfolio he pushed toward her. “Her former students visited and often left sketches, I believe. Some of the older ones—” she pulled out a yellowed, fading picture labeled hemlock, “—may have been drawn by her mother or grandmother. I’ve not had time to study all of them, but I did notice occasional dates.” She pointed at tiny numbers in the corner that seemed to indicate 1790.

“They would have to be published as a collection, then.” Mr. Prescott flipped back a few pages in his portfolio. A tall man of middling age, in a tailed frockcoat and starched neckcloth, he bore the air of a respectable gentleman. “Herbs From Garden Cottage, by the Edgerton ladies.”

Verity didn’t know why she was uneasy about the watercolors and sketches leaving the cottage. Perhaps it was just the fear of someone else being poisoned using information they might garner from the drawings. It didn’t seem right, somehow. But how could she possibly express her concern? She was not the heir.

Minerva, ever the colonel’s daughter and stern librarian, said what Verity lacked the words for. “Not all those sketches should be published. I daresay the ladies drew them for their own use, to pass on to the cottage’s heirs. They include the knowledge of poisonous plants that should not fall into the hands of scoundrels, as we have so recently learned.”

“But even poisonous herbs have valuable qualities,” Mrs. Prescott argued. “The hemlock Dorian is looking at can be used for breathing difficulties, especially in children. You need only ask your apothecary. She will tell you.”

Another woman who understood the use of herbs. Verity forced herself to think instead of quiver. The well-dressed lady was short enough to have been the lady in black, but certainly not old enough. That didn’t make her any less likely to have been Miss Edgerton’s visitor that fatal day. Rafe had already ascertained the Prescotts had been in residence.

“Might we call in Dr. Walker and ask her opinion?” Verity asked, stepping out of the shadows she preferred even though she really had no say in any of this.

Mr. Prescott waved a dismissive hand. “What an apothecary has to say is neither here nor there. These are valuable drawings. We would like to purchase them. I don’t see that Mrs. Porter,” he bowed at her, “has any say in the matter.”

“Until we hear from the heirs, none of us have any say in the matter,” the solicitor reminded them.

The Prescotts seemed very determined to have the drawings. Were the drawings what the thief had sought? The killer?

Bringing the books here may have been worse than leaving them in the cottage. Verity cast a worried look at Minerva. The petite librarian nodded curtly back, donned her spectacles, and began gathering up the portfolios. “If these are valuable, we shall keep them in the vault until we hear from the heirs.” Without apology, she carried off the sketches.

“Well, I never...” Mrs. Prescott exclaimed. Her charming smile vanished, and a frown formed over her delicate nose.

“Miss Edgerton was poisoned with one of those herbs,” Verity reminded her, daring to be assertive. “It is very hard for us to consider those pages falling into the hands of someone who might do harm.” She turned to Mr. Culliver. “Please, let the heirs know the danger, as well as the value, if you would? It is the least we can do.”

Before the Prescotts could argue further, Verity departed, just as Minerva had. Faith had never had good reason to develop a backbone. Perhaps Verity could learn from others how to strengthen it.

Although the confrontation left her wishing she was back at the cottage. If Miss Edgerton’s sketches were valuable, should they have shown Mr. Culliver the horrible painting of the coach? It seemed so very personal... But if Miss Edgerton hadn’t specified it belonged to Verity, then it probably belonged to the heirs too. She should have asked Minerva. If the librarian wasn’t always so busy, Verity would like to think of her as a friend someday.

Lavender had returned to the gallery and finished removing the lace from the crushed widow’s hat. She was measuring it with her fingers when Verity entered.

“This lace will go splendidly with the bonnet Henri brought in the other day, the one that suits your Sunday gown.” She produced a straw hat with a high crown and long brim. “It’s a French style! With the black lace and some primrose-dyed silk flowers, it will be perfect on you!”

Verity widened her eyes and touched the tightly-bound, beautiful cream straw. She’d never owned anything half so stylish. “Lace and a ribbon? As an adornment, not a veil?”

“Exactly. And then there will even be lace left to attach to a fichu for your Sunday gown. You will look très élégant !” Lavender slipped the bonnet over Verity’s chignon and tightened the ribbons, then gestured at her cheval mirror. “Look for yourself!”

The sight of the splendid bonnet with the new-to-her, high-waisted, tea-colored morning gown finally stirred Verity’s feminine vanity.

She wasn’t elegant she reminded herself. She had all the grace of a milkmaid. Or the cow. But Lavender looked so eager... And Verity loved the new garments, which was all that mattered, she decided. Backbones didn’t require elegance. And the high waist did look splendid on her stumpy figure. “I will take anything and everything you find suitable. I trust your judgment more than mine. I shall need shoes for all this finery. I don’t suppose Mr. Lavigne can find shoes?”

“I’d rather he found a shoemaker,” Lavender replied, a trifle grimly. “But I shall ask.”

“I really must go back and sort out the cottage to see what can be salvaged. I cannot keep wearing these poor boots.” As much as Verity enjoyed the manor inhabitants, she longed for her own place. And poor Mrs. Underhill and Marmie needed a home as well. Perhaps the destruction wasn’t as bad as she remembered?

Verity borrowed a shawl to go into the brisk wind. She didn’t need Rafe to escort her. She’d been walking around London on her own for years. Well, she’d had a footman for the bank visits, but this was broad daylight, and she carried nothing valuable. An escort was silly. Admittedly, she’d felt brave in Rafe’s company, but he had the inn now. He didn’t need her.

Reminded of footmen... She glanced toward the stable and the new carriage. She hadn’t seen the manor’s coachman yesterday. She didn’t see him now. She ought to ask after him, though, just to settle her mind. He was much too tall to be the usual sort of coachman, like in the painting. And the possibility of lazy Luther following her here was ludicrous. Besides, footmen did not drive carriages. Still, she should ask when she had a chance.

Not brave enough yet to test a lonely walking path, she took the longer public drive down to the road. She had to pass the inn... and couldn’t resist stopping to admire the newly thatched roof. Workers were still finishing the older section over the lobby entrance.

Rafe was in the yard, carting a familiar-looking crate. Could that be? Lifting her hem and swinging her cane, she hurried excitedly into the trampled yard. “Are those my books?”

“Are you Mrs. Milton Palmer?” he asked coldly, not stopping to wait for her.

Struck by his coldness, she froze with horror as she realized he’d said her father’s name. She followed him. “You opened them? You had no right to open those crates!”

“Probably not. But you can’t keep them in a doorless cottage, and I thought I’d be helpful, more fool me.” He carried the heavy crate through the lobby to the newly repaired stairs.

“Put those books down right now,” she ordered, surprising even herself. “You are not a mule and you will make your arm worse.”

She probably ought to kick him, but he’d been too good to her, and she’d lied to him in return. He had every right to be miffed.

So did she. Faith might have cringed, but the new Verity was allowed to be angry at having her privacy intruded upon. She put her hands on her broad hips in her lovely new gown and glared at him.

He set the crate on the sturdy guest counter and glared back. “Where do you want them, then? The manor, Mrs. Palmer?”

“I am not Mrs. Palmer. And the books need to be where children can read them. And me. Books are meant to be read. And if I can’t have them in the cottage...” She stopped and gave it some thought. “Why can’t I have them in the cottage? You caught the thief. It only needs a door.”

“Because there are no beds and no furniture and it is not safe. I’m moving into the inn. I’ve hired a few people to sew and stuff new mattresses for a few of the guest rooms. Upton is repairing bed frames. If the heirs want to sell the cottage, I don’t want to waste time and coin on it.”

He acted so cold... Her newly revived spirits dropped.

What he said made sense. She simply didn’t want to give up dreams of her own home.

She sat down on one of the benches that hadn’t been returned to the church yet and, fighting tears, studied her scorched boots. She was so very tired of being alone. To have still another home ripped from under her... She didn’t have the strength to do it again. “Don’t empty the crates,” she said miserably. “I’ll ask Captain Huntley if there is another cottage I might use.”

No place would be as lovely as Miss Edgerton’s, but then, she supposed it wasn’t lovely any more. Why had that rotten little man ruined everything?

“I’d let you and Mrs. Underhill stay at the inn until you get sorted, but I like to know who my guests are.” He left the books but started for the stairs again .

“I’m dead, remember?” she called, wiping away tears as her anger returned.

“Mrs. Palmer is dead?” he shouted derisively from the next floor.

Obstinate idiot of a man. Who did he think she was, anyway? Well, she’d rather like to know that too. She didn’t feel like meek Faith Palmer any longer. She was too angry. “Yes,” she shouted, pushing up from the bench with her cane. “And so is her husband. I did not steal those books.”

Well, that might be a lie, but it wasn’t as if her uncle noticed their absence. Her idea of the law was a little loose.

Rafe returned to the stairs and glowered down at her. “Did you just shout at me?”

Taken aback, she froze as the familiar timidity raised its ugly head. Then she remembered this was Rafe, not her uncle, and he could not throw her out of a home she did not have. She shouted back, “You shouted first! I can shout if I want to.”

“Ladies don’t shout! Or was that all pretense too? Don’t tell me you were their maid and the Palmers left their library to you.” He wasn’t shouting any more, just glaring.

She blinked in surprise. She had no idea if ladies shouted and didn’t care. But a maid ? “Why would I say any such rubbish?”

He waited.

She wanted a home. She didn’t want to leave Gravesyde. If she wasn’t sneaky, invisible Faith anymore, then who did she want to be? Someone who got angry and shouted? That wasn’t working so well. She could stomp her foot or beat the big oaf with her cane, but Verity Porter wasn’t stupid. Verity Porter could buy lovely straw hats and find her own way... with help.

Could she also be someone who trusted those who helped them? Which meant no more lying and sneaking. Which also meant she had to tell the truth, all of it.

Terrified, she clutched her elbows for strength. “If I tell you, I’m endangering your life as well as my own.”

That was a trifle dramatic. Her uncle had no reason to kill her, just throw her in gaol. That might kill her but wouldn’t hurt Rafe. So, it took time to undo a lying habit.

“All the more reason to tell me,” he declared. “At least then I’ll know who or what to look out for.”

She shook her head vehemently. “No, you won’t. Faith Palmer is dead . Verity Porter does not exist except as me , standing right in front of you. How do you protect a ghost?”

There, she’d given him her name, for what little it was worth. Faith had been a ghost for years.