Page 31 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)

THIRTY-ONE: PAUL

Carrying newly-repaired bedframes into the crowded inn lobby, Paul leaned them against the guest desk. For having no guests, the inn was a hive of activity this afternoon. He accepted the mug Rafe handed him, sipped, and wrinkled his nose. “What is this?”

“I’m experimenting with the raw apple juice and some of the manor’s smuggled brandy and a few spices. Is it too strong?” Rafe gestured at the pitcher on a shelf behind the desk.

“Not more than punch, I suppose. What are we doing?” Paul gestured to indicate the company.

Thea, the ghost-talking heiress, and Arnaud, impoverished artist and French nobility, had deigned to leave the manor to study the monstrous painting of a murder and the crumbling lobby walls. Such horror would make a dreadful adornment for a welcoming inn.

Sitting on a bench, Verity anxiously kept an eye on the artwork, while trying to repair an old quilt.

“We are looking to have the inn burned down,” Rafe replied gruffly, before picking up the bedframes and lugging them upstairs.

“Not alarming at all,” Paul said aloud to no one in particular .

“The painting, it is meant to be a message.” Amazingly, Arnaud picked up the dangling threads of Rafe’s non-conversation. “We should make many copies, so the arsonist will understand that burning the one will not help. The copies do not need to be this size. I am not fond of these—” He wrinkled his nose. “—watercolors, but they are fast.”

Until recently, the French artist had barely spoken for himself and had seldom left the manor. Since uncovering the tower and its horde of doubloons, Arnaud had been more forthcoming. The lovely—haunted—woman at his side might have a bit to do with that. At least she didn’t appear to be seeing ghosts in the inn. Yet.

“We will keep the original work in the vault. I’d like to frame the copy we hang here.” Dorothea Talbot was the reason the Prescotts were at the manor, acquiring medieval furniture. She had an eye for interior design. “The manor attic has dozens of frames. We could hang copies all over town. I’d like to have a small one to send to friends in London. Perhaps they might recognize the carriage.”

They had decided the thief was after the painting? Well, it was one of many possibilities, Paul supposed. Of course, if Clement was the thief, they’d prove nothing.

He gathered they’d decided Clement wasn’t a killer. Having more than one villain roaming the street... was a possibility, sadly.

“If that is my father in the painting, it is ten years old. Do people keep carriages that long?” Verity asked.

“Depends on how wealthy they are. People who know horseflesh might recognize the livestock.” Arnaud tucked the painting into its portfolio again. “I do not think I have to be as careful with the details as Miss Edgerton. This will not be a showpiece but more of the caricature, as you would see in London printing offices. We might label it, if you wish— Do you recognize this carriage ?”

Rafe clattered back down the steps in time to hear this last. “I like that idea. Glad to hear some sense around here. We could add a reward—identify the killer for ten pounds.”

“A hundred,” Verity corrected grimly. “I will gladly go hungry for a year if your work brings him to justice. Except there are two people in the painting—the one who pushes and the one who drives. Either might be the person who killed Miss Edgerton.”

Paul finished his punch and grimaced. “I had not thought of that, but it makes a terrible sense somehow. But why now?”

Visibly trembling, Verity set down her sewing and stood. “Because that is my father in the painting. I cannot make any more sense of it than that.” She pushed past Rafe and ran upstairs.

Thea and Arnaud turned to the former sergeant, who glanced worriedly up the stairs but lingered to explain. “Her father died when she was young. She’d been told he’d been robbed, not that he was deliberately murdered. And we have no idea how Miss Edgerton knew anything, except she was Verity’s governess at the time. And we really don’t know that this has anything to do with Miss Edgerton’s death, since she dealt in questionable activities and no one was aware that Verity was coming here. But the timing is not fortuitous.”

“As magistrate, Hunt knows this, doesn’t he?” Paul asked.

“I gave Hunt her father’s name this morning. He is asking the solicitors to look into the incident. The dowagers insist on writing their families to see if anyone recalls the details. It’s been ten years, so chances aren’t good.” Rafe ran back up the stairs after Verity.

“I thought we had Miss Edgerton’s killer locked in the crypt?” Thea asked, frowning. “Are we looking for more?”

“We don’t know he’s our killer without proof. The odd thing is...” Paul didn’t know how much of this he was allowed to tell, but it seemed important. He and Minerva had kept Verity’s confidences until now, but no one had sworn them to secrecy. “Verity swears no one knows she is alive. A killer would have no reason to follow her here. Yet that painting ties her father to the governess. ”

“So the painting is curious but we are no longer looking for this killer? Am I wasting my time?” Arnaud glanced at the portfolio he held.

“We can’t know if the painting is connected without trying. Clement stays locked up while Hunt sees his mother off to America. Of course, if we can’t prove Clement is a killer or arsonist... Well, I suppose we cannot condemn him for running in skirts.” Paul was still trying to find the wife the prisoner claimed to have. Clement refused to say where he’d left her and none of Paul’s parishioners recognized their meager description.

“Upton, do you know how to make shutters?” Rafe called from upstairs.

“Keep this up, and I’ll have to hire an assistant,” Paul called back. “Will the maintenance budget cover that?”

“If you find an assistant, ask Walker.” Rafe banged down the stairs again. At the bottom, he gestured upstairs and kept his voice low. “I’m afraid she’ll flee. Can we keep her busy? She says the bedrooms must have shutters or draperies before anyone can sleep in them. If we start work on a schoolroom...”

“Birdwhistle wants to use the manor attic for the schoolroom, but the tower stairs will not be finished soon. Is there a place in the inn or do we use the chapel?” Arnaud asked, crossing the lobby to study the pub.

“Draperies?” Thea peered up the stairs. “There are moth-eaten draperies stored in the attic. If the inn’s windows are smaller...” Without further explanation, she took the stairs up.

“Shutters,” Rafe called after her, apparently attempting to establish order. “I don’t have laundresses to clean velvets or silks or whatever fanciness is at the manor.”

“Ask the lieutenant and captain how well giving their wives orders works,” Arnaud said with a snicker. “Once you involve the ladies, your chance to make decisions is lost.” He gestured at the pub. “Until you are prepared to open, this may make the schoolroom. You need benches and chalkboards.”

“Perhaps Minerva can take Mrs. Porter to visit families with children,” Paul suggested, averting any impending explosion over loss of control.

Rafe looked relieved. “If she would do that, that might help. I want to find this killer, and odd as it seems, my instincts say Verity is at the center of it.”

“Have you talked her into staying at the inn?” Paul asked. “Wouldn’t she be safer at the manor?”

“She wants her own place. She says if she must rent, she has to work. Let us hope some of the parents are willing to pay for classes.” Arms crossed, Rafe studied the pub. “Or, might some of them work at the inn for a few hours for free in exchange for Verity teaching their children? And then I’d pay Verity or provide her a free room.”

“You think like a revolutionary.” Arnaud paced the large space occupied only by trestle tables. “The fathers might work a few hours at the manor, and the maintenance fund pays their wages to the teacher.”

“Minerva can sound out the parents, see how eager they are for a school.” Paul eyed the scarred walnut bar skeptically—not a schoolroom accessory—but the days were growing cooler, and this room had a fireplace. The chapel didn’t. “Young people might return more readily if we have a school to offer.”

“If the inn is able to take guests...” Arnaud let the thought trail off as he studied the dusty inn yard outside the newly-cleaned mullioned windows.

Paul followed his thoughts. Customers for the manor’s small industries—and Arnaud’s paintings—needed a place to stay.

“Until we’re fixed up proper, with mattresses and linens and shutters, we’ll only have traveling salesmen and chimney sweeps,” Rafe said dryly. “But it’s a start.”

Paul left them to discuss schoolrooms. He had a good excuse to visit Minerva now.

Before he left the inn yard, a wagon loaded with lumber entered, driven by the two Blackwells. He waited to help them unload... and to ask questions. The pair were newcomers to the village and had been here the day the governess had died.

“Is Captain Huntley providing you a place to stay?” He hefted a stack of boards and carried them to the stable workshop.

“Aye, we got rooms,” the son replied, carrying another stack.

The older Blackwell followed with bags of what Paul assumed were nails and other hardware. “We’ve got a farm of our own we can fix up if work stays steady.”

“The wives are unhappy with us down here without them,” the son added. “They think we’re out carousing.”

“I’m going up to the manor now. I’m sure they have other cottages the estate can repair. Do either of you do interior work, like making shutters?”

“I want to learn,” the younger acknowledged. “Ain’t got the tools for it.”

“I’m building a collection of tools.” Paul indicated the workshop. “If the village is to continue growing, you’ll have steady employment. I’ll teach you what I know, if you stay.”

The lanky son, George, if Paul remembered rightly, pulled a forelock and nodded. “Be grateful. Wife, too. We got a young one and another on the way and she wants me home.”

“Place got killers and thieves here just like Town,” the father, Nate, warned. “They won’t like to hear that.”

“That’s understandable. The captain has hired a bailiff to return order. Were both of you up at the manor the day the lady died? Did you notice anything or anyone odd?” Paul wasn’t certain how much Hunt or Rafe had talked to people, but most folks considered curates harmless. He might receive different answers.

“Odd, how?” Nate stacked the lumber and began sorting hardware into bins.

Good question. Paul shrugged. “Arguing or people in places they shouldn’t be or looking angry, I don’t know. The manor has hired so many new folk, the captain can’t watch them all.”

“That bloke Clement was arguing with his wife,” George said, trying to be helpful for a potential employer. “And the coachman chased them off. They’re an odd lot. Don’t talk like us and don’t have much to do with anyone else.”

Paul tried not to look too interested. “We can’t find Clement’s wife. Do you know where she’s staying?”

Both men shrugged. Well, he couldn’t expect too much. Thanking them, Paul headed up to the manor and Minerva.

It was high time they started a full search for Clement’s wife. She might be dead by now.