Page 33 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)

THIRTY-THREE: RAFE

Trying not to sprawl his long legs as he was wont to do, Rafe sat up straight at the manor’s candlelit dining table and practiced reading people. He’d first learned the habit in his father’s inn to avert drunken brawls that endangered the furniture. It had served him well in the army where fights among his men had been inevitable. With all the fancy chandeliers, china, and crystal, he didn’t believe these polite people would start heaving chairs, although tension mounted. Having potential murder suspects at the table would do that.

Verity had narrowed her eyes and grown dangerously silent at Mrs. Prescott’s suggestion that the heirs sell the sketches. The others, more experienced at dissembling, had merely directed conversation to planning.

“Do you have Fletch manning the tavern?” Rafe asked Henri while the others discussed furniture.

The Frenchman nodded. “Patience prefers an escort at dinner when we have visitors. I’m enjoying having the major available to take my place occasionally.”

“Good practice for running the pub once we open.” Rafe grinned at Henri’s grimace. They’d be competitors of a sort someday .

While the company tallied the moldering contents of the manor and their usefulness in a public inn, Rafe simply listened. The inn had been stripped of most of its furnishings over the years, and he’d accept anything offered—if only for firewood. He didn’t possess a single sentimental bone about old junk.

He didn’t have much to add to the schoolroom discussion either. He’d learned numbers and letters from a vicar’s wife and from working at his father’s inn. In the inn’s glory days, he’d attended boarding school and learned rudimentary history and literature which had served him well when dealing with his more educated officers. He understood that the desire to learn was more important than desks.

When the curate and librarian began conferring over their interviews with the villagers, Rafe finally sat up and took note. They knew people, as he didn’t, though he wasn’t entirely certain that it was wise to discuss suspects in front of strangers who might also be suspects. The Prescotts might pretend to converse with Miss Talbot, but they listened.

“This coachman you say argued with Clement...” Rafe interrupted. “Where is he? I don’t remember speaking with him.”

“Taking the Huntleys to Liverpool,” Upton explained.

“He spends all his time polishing harness and wheels when he’s here,” Henri said with a laugh. “He doesn’t know much about horses though. He’s raw.”

“I hope he knows how to drive.” Patience set down her knife in alarm.

“Claims he used to drive his father’s farm cart into the city until he was old enough to earn coin working for a Cit. He likes uniforms.” Henri nodded at Rafe. “We can’t provide a coat as handsome as yours, sergeant. The lad has asked me to look for tails and tall boots, as befits a proper coachman.”

Before Rafe could summon an adequate response, Verity actually joined the discussion. She’d been oddly silent for a while.

“What is the coachman’s name, might I ask?”

“Arthur, that’s all I know.” Henri lifted his wine glass. As tavern owner, he knew more of the male villagers than the curate. “Why do you ask?”

“I understood he’s from London, like Clement. It worried me.” She did not explain why.

Rafe knew she feared she’d been followed. But he’d already ascertained that the unusual city people had been here well before her arrival.

Boldly, for someone who had barely addressed the company this evening, Verity turned to the Prescotts. “Are you from London?”

“No, actually,” the lady said with obvious amusement. “We are from Manchester.”

Unsmiling, Verity turned to Minerva. “Wasn’t one of Miss Edgerton’s students from Manchester? I believe I recollect a Seraphina Littlejohn? It was such an unusual name that I admired it.”

Rafe noted reactions with interest.

Miss Talbot gasped, and avoiding the eyes of her new friends, abruptly reached for her wine. So, the heiress recognized the name.

Mr. Prescott cleared his throat. “That is neither here nor there. If we are to leave in the morning, we should retire early, my dear.”

Minerva responded as if he had said nothing, turning to Miss Talbot. “Thea, I believe you introduced our guest as Sara Prescott?”

Thea—Miss Talbot—nodded uncertainly. “The Prescotts are friends of my family who helped with the sale of my grandmother’s estate. My parents, their parents—you know how it is.” She gestured helplessly.

Rafe did, indeed, know how that worked. It was how he’d ended up in Gravesyde—knowing someone who knew someone. It didn’t mean they knew them well.

“I cannot see how it matters,” Mrs. Prescott said stiffly, ignoring the hand her husband held out. “Yes, my name is Seraphina. Miss Edgerton taught at the school I attended. There were many other teachers and students. It’s been nearly twenty years since I left. It is not unusual for friendships to arise from exclusive schools. It is the whole point of them.”

Rafe understood that too. Fletch had been one of his fellow students, although their school could scarcely be called exclusive.

Before hair pulling and eye scratching could commence, Rafe intervened. “It matters because you knew Miss Edgerton, you did not mention it, even after her death, and you were here the day she died. That is more than anyone I have interviewed can say.”

Having accepted her husband’s hand to rise, the lady, looking aghast, burst into tears and raced from the room. Her husband followed her out.

“Well, that certainly didn’t turn out as expected.” Hurriedly, the heiress left the table to follow her acquaintances.

“She wants those sketches for a reason,” Verity said grimly.

The solicitor looked pained. “I suppose now she will not offer for them again. You do the heirs no favor.”

“Do the heirs care only for the money or might they desire justice for the death of a beloved family member?” Verity folded her napkin and rose. “If you will excuse me?—”

“Sit down,” Rafe roared, startling her. He’d been staring at Verity’s bosom all evening. Her nervousness drove him over the brink. She’d been raised as a lady, far above his reach, had her father not been killed. And now, the death of her governess had left her bereft again. He disliked coincidence. Worse yet, he disliked the confusion she caused in his normally sensible brainpan. He wanted to shake her or hug her and couldn’t do either.

She stared at him in astonishment, as did the others. He’d just behaved as a sergeant with new recruits. No matter. He wanted at the bottom of this confounded mystery so he could go back to life as planned.

Minerva tugged Verity’s hand, drawing her back to her seat. “You cannot miss one of Elsa’s fabulous puddings. Let us see what the sergeant has to say. ”

Thank all that was holy, Verity reluctantly sat. Well, at least she’d stay safely in the manor tonight, if only to avoid him.

The solicitor raised his graying eyebrows. “Surely you do not believe one of the heirs is desperate enough to cause Miss Edgerton’s demise?”

Rafe gathered his thoughts. He wasn’t accustomed to ordering about civilians who didn’t work for him. But if he was to be bailiff, however reluctantly, then he needed to order about gentry as well as the lesser sorts. If Hunt wanted to boot him from his position for his offensiveness, Rafe was fine with that.

The reason he wanted his own inn was so no one could cast him out, as the bank and the army had. He needed to remember that.

“I think that you, Mr. Culliver, arrived with a potential buyer in an unholy hurry,” Rafe stated. “Have you heard from the heirs yet?”

Instead of looking insulted, Mr. Culliver merely seemed annoyed. “My office is in Stratford, only a few hours away. I was notified of Miss Edgerton’s death immediately. Captain Huntley offered me a room upon the request of Mr. Bosworth, a mutual acquaintance. Bosworth also informed me that Mr. Sullivan here was in search of a suitable site for his business. There is nothing mysterious about my arrival.”

“Thank you. Have you had any other inquiries about the property?” Rafe noted Verity hiding her surprise at his question. Good. Perhaps she’d stay put and listen. He was convinced she held more clues she wasn’t aware of—or hid.

The solicitor also looked surprised and eyed Rafe with interest. “You believe the lady died because of her property?”

“Given that she was murdered so someone might search the place, and then it was set on fire, that seems a plausible assumption.” He needed to learn better questioning techniques than shouting. Tricky.

The lawyer nodded. “I see. Indeed, I have had another inquiry, from London, but the person is unknown to me and has not presented himself. The inquiry came through a London solicitor.”

“Two inquiries? Is that not odd?” Verity paled. “Do you at least know the person’s name?”

He lifted his shoulders. “No, that is not how this is done.”

Rafe studied Verity. “Did you have someone in mind?”

“The men in the painting,” she answered unequivocally. “Who else?”

He experienced a surge of relief at this sensible reply but still thought she held answers, even if she was unaware of them.

“Former lovers, students, gardeners, and herbalists,” Minerva ticked off potential buyers on her fingers. “Miss Edgerton and her garden, presumably, were well known outside the village.”

“And other than our drunken apple picker and Mrs. Prescott, none of those folks were here the day she died. If we cannot prove their guilt, we are back to looking at the village folk. Someone must know something.” Out of habit, Rafe glared at the servant reaching for his empty plate before he could refill it. The footman quivered and removed the china anyway.

“If someone can vouch for the Prescotts whereabouts at the time of Miss Edgerton’s death, I daresay we can exclude them.” Rafe glanced around the table.

The French artist at the other end of the table shrugged. “They were with Thea most of last Saturday. They explored the manor attics in search of fabrics that might have survived damp and insects. I do not believe either would have left the manor covered in cobwebs and dust.”

Rafe hadn’t really expected the sophisticated couple to know poisons, much less visit the humble cottage to kill a teacher. But Verity had shown him that he should not assume anything.

“If Clement murdered the teacher, then his wife might tell us how. She could be staying with relations in the area. I suppose I should start scouring farms.” And raise the ire of potential customers for his pub. Rafe was beginning to see the fallacy of believing he could be his own man .

He was also thinking the mysterious woman in black was far more likely to be a poisoner than the clown Clement. Hiding was definitely suspicious behavior.

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Upton offered. “We can start asking questions after services.”

Cautiously, Verity suggested, “We might do it under the guise of asking if people have relatives or boarders who look after their children, in the interest of knowing who might help with the school and transportation.”

Minerva brightened. “Excellent notion. I will set a few of the church ladies to it. The locals tend to be suspicious of outsiders.”

Rafe nodded approval but noted Verity still seemed anxious. “Anything else? Now is the time to speak.”

“Not to be annoying, but we should probably question the Prescotts about who actually wants those sketches and why. Former students are likely involved. It’s just...” She stared at the cake set in front of her and didn’t complete the thought until Rafe tapped his knife on her plate. She grimaced. “It is foolish and grasping at air.”

Impatiently, Rafe encouraged her. “I am grateful for any and all suggestions.”

“Only to cover all possibilities, even the most unlikely...” She gave a little sigh. “I don’t wish this to be all about me, but just in case...”

“Personally, I think this is all about you, so continue, please,” Rafe demanded.

That earned him a glare, but at least she gathered her courage. “Captain Huntley’s new coachman from London... He was here last Saturday. I only caught a glimpse of him, mind you, but he resembles my uncle’s footman. Perhaps he is a brother? The servant’s name was Luther...”

“And the coachman is Arthur,” Upton added with a touch of urgency. “The similarity... How long will it take a message to reach the captain in Liverpool? ”

Rafe understood his concern. The Huntleys might be traveling with a killer, one about to make his escape.