Page 36 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)
THIRTY-SIX: VERITY
Standing in the inn’s momentarily empty lobby, Verity studied the letter she’d picked up at the mercantile. She’d almost panicked when Mr. Oswald told her she had a post. Who would send Verity Porter a letter? The only people who knew that name lived here.
Except the bank in Stratford, she realized, unfolding the official letterhead. Skimming past the formal greeting, she read the contents once, then again. Someone had inquired after her? How? Why? Who could possibly know her new name besides the bank and people living in the village?
It wasn’t conceivable. In terror, she studied the writing, the bank’s address, the signature... The letter seemed very real. Someone had asked after Verity Porter at the bank. Panic seeped into her bones, freezing them. This was how she’d ended up living in a cellar for ten years. . ..
Footsteps clattered on the stairs. “Six rooms now have chamber pots and wash bowls,” Minerva cried cheerfully. “Cracked, stained, and ugly, but very elegantly trimmed in gold and silver.”
When Verity failed to respond, the librarian entered the lobby. Verity unfroze enough to shove the letter into her apron pocket and offer a weak smile. “Thank you. Once we have shutters, perhaps Mrs. Underhill will consent to be my companion again.”
“You don’t have to live here, you know.” Minerva studied her through wise eyes but didn’t question. “The manor can house you until you decide where you want to live.”
That was an open question—should she flee Gravesyde and seek security elsewhere?
Obstinacy raised its ugly head. She didn’t want to be driven from still another home.
Again, that was how she’d ended up in a cellar.
Verity offered a small smile at the suggestion but didn’t answer. “Did Lavender think any of the old draperies can be salvaged? The windows will look better if we dress them up.”
“By the time Paul teaches his new assistant to build shutters, Lavender should have a few panels complete. She thought she might fashion matching bedcovers of spare pieces. We’re about to return to the manor for another load. Come up and see what she has,” Minerva urged.
“Maybe later, around luncheon. I still haven’t learned to cook,” Verity said ruefully. “I hate imposing.”
Minerva sniffed dismissively. “You’ve seen how much Elsa prepares. If she didn’t have new victims to try recipes on, she’d be desolate. Will you be all right here alone while we start another load?”
Excellent question, another one she wasn’t prepared to answer. Her spineless demon clamored to run far, far away. The demon of obstinacy refused to give up another home—even though she had stayed too long in the last one. She had no idea which fiend to listen to.
Reassuring Minerva that she would be fine cleaning and polishing all the new furnishings, Verity watched the cart roll out of the yard. She most likely didn’t belong in an inn either, but this was the home Rafe had chosen. It wasn’t cozy, but for now, the sprawling structure was empty enough for her to breathe. Familiar tasks provided an anchor of security .
Wolfie had returned without Rafe, but that wasn’t unusual. She set out fresh water and gave him one of the old bones collected from the butcher. Together, they wandered out to the garden Rafe had begun plowing. She had to water the roots she and Patience had dug up and replanted yesterday while the men galloped the countryside in pursuit of the thief she’d let escape. Guilt ate at her for that. She should learn to think and act swiftly, take risks, if she wanted to live freely.
And not just survive . There were the two demons again.
She pumped water for the cuttings. Verity didn’t remember what they were, but Rafe had been pleased.
Wolfie growled low in his throat and watched the woods up the hill. The blacksmith had cleared a line of young trees from behind his shop for a storage shed, but the forest still encroached on the inn yard. Rafe had said he’d clear it off this winter for firewood.
He planned on staying in Gravesyde.
She wanted to stay, she decided. She liked the people here. She liked the idea of building a new life with everyone else. She wanted to be useful. Casting aside doubt and caution, she dug in her heels. She was staying.
That decided, she had to work out how to be safe. She should ask Walker if her account at the bank was in good hands or if there were better places to put her savings. The steward was responsible for the estate’s funds and ought to have wisdom to impart.
And she’d write the banker to warn him not to reveal her whereabouts. It was good to know he protected her. Refusing to leave her father’s home had been a form of cowardice. The new Verity Palmer must be courageous and move forward, one small step at a time.
She returned inside to start building her new life. If the pub was to be a temporary schoolroom, it needed bookshelves. Perhaps books could be a permanent part of the décor. Rafe had mentioned setting up a library for her father’s volumes. But some of them were needed in the schoolroom.
Wolfie chose not to follow her. He trotted off to guard the perimeter.
Aware that she was alone, probably for the first time since her arrival, Verity straightened her weak spine and limped up the narrow stairs. She’d seen the book crates toward the end of the hall in the old part of the inn. The first earls must have had a lot of tradesmen visiting that they couldn’t house them in the enormous manor. Although, she supposed, the old part of the manor was not so large and the late earl had an enormous family.
Thinking the inn’s gloomy oak paneling should be painted or papered, she lit an oil lamp. Like the manor’s, this corridor had no windows. Gas lights would be wonderful.
She could almost sense the ghosts whispering from the walls, raising the hairs on the nape of her neck. Perhaps she should wait for Rafe. But she had to learn to do things on her own...
A noise overhead startled her. They hadn’t spent much time in the attic common room where the inn had once housed lesser sorts on cots. She assumed it was even darker and gloomier up there. She didn’t wish to encounter rats or bats in locating the source of the noise. Her courage only extended so far.
Books, she reminded herself. She’d come up to seek the reassurance of her beloved books. She located the room snugged in between two larger chambers—a place for a personal attendant, perhaps. It had no windows but was large enough for a cot and washstand. There might be a connector door behind the stack of boxes and furniture. Setting the lamp on the floor, she searched for the crate with the geographies and histories.
Only when she was holding the volumes did she realize she couldn’t carry them, the lantern, and her cane. In frustration, she abandoned the lantern, turning off the wick until she could return for it. The unfamiliar hall might be dark and scary, but she couldn’t get lost.
Despite the furniture polish that had been used on the old paneling, the inn still smelled musty. If the manor grew lavender for perfumes, might they make it into pomanders? She shifted the books in an attempt not to stumble about on the cane.
Speculating on other means of improving the aroma—like baking—Verity didn’t pay attention to the first step of the narrow staircase until, in her usual clumsiness, she managed to trip. Emitting an eep of dismay, she dropped her books and tried to balance her cane and grab the banister. While she was still off-balance, she felt a shove from behind.
Her bad foot twisted. Flinging herself sideways, she bounced against the wall, hit the stairs with her hip—and tumbled. Screaming, she fell
By the time she finally stopped her fall with her cane, Rafe’s frantic shouts resounded from outside. Her shoulder hurt from hitting the wall, but her ample bottom had taken the worst of the fall. It took a moment to orient herself before she regained the sense to understand what had just happened.
Had she imagined that shove? Had she simply tripped over her worn boots in her usual awkward manner?
No, no, no. She had no more fallen on her own than she had driven that carriage over her foot. Yes, she had tripped, but then someone had very distinctly shoved her. That someone was still up there.
“Upstairs!” she shouted as Rafe pounded into the lobby.
Even her brave new self wasn’t stupid enough to believe she had a chance of catching a scoundrel, but by the time Rafe reached the upper hall, Verity had regained her unsteady feet. Using her cane, she limped past her fallen books and up the stairs. There it was, a feeble thread, barely seen and easily broken. She had not fallen over her own feet!
Shaking with as much fury as pain and fear, she clumped down the corridor. No more. This was personal . She didn’t know what she’d done to anyone for them to want her dead, but this time, she wasn’t running and hiding.
Furious, she stomped after the murdering coward. Having searched this floor, Rafe caught up to her before she could reach the rickety back stairs.
“He escaped out the back, I know he did!” It was the only place an intruder could run, unless she wanted to believe one of the workmen had taken a dislike to her and was hiding.
Amazingly, Rafe didn’t even question. “Bar yourself in the first chamber,” he ordered.
Coward that she was, she considered it. She couldn’t exactly run to give chase.
Who would want her dead?
The old Faith Palmer was already dead. What could the new Verity Porter have done?
If someone wanted her dead, she had to think fast and not freeze into inaction. She couldn’t abandon Rafe to take off after a killer alone.
Frantically, she hobbled down the main stairs to the lobby, where the next load of furnishings had just arrived in the yard.
Shouting for their attention, she pointed at the hill Rafe was running up. “Killer!”
To her relief, Henri and his large brother didn’t question either but dashed off in pursuit. People believed her here. They heard her. Only then did she allow herself to collapse in the arms of the manor’s heiress decorator.
She had almost died—a second time. The realization brought terror. No one person could be so prone to misadventure.
Did that mean the explosion in London had been meant for her too?