Page 38 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)

THIRTY-EIGHT: PAUL

Adding hinges to the shutters young Blackwell had cut, Paul heard the carriage driving past the inn to the manor drive. Hunt and Clare had returned! They must have changed horses and drove half the night to rush home and deal with Clement.

He finished and hurried over to the inn’s kitchen to wash up. Donning his coat over his dirty shirtsleeves, he heard voices up front, and departed through the lobby to see what was happening.

Arnaud and Thea were hanging the copy of the painting of Verity’s father being murdered. Shoved —as Verity had been. The copy wasn’t quite as detailed as the original and Arnaud had been unable to resist adding a few colorful, dramatic strokes of his own, but it was a terrifying portrait of evil.

“Rafe is chomping at the bit,” Arnaud explained, stepping back to examine his handiwork. “If that was Hunt arriving, there will no doubt be an inquisition shortly. Want to take my place?”

“Not particularly.” Paul straightened his linen. “I’ll join you, though. People are afraid. We’ll have a vigilante troop before long, burning anything in sight. That painting will...” He didn’t want to imagine how a watercolor of evil would affect the superstitious. But he was quite certain if the killer was around, he’d either flee or—try to finish whatever he’d come to do .

Unless he was a madman who simply enjoyed killing. Paul didn’t think that likely.

“The sergeant has been interrogating the prisoner this past hour.” Thea wiped her hands on a delicate handkerchief and started for the door. “After spending the morning badgering the banker’s assistant, Miss Edgerton’s solicitor, and the poor merchant who wants to buy her property. I think the solicitor and merchant fled.”

“It makes sense to question new arrivals, I suppose. I’ll have to keep him away from terrifying the Blackwells.” Paul followed them out. “We need good builders, and they have a farm around here. Have the Prescotts fled without buying the sketches?”

“Packing. If any of them attempted to push Verity down the stairs, we have no evidence,” Arnaud warned. “What does he hope to learn?”

“Who knew the killer or his whereabouts.” Paul understood the need for questioning. “The old woman from the caravan must have found another hiding place. I understand it was definitely a man they chased after Verity was pushed this morning, and he escaped on a horse. Jack and a few men are looking for it.”

“All Clement admits to was searching the cottage.” Arnaud held out his arm for Thea. “And since he was locked up, he couldn’t have pushed Verity. The new coach driver is with Hunt and his carriage and cannot be involved. Presumably, the killer needs to be someone who was in the village when Miss Edgerton died and when Verity was pushed, or we have two killers on our hands.”

“Ah, that explains why the sergeant is keeping a list of who was where and when. The poor sergeant is very worried about our intrepid schoolteacher. Her story is terrifying!” Thea hurried to keep up with Arnaud’s long strides.

Arnaud slowed down for her. “As we have ascertained before, the manor is too large to track who was where and when. The Prescotts, they claim to be in the library, but Minerva, she was loading the cart and cannot give witness. The solicitor and the hardware merchant say they were examining properties, but they could have been studying the inn. And so it goes.”

“Well, the Blackwells were with me.” Paul stopped and thought about that. “Although I was called away for a while. Confound it, they were right there behind the inn this morning!”

“Motive,” Arnaud said tersely as they reached the manor. “No one has any motive.”

“Other than hating women,” Thea said, almost tranquilly. “Killers are not necessarily rational, correct?”

“So they killed Miss Edgerton because she was female and alone, and then went after Verity for the same reason?” Paul shuddered. He’d dismissed that theory but if others hadn’t... “I wouldn’t blame anyone for abandoning Gravesyde in that event.”

Hunt’s carriage had already been unharnessed and trunks carried inside by the time they entered the manor. Taking advantage of the last hour of daylight, workers pounded on the walls of the tower. The halls bustled with servants, many of them newly hired. More people meant more could be accomplished. It also meant more problems, Paul realized. Civilization was not always civilized. He and the new bailiff had their tasks cut out for them. Hunt couldn’t do it all anymore.

Paul left Arnaud and Thea so he might stop in the library and check on Minerva. Seeing her always raised his spirits... and his hopes. As she gathered up her notes, she offered the quick smile that always thrilled him.

“Walker has had a response from the solicitor to our inquiries about Verity’s claim to be Faith Palmer. Hunt is bellowing for a meeting in the study. He wants to send Clement off to assizes and expects answers.” His fiancée took his arm and squeezed it a little in anticipation. “I like that he doesn’t mind me attending.”

“He would be a fool not to,” Paul offered truthfully as well as gallantly. “You are an astute observer of human nature as well as a most excellent researcher.”

“Observation seldom provides evidence, I fear. I can say Clement doesn’t appear to be competent enough to poison anyone, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t.” She hesitated at the foot of the grand staircase and glanced toward the gilded but backward longcase clock on the landing chiming nine. “Should we subject Verity to Hunt’s bellows?”

“She needs to be there. Can you be her shield?” Even as they spoke, he could see Verity accompanying the captain’s wife, Clare, in the upper hall. They were in earnest conversation, so he assumed the schoolteacher was being reassured that Hunt’s bellows were worse than his bite. Except, they weren’t, once the captain decided he had the evidence he needed.

Since he didn’t hear anyone in the small study, Paul assumed Hunt occupied the larger one in the new wing. With a few more servants to polish and dust, it was seeing more use.

They waited for Clare and Verity to descend, then strolled through the manor together. The schoolteacher wore one of the new gowns Lavender had made up for her. With her caramel hair in a chignon, and wearing a new bronzish colored gown, she appeared as much a lady as any of the earl’s descendants. It was hard to imagine her hiding in a cellar all those years. Or anyone cruel enough to leave a young woman there.

Minerva dropped his arm to take up Verity’s, and the two women whispered, leaving the captain’s wife to take Paul’s arm.

“I understand our new bailiff is up to all the rigs, as they say in Town.” Clare exuded the confidence that had brought the manor’s heirs together and guided them to their current cooperation, doing so with quiet dignity.

“A bit raw but Rafe leaves no stone unturned,” Paul agreed. “He’ll be a good innkeeper once the place is suitable for use.”

“Not if he drives off all his customers shouting at them,” she said in amusement. “Elsa has given me all the gossip.”

Their lady cook heard all the news first and stirred scandal broth with her delicious meals.

“I don’t suppose she has learned who wasn’t where they were supposed to be while Miss Porter was being pushed down the stairs?” Paul let Clare enter the study ahead of him.

“Not that I know of,” Clare murmured, gazing upon the full study. “This promises to be entertaining.”

In his country tweed, Rafe was pacing angrily up and down along the far wall, next to the mostly empty bookshelves. In counterpoint, Hunt had propped himself behind the massive desk with one booted foot casually flung over the arm of his chair. Walker, as always, preferred the comfortable wing chair in the far corner, where he could set his journals and notes on an empty shelf. Behind his quiet demeanor, the African steward’s brilliant brain was a force to be reckoned with.

Per usual, Hunt didn’t rise when the ladies entered. Walker, Arnaud, and Henri did. The study didn’t provide the same number of seats as the great hall Hunt used for his trials, but over the last months, several leather armchairs and miscellaneous others had found their way in here. Minerva and Verity accepted the two the gentlemen offered. They pulled them right in front of the desk so Minerva could drop her notes on the nearly empty surface. Nothing shy about his intended.

Paul settled Clare in the corner behind Hunt and propped his shoulders against the door jamb to keep an eye on the hall.

“Your tale first, Miss... Porter? Palmer?” Hunt leaned back in his chair as if having a chat with one of his friends. A big man with an intimidating scar down the side of his face, he knew how to use his size when necessary. Apparently that wasn’t now. Yet.

“Please, I prefer to be called Verity Porter now. Faith Palmer died the night of the fire. I see no need to resurrect her. She had no family or friends. If I am allowed to stay in Gravesyde, I would like to believe that Verity Porter might become someone useful.”

Rafe snorted. “In one week she has organized the town into restoring the inn and given a home to a widow, until some wretch destroyed the cottage. Upon my honor, she is furnishing a town library! Had she been a man, she’d be a general by now.”

Verity appeared to blink in surprise, then cast her eyes downward, to her folded hands. “I have done nothing but bring trouble. I will understand if you prefer that I leave.”

“Stop that foolishness!” Rafe roared. “Captain, this is a waste of all our time. We need to be out hunting the villain who tried to shove her down the stairs. There is good reason to believe he killed Miss Edgerton.”

Verity’s head jerked up at that. Along with everyone in the room, she turned to stare at the outraged sergeant.

“What makes you say that Sgt. Russell?” Hunt asked implacably.

“Because he tried to murder Verity in London, first.”

A gasp ran around the room and Hunt sat up straight. Verity stared at Rafe with eyes so wide that Paul thought they’d come off her face.

Relentlessly, the sergeant continued. “When he thought he succeeded, the killer had someone poison Miss Edgerton, who hid evidence of Verity’s father’s murder. This man lacks any conscience whatsoever. Once he realized Faith Palmer might not be dead, he tried to have her killed again. Verity, tell them when your birthday is.” Rafe quit his pacing to glare at her, as if she should have known all this.

Which, Paul thought, she probably ought to have, except she’d grown up inside of books and trusted the people around her.

“I’ll be twenty-five this Friday,” she offered tentatively.

Hunt frowned. “That’s the age when Lady Elsa came into her trust funds. Thea, did you not say you gain some control of your funds when you reach that age?”

Wide-eyed, Thea nodded. “I was supposed to marry and let my husband take charge of them. Apparently, the law fears women will foolishly marry the wrong sort or spend the funds irrationally unless we are firmly on the shelf.”

Verity shook her head. “I have no trust fund, no wealth. There is no one looking after my non-existent funds.”

“Except your uncle,” Rafe proclaimed ominously. “Who kept you hidden from any possible suitors. ”

Before anyone could react, boots pounded down the uncarpeted hallway. Paul stepped aside for one of the new young footmen.

“Captain, sir, Adam says as how there’s an altercation in the stable yard and your coachman is about to get killed!”