Page 40 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)

FORTY: RAFE

“Verity’s uncle is still out there,” Rafe warned as Clement was led away, followed by his weeping wife. They’d not been able to pry any confession from her, only imprecations and curses fitting any Gypsy witch.

They’d had to let Luther go back to polishing the carriage. At least Rafe knew the coachman hadn’t been around when Verity was pushed. Establishing anyone’s whereabouts for Miss Edgerton’s death was a knot twister.

He sipped his brandy and paced, trying to think, but he only saw Verity’s stricken face as she finally accepted that her uncle had killed her father. Tears streaked her cheeks, but she refused to leave the discussion.

“You don’t think Mrs. Clement pushed Verity?” Hunt asked, pouring the brandy into glasses and letting everyone help themselves.

The ladies declined the liquor but sent for more tea.

“She seems more than capable of killing Miss Edgerton and pushing Verity,” the librarian said, stirring sugar into her cup.

“She apparently has knowledge of herbs.” Verity clenched and unclenched her fists instead of drinking tea. “But if that was my uncle pushing my father into the path of horses and pushing worked once...”

Excellent point. Did killers use the same means every time? That would mean the uncle hadn’t killed Miss Edgerton. Rafe wanted to pin it all on her scoundrel uncle. But if Mrs. Clement had knowledge of herbs...

Rafe feared Verity might take flight at any moment, but he couldn’t deduce her thoughts. The quiet, demure schoolteacher was inwardly raging. Her cheeks had flushed with pink and her normally brown eyes had turned molten gold in fury. If he could paint, he’d portray her as a vengeful goddess—a bit scary but fascinating.

“If he knew your governess had that painting, why would your uncle wait until now to look for it?” Henri asked, sipping Hunt’s brandy. “When you think about it, why bother at all? It might serve as a warning, but if everyone thought her student dead... I can’t imagine officialdom accepting a painting as evidence, ten years after the fact.”

Walker cleared his throat and offered a letter from one of his portfolios. “I believe this might offer some explanations. Not all, of course. We need to find Mr. Palmer first. But those burned scraps may be more important than the painting.”

Halfway between the steward and the captain, Rafe took the letter. Frowning, he scanned the contents before handing it to Hunt, who produced his monocle to read it. It pretty much confirmed what Rafe had feared all along. He might not be a general, but he’d learned the enemy was wily.

Upset, Verity watched their every move. The instant Hunt set the letter down, she snatched it from the desk.

She gasped at the contents at the same time as Hunt explained to their audience. “Our solicitor located the Palmer family’s solicitors and queried them. They are in the process of transferring the late Faith Palmer’s trust funds to her uncle, her only surviving relation.”

Verity’s hands shook as she held the eye-opening letter. “They are calling my uncle my father’s executor ? Not his heir? He stood nothing to gain by my father’s death?”

“The partial burned letters we found,” Rafe reminded her. “One appeared to be an amendment to a will. The other mentions fraud and embezzlement. Had your father not died, your uncle may have been removed as executor as well, which would have ruined him completely.”

Her big eyes widened, her long lashes nearly sweeping her eyebrows. “Uncle Warren worked for Father. He meant to change his will, cutting out my uncle? For fraud?”

“Reason to kill,” Hunt said coldly. “He’d most likely been let go from the firm.”

“As executor, your uncle had access to your funds, even if he wasn’t heir,” Walker said from the back of the room. “If your father could no longer trust his brother, he most likely intended to remove him as executor. One assumes the house was part of the trust, perhaps giving you and your mother a life estate, which is why you couldn’t be removed.”

Verity clutched the letter to her breasts, a part of her anatomy that Rafe greatly admired. She wasn’t a slender woman. She wouldn’t break in his hands. And he didn’t know why he was thinking like that about a virgin—except he admired her stalwart, stubborn character as much as her pigeon-plump breasts.

“But I was told my father’s business was failing, that there were no funds, and that was why my uncle set up his business to keep the house running.”

“We’ll have to verify circumstances,” Walker said from his corner. “But my assumption would be that the burned letter mentioning embezzlement and fraud indicates what happened to some part of your father’s fortune. What business was he in?”

“Shipping,” she murmured with a puzzled frown. “He owned dozens of ships and handled the trade from his warehouse on the docks. It’s why we lived in that area. He liked keeping an eye on his possessions. He’d started out quite poor.”

“We can only speculate,” Walker warned. “But if your uncle worked for your father, he was probably entrusted with funds that he may have siphoned for his own purposes. The loss of a single ship would put your father into debt. If he discovered his savings were gone...”

Tears flowed down Verity’s cheeks. Rafe crouched down beside her. “Perhaps you should rest. This has to be distressing. There is nothing that can be done until we find your uncle.”

Her jaw set. “Oh, no, I am not resting until I find that monster. I want to push him under carriage wheels!” She glanced at the letter again as she seemed to recall more. “Clement! If he was my uncle’s driver in the painting, he’s also the one who deliberately ran over my foot! He knows more than he’s telling! He didn’t think I’d live to complain!”

The room rumbled with anger. Whoever had torn apart the cottage looking for the painting had done so with malice. And stupidity. Clement quite possibly fit the bill.

Rafe wished he could wrap Verity in wool and store her somewhere safe until the world was a happy place again, but that wasn’t happening soon. “You think Clement knew your uncle meant to set fire to your home?”

She slumped. “He may not have known everything. We can’t even prove the explosion wasn’t an accident.”

Rafe stood. “I fear that Mr. Palmer wished to claim what remained of your inheritance before the solicitors went looking for the real heir upon her twenty-fifth birthday. The coincidence is unlikely.”

“He insured the house,” Verity whispered in horror. “I remember him proudly placing the placard over the door so the fire pumps would find us. I thought he was protecting my home!”

That made much too much sense. Hunt whistled in shock. Rafe wanted to punch something, anything. But he had to use his head, not his hands, in his new position as bailiff.

Verity might not inherit her home, but she would come into insurance funds—if they could only keep her alive long enough to claim them .

Accustomed to taking orders, not giving them, Rafe had to cast his old role aside. No one else had any clear idea what to do. He knew how to organize a small troop. It was up to him to catch an embezzling killer.

“We have to assume we’re dealing with a desperate man.” Rafe returned to pacing. “Clement has admitted to driving the coach that killed Mr. Palmer, the elder. He has indicated that it is Mr. Palmer, the younger, who pushed Verity’s father to his death. We have verified that Palmer has not told his niece that she is an heiress. Instead, someone attempts to kill her before she inherits. Unless he hired someone besides Clement, that could only be her executor— her uncle . It is very likely that Mr. Palmer is here to finish the task that the explosion failed to accomplish.”

With all eyes on him, Rafe waited for someone with more experience or authority to argue with his conclusion, but no one did. They were respecting him, for reasons he did not entirely understand. He was an innkeeper, a mess sergeant. His instinct demanded that he find Warren Palmer, grab him by the neck, and shake him until his eyes bulged. But instinct didn’t apply here.

He had to keep his anger harnessed to plot and plan instead of throttle. “We know, at the time Verity says a man pushed her, that Luther was with the carriage, and Clement was locked in the cellar. The person we chased wore a frockcoat, breeches, and boots. Unless all the culprits are into wearing costumes, I will assume her attacker was a man and not Mrs. Clement. The only person who wants her dead is her uncle. Only the servants have not mentioned traveling with him and no one has seen him.”

“Palmer would have wanted to establish an alibi,” Hunt noted. “He sent his servants to do the dirty work and probably spent these past weeks very visible in the city to establish that anything happening on the other side of the country had nothing to do with him.”

“Threatening the gas company and the fire company and...” Verity murmured. “He was in the newssheets. He had to have sought them out. ”

Rafe nodded. “But his lackeys were incompetent, didn’t acquire the evidence, and killed Miss Edgerton instead of robbing her. That all fits. Palmer held an ax over Clement’s head, so his servant had no choice but to obey orders or risk gaol for running over Verity’s father. Guiltfree, Luther did not care and moved on.”

“I suppose Luther must have approached Miss Edgerton first,” Verity said, following his every word. “He’s a little more presentable than Clement. When she refused him, he gave up. He’s lazy like that. Then he came here looking for a position. So Miss Edgerton was warned that my uncle was after the ax she held over his head.”

Rafe grinned at her for using his words. She offered a faint smile back.

Minerva spoke before he could continue. “Can we assume that Miss Edgerton learned of Verity’s presumed death and threatened Mr. Palmer with the law?”

“Most likely.” Rafe paced in thought. “He may not have known precisely what was in the painting or how much evidence she had. He had to find out. Then the Clements must have warned him they’d seen someone who looked like his niece... He panicked and had to see for himself.”

“Mrs. Clement—the woman who suggested marjoram for the stew—she ran when she saw me. She knew it was me! So she warned my uncle and he came here to kill me,” Verity said in an even tone that didn’t hide her fury. “He must be here in Gravesyde!”

Killing Verity would leave no one to question her uncle’s access to her trust. Clement wasn’t a reliable witness. Rafe worked through his thoughts aloud. “Palmer is a pampered gentleman, accustomed to his creature comforts. If he’s just arrived, he won’t know how to survive without servants to look after him. We cannot know which of them poisoned Miss Edgerton or if it was even intentional, but Palmer is on his own now. He either needs to hire a killer—unlikely when he’s so far out of his element—or act quickly so he might scurry back to his rathole and pretend he was there all the time.”

He turned to Verity. “Does he know how to shoot?”

She frowned in thought. “My father carried a sword and a rapier and had a knife collection. He only owned one pistol, and it was quite old, a relict of his sailing days. My uncle sold them all. As you say, he preferred lackeys. I believe the painting proves that.”

Rafe nodded and swung on the sturdy curate who had been listening more than participating. “Mr. Upton, you know how to defend yourself?”

The clergyman blinked and straightened. “I do, sir. I grew up rough.”

“You are the only one of us who matches Verity’s height. How would you fare in skirts?”