Page 5 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)

FIVE: RAFE

Rafe had spent these last years of war following orders, thinking only for himself when he sought food to feed hungry troops or had time to find a willing woman.

Survival had been his only plan for so long, that food and shelter were always his first instinct. He had a few dreams, but planning had been impossible under the daily threat of dying.

Without funds, he didn’t see how that could change now.

From habit, he took orders from strangers who knew the circumstances better than he. The only dead ladies he’d seen lately had been shot by enemy troops, and the cause of death had been obvious. A lonely spinster keeling over after drinking tea... Just after a widow lady arrived... Not his bailiwick.

“No, I cannot leave her,” the widow quietly insisted when the other ladies tried to persuade her away. “She was always there for me. I must do the same for her. Please, I will pay for all the arrangements, if you’ll tell me what I must do. I just can’t...” She sobbed into her handkerchief again.

Rafe could tell the others were flummoxed by her insistence. It didn’t seem rational to him, either. Death was just another stage of life as far as he was concerned. Still, he hated seeing a woman in distress .

He waited until he could pull the curate aside again. “Is it safe to leave a woman alone here? Is there some chance the death was other than it seems? I can set up a guard post in the garden, if that’s your concern.”

That wasn’t overly rational either. He needed to go begging with Fletch. But he wasn’t ready for that step yet, and so he did what he always did, followed instinct.

“Jack could set up some of his stable lads...” The curate looked troubled. “But he’s not at the manor today. And the men he uses...”

“You don’t know me either,” Rafe acknowledged. “When will Jack return?” He’d known they shouldn’t show up unannounced.

“By evening. His wife is the cook at the manor. If he can’t vouch for you, then we’ll make other arrangements. You’re kind to offer for a stranger.”

Rafe thought the Honorable Jack’s wife was an earl’s daughter not a cook... “I’ve naught else to do this evening. I was planning on bedding down in that crumbling inn.”

“I still hate to ask it of you. Miss Edgerton lived here for years without trouble.” Upton wrinkled his brow in concern. “Although there is reason for doubt about her death. And if this Mrs. Porter...” They’d finally pried a name out of the widow. He shrugged. “It’s an odd coincidence. Perhaps she’s here to rob the place, although I cannot imagine there is anything of value.”

Rafe shrugged off any notion that a weeping widow was a killer. “If there’s someone to act as chaperone, I can patrol the grounds. Fletch can go up and see Jack, have his dinner, then take a turn later.”

The curate rubbed his hand against his trousers, clearly troubled. “What concerns me is that if someone did kill her... then Mrs. Porter’s arrival may have interrupted them. She says Miss Edgerton was still alive when she entered. Did she disturb a thief? Someone who wished to search the cottage?”

“Should we question the neighbors? Looks to me like they’d all see anyone on the street, like you saw us, and we saw the carriage.”

Upton gestured toward the kitchen. “The hedge hides anyone coming along the footpath. I suspect, if Miss Edgerton did dispense herbals, the people who bought them wouldn’t use the front door.”

Rafe grimaced. “Sadly true.”

The plump Indian lady approached, a steely look in her eyes. “I would like to see the garden before the sun goes down. You are the gentleman familiar with herbs?”

Rafe bowed. “My sainted mother once had a garden twice that size.” He offered his arm. “May I escort you?”

“If you would. There are plants I do not grow due to their toxicity. Children and animals are indiscriminate about what they taste.” The short, black-haired physician took his arm and without glancing in either direction, nearly tugged him through the kitchen and into the yard.

Rafe had never met a female physician, but he wasn’t questioning this one’s competence. People often dismissed him as a thick-headed lout because of his appearance. He’d learned as a boy to judge by deeds.

Once out of the widow’s hearing, he asked, “There is some chance of poison?”

“Some. It is hard to say since I was not here to observe any symptoms. Most poisons cause purging, and I see no sign of that, so if there was anything fatal in the tea, it acted quickly.” Once in the garden, the plump physician released his arm and went to work, examining each plant, dismissing the usual, focusing on the less obvious.

The autumn scents of decaying foliage and coneflowers made him homesick. At this time of year, many of the plants were no more than brown stalks and dry leaves. His mother had often left the stalks so she could identify the location of roots. Mrs. Walker evidently had experience. She didn’t dismiss brown clumps but examined them the same way as she did the green .

In moments, she gestured him over. “You are familiar with herbs?”

“Only those used for cooking,” he admitted. “My parents owned an inn.” He eyed the rich soil she pointed out. “Someone’s been digging roots.”

“I buy my more dangerous herbs in powdered form just so this sort of thing doesn’t happen. If need be, will you stand witness of what we see here? Captain Huntley is magistrate, and he’s most strict about any evidence he’s presented.”

An army officer as magistrate... not a noble, or at the very least, a lawyer? If an earl’s daughter could be a cook... Another eccentric bend to this village. “I’ll write out what we find. We can have Fletch and the curate witness it.”

“Call them now, please. There is more than this one place. It still means nothing, but it’s a direction.” She sat down on a garden bench to wait while he fetched witnesses.

Returning to civilian life would take some adjustment. He ought to be commanding his few troops instead of following orders from brown ladies in red shawls. But murder in a peaceful village and not a battlefield... was beyond his ken.

Fletch raised his eyebrows at Rafe’s request but willingly followed, along with the anxious curate.

The little apothecary rose with a long stick that had been leaning against the bench and pointed at a patch of hard ground in the back of the garden. “Mud, perhaps a footstep.” She moved the stick to a dug-up patch. “That is monkshood, also called wolfsbane and formally named aconite. The Greeks used it as arrow poison. Someone has dug the root, the most toxic part of the plant.”

“Why would she grow poison in an herb garden?” the curate asked in dismay.

“Like people, every plant has a good side and a bad side. Aconite tinctures are used for anything from sciatica to anxiety and headaches. She most likely had formulas already prepared in her pantry or cellar. I spoke with her once when she complained of an irregular heartbeat. She knew a great deal about folk medicine and recognized her symptoms, but she would have used the leaves to treat it. The root taken alone... deadly. But that’s not all.” The lady pointed to a large bush in the back corner.

“Belladonna,” Fletch said, surprisingly. “It can kill cattle. That’s not natural here, is it?”

Fletch’s family owned land, Rafe knew. He hadn’t known about cattle.

Mrs. Walker nodded agreement. “Birds sometimes carry the seeds. She may have found it in a hedgerow or ordered it from someone. Women have used it for cosmetic purposes since ancient times, as a means of dilating pupils to make the eyes beautiful, so it’s not impossible to find. It’s also used in any number of medicines, for wound treatment, gout, anesthetics...”

“And it’s poisonous?” the curate asked.

“Extremely, every part of it, one of the most toxic of plants. Again, I would not expect it to kill instantly. I cannot tell if this plant has been tampered with. It’s much too large.” She returned to the path and handed the stick to Rafe. “If she was treating herself for a heart arrythmia, and someone mixed a tincture of belladonna and aconite, it might have been sufficient to stop her heart almost instantly. The human body is a mystery.”

“They could very well have expected her to simply pass out while they searched the place,” Rafe suggested. “They may not have known that Miss Edgerton had a heart condition.”

“Exactly. If you will write up a note that says you observed the footstep, the disturbed roots, and so forth, we may all sign it. It may come to nothing, but if it becomes necessary, I want it to be clear that we all witnessed this.”

Rafe’s respect for the physician rose a few more degrees. As he found paper and ink and wrote up the summary, his mind toyed with the idea of a village where educated people gathered... He’d still starve.

While they signed the statement, Miss Peniston, Minerva —Rafe was trying to learn proper names since the people here seemed to be very casual—joined them in the kitchen.

“I have found someone to sit with Mrs. Porter. There’s a box bed in the corner where they can take turns resting.” She nodded at what appeared to be a cabinet with painted designs.

The curate hugged her. “Thank you. I don’t think she should be left alone.” He glanced to Rafe. “Do you still wish to stand guard?”

“Wolfie can guard the front door. I need to bed down my horse and fetch my gear, then I can set up here in the back. Unless an outsider has a key, the gate can be locked. The walls are not easily climbed, but there’s an apple tree in that back corner...”

“You really think that’s necessary?” Miss Peniston frowned worriedly, glancing back at the front room where the widow sat in mourning.

“Yes,” the apothecary said firmly. “I have to feed Moses and must go back to the manor or I’d sit with her a while. I advise locking the gates, the doors, the pantry, and gathering all the keys and guarding them, as a precaution, you understand.”

“I’ll fetch your gear and take the horses up to the manor,” Fletch offered. “What time do you want me to take over?”

Rafe had studied the well-supplied pantry. He already knew the village had no inn or pub to provide a meal. It was either the manor or here. Here, he wouldn’t have to beg for his supper. “Come down in the morning. I’ll pitch my tent where any thief will have to step over me. I can’t imagine any will try.”

Fletch snorted, knowing Rafe was simply avoiding the inevitable. But hoping for a free meal and bed, the major didn’t argue.

The matter settled, Rafe returned to the back garden to check the gate and the apple tree. The latch was unlocked but the key hung beside it. He locked it and pocketed the key, then studied the tree leaning over from the neighboring yard. The limbs were old and half-dead.

He reckoned he’d hear the branch cracking if anyone attempted entry that way.