Page 30 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
“If there is anything in the cottage a killer might want, where might Miss Edgerton have hidden it?” she finally asked.
He took a slug of cider and thought about it. “Do we take apart the walls?”
“And what do we look for,” she added with a sigh. “What would a maiden lady teacher hide that anyone might want? She did not have riches, unless she was a thief.”
He shrugged. “Papers of some sort, if we assume extortion and that she wasn’t a thief. Might she have kept documents from some prior position that are valuable?”
“Why now?” She fell silent again, her pale brow pulled down in a V.
That’s when the little light in his brainpan woke up. “Who was her last student, do we know?” He tried to remember the dates in the medical records. They’d only been kept over these last years...
“Me,” she whispered. “She returned here after my father died.”
NINETEEN: VERITY
Verity shutup after her admission that Miss Edgerton hadn’t worked as a teacher since Milton Palmer’s death—because then she might have to admit that, as far as the world knew, Faith Palmer, Miss Edgerton’s last student, had just died. She didn’t see how there could be any connection but should Rafe start looking for Miss Edgerton’s last employer... Deception was much harder than she’d realized.
Verity finished her meal, took a handful of hazelnuts Rafe had caramelized, and climbed down from the table. Rafe could carry the basket and lantern when he was done prowling his drafty inn. She was returning to the cottage. She didn’t expect to encounter danger in the village’s one street, where she’d meet no more than stray dogs and an occasional cat. If some thief was creeping into her home, she’d take a skillet to his head. She had worse to ponder than thieves.
Why had Miss Edgerton quit teaching after she’d left London?
She limped out, stewing. Moments later, she was aware of Rafe’s lantern light following. He could have stayed. He didn’t need to hover. She’d walked London’s filthy streets at this hour without harm for years. She’d have been in far more danger had she stayed in London.
Which gave her another chill. Why had her father’s beautiful home blown up?
That was simply too self-centered and pathetic to consider for long. She wasnobody. They hadn’t even searched for her body, so she was quite literally without a body or a grave. No one had cared enough to look. Charming thought.
But after her safe haven had been turned to rubble, her only friend in the world had died. Bad luck? Coincidence? Either notion haunted her, giving her cold chills.
The tavern was even noisier than earlier. She’d heard that the curate’s sister often sang early in the evening. She’d like to listen. She loved music but seldom had a chance for more than the ponderous psalms in church. She never thought she’d miss her piano until her uncle had sold it. She’d only been allowed to attend her first musicale when...
She hesitated outside the tavern. Angry voices, not music, carried through the open doorway. The very small building appeared to be packed to capacity. Was that usual?
Before she could walk past, a man flew backward through the opening, hitting the ground at her feet. Since he was cursing and holding his jaw, she assumed he wasn’t badly hurt. She stepped away just as Rafe arrived, catching her waist, and setting her behind him.
“Hold these,” he ordered, passing her the basket and lantern, ordering Wolfie to stay.
Before she could even think to object, he waded his way into the shouting crowd. His voice of command rang over the noisy argument, and the argument lessened, to some extent.
The tall, scowling young man at her feet staggered up and threw himself back into the brawl.
Luther? Had that been Luther? Her addled thoughts must have conjured memories of home. Her uncle’s lazy footman never left London as far as she knew. He liked his pretty uniform too much to take another position. The man on the ground... had merely been tall. He wore no gold buttons. Her fear was driving her mad.
She strained to see inside the tavern but it was shoulder to shoulder men. If Patience was singing tonight, she was hiding behind the bar.
A tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man—Henri, the tavern owner, she thought—carved a path through the melee, followed by two gentlemen. One was Mr. Culliver, the solicitor, the other, she didn’t recognize. Once safely deposited outside, they brushed themselves off and warily regarded the tall wolfhound.
“Mr. Culliver,” she said, dying of curiosity. “I hope you are not harmed?”
He jerked his head up, and seeing her, bowed. “Mrs. Porter. We are unharmed, thank you.”
The other gentleman straightened his neckcloth and offered a hasty bow. “Our pardons, ma’am. There seems to be some quarrel over who was where on the day of a lady’s death. I am uncertain of the relevance.”
Verity raised her eyebrows expectantly, a trick she’d learned from her mother.
Mr. Culliver hastily gestured at his companion. “Mr. Sullivan, a gentleman pursuing the possibility of setting up a shop in Gravesyde. We were discussing property prices when the fracas began.”
“I assume it was established that neither of you were in town on Saturday night?” she asked in amusement.
