Page 36 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
“Don’t touch it with your hands,” Minerva appeared at the top of the stairs. “If it’s very old, you’ll ruin the paper.”
“I don’t think it’s that old.” Paul twisted the bundle upright so it would slide through the narrow opening. “The oilcloth looks almost new.” He laid it flat on the rag rug.
Verity arrived after Minerva. Her eyes widened in surprise. “More illustrations?”
The package was, indeed, flat and page-sized. “Would you care to open it, Mrs. Porter?” Paul eased the package across the floor to where she waited, wringing her hands. Her expression was hard to read.
“Verity, please.” The widow kneeled and tugged tentatively at the string. It didn’t open easily. She had to wrangle with the knot before peeling back the oilcloth.
“A lantern,” Minerva suggested. The dark page revealed was nearly impossible to see. “The light from the window isn’t sufficient.”
“We could take it downstairs,” Rafe said dryly.
“Not if we must hide it again.” Paul dashed down to grab a lantern. Punching bread dough, Mrs. Underhill glanced at him with curiosity, but he didn’t stop to explain.
The lamplight illuminated a watercolor painted in blacks, grays, and browns, with only a hint of color here and there. The red...
Verity gasped as she studied the image.
Paul gaped in horror at a nightmare scene of a black carriage racing down a cobbled midnight street—and a man in a dark frockcoat falling beneath the horses’ feet.
“My father,” Verity whispered in horror.
TWENTY-TWO: VERITY
Verity’s handsshook as she lifted the small, very detailed watercolor of a rainy night, a racing carriage... and a cloaked figure, hands upraised, as if shoving the gentleman under the wheels. The illustrator had brilliantly depicted the action—and the result—of what must have been an instant’s work. And the victim’s horrified expression as he hit the pavement.
She’d recognize her father’s mustache and red pocket handkerchief anywhere. As a former sea captain, he’d sported facial hair most of his life. Her mother had made him trim it. Tears rolled down her cheeks at the memories.
Her thoughts spun wildly, leaving her unaware of her audience until pragmatic Minerva examined the rest of the documents.
“Bring the lantern closer, please. This looks like a piece of a letter saved from a fire.”
Verity had been told her father had been cudgeled and robbed. Or had she just overheard whispers? She’d been very young and the adults hadn’t tried to explain. It was possible no one had explained the horror to her mother either.
Verity only half listened as the others talked around her. She tried to identify the coachman or the cloaked gentleman, but their faces weren’t more than a blur in the rain. Had Miss Edgertonseen this scene? It was so very detailed... The carriage had a gold stripe around the base and gold-painted spokes. The tails of the horses were bobbed and beribboned. The cloak had a fur lining, and the gentleman’s hat stood taller than most. He was clean shaven...
“Verity,” Rafe said gently, trying to remove the sketch from her hands. “You said this is your father?”
She widened her eyes and stared at him in horror. She should never ever have said that. What had she done?
She’d trusted these people with Miss Edgerton’s last words and now...
They had been abouther? No, no, Faith was dead. Verity had a future...
She shook her head, unable to grasp the implications, the awfulness...
“This isn’t just a letter,” Minerva said. “I think there are pieces of a will in here. The language is formal. It’s as if someone threw a wad of documents on the fire and Miss Edgerton retrieved them.”
As if sensing her distress, Marmie padded out of her hiding place to bump Faith’s... Verity’s... elbow. She lifted the kitten to her face and buried her anguish. She wished she’d never said anything. She’d been right to be cautious. How could she possibly explain? She couldn’t. She simply couldn’t. She just wanted to be Verity, the schoolteacher.
She wasn’t even that.
“Verity, Mrs. Porter,” Rafe said gently, “Miss Edgerton may have been killed for these papers. We need to understand what they mean.”
“I don’t know!” she replied hysterically. “I don’t know. I was only fifteen... Why would she do this? Why would she paint anything so dreadful?”
“Blackmail?” Mr. Upton suggested tentatively.
