Page 48 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
“Can’t hang anyone for being a bad fisherman,” Hunt pointed out. “There might be laws about dressing badly, but I’m not inclined to enforce them. How do I punish a man who steals a lady’s hat?”
“He had lamp black on his hands.” The curate didn’t take a brandy but helped himself to a sandwich. “He was in the cottage.”
“That might count as evidence for ransacking,” Hunt agreed, “if we don’t tell the judge everyone in town was covered in soot.”
“Can Ned write a statement about what he saw?” Rafe knew he was in well over his head but he desperately looked for ways to keep the drunken sot locked up. He didn’t believe Verity could take much more, and he harbored a strong urge to keep her where he could find her. He didn’t try to sort that out.
“Ned can write. I’ll have him do that.” Hunt paced the large study.
Good thing there wasn’t any carpet, Rafe thought, or it would have a path in it by now. “I’d have people write up statements that Clement wasn’t anywhere near the inn, except if he was wearing skirts, then he may have been the lady in black.”
Lt. Jack strode in, his usually genial expression twisted in anger. “The dastard knifed the mattresses and sofas. I’d say he didn’t even know about the painting. One doesn’t hide artwork in sofas! You may as well have left the place to burn. Mrs. Porter can’t move back in.”
“She’ll take exception to that,” Rafe said gloomily. “She has Lavender looking for old clothes she can wear to clean in. We’d have to refuse to hang a new door, and then she’d no doubt hire someone on her own.”
“Thank all that is holy that you had the sense to bring thebooks to the library.” Upton sipped water to wash down his bread. “And that you have Clement locked up so he can’t come here looking for them. Minerva is searching the books more thoroughly, hoping to find something we’ve missed, but if he was tearing up mattresses, it’s not books he’s looking for either.”
“Does it strike anyone as odd that this medieval void in the middle of nowhere has so damned many books?” Hunt asked, drinking his brandy as he paced. “Oswald says a cart arrived today with a load of crates labeledbooks, addressed to your Mrs. Porter.”
Verity had mentioned shipping books. He probably ought to have a look at them. “There’s your treasure,” Rafe said wearily, standing. “Jewels are useless. Books are far more precious.”
They all swung to stare at him.
He shrugged. “That’s obvious, isn’t it? The books in the library tell us the inn belongs to the estate, not the bank. The ones in the teacher’s library tell us what plants are good to eat and which ones to avoid. Books will teach the children how to do mathematics and count their coins so they don’t get cheated. Books hold secrets that can open a path to success. The earl’s treasure is his library.”
Hunt topped off his brandy. “Smart man. We want to keep you around. Take the snifter up to bed and get some sleep. Maybe in the morning you can persuade our prisoner to tell us what he’s looking for.”
Rafe was tempted. He was very tempted. But he wasn’t just rambling when he said books held secrets. He wanted to see the library Verity had shipped. She hadn’t brought a maid or clothes but she had somehow saved books from the fire that had destroyed her wardrobe? He hadn’t given that puzzle much consideration until now.
The curate followed him out. “Did my mother show you to one of the guestrooms?”
“She did. I don’t want to sleep on her clean sheets until I take a dive in the river and see if I can rescue some clean clothes. Mrs.Porter will want fresh garments in the morning, so I need to gather those too.” Aiming for a back door, he left the brandy snifter outside the infirmary. He could hear an infant wailing in the apartment he knew the physician and her steward husband occupied.
Someday, he’d like to have wee ones of his own. Maybe when he was old and gray.
“Lavender will provide for Mrs. Porter. The manor has a bathtub with plumbing. I can show you to it.” The smaller curate matched him step for step.
“Does Mr. Oswald live above his mercantile?” Rafe nodded at the young footman hurrying to unlock the garden door and offer them a lantern.
“He does.” Upton took the lantern and followed him out, apparently determined to dog Rafe’s steps. “The books should be safe with him. Henri can haul them up to the manor in the morning. Do you really think they’re important?”
“We just caught a man wearing skirts who tried to burn down a cottage and may have murdered a teacher. I don’t know what’s important any longer.” And he didn’t. He was acting on an instinct that had saved his life more than once. This might not be war, but it was starting to feel like it.
“Oswald will most likely be at the tavern at this hour. I’ll ask him to let us in the store.” Accepting Rafe’s explanation, the curate followed him down the drive, admiring the chilly autumn night. “I hope there aren’t many books. I don’t think there are many places left to store them.”
“The inn,” Rafe said grumpily. “It would be easy enough to start a library at the inn, once it’s not leaking.”
“One everyone could share?” Paul asked with interest.
“That would be up to the lady, wouldn’t it?” Rafe considered the notion while the curate ran into the tavern to talk to old Mr. Oswald.
If Verity wished to be a teacher, she’d need books for the children.
He was getting ahead of himself. He had a murder to solve first.
The curate emerged from the tavern with a ring of keys and proceeded down the empty street. “After today’s activities, I’m amazed everyone isn’t tucked into bed. That was an astounding amount of work accomplished in one day.”
“I haven’t had a moment free to appreciate it,” Rafe admitted gruffly. “Chasing after crooks in skirts and rescuing ladies from ruined houses takes time. I am more than grateful for all the assistance.”
