Page 10 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
“It’s all right, Mrs. Porter.” The carrot-haired man approached, returning a sword to a scabbard. “Probably a thief looking to see what he could find.”
She’d have to grow accustomed to her new name. She almost looked over her shoulder for the stout old widow she’d stolen it from. Talking, she knew how to do. “Thank you, sir. People can be wicked. Stealing from the dead!”
“The dead limbs from that old tree should be cut out, but they served their purpose this evening. Might I help you?”
He had been so very courteous... “May I have your name, sir?”
He scrubbed his big hand through his thick curls. “Just call me Rafe, please. I’m not an officer anymore, and I’m not much of a mister either.”
“Oh.” That seemed odd. She didn’t know if she could do that. “Rafe? Is that short for Ralph?”
He sighed. “No, ma’am. For Rufus. I just wearied of the snickering when so-called gentlemen thought I was too stupid to know it meantred.”
She understood senseless snickering. “Your parents must have loved your hair to name you so. My father told me that people who laugh behind one’s back are too rude to be acknowledged, and that I’m better than they. Which makes me better than most of the population, I suspect. It’s lonely at the top.” She offered a smile and walked past his rather stunned expression.
Could she do this? Could she become this Verity Porter she pretended to be? A widow with a modicum of wealth and no friends in the world?
And if Miss Edgerton had been murdered...Could she find her killer?
There was a notion she’d like to cram back in its box.
First, after visiting the privy, she needed to look for loose floorboards. She hadn’t told anyone about her teacher’s dying words. There was the reason she was trying so hard not to think.
SUNDAY
SEVEN: PAUL
With the sunlightfrom the ancient stained-glass windows illuminating his congregation, Paul studied their faces from his pulpit. The tiny chapel couldn’t hold all the manor inhabitants. Over the summer, he’d built as many pews as he could with wood ripped from old barns and sheds. Some of his regulars from the village had hauled in ragged sofas and splintery benches. And still, the little chapel overflowed this fine September morning, spilling into the churchyard.
A real-life drama attracted as much of an audience as any theatrical production.
He made mental notes of who attended. Miss Edgerton must have known her killer. He hated thinking that person was among his congregation, but the village was still very, very small.
The majority of his parishioners had remained for the funeral service. Everyone had known Miss Edgerton. She’d taught children their letters and numbers, apparently dispensed herbals upon request, and gladly contributed what she could to the chapel now that it was functional again.
The ladies from the manor faithfully attended, so their appearance was no surprise. But with a potential killer on the loose, themanor’s men had accompanied the ladies, as they often didn’t. Paul wanted to believe the killer was an outsider.
He thought the stately couple squeezed in beside the manor folk might be the Prescotts, dealers interested in buying some of the former priory’s medieval furniture. They remained seated for Miss Edgerton’s service. Why would they attend a funeral? Certainly not for the pageantry.
Several of the men visiting the manor had attended Sunday services, also, but were now departing before the funeral. Paul recognized the banker’s assistant, a Mr. Smith, who had brought a Mr. Sullivan to look at village properties. Surely, they had not known a local herbalist.
The hired help from the orchard, along with several workers rebuilding the manor’s tower, generally didn’t attend but were here now. Curiosity seekers, no doubt.
He’d been introduced to the Blackwells, father and son, who were restoring the tower to some of its former glory. Had the teacher talked to them about repairs?
Even Clement, the drunken apple picker, sat respectfully, hat in hand. He had a woman with him. Paul hadn’t thought the manor had provided housing for families. The village had always been where the workers stayed. Unfortunately, Gravesyde had been abandoned for so long that most of the cottages were uninhabitable.
A more unlikely collection of suspects couldn’t be found. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to be suspicious of anyone attending church.
He was relieved to note that his betrothed had taken the newly-arrived widow in hand. One of the many reasons he loved Minerva was that she knew what to do without being asked. A lifetime of following the army with her father had taught her far more than most ladies knew.
Mrs. Porter wore the heavy blacks she’d traveled in, hiding behind the enormous, veiled hat, sitting in an alcove where she wasn’t visible to the entire congregation.
The big, red-haired soldier sat near her—as guard? He’d shaved and combed his hair for the occasion.
Out of respect, after the service, the gentlemen from the manor carried the coffin to Henri’s peddler’s cart. Over the last months, the old covered cart had been used as a hearse far too often. The ladies stayed behind to set up tables of food for the mourners. Paul hoped Mrs. Porter would take some comfort in hearing about her friend.
After saying words over the grave and leaving the gravediggers to finish their sad task, Paul walked back to the village. To his surprise, Captain Huntley and former Lt. Jack de Sackville accompanied him, along with the two newly arrived soldiers.
