Page 12 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
EIGHT: RAFE
A bailiff and hound trainer—farbetter than a beggar, Rafe concluded after his discussion with Captain Huntley. He had no notion of what a bailiff might do, but he knew dogs. With the dangling carrot of rebuilding the inn, he could do no less than accept.
Fletch had accepted Jack’s offer to work training his stable of carriage horses, while both of them oversaw the rebuilding of anElizabethaninn. That’s what the captain’s wife had called it, leastways. Fletch called it a rubble pile of history. Neither of them had any notion of where to start rebuilding, but army life had taught them to improvise.
For what it was worth, it seemed Gravesyde Priory Village was Rafe’s new home. He’d have to write his parents. Maybe, one day, they could join him here. They knew everything there was to be known about running an inn. Pity they no longer had one.
He filled his always empty belly at the funeral buffet, listening for stories of his new home. The men talked of weather and crops. He heard no tales of the deceased, which he supposed was a good thing. The women might know more, but they whispered among themselves. As bailiff, he’d have to learn about Miss Edgerton somehow.
Because that had been no idle thief climbing the apple tree, despite what he’d told Mrs. Porter. Wolfie had paced the yard, following the culprit as he searched for a way over the wall or through the locked gates. Rafe had known the apple tree was the weak point in the yard’s defenses. He’d simply waited for the gent to summon the courage. The breaking branch had sent the thief scrambling, ruining his chance to catch him.
Rafe was rather certain it hadnotbeen a woman in skirts throwing their legs over that dead branch. He might understand a woman needing her herbals but a man? Had the lady provided elixirs for men? A bailiff should ask, he thought.
A man climbing a tree to break into a dead woman’s meager cottage had to have a very strong motive—not that it hadn’t taken an even stronger motive to kill the lady. Former governesses generally did not hide secret treasure troves, or even enough coins, to risk burglary.
Miss Edgerton had been killed for a reason and that reason was most likely still in the cottage.
When he noticed the widow slipping out the churchyard gate, Rafe followed.
He only had this one suit of civilian clothes left, and he was aware of their wrinkled state. An officer wore a uniform, so he’d not wasted coin on buying a fancy top hat. He was conscious of his scruffiness as he strode up beside her.
“You should not be alone, Mrs. Porter.” As usual, he had not spent much time thinking this through. “Do you have plans to stay in Gravesyde?”
She limped. Her walking stick was not an affectation like the captain’s. From what little he could tell, her cloak and bonnet were of decent quality. Her accent wasn’t aristocratic but educated. He had the notion that she wasn’t poor, just bereaved.
“I have no plans at all,” she admitted with a sigh. “I cannot remember the last time I could say that.”
He wanted to know more, but if he meant to be presumptuous, it would be for good purpose. “If you plan on staying at MissEdgerton’s cottage, you must be aware that it is not safe. Mrs. Walker has determined that the tea in the pot contained poison. It is possible the culprit was after something in the cottage and your arrival prevented his finding it.”
She’d lowered her veil again and he couldn’t see her expression, but she eventually nodded, whether with agreement or approval, he could not say.
“Miss Edgerton urged me to visit. She said I might help her set up a school for the young children arriving here as the manor grows.” She sounded thoughtful but did not expound further.
“The manor folk appear to be reasonable. Have you spoken with them?” Having grown up in a popular inn, he’d never been particularly awkward around women or anyone, but he couldn’t help watching his words with a grieving widow. He wanted to take her arm, help her walk the rutted road, but he was aware her head barely reached his shoulder, and she might possibly be terrified of him.
“I should, I suppose. But there is so much uncertainty...” She gestured with a gloved hand. “I would like to know why she had to die. It does not seem reasonable. Was it spite? Anger? Teachers are not wealthy. How can I understand?”
“You want to understandwhyshe died and notwhokilled her?” he asked, a little off balance at the path her mind had taken.
She stopped at the garden gate. This time, she removed her veil and faced him directly. She had huge brown eyes with little gold flecks that he’d like to spend more time studying, except she smacked him with words.
“Peoplekill. As a soldier, you senselessly killed other men like yourself. My father was a sea captain who fought naval battles and sent countless poor sailors to their watery graves. Someone cudgeled him to death on his way home and robbed him of everything he carried, which was seldom much. I have seen children run over in the street as if they were no more than rats to be eradicated. I have some understanding of why those deaths happened.But Miss Edgerton... If I could only understand...” Her voice broke, and she turned to unlock the gate.
He held the panel so she could swing past with her stick, then followed her in and locked it for her. “Miss Edgerton was not a soldier, had no money, and did nothing more dangerous than help the village women and children. I understand what you are saying. But chances are very good that she possessedsomethingthat someone wanted. You are not safe staying here alone.” There, he’d said it.
She halted on the flagstone walkway, with the dead heads of flowers brushing against her black skirt, and turned back to him. “I know nothing of you except that you arrived the same day I did.”
Sensible lass. He removed his cap and bowed. “I am former Quartermaster Sergeant Rufus Russell, known as Rafe, from Norfolk. I served with Lt. Jack de Sackville in Spain. He can vouch for me. My parents owned an inn until moneylenders took it away. I can provide references that I never harmed anyone in the serving of apple cakes.”
A small smile tilted the corner of her full lips. “I love apple cakes. I haven’t had them in ever so long.” The smile faded. “But it is not done. I brought no maid. I knew Miss Edgerton had little room.”
“I can pitch my tent in the yard as I did last night. I can rummage food and cook with the best of them. If I make inquiries about a maid, can you pay her?” He hadn’t come this far without being rude and crude. He had never pretended to be a gentleman.
If possible, those big eyes widened even more. “You would do that? Why? You don’t know me. You owe me nothing.”
“Does someone need to owe you before offering to be of service? Although, in this case, you are helping me. I have nowhere to stay. I could, conceivably, sleep in that crumbling inn, but I’d still worry about your wellbeing. I have to eat. There is no reason we can’t share our resources. Miss Edgerton has a fine garden.” Always establish a home base with food and watersources—he’d learned that early on. Once he was fed, he could handle whatever happened.
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. I’ve never been much interested in food. I don’t even know how to cook a potato, although I suppose I might learn. There are books about such things, are there not?” Her pale brow puckered.
