Page 16 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
“That’s worth a thought. But seriously, do you know of anyone who might wish a poor teacher harm? I cannot leave Mrs. Porter unguarded until we catch the villain.” He counted on a parson’s family to know everyone hereabouts.
She frowned and shook her loose blond curls. “I cannot think anyone from the village would harm Miss Edgerton. She was near enough to a saint. She taught children, provided medicinals for a reasonable fee, and gave the bounty from her garden to the church. She always had flowers for the altar.”
“Doesn’t the manor have an apothecary? Why would anyoneconsult a governess for their medicines?” He cracked eggs into the pottery bowl with the butter he’d melted.
Patience wrinkled her small nose. “Meera is a foreigner to them. She’s not white or Anglican. Rural folk have little experience with people different from them and are slow to trust. Miss Edgerton’s family has lived in Gravesyde since time immemorial, so they trust her. Whether anyone knows it or not, Meera and Miss Edgerton consulted and exchanged herbs and recipes. When a physician was needed, Miss Edgerton sent them to Meera.”
So, competition was no factor, good to know. He liked the plump little physician. “So, you’re saying we need to look at newcomers? How many can there be?”
“More than usual,” she said with a small frown. “Now that the manor has come into a little money, they have hired a coachman and several footmen. I have hired men to pick the orchard. Hunt and Arnaud are hiring laborers and craftsmen to renovate the tower. Those people are almost all strangers, although some may have lived here years ago, and left when the manor was abandoned. Now that the war had ended, there are many men returning home and seeking jobs. We cannot know everyone.”
Footsteps on the stairs warned they were about to be interrupted. He returned to mixing his cake.
Patience smiled at the less than smiling Mrs. Underhill. “Well, will you think about it?”
“My granddaughter’s house is very crowded. With the new babe coming...” Mrs. Underhill waved her chubby hand vaguely. “This will suit. I’ll fetch my things.”
“I will do my best to make you feel at home,” Mrs. Porter assured her. “Your company is much appreciated.”
Rafe figured that was quite a lie but a polite one to reassure an old woman on the brink of making a large adjustment. He was reasonably good at gauging character, but the young widow was a bit elusive. One minute, she was a lost waif unwilling to voice an opinion. The next, she commanded an assurance he would not expect from a young woman faced with a murdered hostess.
Once the ladies had left to fetch Mrs. Underhill’s belongings, the widow returned from the front room with a handful of what appeared to be letters, carefully unfolded and flattened. Her confidence had returned to hesitancy, as if she didn’t wish to show them to him. She had no particularly good reason to trust him.
As he had no good reason to trust her. They were both stranded in this strange land alone. Rafe poured the batter into a pan and lifted a quizzical eyebrow.
“Motive,” she said with resignation. “If you are the new bailiff...”
He had no notion what a bailiff did, but if it placed him on the manor’s payroll, he’d accept the title. He slid the pan into the bread oven, wiped his hands on a thin towel, and took the papers. Reading quickly, he frowned and handed them back. “I don’t understand.”
She set them down and opened the pantry. “Abortive physics. Preventives. Possibly even means of rendering a man...” She gestured helplessly. “Mrs. Edgerton helped women with female problems.” She studied the neatly labeled herbs on the shelves. “I don’t know enough. We’ll have to ask Mrs. Walker to take a look.”
Even married women generally didn’t know about such things. What kind of life had she led before coming here? Rafe wasn’t certain he wanted to know.
“You think a man would kill her for providingpreventives?” he asked warily.
“Possibly. But if she used this information to ask for money to prevent scandal...” She winced and closed the pantry doors, her eyes speaking wells of pain and knowledge.
“Extortion,” he said for her. “People have killed for less.”
MONDAY
ELEVEN: PAUL
After a requestfrom the manor’s new bailiff, Paul escorted Meera Walker to Miss Edgerton’s—apparently now the widow’s—cottage on Monday morning. As a curate, he was in a position to know most of the village inhabitants, and he’d like a killer brought to justice as swiftly as possible. He simply could not fathom a motive.
Having been warned by the hound’s bark, Mrs. Porter emerged, without her hat but still using her stick, to unlock the gate. The enormous wolfhound sniffed and waggled his tail in recognition, allowing them to pass. Entering the cottage, Paul could hear clomping footsteps and a low mumble overhead that indicated Mrs. Underhill at work.
“She has taken the beds out for airing and has the linen soaking,” the widow murmured, leading them back to the kitchen. “I am afraid once she has scrubbed the floors, she will not allow us to walk on them.”
“I suspect that is her way of saying farewell to the deceased,” Paul explained. “She is sending on the last of Miss Edgerton’s spirit. She may claim not to be superstitious, but it’s ingrained in rural habits.”
She smiled. “Actually, I am grateful. It’s been a bit spooky. Ihadn’t seen my governess in ten years, and all of a sudden I am living with her remains... I want to know her soul is content and has passed on. Then, perhaps, I might know how to proceed. I hope.”
Dark circles underlined her eyes. Her grief was almost palpable. Paul didn’t know her well enough to console her. Keeping busy was most likely the best answer.
“Understandable, you need time. Where is Rafe?” Paul asked as the busy apothecary headed straight for the pantry. The kitchen smelled of bacon and coffee, but the remains of breakfast had been cleared away.
“He is taking his new duties seriously. I believe he has gone to the manor to meet as many people as he can. It can’t be easy being a bailiff where he knows no one. I thank you and Mrs. Walker for coming at our call. We don’t know enough about herbs to understand what is safe and what isn’t.” Wearing a dark violet round gown, the widow twisted her hands in a muslin apron that nearly reached her feet—one of the teacher’s, he suspected. The widow most likely hadn’t carried aprons in her meager bag.
