Page 20 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
“We do thatching,” one of the workmen declared. “And we can do the wattle, seal up the outside so you can work inside this winter.”
Rafe nodded at the man who’d spoken. “I’m Rafe Russell, the imbecile interested in restoring this pit. And you are?”
“Nate Blackwell. This here’s my son, George. We have a small property along the river, but we’ve been up in Birmingham these last years. Can’t live off farming these days.”
Most men were shorter than Rafe, but this pair hunched their shoulders to make themselves smaller. Worn caps, old boots... they weren’t earning a fortune in construction. If they’d lived here before—they knew the teacher. His mind instantly called up thelist of suspects Mrs. Porter had given him. One or two had the initials B, not that that meant anything.
“Working inside in winter requires rebuilding the chimneys.” Rafe couldn’t believe he was even considering hurling his few coins into this sinkhole.
“Hunt is hiring chimney cleaners for the manor. We can ask about them,” Jack suggested. “Let’s go up and make a few lists, have Walker give us some estimates. He’s the manor’s steward and good with numbers.”
Rafe needed to be interviewing suspects, if only he had some. He couldn’t see workmen or apple pickers crawling into the teacher’s garden to murder her, any more than he could women, but someone had done it. He supposed he ought to meet everyone he could.
“The manor folk think we can work out a deal with the bank to open this place?” he demanded, just to be certain he wasn’t flinging coins down a well.
He didn’t grasp finance, but he loved running an inn. If the manor had funds to help...
Jack shrugged. “Hunt talked to the banker. He didn’t object. Bosworth thinks we’re mad, but that’s not unusual. Hunt’s digging out property maps and deeds. We’ll most likely need a solicitor to draw up proper agreements, but an inn can only be a boon to the whole village, making it easier for people to stay and conduct business.”
Rafe wasn’t much on planning and scheming. He wanted an inn. They wanted an inn. Here one was, such as it was... Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
He turned back to the Blackwells. “Can you start by cleaning out the debris? Give us a clean place to start instead of this giant bird’s nest?”
The younger Blackwell grunted at the accurate description, eyeing the rotting straw falling into the interior—coated with guano from nesting creatures. The glum pair agreed and trottedoff to look for a starting place. Rafe would suggest a wheelbarrow, but they’d work it out.
He reluctantly followed Jack and Fletch up a footpath to the towering manor on the hill above. “No one will be offended by my slovenly appearance?”
Fletch punched his arm as a form of reply, but they were no longer uniformed soldiers. Rafe’s civilian clothes weren’t up to society’s standards.
A former soldier himself, Jack took long strides up the recently trimmed path. “The Reid ladies won’t care. Bosworth returned to Stratford, but his assistant Smith is still here, trying to persuade a merchant to buy one of the bank’s properties. Miss Talbot is entertaining a Mr. and Mrs. Prescott who are interested in taking away some of our archaic furniture, possibly to restore it. I’m uncertain how that works. There is an architect drawing up sketches for a perfumery under the instructions of two adolescents. The hive buzzes. Really, you think anyone will even notice your existence?”
Ah, opportunity to learn his new occupation. “How many of your guests were here before Saturday? Didn’t the banker arrive then, with Mrs. Porter?”
If she were even a Mrs. Porter. How did he verify that? Rafe feared he was in well over his head.
“Bosworth stops here on his way to Birmingham whenever he feels so inclined. He’s the manor’s trustee and feels it incumbent upon him to oversee our ramshackle affairs. He didn’t arrive until Saturday, but his assistant and the merchant, Sullivan, came on Friday, I believe.”
“I suppose it’s good to have enough wealth for a banker to worry over. If I’m to join with you and Fletch and whoever else takes an interest in rebuilding the inn, we’ll need someone to keep accounts. I can’t.” Rafe believed in being frank.
“I don’t know if Walker will wish to take on another task, but we’ll find someone. You’re right, though, we need to sit down and work out how much money we have for this task before we start spending it. I’ve sunk most of mine into building my stable andbuying good horseflesh. Not seeing profits yet. Pity we never found the earl’s jewels.” Jack led the way around to the manor’s carriage door.
“Jewels?” Rafe studied the workers roaming in and out of the medieval stone tower at the corner between the grand front entrance and the portico on the side.
“Legend has it the last earl hid the family jewels. Descendants of pirates and all that. He left nonsense notes of their whereabouts, but all we’ve recovered is a child’s necklace and a bag of doubloons that may help build your inn. We’re on our own otherwise.” Jack strode under the portico, and the side door opened as if propelled by magic.
Rafe had met the ex-prize fighter butler earlier. The man was nearly as large as he but was graying and turning soft about the middle. Rafe hoped the butler acted as guard as well as silent door-opener and hat-handler.
He studied the gloomy hall Jack led him down. The right side sported ugly dark landscapes. To his left, they passed the ballroom/walking gallery where Lavender and her ladies had set up production. Jack stopped to greet Henri, who was taking orders for a purchase expedition in the city.
They introduced him to Arnaud, Henri’s brother, and Miss Talbott, Mrs. Huntley’s cousin, who were apparently directing the tower restoration. Rafe was beginning to doubt if he could even keep track of the manor inhabitants—except all the related ladies had blond hair, blue eyes, and bewitching dimples. The men mostly appeared large and dark, well-fed compared to the villagers. He’d sort them eventually.
Windows, Rafe decided as they continued to the main corridor. The inn should have windows for natural light. These dark halls lit by sconces and a pair of gaslights did not create the welcoming atmosphere of a proper inn.
The lieutenant led them down the long corridor of the manor’s central block to the steward’s office, where Walker, the captain’s African friend, presided. Rafe had already ascertained that theone-eyed Captain Huntley had taken charge of the manor, even if all the heirs owned it. Hunt joined them and suggested they gather in the large study in one of the new wings. The fine details of numbers didn’t interest Rafe, but he needed to know these men he might work with for the future.
He’d never meant to spend his life in the army, but he’d not given much consideration to what he’d do once the war ended. An inn of his own had always seemed out of reach.
Huntley produced survey maps, inn measurements, and a monocle for reading them. Rafe raised his eyebrow in surprise.
