Page 49 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
“I think folks are eager to see the village come to life again. Too many young people had to leave to earn a living. They don’t like the low wages and long hours in the factories, but with all the imports, farming doesn’t pay. No one is happy with the situation. Having an inn offers a glimmer of hope that we might have customers for our local businesses and new ones might find us again. Sullivan’s hardware would be an excellent start. We could use a tailor and a shoemaker and a flour mill, perhaps even one of those spinning and weaving factories now that all the wool goes to them.” He twisted the key in the mercantile’s lock and opened the door.
Three crates sat against the counter. Paul pulled a tool off his belt and pried open the top of the first crate. “I feel like a criminal.”
“Well, if I’m what passes as the law around here, you’re safe.” Rafe opened the lantern so the light fell on the crate contents.
Books, just as she’d said, expensive, leather-bound books with gold writing and gilded edges. He left the curate to pick one out and open it.
“A hand-illustrated geography,” Upton said in whispered awe. “A valuable teaching tool.” Eagerly, he set that one down and reached for another. “Isaac Newton’sOptics! Minerva will be in alt.”
Relieved that the books were educational volumes, Rafe picked up the geography.
Inside, a printed bookplate ornamented with scallop shells and a ship declared the book belonged to the library of Milton Palmer. Verity must have acquired it from a second-hand store. Or perhaps she really was married, and this was her maiden name.
Intrigued, he opened another crate and examined those volumes.
Every one of them had the same bookplate.
SATURDAY
TWENTY-NINE: VERITY
Having slept restlesslyin her manor guestroom, Verity rose to an overcast Saturday, which didn’t improve her mood. Even the lovely morning gown Lavender had hastily hemmed didn’t raise her spirits. Her few garments in the cottage had to be laundered to remove the smoke. She needed to pack her bags and move—again.
She’d ruined her only good pair of boots fighting the fire.
She had money to buy more, she tried telling herself as she descended the marble stairs illuminated by lovely new gas lights. Things could be worse. All she had to do was find a new life and home.
Downstairs, after picking at toast and tea, she attended the interrogation led by Captain Huntley. Studying the weeping, protesting Clement, she concluded she couldn’t snatch the tosspot bald. He was almost there already.
Where had this chubby, ugly little man obtained a woman’s skirts? And why? Had he really thought to pass himself off as her? Did he have knowledge of herbs and poisons?
A pity they couldn’t prove he’d set the fire meant to destroy Miss Edgerton’s home. Mrs. Holly had seen him in the yard but hadn’t seen him set a fire.
Verity supposed she was inclined to believe his guilt because he reminded her of her uncle’s mean coachman, the one who had let a horse run over her foot. She hadn’t known the man—she wasn’t allowed to ride in the carriage, after all. But all coachmen in their greatcoats and tall hats sitting way above her appeared short and lumpy. None wore women’s skirts that she was aware.
The painting might arouse her suspicion, but her uncle’s coach was old, plain black, and looked nothing like the fancy one Miss Edgerton had sketched. And the painted coachman looked like every other shadowy figure she’d ever seen in a driver’s seat. She didn’t think there was any connection beyond her own ugly thoughts. She wanted someone, anyone, to blame.
Not knowing what else to do after the interrogation ended, she joined the sewing ladies in the manor’s gallery to pick the lace off her once-beautiful black hat.
One thing of which she was certain, after watching Hunt’s interview, the balding old man who’d stolen her hat wasnotthe lady in black who had suggested marjoram for the stew.
She supposed old ladies in black were fairly common. Most women seemed to outlive their men. It was just odd that no one could name the one she’d seen. Everyone in the village knew one another. Where was this one staying? And was she the one Deacon Jones had reported passing the tavern or had that been Clement? Could there have been two people in black at the cottage?
She wanted to ask where Rafe was, but she didn’t know who to ask and wasn’t certain it was something a lady might do. He was most likely glad to be rid of her. He had no reason to ask after her when she was surrounded by servants and the comforts of the manor.
Well, actually, her father’s much newer, better constructed, and well-furnished home had been far more comfortable than this drafty castle with its rattling windows and ancient, threadbare draperies and counterpanes, but she was in no position to complain.
It would be lovely to have a nice female friend to share her fears with. It wasn’t as if she’d ever had close friends, just a few young people her age who had visited with their mothers—before her father died. After that, she’d been in mourning, then forced to give up any form of society when her mother became ill. She was even lonelier now, surrounded by people, than she had been when surrounded only by books.
Everyone was so busy... She didn’t want to take them away from their tasks, especially after they had spent yesterday cleaning the inn.
That didn’t seem to bother anyone else. While she helped picked the black lace from her old hat, the pair of construction workers—the Blackwells—who Rafe had hired to help with the inn, distracted Lavender with questions about some quirk of the tower. She and Sofia ran off to make decisions about the incipient perfumery.
Minerva, the curate’s fiancée, came in a few minutes later to divert her from lace picking. Bored, Verity gladly followed her into the L-shaped library, which apparently took up nearly a quarter of the manor’s main floor. She had to attempt not to goggle at the seemingly endless walls of books just begging to be perused.
Miss Edgerton’s lawyer and the furniture dealers were studying the books from the cottage that Rafe had carried to the manor for safekeeping. Suddenly uncertain, Verity hung back. She didn’t know that Miss Edgerton would wish her drawings made public.
“These drawings are works of art,” the lady—Mrs. Prescott?—declared, flipping the pages of one of the portfolios. “They could be very valuable.”
