Page 55 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
“You think like a revolutionary.” Arnaud paced the large space occupied only by trestle tables. “The fathers might work a few hours at the manor, and the maintenance fund pays their wages to the teacher.”
“Minerva can sound out the parents, see how eager they are for a school.” Paul eyed the scarred walnut bar skeptically—not a schoolroom accessory—but the days were growing cooler, and this room had a fireplace. The chapel didn’t. “Young people might return more readily if we have a school to offer.”
“If the inn is able to take guests...” Arnaud let the thought trail off as he studied the dusty inn yard outside the newly-cleaned mullioned windows.
Paul followed his thoughts. Customers for the manor’s small industries—and Arnaud’s paintings—needed a place to stay.
“Until we’re fixed up proper, with mattresses and linens and shutters, we’ll only have traveling salesmen and chimney sweeps,” Rafe said dryly. “But it’s a start.”
Paul left them to discuss schoolrooms. He had a good excuse to visit Minerva now.
Before he left the inn yard, a wagon loaded with lumber entered, driven by the two Blackwells. He waited to help themunload... and to ask questions. The pair were newcomers to the village and had been here the day the governess had died.
“Is Captain Huntley providing you a place to stay?” He hefted a stack of boards and carried them to the stable workshop.
“Aye, we got rooms,” the son replied, carrying another stack.
The older Blackwell followed with bags of what Paul assumed were nails and other hardware. “We’ve got a farm of our own we can fix up if work stays steady.”
“The wives are unhappy with us down here without them,” the son added. “They think we’re out carousing.”
“I’m going up to the manor now. I’m sure they have other cottages the estate can repair. Do either of you do interior work, like making shutters?”
“I want to learn,” the younger acknowledged. “Ain’t got the tools for it.”
“I’m building a collection of tools.” Paul indicated the workshop. “If the village is to continue growing, you’ll have steady employment. I’ll teach you what I know, if you stay.”
The lanky son, George, if Paul remembered rightly, pulled a forelock and nodded. “Be grateful. Wife, too. We got a young one and another on the way and she wants me home.”
“Place got killers and thieves here just like Town,” the father, Nate, warned. “They won’t like to hear that.”
“That’s understandable. The captain has hired a bailiff to return order. Were both of you up at the manor the day the lady died? Did you notice anything or anyone odd?” Paul wasn’t certain how much Hunt or Rafe had talked to people, but most folks considered curates harmless. He might receive different answers.
“Odd, how?” Nate stacked the lumber and began sorting hardware into bins.
Good question. Paul shrugged. “Arguing or people in places they shouldn’t be or looking angry, I don’t know. The manor has hired so many new folk, the captain can’t watch them all.”
“That bloke Clement was arguing with his wife,” George said,trying to be helpful for a potential employer. “And the coachman chased them off. They’re an odd lot. Don’t talk like us and don’t have much to do with anyone else.”
Paul tried not to look too interested. “We can’t find Clement’s wife. Do you know where she’s staying?”
Both men shrugged. Well, he couldn’t expect too much. Thanking them, Paul headed up to the manor and Minerva.
It was high time they started a full search for Clement’s wife. She might be dead by now.
THIRTY-TWO: VERITY
That evening,Verity studied the inn guest chambers Rafe had attempted to make—habitable. That was the kindest word she could summon.
The bubbled glass in the windows had been scrubbed, revealing all the cracks and holes. The mullions had rotted and the glass threatened to fall out in places. The sills had been soaked where the roof leaked and most likely needed replacing. The lack of any privacy covering, much less one to keep out drafts...
It really wouldn’t do. There weren’t enough hours in the day. The sergeant had tried, but he was accustomed to sleeping rough. Even in her cellar rooms, she’d had more comfort than an empty bedframe and an old quilt. She most certainly couldn’t ask Mrs. Underhill to stay here.
Before she could find Rafe to tell him she’d rather risk arsonists than undress in a naked room, one without so much as a wash basin or chamber pot, she heard someone calling her name from below.
Relieved to hear a friendly, feminine voice, she hurried downstairs. She was using the cane less but her foot protested. She needed to sit down and put it up for a while.
“Miss Peniston,” she said in surprise at finding the busy librarian in the lobby. “How may I help you?”
