Page 71 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
Her big eyes widened, her long lashes nearly sweeping her eyebrows. “Uncle Warren worked for Father. He meant to change his will, cutting out my uncle? For fraud?”
“Reason to kill,” Hunt said coldly. “He’d most likely been let go from the firm.”
“As executor, your uncle had access to your funds, even if he wasn’t heir,” Walker said from the back of the room. “If your father could no longer trust his brother, he most likely intended to remove him as executor. One assumes the house was part of the trust, perhaps giving you and your mother a life estate, which is why you couldn’t be removed.”
Verity clutched the letter to her breasts, a part of her anatomy that Rafe greatly admired. She wasn’t a slender woman. She wouldn’t break in his hands. And he didn’t know why he was thinking like that about a virgin—except he admired her stalwart, stubborn character as much as her pigeon-plump breasts.
“But I was told my father’s business was failing, that there were no funds, and that was why my uncle set up his business to keep the house running.”
“We’ll have to verify circumstances,” Walker said from his corner. “But my assumption would be that the burned letter mentioning embezzlement and fraud indicates what happened to some part of your father’s fortune. What business was he in?”
“Shipping,” she murmured with a puzzled frown. “He owned dozens of ships and handled the trade from his warehouse on the docks. It’s why we lived in that area. He liked keeping an eye on his possessions. He’d started out quite poor.”
“We can only speculate,” Walker warned. “But if your uncleworked for your father, he was probably entrusted with funds that he may have siphoned for his own purposes. The loss of a single ship would put your father into debt. If he discovered his savings were gone...”
Tears flowed down Verity’s cheeks. Rafe crouched down beside her. “Perhaps you should rest. This has to be distressing. There is nothing that can be done until we find your uncle.”
Her jaw set. “Oh, no, I am not resting until I find that monster. I want to push him under carriage wheels!” She glanced at the letter again as she seemed to recall more. “Clement! If he was my uncle’s driver in the painting, he’s also the one who deliberately ran over my foot! He knows more than he’s telling!He didn’t think I’d live to complain!”
The room rumbled with anger. Whoever had torn apart the cottage looking for the painting had done so with malice. And stupidity. Clement quite possibly fit the bill.
Rafe wished he could wrap Verity in wool and store her somewhere safe until the world was a happy place again, but that wasn’t happening soon. “You think Clement knew your uncle meant to set fire to your home?”
She slumped. “He may not have known everything. We can’t even prove the explosion wasn’t an accident.”
Rafe stood. “I fear that Mr. Palmer wished to claim what remained of your inheritance before the solicitors went looking for the real heir upon her twenty-fifth birthday. The coincidence is unlikely.”
“He insured the house,” Verity whispered in horror. “I remember him proudly placing the placard over the door so the fire pumps would find us. I thought he wasprotectingmy home!”
That made much too much sense. Hunt whistled in shock. Rafe wanted to punch something, anything. But he had to use his head, not his hands, in his new position as bailiff.
Verity might not inherit her home, but she would come into insurance funds—if they could only keep her alive long enough to claim them.
Accustomed to taking orders, not giving them, Rafe had to cast his old role aside. No one else had any clear idea what to do. He knew how to organize a small troop. It was up to him to catch an embezzling killer.
“We have to assume we’re dealing with a desperate man.” Rafe returned to pacing. “Clement has admitted to driving the coach that killed Mr. Palmer, the elder. He has indicated that it is Mr. Palmer, the younger, who pushed Verity’s father to his death. We have verified that Palmer has not told his niece that she is an heiress. Instead, someone attempts to kill her before she inherits. Unless he hired someone besides Clement, that could only be her executor—her uncle. It is very likely that Mr. Palmer is here to finish the task that the explosion failed to accomplish.”
With all eyes on him, Rafe waited for someone with more experience or authority to argue with his conclusion, but no one did. They were respecting him, for reasons he did not entirely understand. He was an innkeeper, a mess sergeant. His instinct demanded that he find Warren Palmer, grab him by the neck, and shake him until his eyes bulged. But instinct didn’t apply here.
He had to keep his anger harnessed to plot and plan instead of throttle. “We know, at the time Verity says a man pushed her, that Luther was with the carriage, and Clement was locked in the cellar. The person we chased wore a frockcoat, breeches, and boots. Unless all the culprits are into wearing costumes, I will assume her attacker was a man and not Mrs. Clement. The only person who wants her dead is her uncle. Only the servants have not mentioned traveling with him and no one has seen him.”
“Palmer would have wanted to establish an alibi,” Hunt noted. “He sent his servants to do the dirty work and probably spent these past weeks very visible in the city to establish that anything happening on the other side of the country had nothing to do with him.”
“Threatening the gas company and the fire company and...” Verity murmured. “He was in the newssheets. He had to have sought them out.”
Rafe nodded. “But his lackeys were incompetent, didn’t acquire the evidence, and killed Miss Edgerton instead of robbing her. That all fits. Palmer held an ax over Clement’s head, so his servant had no choice but to obey orders or risk gaol for running over Verity’s father. Guiltfree, Luther did not care and moved on.”
“I suppose Luther must have approached Miss Edgerton first,” Verity said, following his every word. “He’s a little more presentable than Clement. When she refused him, he gave up. He’s lazy like that. Then he came here looking for a position. So Miss Edgerton was warned that my uncle was after the ax she held over his head.”
Rafe grinned at her for using his words. She offered a faint smile back.
Minerva spoke before he could continue. “Can we assume that Miss Edgerton learned of Verity’s presumed death and threatened Mr. Palmer with the law?”
“Most likely.” Rafe paced in thought. “He may not have known precisely what was in the painting or how much evidence she had. He had to find out. Then the Clements must have warned him they’d seen someone who looked like his niece... He panicked and had to see for himself.”
“Mrs. Clement—the woman who suggested marjoram for the stew—she ran when she saw me. She knew it was me! So she warned my uncle and he came here to kill me,” Verity said in an even tone that didn’t hide her fury. “He must be here in Gravesyde!”
Killing Verity would leave no one to question her uncle’s access to her trust. Clement wasn’t a reliable witness. Rafe worked through his thoughts aloud. “Palmer is a pampered gentleman, accustomed to his creature comforts. If he’s just arrived, he won’t know how to survive without servants to look after him. We cannot know which of them poisoned Miss Edgerton or if it was even intentional, but Palmer is on his own now. He either needs to hire a killer—unlikely when he’s so far out of his element—or actquickly so he might scurry back to his rathole and pretend he was there all the time.”
