Page 77 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
That, Verity understood. Heart racing, she watched the solemn gentleman, hoping he had more magic wands.
Inheriting her home now that it was gone did not improve her circumstances. If her father had actually cut his brother off, and left his estate to her and her mother, she comprehended her uncle’s angry greed and why her father had died. But she would like to know why Miss Edgerton had to die.
“We are hoping the Clements might offer insight,” Hunt said. “I would like to bring Mrs. Clement in first, if Miss Porter would consent to join us to verify facts. Browning here can act as witness.”
Nervously, Verity twisted her hands. “And Ra... Sgt. Russell? He knows far more than I do about the Clements’ actions. As far as I’m aware, I’ve never met them.”
“He spent the night scrubbing flammable liquids from the inn,” Hunt said dryly. “We just woke him. This will be more about you than Miss Edgerton first. We’ll see how to proceed after that.”
Knotting her fingers to steady them, Verity nodded consent. While they waited for someone to bring up the prisoner, the solicitor sat next to her and showed her the portfolio. “The house was insured for a considerable sum, Miss Porter. If you wish to remain in Gravesyde, the proceeds will purchase almost any residence you desire and pay to repair and maintain it for years to come.”
That brightened her day. “Miss Edgerton’s cottage?”
“Mr. Culliver has received permission to sell the cottage since the heirs cannot afford to repair it. I’m certain they will happily sell it to the highest bidder,” Hunt answered. “You should take time to be certain it’s the wisest investment.”
Verity’s day measurably brightened. To have the cozy cottage for her home...
She had no means of keeping up the extensive gardens. The repairs and purchasing new furnishings would be a daunting task. Her hope fell, but she clung to the comforting notion of her own home—as she’d clung to her cellar.
“There is also a considerable investment fund in your name that has grown since your father’s death,” the solicitor continued. “One most likely intended to be your dowry. That is presumably what your uncle wished to acquire. It seems his counting house has sustained substantial financial losses, possibly due to embezzlement or incompetence. We can’t say. We only know that the bank was preparing to transfer your funds to cover his debts until we stopped them.” He pulled a statement from the bank from the stack of papers.
Verity gulped at the sum. She’d thought she might live on the few hundred pounds she’d stolen from her uncle. This was so very much more! But if her uncle had been deeply in debt... Surely one night’s deposits hadn’t plunged him into financial difficulties. His drunken carelessness was more likely.
“My uncle’s family?” she asked, staring at the sum. “What happens to them?”
“That isn’t your concern,” Minerva admonished. “They never cared about how you fared, did they?”
They had not. Still... “I’m not them,” Verity said softly, remembering how devastated she’d been when her father died. “Will they still have a home?”
“I believe the funds embezzled from your father most likely paid for it,” the solicitor explained. “It was purchased shortly before his death.”
She nodded, growing a little angry as she understood the pattern of greed. “My father’s business, it wasn’t bankrupt, was it? My uncle sold it.”
“And used the funds to pay his debts, yes. It seems the younger Mr. Palmer had both a drinking and gambling habit,among other vices. It is not uncommon, I fear.” The lawyer sounded gruff and unsympathetic. “Unless there are other funds, your aunt will most likely have to sell her home to pay his debts. Her daughters are grown and married. She won’t be homeless.”
She didn’t know if that was fair, but she supposed she shouldn’t worry about a woman who had never worried about her. Everyone had paid for Uncle Warren’s vices. And her father had paid the ultimate price.
Verity had difficulty swallowing and greeted the arrival of Mrs. Clement with her jailer almost with relief. She couldn’t fathom the loss, the tragedy, the evil that had her uncle had perpetrated. He’d even destroyed the lives of his servants. He could not have been a well man.
The soldier entering with the prisoner was very much a well man, proud, strong, a hard worker with a moral compass stronger than her own weak one. His gaze instantly fell on her, and she thrilled at the concern she saw there. She managed a smile for his benefit, and Rafe relaxed enough to shove the disheveled prisoner into a chair. The cobweb-infested, empty wine cellar prison wasn’t an ideal chamber for maintaining appearances.
Mrs. Clement sat sullenly while introductions were made. She glared at Verity but glanced away when Rafe set a bottle of elixir on the table.
“Let me do this,” Verity said, regaining her voice and interrupting the captain before he could speak. She needed to do this. She had to quit hiding and face facts in the broad light of day. “Mrs. Clement, how did you know Miss Edgerton?”
She could see the men tense, on the point of objecting. Inquiring about the governess wasn’t their goal, but it was hers. The connection was there, if she could simply see it.
“You don’t even remember, do you?” the woman sneered. “We was way below your notice.”
“Might we have some tea?” Verity asked, not looking away, trying to recognize the flattened nose and hostile dark eyes lost in folds of flesh. “I was only fifteen when my father died. Childrenseldom notice anyone unless they want something. I don’t remember you because you evidently did not regularly bring me books or tea or take me on outings, as Miss Edgerton did.”
The older woman made a crude noise and rubbed at a smudge on her face. “That one thought she knew it all. I was the one what fetched the herbs she asked for. And she had the nerve to question my elixirs!”
The men sat back and shut up. Women talked to other women. Men intimidated. In her overlarge wing chair, Minerva quietly took notes, out of the prisoner’s sight.
“So you worked in our kitchen?” Verity waited for the tea tray to be set down.
“I was the one what taught your cook to season,” she said with a scoff. “Just because I can’t read or write don’t mean I don’t know as much or more as that hatchet-faced baggage.”
