Page 9 of The Tart's Final Noel
Well, she had found the children.No one knew about them yet, either.
She watched from the window as Henri drove a two-wheeled—wobbly—vehicle into the yard.Henri owned Monk’s Tavern and lived at the manor with his wife, the curate’s sister.Verity rather enjoyed the eccentric connections of the village, but right now, she wanted a town crier to tell her what was happening.
If this was the pony Daniel worried about, it seemed sturdy and unharmed.The hood of the buggy was turned so she couldn’t see any passengers.She had thought she’d glimpsed another occupant beside Henri when he drove in, before he turned it sideways.Should she be nosy and step outside, or just take the bag back to the children?
Having spent these last ten years raising herself in a mansion’s cellar, she’d never quite learned social niceties.That made her timid.But she’d promised herself that she would be brave and learn to put herself forward—if only she knew what was rude and what wasn’t.
The children were fine.They were eating.They didn’t need distraction.She donned a cloak and stepped into the windy yard.Presumably summoned by Arthur, Rafe and Damien Sutter raced from the alley behind the shops just as she stepped outside.Short-legged Dr.Walker, escorted by Mr.Upton, followed in their wake.Fine, if Meera could be here, so could she—even if Meera was a physician.Arthur galloped past, off to return the manor’s mare, apparently unwilling to return to whatever was in that buggy.
Henri swung down to intercept Verity before she could reach him.“Don’t,” he warned.“Let Rafe handle this.”
“Handle what, sir?”she demanded with indignation.“What, exactly, is going on?”
Rafe swung up on the far side of the carriage, expressed his anger and dismay in language not fit for anyone’s ears, and swung down again.“I quit.I cannot do this.Battlegrounds are bad enough, but they usually do not involve women.”
Tall, barrel-chested, and muscular, her husband was the largest, strongest man in the village, which was why the magistrate had probably made him bailiff.Rafe could handle drunks with one hand, but in reality, he was a gentle, ginger-haired, soft-hearted giant.He wanted to be the genial host of an inn and a pub—but the lack of population demanded that they all hold several positions.
Verity put her arms around him and rested her head against his chest.“Who else could do the job better than a man who cares?”
He hugged her hard and buried his face in her hair and she forgave him for leaving her ignorant.He must have his reasons.As she did hers.Suddenly protective of those two innocent children, she didn’t mention them.
After taking a quick glance in the buggy, Damien left the yard and hurried inside the inn, most likely to look after Kate’s children.Or take notes in his new office.Solicitors took lots of notes.
Even Dr.Walker seemed a little green after inspecting whoever was inside the carriage.She stepped down, shaking her head.“I can’t tell anything until she is taken to the manor.I don’t yet have the space or equipment for this kind of work at home.”
“Fox and rats?”Henri asked, rubbing his nose as if to be rid of a smell.Darkly handsome, he was strong from his years as a peddler, but even he looked unsettled.
“Most likely,” Rafe agreed.“I’ll go over the buggy after she’s removed.”
From that, Verity gathered the vehicle held a dead woman.No wonder the nanny hadn’t come looking for the children.
The curate shook his head and ran his hands through his auburn hair.“Two coffins instead of the nativity scene I meant to build.Will it ever end?”
Two?Verity didn’t wait to hear more.She lifted her skirt and fled into the inn to be certain the children were safe.
Five
Minerva
“Why us?”Minerva demanded angrily, scrubbing the skillet from which they’d eaten the delicious apple bread.She felt better now that Paul had come looking for her and they were both fed with the impromptu breakfast.
Paul and Damien had left when young Arthur warned of still another body.It was almostChristmas.She wanted to be preparing wassails and plum puddings.Well, maybe evergreens and gifts.Cooking wasn’t her forte.“Why must people come here to die?”
“Well, Willa was already here.”Brydie pointed out pragmatically.“And it is quite cold.People die of cold, especially if they’re not healthy.We lose more people in winter than summer.We have a lot of old folk here.”
Despite her thirty years, village born and bred Brydie was very naïve.Minerva hated to be the one to force her to see the world’s ugliness.She’d let her continue believing Willa was just a baker, but whatever had drawn the men away this time would be public knowledge soon.They hadn’t run off to find an old lady dead of pneumonia.
“I don’t think your nephew would look quite so green or called for Rafe, if this corpse died of cold.”Minerva slammed the iron skillet on the hearth to dry.“Paul will be making coffins instead of sermons.How much room can be left in the cemetery?’
“We could start piling them up in the Priory’s crypt,” Brydie said with dark humor, taking the second batch of bread out of the oven.“Where is Mr.Cooper?Did the men leave him alone upstairs?”
Minerva remembered grim jests from her days of following the troops.That was how one dealt with constant death.But Brydie had never seen stacks of corpses dumped in an impromptu grave.It wasn’t amusing.
“Last I saw, the curmudgeon took himself out to tend his horse.If he’s a suspect, he could just ride away.”Still disgruntled, Minerva peered out the kitchen window, but there was no view of the old shed that probably hadn’t held a horse in years.
“Or if he is a killer searching for something, then he’ll stay and look after we’re gone.Did the men search upstairs?”
Brydie might be innocent, but she was also exceptionally clever.
