Page 11 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
Hunt had been an American army engineer, injured in battle with the British. A baron’s son, Jack had fought briefly on the Continent before taking a position in India to make his fortune. Both Hunt and Jack’s wives were descendants of the late earl. An American engineer and a British nobleman’s son made an unlikely friendship, but between them, they’d been returning the deteriorating estate to functional.
They were the reason Paul’s family had a home again. He was proud to walk by their side.
“Walked into a right mess and then attached yourself to a pretty widow before you were even in town a day.” Jack pounded the big red-haired soldier on the back as they approached the feast the village ladies had laid out. “You never were one to hold back, Rafe.”
“Hard to say if she’s pretty,” Major Ferguson objected. “She’s covered up in veils.”
“She’s young.” The sergeant shrugged. “I talked to her a wee bit last night, in the dark, mind you. Seems a practical miss, just a little overwhelmed. But she had the sense to mail notices this morning to all the deceased’s friends and relations.”
“I understand there’s a sister and some nieces in York. That’s a fair way to travel. Did Miss Edgerton own her cottage? Might they be returning here?” Paul asked.
“According to the manor’s records, the cottage is old, built on a parcel some earl gifted to one of his henchmen.” Captain Huntley swung the walking stick he didn’t need anymore. “It’s been passed down in the family for over a century, one of the few the bank can’t claim, which explains its good state of repair.”
“And the inn, captain?” Sgt. Russell asked. “Did you ascertain if the bank owns that?”
“You weren’t at dinner last night, Rafe, when we discussed your plans. Told you we needed to talk to Jack instead of playing nursemaid to a grieving widow.” Major Fletcher fell back to join his comrade in arms.
“I can’t tell you anything,” Jack said. “It’s all on Hunt, here. Or Walker, more like. As steward, he has to read the old documents and keep tally.”
“Most of the village is part of a lawsuit between us and the bank,” Hunt explained to the newcomers. “The manor once owned all this land, until the last viscount took it upon himself to mortgage it before he drowned. There is some question about his right to do so since he was only a life owner, and the property reverted to the estate after his death. But more to the point, the survey deed accompanying the mortgage was for that useless hillside on the road to Birmingham, not for the village.”
Paul had heard all this before. He was simply relieved that the chapel and its parsonage was no part of the package. He was doing his best to improve the parsonage so it might be comfortable for Minerva, who had spent these last years living on a duke’s estate and now stayed in the manor. He didn’t want her to feel as if she were following the drum again.
“So everything in the village sits and rots until the courts decide.” The red-haired sergeant grimaced in disappointment.
“It has,” Jack agreed. “Because there’s been no one to care. But we’re here now, and the manor has come into funds recently. My wife also has blunt that her trustees can’t control. We’re discussing how that might be invested. If we can make an arrangement withBosworth to pay a little on what’s owed, he might be willing to relinquish some of his control.”
Paul knew the manor itself needed enormous improvements, including turning the once-abandoned keep into work areas for some of the inhabitants who needed income. An inn... would be an enormous undertaking. Necessary, perhaps, if the village was to grow, but difficult.
“Bosworth? Isn’t that the banker who brought Mrs. Porter to town?” Sgt. Russell asked.
“It is. I assume the widow knows him. He didn’t come down for the funeral, though.” Paul knew about the banker’s illegitimate relationship to the earl’s family, one that made Bosworth, along with the mortgage, an uncomfortable guest. But the bank was apparently working with a possible buyer for abandoned property—nothing suspicious there. “Perhaps he doesn’t know Mrs. Porter or Miss Edgerton well?”
“The clutchfist didn’t transport a poor widow out of the goodness of his black heart. She must have money.” Jack caught on quickly. “Do we need to consult with her, determine her plans?”
“You want to ask awomanto invest in an inn, with no hope of an income for years?” Sgt. Russell asked in horror. “She’d have to be rich as Croesus and just as foolhardy to even consider it.”
The captain hummed under his breath and twirled his cane. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, distinctive man, with one blind eye that didn’t always coordinate with the other. But underneath that top hat and overlong dark hair, Paul knew, was a razor-sharp mind.
“The two of you are looking for a place to settle, as I understand it?” Hunt addressed the two officers as they reached the bottom of the hill.
“My parents owned an inn. I know how to run one. We’ve been looking for a position,” Russell agreed. “Fletch is my right-hand and can do most anything I can do. But there aren’t many openings for more than pot scrubbers, and no one’s likely to hire the likes of us to work in their kitchen.”
“Gravesyde needs men like you. We also need that inn. All those steam-operated factories in Birmingham are multiplying, drawing entire families away. We need to establish our own industries here, and for that, we need a place to welcome workers, salesmen, buyers...” Hunt stopped to watch as the women bustled about tables laden with food. The widow wasn’t visible. “Paul, you’re the carpenter. How much work do you think it would take to make the inn habitable?”
“The roof ought to be tiled instead of thatched. Or at least covered in tin. The entire interior probably needs plastering. Haven’t taken a look at the floors in the upper story. They may need shoring up. Downstairs, we might rip out the worn floor boards, put them to better purpose, and add brickwork or stone. The timber frame seems solid, though. That’s all I can tell you.” He had earned his way through school doing carpentry. Building inns was substantially above his skill level.
“We’re not builders,” the sergeant protested. “We might add brute strength, but I couldn’t lay a straight brick if my life depended on it. I have a bit of blunt I could put into furniture and glassware and the like. But we’ll starve in the meantime.”
“You’re the one that owns that wolfhound, aren’t you?” Hunt asked. “Train it, did you?”
Paul saw the light before the soldiers did. The captain had been on the hunt for someone to train the manor’s hounds as guard dogs. He’d wanted wolfhounds but they were rare. And he also needed a bailiff...
That was asking a lot of newcomers but needs must. Paul and his small family had been newcomers not so long ago, as had all the manor’s occupants. They’d found their niches in a town and manor that needed more hands than were available.
As they emerged into the churchyard, Paul located the widow lingering in the shadows. She had pulled back her veil, revealing a young woman with large, dark eyes shadowed by grief. He didn’t think her a killer.
But Meera had said the contents of the teapot had definitely been poisoned.
