Page 3 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
“Beggars are those poor lads they sent home without legs or arms or a ha’penny to their names. We have blunt. We just don’t have enough.” Fletch studied the sprawling half-timbered structure beyond the non-fence that most likely had once been an inn before the roof fell in.
“A few coins in our pockets and a banknote or two barely count as blunt.” Rafe had convinced his equally penniless friend that they needed to set up their own business. Yon fire trap wasn’t what he had in mind.
With the expertise of an innkeeper’s son, Rafe examined the decrepit inn’s yard, the crumbling stable, the... lack of potential patronage. Gravesyde seemed to consist of a dozen cottages and an invisible manor. Maybe the people were invisible too.
To disabuse his thinking, an auburn-haired gent wearing aclerical collar and a shabby frockcoat opened a gate in a nearby hedge. Rafe judged the clergyman to be younger than himself and no doubt even poorer. At least his uniform had been tailored to properly fit his barrel shape. Maybe beggars could survive here.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. May I help you? Gravesyde receives so few visitors that we like to greet each one. I’m Paul Upton, the local curate.” He swept off his workman’s cap and bowed.
Rafe had already collapsed his frayed bicorne under his arm. He bowed and introduced himself and the major. “We’re on our way to Wycliffe Manor and thought to seek accommodations and refreshment first.” He’d traveled on an empty belly far more often than he cared to remember. Here, in the midst of a bounteous English harvest, on a late September day, he shouldn’t have to starve.
Parson Upton looked chagrinned, glancing at the empty inn. “I fear Gravesyde has no accommodation other than the manor. If you’re familiar with the owners, I’m sure they’ll put you up. Their drive is only a little further down the road, past the chapel.”
“What about the tavern?” Fletch asked, nodding at the swinging sign of The Monk. It appeared freshly painted, at least. “We could use a quaff to clear the road dust.”
The curate brightened. “You’re in luck. Henri is here today, restocking. I was just heading over to see if my sister brought down victuals for a noon meal.”
Rafe half listened as the young curate explained his sister had only recently married the tavern owner and lived in the manor. Perhaps Jack and his wife had turned a manor into an inn. Tavern owners did not generally reside in mansions.
Henri Lavigne appeared to be a French émigré about Rafe’s age. He would resent a Frenchman living off the fat of England while he starved trying to save the man’s home, but he was amiable by nature. He felt even more generous toward the gent when the tavern owner claimed the first round was free and offered to share his bountiful repast.
“There’s enough here to feed half a village,” Fletch exclaimed as Henri emptied the basket of food and the curate helped himself to a healthy loaf loaded with what appeared to be ham, cheese, and relish.
Since Upton’s mouth was full, Henri responded for him. “Our curate’s mother is the manor’s housekeeper. She fears he’ll waste away if he must live on his own cooking. And my wife sneaks in extra for me. I’m thinking we could open the place as a pub with the leftovers.”
Rafe bit into the fresh bread with a groan of delight. He hadn’t half-finished chewing when he had to say, “All you need is a good variety of brown ale and stout, and your pub would exceed the finest of London.”
An eager discussion of breweries ensued, much to Rafe’s contentment. He’d spent a great deal of time learning brewing processes. Fletch lacked knowledge and merely admired the mural of a blond goddess on the wall.
They were in the midst of an argument over hops when Wolfie barked a warning, just before a raspy voice behind Rafe said, “Look at the ginger with the long ears! Both rabbit and carrot!”
His mood soured from genial to hostile in the time it took to swing around on an older, unshaven gent with a bulbous, red-veined nose. “Your proboscis protrudes too much, old man. Let me flatten it?—”
The curate grabbed Rafe’s arm before he could swing. For a man half Rafe’s size, Upton was surprisingly strong.
“Clement, The Monk isn’t properly open yet. Henri is entertaining a few friends.” Releasing Rafe, Upton caught the dolt’s arm and steered him toward the door. “Is the apple picking done for the day? I thought my sister planned to work until dark?—”
The door shut behind the pair.
“Heard that a time or two, have you?” Henri refilled Rafe’s mug.
Not since he’d grown broad enough to fill a doorway, but there always had to be one genius in the crowd.
“The good curate likes to keep our rougher customers in control so my wife can continue singing here of an evening.” Henri polished a mug.
Rafe processed the relationships—Henri’s wife—the curate’s sister?—sang at the tavern and picked apples? And lived at the manor.
“You invite awomaninto the tavern?” Fletch asked, his attention still on the mural.
“Her singing raises funds for the church, while increasing my sales with her mournful voice. Cuts down on fights and broken glass, as well.” The Frenchman seemed satisfied with the situation. “The locals are normally a good lot, but the manor has been bringing in apple pickers for the season. A few are a bit rough.”
A woman, in a tavern. Rafe began to suspect this isolated area was a trifle more than eccentric. He drained his mug. “Apple picking? Harvest time already?”
Where did harvest workers sleep? A roof over his head would be a pleasant change.
“Such as it is. I was hoping to make good cider, but the orchard has been too neglected to produce much. Patience is trying to restore it. Local farmers and their families used to help, but they’re long gone. The manor has been hiring anyone with enough limbs to pick. Clement...” The tavern owner lifted his wide shoulders. “Won’t last long if he’s shirking already.”
If they wanted a place to sleep tonight, they should apply for an apple picking position? And beat Clement into tree fertilizer.
