Page 28 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
“One of the heirs is anxious to sell?” she suggested.
“Most likely. Not much we can do, if so.” He returned to rummaging, producing a loaf of bread, pickled onions, and smoked cheese. He let Wolfie out the back door and returned with a handful of greens. He slapped everything together and shoved a sandwich in her direction. “Eat. You’re pale as a ghost.”
She’d spent the last years living in a cellar. Of course she was pale. She didn’t tell him that, as she wasn’t telling him many things. She cut the sandwich in half to share with Mrs. Underhill.
“What if...” She needed to know this man better before revealing why she asked. “What if there is something in here that someone wants, and they think it easier to buy the entire cottage and empty it out?”
“Meera says the record book we found is a poor excuse for murder.” He poured ale into a mug and studied her quizzically. “Have you found aught else?”
“No,” she said slowly, thinking fast. “But women hide things. We don’t normally have banks and solicitors at our beck and call. What if the thief in the apple tree meant to dig in the garden?”
“For bones?” he asked dryly. “A teacher strikes me as unlikely to possess gold.”
Painfully true. But riches weren’t everything.
“She died for a reason,” Verity daringly insisted. “Did you ever ask Mrs. Walker how the poison might have been administered? How would a killer prepare belladonna or whatever she thinks caused her death?”
“She doesn’t know. Miss Edgerton may have been the one who dug up the monkshood or snipped leaves of the belladonna. She had an entire pantry full of infusions and powders. For all we know, she may have wished to poison her guest.” He stopped and thought about that.
Verity finished the thought for him. “She may have beentreatingher guest with the roots, made a single cup of normal tea for herself, and the guest switched cups with her?”
That meant anyone could have killed her, if they knew what the plants could do and how it might affect her heart.
Or it could just have been an accident...
Except for Miss Edgerton’s last words, which Verity hadn’t told anyone about.
EIGHTEEN: RAFE
Rafe packeda supper basket while Verity glared icicles at him. She hadn’t taken to the idea of her teacher killing anyone and was even less enthused about accompanying him.
“Mrs. Underhill wants to have supper with her grandchildren,” he admonished. “You cannot stay alone, and I want to see how they are progressing on the inn. We will make a picnic of it.”
“It is growing dark and the wind is picking up. We’ll freeze.” She let him drop her cloak over her shoulders but glanced longingly at the kitten curled by the fire.
The fool woman needed someone looking after her occasionally. Traveling all the way to this outpost of nowhere with only a cat for companion...
“I won’t freeze. This is nothing compared to the Pyrenees in winter. You can’t hide behind four walls forever.” He pulled the hood over her hair and picked up the basket.
Wolfie obediently followed.
Verity dragged her feet. “If it won’t take long, then I can wait here. No one will know I’m alone.”
Rafe took her elbow and dragged her out the door. “Humor me.”
She might be stubborn, but she was a lady born and bred,despite her protest otherwise. She knew she owed him, even if just a little bit. He could hope she also respected his advice, but he wouldn’t push his luck.
The street was mostly empty at this hour, with women preparing meals and the family gathering around the home fires. Rafe wanted that some day, but what he had now suited him fine after years of deprivation.
“No one travels through this village. Who will be your customers?” she asked, studying the empty street.
“They don’t travel now because there is nowhere to stop to feed the horses or themselves. Anyone wishing to visit the manor, like today’s solicitor, must have an invitation to stay at the manor or risk riding at night with a tired horse.” He was trying to convince himself as well as her.
Gravesyde had the same difficulty as his father’s inn—the highways had passed it by. The government encouraging shipping and cheap imports had made it difficult for small farms to survive, which was why half the village had moved to Birmingham, where they could find employment.
He was basing his hopes on the manor’s wealthy inhabitants and the empty land attracting small industries and businesses, thereby drawing enough population to supply the inn with customers. The manor folk were convinced they could make it happen. They were building a future on dreams.
“Start the inn small, with a few rooms and a stable?” she asked, hobbling a little faster to keep up.
