Page 57 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
That was a startling, almost comforting, thought. Feeling useful apparently gave her courage. “The cottage’s garden is valuable. We are hoping the heirs will rebuild.”
The solicitor, who had been pouring his own drink at the sideboard, returned to hear this. “I have a good offer on the cottage. I doubt the heirs will refuse it. I’m sure Mr. Sullivan will be happy to have you dig up the plants and move them. A hardware store won’t need them.”
Appalled silence briefly enveloped the parlor, until Mrs. Prescott lifted her glass and toasted the room. “Perhaps the heirs will also be amenable to our offer of a substantial sum for the family sketches.”
Verity began to see how a murderer might want to kill someone.
THIRTY-THREE: RAFE
Trying notto sprawl his long legs as he was wont to do, Rafe sat up straight at the manor’s candlelit dining table and practiced reading people. He’d first learned the habit in his father’s inn to avert drunken brawls that endangered the furniture. It had served him well in the army where fights among his men had been inevitable. With all the fancy chandeliers, china, and crystal, he didn’t believe these polite people would start heaving chairs, although tension mounted. Having potential murder suspects at the table would do that.
Verity had narrowed her eyes and grown dangerously silent at Mrs. Prescott’s suggestion that the heirs sell the sketches. The others, more experienced at dissembling, had merely directed conversation to planning.
“Do you have Fletch manning the tavern?” Rafe asked Henri while the others discussed furniture.
The Frenchman nodded. “Patience prefers an escort at dinner when we have visitors. I’m enjoying having the major available to take my place occasionally.”
“Good practice for running the pub once we open.” Rafe grinned at Henri’s grimace. They’d be competitors of a sort someday.
While the company tallied the moldering contents of the manor and their usefulness in a public inn, Rafe simply listened. The inn had been stripped of most of its furnishings over the years, and he’d accept anything offered—if only for firewood. He didn’t possess a single sentimental bone about old junk.
He didn’t have much to add to the schoolroom discussion either. He’d learned numbers and letters from a vicar’s wife and from working at his father’s inn. In the inn’s glory days, he’d attended boarding school and learned rudimentary history and literature which had served him well when dealing with his more educated officers. He understood that the desire to learn was more important than desks.
When the curate and librarian began conferring over their interviews with the villagers, Rafe finally sat up and took note. They knew people, as he didn’t, though he wasn’t entirely certain that it was wise to discuss suspects in front of strangers who might also be suspects. The Prescotts might pretend to converse with Miss Talbot, but they listened.
“This coachman you say argued with Clement...” Rafe interrupted. “Where is he? I don’t remember speaking with him.”
“Taking the Huntleys to Liverpool,” Upton explained.
“He spends all his time polishing harness and wheels when he’s here,” Henri said with a laugh. “He doesn’t know much about horses though. He’s raw.”
“I hope he knows how to drive.” Patience set down her knife in alarm.
“Claims he used to drive his father’s farm cart into the city until he was old enough to earn coin working for a Cit. He likes uniforms.” Henri nodded at Rafe. “We can’t provide a coat as handsome as yours, sergeant. The lad has asked me to look for tails and tall boots, as befits a proper coachman.”
Before Rafe could summon an adequate response, Verity actually joined the discussion. She’d been oddly silent for a while.
“What is the coachman’s name, might I ask?”
“Arthur, that’s all I know.” Henri lifted his wine glass. Astavern owner, he knew more of the male villagers than the curate. “Why do you ask?”
“I understood he’s from London, like Clement. It worried me.” She did not explain why.
Rafe knew she feared she’d been followed. But he’d already ascertained that the unusual city people had been here well before her arrival.
Boldly, for someone who had barely addressed the company this evening, Verity turned to the Prescotts. “Are you from London?”
“No, actually,” the lady said with obvious amusement. “We are from Manchester.”
Unsmiling, Verity turned to Minerva. “Wasn’t one of Miss Edgerton’s students from Manchester? I believe I recollect a Seraphina Littlejohn? It was such an unusual name that I admired it.”
Rafe noted reactions with interest.
Miss Talbot gasped, and avoiding the eyes of her new friends, abruptly reached for her wine. So, the heiress recognized the name.
Mr. Prescott cleared his throat. “That is neither here nor there. If we are to leave in the morning, we should retire early, my dear.”
Minerva responded as if he had said nothing, turning to Miss Talbot. “Thea, I believe you introduced our guest as Sara Prescott?”
