Page 37 of The Tart's Final Noel
They’d interviewed Cooper again, introduced him to Parsons, but they’d learned almost nothing.Neither of the men claimed to know each other, which made sense, Rafe supposed.Cooper was related to Bartlett, not Willa.She’d just been an orphan Bartlett had taken in for his wife’s sake.Neither man claimed to know much of Margery Bartlett.They needed to question every damned man in the village.
Fletch had not been helpful either.Rafe suspected his lonely partner had hoped to persuade Willa to make him exclusive.She evidently wasn’t the type.From what Rafe had learned from Parsons, Willa had learned the oldest trade from her mother.Baking, she must have learned from the Bartletts.A tart baking tarts made utter sense for Gravesyde, where everyone had multiple employments.
Rafe sighed and sprawled deeper in his chair.“Cooper is a deuced slippery fellow.How can he not know anything of his family?”
“A gentleman generally does not use names like Bee and Boo to address ladies, so we can’t expect him to understand the reference in Margery’s letters.And they may be on the mother’s side of the family, if they’re related at all.”Damien shrugged into his caped coat.The wind was freezing at this hour.
“We can hope Fletch will return with a few answers in the morning post.If he doesn’t, I’ll ride to Stratford, see if I can bully information out of Browning.”Damien donned his hat.“He knows the Turner estate.He can tell us who might benefit from the children disappearing.”
“Except he claimed to know nothing of the children, and even if he did, I can’t arrest some toff in London.”Rafe swung his feet down from the fender.He’d have to add expensive coal if he meant to keep the fire burning.
“But now that the Uptons have announced to the world that the children are still alive, anyone interested will know.Word has reached London and possibly even Bath.Perhaps Bee or Boo will show up,” Damien suggested.
Rafe grimaced and took a shovel to the coal bucket.“What are the chances a killer will proclaim his arrival by stopping here when we have an entire village of empty cottages to hide in?”
“If the culprit isn’t local, it will depend on who they send—a criminal or a respectable sort.”Damien glanced out the mullioned window.“Speak of the devil, that might be them now.There’s a propercarriagecoming down the road—lanterns and driver.”
“Respectable company or killers?”Rafe stirred the fire, doffed the greatcoat he’d been huddling inside to keep warm, and straightened his neckcloth.“This is Gravesyde.I know the answer to that.”
“Killers in a barouche?Unlikely.The manor has guests for the holidays...”Damien grimaced as he watched the window.“Any weapons on you?”
Rafe sighed.And here he’d thought life would be easy once he left the army.“Shotgun under the counter.Sturdy fire irons.”He wielded the poker to stir the coal.“An innkeeper carrying a sword is not a welcoming sight.”
“I’ll linger in the pub.I have a pistol, sword,andknife.”Damien lit a lantern from the counter and carried it into the empty pub.
An illusion of company might deter a villain from storming the lobby, but Rafe had the notion that guests arriving in a fancy carriage didn’t intend an armed raid.Still, he was glad the children weren’t here.
One of the lads ran out to the horses.Priory Manor’s stalls often overflowed, so they usually kept a well-trained man or two at the inn’s nearly-empty stable.It had room for both horses and servants.The fellows worked for tips and food and a roof over their heads.
Rafe carried a lantern to the door.A barouche ought to have a footman, but it was the driver who climbed down to let out two gentlemen passengers.
For once, Rafe thought he might be ahead of the game.“Damien, would you mind hauling Parsons out and smartening him up a bit?He can fetch and carry.Let’s throw some oil on the fire and see if any of them know each other.”
He could hear Damien snort before he strode off to dig out Parsons.Rafe liked keeping an eye on troublemakers.In the army, they sometimes straightened out.And if they didn’t...well, he knew how to squash them.
Watching his fancy new guests, Rafe decided the damned inn needed a name.He and Verity had discussed it but never made a decision.Still, he’d grown up with an excellent example and knew how a good innkeeper behaved.He stepped out with his lantern.“Welcome to Wycliffe Inn, gentlemen.”That name didn’t quite suit now that the earl’s title was retired, but it would work for now.
“I hope we have not arrived too late for a room and a bit of supper.”The younger, more slender man spoke first.He wore a decent but inexpensive cloak and hat—not the barouche’s owner.
“Cold night for travel.Not many on the road, so we have room.Visiting for the holiday?”Rafe gestured for the ostler to unhitch the animals and let the driver unload the baggage.Only two valises—his guests weren’t here for long.
“Business.”The second passenger was older, bulkier but not better dressed.Odd.When he removed his hat, he revealed a balding head with a few greasy strands of blond hair combed over it.
Parsons stumbled out, his thick black hair pulled back in a string, his linen hastily tied.Rafe gestured at the bags.“If you’ll carry those up to the first rooms at the top of the stairs, I’ll see about mustering up some supper.”
Wearing his usual disgruntled expression, Parsons did as told.A convict knew how to take orders.Rafe prayed the filching cove didn’t open the bags and search the contents.He’d meant to run a respectable inn.The likelihood grew slimmer every day.He should hire lazy Cooper as clerk and give up the dream.
The passengers followed Rafe inside and warmed themselves at the hearth.Decent-looking fellows, Rafe concluded, but not gentry.
“If you’ll sign yourselves in here, I’ll give you the keys.It’s a shilling a room per night, breakfast included.If you want ale, that’s extra.We carry only the best.”Rafe pushed the guest log toward them.
The younger man signed them in and set a small purse on the counter.“Mr.Browning says you run a respectable house.I’ll trust you to take what you need and return the rest when we leave.”
Interesting.The man couldn’t count coins?Or thought Rafe might keep the purse from his companion?Rafe took what he needed, put the coins in his pocket, then locked the purse in a box nailed under the counter.
Browningmost likely owned the barouche.“The solicitor in Stratford?He sent you?”Rafe checked the register—Dryden and Elton.Elton.Hadn’t the curate mentioned an Elton?He tried to recall while listening to his guests.
“He did.I’m Dryden, his clerk.A Mr.and Mrs.Upton brought a sketch to our office of a woman who died in a carriage mishap?”Dryden shed his cloak, revealing a decent coat and trousers, although not tailored or good quality.
