The scoundrels deadly de.., p.7
The Scoundrel’s Deadly Deed, page 7
She checked the bread dough and punched it down for another rise before answering. “Captain Sutter’s death was listed with all the other casualties, yes. Vultures that we are, everyone reads those lists. Mr. Oswald reads them to those who can’t read.”
Verity nodded and studied a turnip. “So, it is possible Mrs. Sutter read of her son’s death and wished to return, for a memorial, perhaps?”
“Fine thing to return after he’s dead.” Grumpily, Brydie returned to hacking carrots. Mrs. Sutter had never been a particularly friendly person, but to disappear without letting her sons know where. . . Damien was mourning a woman who didn’t deserve it. The shock had to be terrible. “You need to peel that turnip.”
“Perhaps she hoped her younger son would return to the property and she might see him?” Verity studied the vegetable and the chopping knife.
Brydie pushed a paring knife in her direction. Rafe had purchased fine cutlery for his kitchen. Or, more likely, Lady Elsa had given him her old ones so she had an excuse to buy new. Lady Elsa was a generous woman when she could worm her way around her trustees. “I think it doubtful that Zeb Johnson would have brought his tribe here because one woman wanted to see her son. The duke and the earl are the draw somehow.”
“Well, it was certainly not the earl shooting at Zeb Johnson. He wouldn’t have missed. From all reports, Weston has provided the manor kitchen with enough ducks for a wedding feast.” Verity tentatively scraped at the turnip. “This is harder than potatoes.”
“Which is why I left it to you.” Unrepentantly, Brydie set the carrots aside to chop thyme. “I wonder how good a shot Damien is. He was in a position to aim at Johnson. His shock at seeing his mother was very real, though. I see no motive.”
“You think his mother ran off with Johnson?” Verity asked, scandalized.
“I have no notion why she was there. It was all quite horrid and does leave me wondering where his father is.” Brydie caught a movement out the ancient glass of the window and stood up. “We have company. I may have invited the women of the camp to come by when they could. It’s perishing cold out there and they have little food.”
Knowing their plans, Verity jumped up without questioning to add more water to the kettle while Brydie stepped into the yard.
The older woman who had helped with Mrs. Sutter stood there uncertainly, wrapped in an assortment of old crocheted shawls.
“Come in out of the cold. That wind says a storm’s brewing.” Brydie ushered the woman inside.
Verity was already setting a fresh cup on the table. “Welcome. How may we help you?”
The woman dithered at the door. Taking advantage of her height, Brydie took the visitor’s shoulders and steered her toward a chair. “We are extremely grateful for your help today. I am a very bad nurse and had no idea what to do.”
“The poor thing didn’t survive, did she?” The woman reluctantly sat down. “She’d been ill. Perhaps it was a blessing.” She stared at the cup Verity filled, then warmed her hands around it. She wore no gloves and her hands were gnarled and age-spotted. “She’d had a hard life, as most of us have, I suppose. But she didn’t seem like she was brought up to it.”
Rather than gossip about the deceased, Brydie changed the subject. “I’m Brydie Calhoun.” She gestured at Verity. “This is Mrs. Russell. She and her husband run the inn.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Their guest twisted the cup nervously and didn’t add the sugar Brydie pushed toward her. “I’m known as Mrs. Hatter. My man died long ago. Zeb’s people took me in or I’d have died in a workhouse. I owe them.”
“I’m sure you’ve earned your way,” Brydie said reassuringly. “We’d love it if more of your ladies visited. The village has been empty for so long, it’s good to meet new people.”
Mrs. Hatter nodded. “I don’t suppose. . .” She clutched her cup until her knuckles whitened. “I don’t believe I can last another winter in the open. Zeb has big ideas about a church and community where we all take care of each other, but. . .”
“That’s exactly what we’re doing in Gravesyde,” Verity said smoothly, a little too smoothly since she’d only been here a few months, but she’d been learning from Clare Huntley, who made dreams happen. The need for shelter and community was universal.
“We’re a work in progress,” Brydie warned. “But there are people here who share their hearths just for the company and mutual assistance. Am I wrong in thinking you have some experience with nursing?”
“Took care of my brother after he lost his leg. Took care of his house. Did the same when my husband got the gout. I can cook and clean. If you know anyone—” Mrs. Hatter dared to look up with anxious hope.
“We’ll start you right here at the inn.” Verity pushed the turnip and a paring knife at her. “I’m a schoolteacher, of sorts, and a very bad kitchen worker. My husband does the cooking. Brydie, here, can do almost anything.”
“Except keep the accounts,” Brydie reminded her. “I’ve no head for numbers. That’s Verity’s task. We all find our own places as needed.”
Despite her gnarled fingers, Mrs. Hatter peeled the turnip with expertise. “For a decent roof over my head and a bit of soft under my back, I’ll do what needs doing, if ye’ll have me.”
“I think we can do better than that. You might find a place you prefer later, after you meet new people. We—” Brydie halted her eager spiel as a thought occurred, belatedly, as usual. “We discuss who needs what after church on Sundays. We’re Anglican. Will that be a problem for you?”
Mrs. Hatter kept paring, her jaw setting firmly. “God provides, miss. I don’t reckon He cares what the church looks like or who’s doing the preaching.”
“That is a commendable attitude, Mrs. Hatter. The world will be a better place once we are all so reasonable.” Verity reached for the bread bowl again.
Brydie tapped her employer’s hands to prevent her removing the towel and moved the bowl closer to the dying fire. “How did you get here, Mrs. Hatter? It’s a long walk back if you need to fetch your things.”
“My belongings are out by the fence. I caught a ride with the deacon that nice young priest sent. Most of the others have men and won’t leave the camp. But I ain’t got no one and accepted his offer. I feared I’d have to sleep in the hedgerows tonight, but I had to try.”
“And we’re glad you did,” Verity assured her. “We need all the help we can find. We don’t have any live-in servants, so let’s fetch your things, and see what we can put together. The rooms off the kitchen should be warmer than the attic this time of year.”
Brydie waited until they were gone before washing her hands, drying them on her apron, and preparing a tea tray. She had nurtured a grievance against Damien Sutter for years. She was no longer certain of her attitude. He’d scarcely noticed Kate. He really had been shocked at his mother’s death. He didn’t seem the sort of callous man who would turn his back on family—if he knew about them. So, she’d do what she would for any mourner.
She carried the tray up to the library and knocked. Not waiting for permission to enter, she shouldered the door open. She’d never make a proper servant, had no intention of doing so.
The gentlemen had loosened their neckcloths and unfastened their coats. She saw no sign of the fancified valet who was supposed to be waiting on them. She set the tray down as they hastily rose to greet her as the lady she was not.
She gave Damien a quick glance to see how he was doing, but his expression revealed nothing. “We have hired one of Zeb’s followers, the lady who helped us with your mother. If you wish to interrogate her, here is your chance.”
“I’d rather have interrogated my mother,” Damien said wearily. He gestured at the papers he’d presumably brought from the shoe shop. “My father had a fortune the solicitor knew nothing about—or certainly never mentioned to me. The accounts are here. They stop with his disappearance.”
An interesting, if irrelevant development. “Wouldn’t the bank know about them?” Brydie signaled for them to sit while she poured the tea.
“They’re not those kind of accounts. These are investments in various companies and bond issues and so forth. A solicitor should certainly have known about them. The certificates ought to be in his vault.” He sipped his tea without noticing if it contained milk or sugar.
“Perhaps your father used a different solicitor from your brother,” Mr. Evans suggested.
“Or perhaps you should ask Tom Butler,” Brydie added dryly. “He is, after all, a known thief. And your mother was with him.”
Damien closed his eyes and set down his cup with a bang. “She should have run away a lot sooner than she did. She must have been glad to see the back of me that last summer.”
Sensing his black mood, Evans cleared his throat and picked up a stack of papers. “I think I’ll look these over. See you in the morning, Sutter.”
He departed, but Brydie waited for explanation, unconcerned with being left unchaperoned with Damien.
“You wouldn’t consider leaving me alone in my grief?” Damien asked rudely, not looking at her.
“You’re not grieving. You are furious. You’ve bunched your fingers into fists and your boot is bobbing like a bad apple. Your mother was never the friendliest person I’ve met, but she loved you and your brother. I cannot imagine any mother being glad to see her sons gone.”
“Given the volatility of our relationship with our father, she knew, sooner or later, once we were large enough, that we’d either have to kill him, or he would kill us. I need something stronger than tea.” He rose abruptly and shoved past Brydie as if she weren’t there. “Jacques, where the devil are you? Bring me my flask!”
Wednesday
Twelve
Damien
Nursing an aching head, Damien met the curate at the chapel the next morning. Brydie sailed in while they discussed his mother’s funeral.
He’d treated her rudely last night, but he’d feared he would have treated her worse had she stayed. She was still this brilliant sunflower in his dismal garden, and he didn’t deserve her comfort.
In the light through the chapel’s stained glass, with her glorious auburn hair and gold frock, she resembled an exotic bird floating toward them. He couldn’t cage a bird any more than pluck a sunflower. But this morning, her cheery presence lightened his grim mood—until she spoke.
“You have a. . . visitor, Mr. Sutter.”
Using his surname said she was still mad at him, but he remembered that grin of mischief too well.
“A visitor?” he asked warily. He supposed news of his mother’s death had spread, so his anonymity was shot. But he didn’t know anyone here anymore.
“A Mr. Zebediah Johnson is at the inn, wishing to see you.” She crossed her hands demurely over her apron and ducked her head to hide her smile of anticipation.
He wanted to murder Johnson and laugh at her at the same time.
“We can discuss the service later,” Upton suggested. “Our facilities are rather simple, I fear.”
Funerals could certainly wait. Damien had spent the better part of his life manipulating people and situations, usually to achieve mutually beneficial outcomes. This time, he had a grudge to pick. Opportunity beckoned. “Why don’t you come with us, Mr. Upton? I understand Mr. Johnson is desiring a church of his own. His views might be. . . enlightening.”
Not a stupid man, the curate eyed him with curiosity and followed him outside, escorting Brydie.
“Do I put poison in his tea?” she asked, easily keeping stride with them. “Meera has an entire yard of poison now that the manor has bought the herbalist’s cottage.”
“Mr. Johnson is simply an ambitious man,” Upton said pacifyingly. “If he can shepherd people into his flock and teach them God’s law, he is doing his duty.”
“Fomenting unrest is his religious duty?” Damien asked cynically, holding the parsonage gate open for Brydie. She smelled of cinnamon and vanilla, but that wasn’t what had him almost drooling. Her shawl drooped off her shoulders, leaving only the tantalizing gauze above her bodice covering her curvaceous beauty. She was no longer the gangly adolescent of his childhood.
“The Americans fought to keep religion out of government so they could worship freely. There are some here who want the same,” Upton explained.
The children were at their desks in the pub when they arrived, sing-songing the alphabet. Wearing his best frockcoat and top hat, Zeb Johnson paced the empty lobby that Rafe had yet to furnish. The giant wolfhound sprawled in a corner, ears on alert.
A thin, older man in an unfashionable business coat and well-made trousers stood in the opposite corner, hat in hand, keeping a wary eye on the monster dog. Ignoring the stranger, Damien concentrated on the imposing presence of the troublemaker. Johnson was most likely in his forties, physically fit, with a full head of dark hair graying at the temples.
“Johnson, is it?” Damien didn’t tip his hat. “What can I do for you?”
“Bury your sainted mother on the land she loved, the land she has been denied these past years.” Fierce dark pupils ringed by an enormous expanse of white flared beneath heavy eyebrows.
Unintimidated by theatrics, Damien turned to Upton. “I wish my mother to be interred in holy ground. She was no saint, but she was a good woman. Is the Priory cemetery consecrated?”
“It is. The community has used it since the monks built their church. She has been a member of our small congregation since birth. I have checked her baptismal records.”
Brydie bobbed a curtsy to forestall argument. “Would you gentlemen prefer to use the library? We do not like to disturb the children.”
Damien had left his father’s papers under lock and key in the library. Reminded of his mother’s lessons, he lost his appetite for dealing with sanctimonious bastards. He swept his hat in the direction of the front door. “We can talk outside. Mr. Upton and I have business to conduct.”
Seemingly relieved to escape the lobby and the watchful dog, the gray, skinny businessman hurried to join them. “Pardon me, sir, we have not been introduced. I am Harlan Terwilliger, fiduciary for Mr. Johnson and his church. We have a proposition for you.”
Damien continued into the yard. “You heard the curate. My mother will be buried where her parents are interred. I cannot think what else I can do for you.”
Brydie stayed inside, but he heard the window creak open behind them, even as Upton closed the inn’s front door and joined them in the yard.
“You own property you do not intend to use,” Johnson declared in his sonorous speaker’s voice. “We wish to lease it from you. I will consecrate a new cemetery for my followers, and we will build a memorial to your sainted mother.”
The unctuous tone grated on memories Damien preferred buried. “I repeat, my mother was no saint. There is a very good chance she killed my father, and I hope she did. I already have several offers to buy the land and no desire to lease it. Now, if you will excuse me. . .”
So much for his hard-earned negotiating skills. His anger had got the better of him.
Leaving his audience stunned at that revelation, Damien strode off. He considered walking until he reached the Outer Hebrides. He had never wanted responsibility. He’d been happy traveling about, meeting important men, steering the future one piece at a time.
Brydie singing a taunting rhyme about black birds flying away pierced that illusion.
In his youth, he’d been happy to escape the shouting arguments of his home to explore the countryside with her at his side. When they were older, and his father wasn’t around, he’d been happy puttering in the shop, showing her how to work leather, listening to her laugh and sing. Her cheerful presence had showed him a less grim and brutal world where violence didn’t have to be an answer. She’d given him hope and the strength to escape. He hadn’t wanted to harm her happiness with his reality.
And now he was living in a cage he’d built for himself.
Upton, apparently after placating the other men, caught up with him. “What do you think their real purpose is in wanting your land?”
Excellent question, far better than asking about his grim declaration about his parents. “The fields aren’t large or particularly arable. The manor and shop are the most valuable part of the property. I assume having an actual facility for a church would provide some legitimacy for his preaching. The Methodists began in a similar manner, I believe. My mother and Butler will have told him about the property. She had a life estate and could have returned anytime.” Odd that they’d waited until now to make her claim—right after she’d died. “Guilt, perhaps, that the bullet hit her and not him?”
What Brydie had said about Butler being a thief had nagged at him the whole time he’d been drinking last night. Where had his father kept the certificates of his investments? How easy would it be to forge his signature? Someone had ransacked that office.
“So, Johnson cannot benefit from your mother’s death.” Upton seemed satisfied.
Damien wasn’t so sure. Where did the funds come from to keep Zeb’s flock fed? How did he mean to pay for a lease? Why would he need a fiduciary?
Not wanting to darken the curate’s impending nuptials, Damien didn’t express his concern but arranged a quiet interment once Upton finished the casket. Very clever of a man of the cloth to be a carpenter who could provide more practical elements than the funeral service.
He ought to be mourning. Instead, once his business with the curate was concluded, Damien took his anger in search of Rafe.
Drat her clever, interfering mind, Brydie had anticipated him. In the lobby, already wearing a cloak and donning a bonnet, she nodded in the direction of the kitchen. “Rafe is taking bread out of the oven. We thought you might like to retrieve your mother’s belongings since Mr. Johnson was so unkind as not to deliver them.”
