The Madman’s Dangerous Delusion (Gravesyde Village Mystery #4)

Chapter 1

One

Kate

The tolling of the manor’s mad floor clock resounded through the open portico doorway, striking noon.

Or midnight. Neither of which it was, but Kate Morgan knew she was running inexcusably late.

In the drive, she gave her two youngest a last-minute inspection before sending them to the new schoolroom.

On days like this, she wished for a magic wand, or three hands, or more practically, for the maid they once had—back in the time when she hadn’t realized innocence provided no defense against evil.

“Keep your coat on, Lyn. It's cold in that schoolroom.” Kate buttoned her eight-year-old daughter's too-small jacket. Lynly had her late father’s weak chest and was often sickly.

“Rob, where's your slate? I can't buy another if you lose it.” Her twelve-year old held his overlarge coat closed as if he were freezing. Odd. Rob was never cold. Now that his older brother was in boarding school and unable to tease him into his old clothes, Rob refused to wear castoffs.

“I've got it. I'm not a baby.” Rob dodged her attempt to straighten his scarf.

His coat wriggled under the scarf he never wore. It had been a gloomy spring, but the wind today was brisk, not freezing. With a sigh, Kate yanked open his coat, revealing a squirming bundle of baby bunnies.

“Oh, no, you don't, sir.” Kate snatched the bundle from his grip. “Mrs. Russell has enough work without adding rabbits.”

“I want to show Davey and Oliver!” he protested. “They've never seen bunnies.”

Davey and Oliver were the privileged, eight-year-old great-grandsons of an earl, living in a stately medieval manor. They had seen London and society. Rob had never known anything except his family’s farm and Gravesyde’s rural poverty.

Kate sympathized with her son’s desire to educate—and impress—but not at the risk of disrupting schoolrooms. “Tell your teachers the bunnies will be in the yard, where they belong. Go on with the two of you or you'll be late.”

She sent them into the tower stairwell that had once served monks and knights.

The eccentric assortment of Priory Manor owners had spent these last months using a—literal—pirate’s ransom to restore the keep, turning it into workshops and schoolrooms for the benefit of the village.

Kate was more than grateful and willing to do whatever necessary to prevent the manor folk from regretting their generosity.

The children raced into the tower, leaving her with the bundle of baby rabbits. Wild hares would make dog food for the manor's hounds. She didn’t have time to find a stable hand to lock them up. She’d have to take them inside or be late for work. Again.

Taking the grand portico entrance, relieved the clock had quit its infernal bonging, Kate shoved the bundle into the hands of the startled footman. “The boys want to see bunnies. I have no notion of what to do with them.”

The poor lad juggled the bundle and her cloak without question. He'd probably been handed worse. It wasn’t as if Gravesyde invited normal. They’d been without civilization for too long.

Carrying an armful of linens, a cheerful bundle of energy bustled down the long side hall toward the service stairs near where Kate stood.

The manor provided plain gowns and caps for everyone working here, so her drab attire resembled Kate’s. “’Morning, Mrs. Morgan!” She cast a glance at the squirming bundle and laughed. “Easter bunnies! Don’t let Miss Marlowe see them. She’ll be dressing them like that doggie of hers.”

Ana Marie had only just moved to the village after a lifetime in Worcester. Kate’s older cousin, she had the Calhoun auburn hair and plain features, but they barely knew each other except by name.

Reminded of her own cap, Kate pinned the windblown linen back in place. As head seamstress, Kate had to maintain a prim and proper facade. “Rob wanted to show them off.”

“That boy of yours is adorable. I’m going up with linens for the nursery. Shall I ask Mr. Birdwhistle what to do about bunnies?”

“That would be perfect, thank you.” Leaving the amused maid behind, Kate rushed down the hall to the sewing workshop set up in what had originally been a monk’s house of worship and then an earl’s ballroom.

She hated setting a bad example by being late.

Women's voices already arose from the interior.

“The children giving you trouble again?” Miss Jameson called, loud enough for every soul in the echoingly enormous chamber to hear. Heads turned to see who entered, so all and sundry knew Kate was tardy.

Both slender and voluptuous, black-haired Vivien Jameson had made it clear since her arrival a few months ago that she should be head seamstress.

Miss Jameson was an experienced needlewoman, yes, and she commanded attention as plain, quiet Kate did not.

But Kate had been head seamstress long before this upstart had arrived.

The newcomer lacked Kate’s knowledge of their customers and the other workers.

Besides, Miss Jameson’s attention-getting was unbelievably annoying.

Kate reminded herself to be charitable. The young woman was struggling to make ends meet, as they all were.

Without responding to the comment, Kate studied the main table where the day’s work was laid out.

“Mrs. Morgan, welcome! Now we can start.” At eighteen, Lavender Marlowe was entirely too young and beautiful to be relegated to running a business.

But as the illegitimate granddaughter of Baroness Marlowe, and heir to a portion of the manor under the late earl’s eccentric will, the youngster had access to funds and facilities no one else in the village could claim.

And she was a tremendously talented modiste.

Kate had a lot of respect for her young employer, who provided work for impoverished women. She nodded greeting and waited to see what had the irrepressible lady bubbling with excitement.

Blonde, blue-eyed as the rest of the earl’s family, Lavender was a vision of wealthy aristocracy in a lace-bedecked, periwinkle blue frock of her own creation.

In contrast to her frivolous appearance, she waved a page full of very business-like numbers.

“Mr. Walker says we have earned enough creating and refurbishing bonnets and holiday gowns over Christmas that we now have enough to start looking for a shop in town!”

Kate wasn’t entirely certain of the wisdom of paying rent when they had the manor’s unused ballroom and tower workshop for free. But attracting outsiders had been a long-time goal, and she understood the excitement. “Start small?” she suggested cautiously. “Selling ribbons and lace?”

“And my hats!” Vivien Jameson added in loud delight. She hadn’t been the only one refurbishing hats, but she’d recently learned to create simple bonnets from scratch.

Lavender perched on one of the worktables. “I’d love to have that empty shop next to the new hardware, so women coming to market would see our wares. But it’s large, and Walker says the bank is asking too much. It’s just, we really need that shop window.”

The estate’s American steward was a brilliant businessman. Ignoring his advice was never wise.

“My brother-in-law is moving out of his office at the inn. The space was once a ladies’ parlor and has a lovely bay window—although the inn isn’t exactly an area where women shop.” Kate puckered her nose as she offered her suggestion.

“But the inn pub is open to all now, even ladies!” Lavender bounced in excitement. “We could have signs directing people to look. Although that mud field of a yard. . .”

She frowned and stood. “Let’s all think on it. Kate, bring your basket. My grandmother and Lady Spalding have finally consented to refurbishing some of their ancient gowns. They like you and think I’m a featherhead, so come talk sense to them for me.”

“I can talk sense,” Miss Jameson said, looking insulted. “I have excellent ideas. Mrs. Morgan just sews a fine seam.”

Vivien, unfortunately, lacked the patience to sew fine seams. She preferred playing with lace and silk. Kate accepted her own limitations—her needlework was superior, yes, but she wasn’t as inventive as the newcomer.

Except Lavender didn’t require Vivien’s creativity. She already possessed more imagination than the dowagers needed, and she loved showing off for her grandmother. Kate simply accompanied her as the sensible older woman to convince them they would look beautiful in a young girl’s designs.

Rather than assert her authority, Kate let Lavender decide.

“Vivien, I need you to take those infant clothes up to Mrs. Lavigne.” Lavender pointed at a stack of newly-sewn infant gowns. “She’ll want to ask about the fabric. You can reassure her that it’s sturdy enough for many washings.”

A descendant of the third earl of Wycliffe, Patience Lavigne was the first of the family to give birth in the manor for nearly a century. The entire household hovered.

Picking up her own sewing basket, Lavender gestured for Kate to follow her to the hall. “I’m relying on your sensible head for the new shop,” she confided once they were out of hearing.

“I will be delighted to help in whatever way I can,” Kate admitted. “Perhaps older workers who can no longer see well and for whom the hill up to the manor is difficult might work there as clerks.” She started toward the back service stairs that Ana Marie had taken earlier.

Lavender grasped her elbow and turned her around.

“Main stairs. Quit pretending you are a servant. You are a squire’s daughter and gentry, which is why you’ll be perfect for the shop.

It will require showing fashion plates and taking appointments for fittings, and you know the locals better than anyone.

Both the manor ladies and shop women will listen to you.

You can sew there as well as here, so I won’t be losing your fine needlework. ”

Kate wondered if highhandedness was an inherited trait and if that was how people became earls. She didn’t speak her thoughts, but once they reached the gaslit, imposing, wide marble stairs at the front of the manor, she hesitated, regretting taking the family’s route.

The white stone stairs were littered with blackened, filthy cogs.

On the landing, at the center of the pigsty, stood Sgt.

Major Fletcher Ferguson, his wrinkled neckcloth undone to reveal a strong brown throat.

Having discarded his form-fitting coat, his straining shoulders garbed only in waistcoat and worn shirt sleeves, he heaved the heavy floor clock to one side.

He was much too large and hairy to be a pig, but he was covered in grime and grunting at the weight of his burden.

At least the timepiece had stopped its infernal bonging. Apparently, the man had finally killed the family’s priceless antique.