Chapter 8
Eight
Fletch
Fletch frowned. Two healthy women falling on stairs. . . required explanation. Were treads coming loose? Not on these stones. Was someone spilling liquid?
The instant Kate arrived, the tavern owner and the artist abandoned the landing to reassure the children in the schoolroom, leaving Fletch in the small space with two women.
Uncomfortable, he edged up against a wall, having no notion of what to do while waiting for the physician.
It wasn’t as if he could lift the injured female with his bum shoulder.
Deciding Kate had the weeping miss in hand, Fletch examined the narrow stone stairs. The stairwell spiraled along the side of the tower, so it was not possible to see up or down more than a few steps.
“He pushed me, he did,” the dark-haired ninny cried. “Wanted to kill me like poor Ana Marie!”
Fletch jerked in surprise. He had thought the maid's death accidental. Why was she calling the death murder? Who would want to kill an impoverished maid? What had caused her to even think that?
Not that Fletch meant to interrogate a weeping pea-goose.
He ran down to greet Rafe when he finally arrived with the physician.
Now he could ask sensible questions of a sensible man.
Although his first one went straight to the ninny’s fears.
“She says someone pushed her. Did Hugh Morgan manage to see the captain?”
Rafe shook his head and practically growled.
“Hunt was on the roof, working on the cistern. The chap was hurting, so I locked him in a stall and went in search of Meera.” Rafe nodded toward the physician climbing up to tend the fallen seamstress.
“He was gone when I returned. Someone removed the bar.”
“Then Morgan could have done this?” Fletch sought any signs that a bloody, muddy lunatic may have come up the stairs, but dozens of small feet had left their mud on the solid stone.
He needed to climb over the women on the landing and hunt higher—although how the lunatic could have climbed to the top of the tower. . .
Rafe looked as dubious as Fletch felt. “You think Morgan ran from the barn to the tower? But he’d have to climb from the bottom.
Doesn’t one have to be above to push? Given the shape you left him in, I'd think it more likely that he fell on her and ran, but that means he had to have climbed to the top first. Maybe looking for Hunt? And when he couldn’t reach the roof, he turned around?
That’s a lot of climbing for someone in his condition. ”
“My knife must have slipped,” Fletch muttered. “I thought I took a hole out of his middle.”
“He's a short man. Most likely squirmed and you hit his ribs. He’d cleaned himself up somehow but wasn’t in great shape. Or I didn’t think so.” Rafe studied the narrow, enclosed stairs as Fletch had done.
With Meera now in charge, Kate traipsed down to meet them on the ground floor. “If Hugh is this crazed, should we be checking the schoolroom?”
“Henri is up there.” Rafe reassured her. “I’m on my way to join him.”
Fletch could make little sense of the madman’s path. Had Morgan escaped the barn and run up several flights of stairs, hoping to find the captain? Then he heard the ninny, ran down, pushed her out of his way, and escaped again? Swift bastard, if so. “We better search, he could be anywhere.”
Rafe grimaced. “I want to see to the women and children first.” He ran up toward the schoolroom and his family.
Kate's frown didn’t ease. “I don't know why Miss Jameson was on the stairs. Or why Hugh would be, either. Perhaps he thought he could find Hunt?”
That had been his assumption. Fletch wanted to tell her to stay out of it, it was none of her concern, but that was a lie, and she'd call him on it. When had women quit hanging onto his every word?
When he'd stopped talking to them.
With a sigh, he organized his jumble of thoughts. “That makes some sense, although how Miss Jameson became involved, I can’t say. Rafe and Hunt will organize any search. Meera will see to Miss Jameson and Arnaud can carry her out. I’ll escort you back to the sewing room.”
“Does this mean it isn’t safe to go into town? We’re supposed to look at the inn parlor for Lavender’s shop.” With her knot of silky, auburn hair coming undone, she looked amazingly uncertain and not a little shaken.
He gauged the danger. Surely they had the madman injured and on the run, and it wasn’t as if Hugh carried weapons. But Fletch would feel better if the women had protection.
“Rafe and I are partners in the inn. I can show it to you.” Renting out the parlor would help pay the bills. He ought to practice being useful.
Kate looked wary, but she could do nothing more to assist the physician. With one arm out of commission, Fletch knew he was useless for most purposes, but he could wield a knife. They might as well return to business.
“The captain doesn’t mind you leaving the clockworks on the stairs?” she asked.
“I'm diagramming the mechanism before cleaning and repairing. I’ll pick up when I’m done with that.” He couldn’t see how pendulums that heavy worked in a case that size, but she wouldn’t understand.
With Lavender’s office door still locked, Kate had to return through the portico entrance. That left Fletch in the yard, mentally examining the pendulums and keeping an eye out for runaway madmen. He needed to sit down and do the mathematics when he had a chance.
All seemed to have returned to normal by the time Miss Marlowe and Kate ran outside, still fastening their bonnet ribbons.
Lacking any pleasantries, Fletch simply led them down the drive, keeping an eye out for stray lunatics.
He'd cleaned his dagger and added a long blade to his boot this morning.
He reckoned he could dispose of his sling, if necessary.
Generally, he just relied on his strength, but he could be flexible, occasionally.
“We can't ask clients to cross a mud field!” Miss Marlowe cried in distress once they reached the inn yard at the bottom of the hill.
He and Rafe had been repairing the fence and gates, preparing a proper drive, so carriages had an easy route from the road up to the inn’s lobby door. After disposing of bags and passengers, drivers might circle around to the stable grounds in the rear. Not that they had many guests with carriages.
Which was why they were still pricing gravel and cobblestone. They needed more income to justify the expense. Now he had to work numbers to see if renting the parlor would cover the cost. Businessman, he was not.
“A boardwalk or flagstone path for people on foot,” Kate suggested, lifting her sensible wool hem and entering the yard. Fortunately, despite the ever-present clouds, it hadn't rained recently.
A boardwalk sounded reasonably cheaper than paving a drive.
Wearing slippers designed for houses, not fields, the stylish Miss Marlowe narrowed her pretty blue eyes and stepped delicately into the dirt.
“A gravel path from the gate, directly to the wall, out of the carriage drive. Then a boardwalk under the eaves, out of the weather, where customers can stroll and admire the shop window.”
Wincing at the costs adding up, Fletch led them inside.
It wasn't as if Gravesyde was overrun with visitors wanting to stay the night. Their few guests were all men, which was why Rafe had left Parsons, a former New South Wales convict, in charge of the desk. Fortunately, the proud Miss Marlowe didn’t deign to notice a scarred and tattooed clerk.
In an abundance of caution, Fletch left the ladies in the lobby while he checked inside the parlor. The ground floor chamber had a key but was unlocked and unfurnished. No place to hide here. He gestured them in.
“The light is perfect!” Miss Marlowe admired the large mullioned bay window overlooking the muddy yard. “We'll need a long table in front of the window for displays. And those bookshelves. . .” She took out a tape to measure them. “So very many uses!”
“Damien had his law books there. Verity thought she might move some books from her upstairs library should the parlor open for ladies,” Kate explained.
Crossing his arms and attempting to ignore the women, Fletch leaned his hip against the window seat, watching for madmen in the yard. Maybe he ought to open his own shop, repair clocks, sell automatons. . . as if he could sell anything if his life depended on it.
He needed more to do than training horses and looking after the inn's stable.
Right now, he needed a woman. He should take himself out of here, where feminine scents and voices enticed.
While the females filled their heads with ideas, Fletch noted Rafe trotting into the yard.
Must be noon. The pub’s food had acquired more customers than the inn had guests.
Although Rafe wasn’t alone. Accompanied by Damien and Kate’s Viking warrior sister.
. . his partner wasn’t bearing good tidings.
Apparently deciding they had all the information they required, the ladies chose that moment to leave. Fletch followed warily on their heels, hand on his knife hilt. Once in the lobby, he ordered Parsons to lock the parlor as a precaution and waited for the bad news.
Bursting into the lobby, Rafe held up a big hand to prevent their departure. “Kate, we can't find Morgan. You'll need to stay in town until he's caught. We're stationing men at the farm to prevent his return.”
Fletch watched in admiration as the volcano’s heat built and the lady’s big gray eyes boiled with rare outrage, even as her family stepped in behind Rafe. His partner had intelligently brought support.
“I am not letting that madman keep me from my home!” Kate’s words weren’t loud but emphatic. “That’s just what he wants. He’ll look at it as an invitation to move in.”
Brydie hugged her. “You have to keep Rob and Lynly safe. You can stay at the Hall and we’ll join you. It’s just across the lane, and you can keep an eye on the house from there.”
Kate pushed free. “You can’t be riding into the bakery at three in the morning! Don’t be foolish. If it makes you feel better, someone can ride out with us to be certain the house is empty. I’ll lock all the doors once we’re inside. I know how to use a shotgun.”
No, she didn’t, Fletch thought cynically. She was a genteel lady, born and bred. Her younger sister was large and a hoyden and might punch a man flat, but not Miss Perfect.
“What did Miss Jameson have to say about her fall?” he asked first. “Was she pushed?”
Rafe grimaced. “She claims she was, but she was weeping and shrieking so much, I left her to Meera so I could help search for Morgan. I’ll have to question her later, when she’s more sensible. Right now, it’s Kate most likely in danger.”
What the hell. . . “I’ll go with her,” Fletch volunteered. “I can handle a shotgun, a pistol, and a knife with one hand, but I can’t cut my food.” Or get dressed, but he damned well wasn’t admitting that. He’d ask Damien’s man-milliner valet for help before he’d ask a woman. “Will that suffice?”
He’d apparently shocked Kate speechless. He took his satisfaction where he could get it.