Chapter 15
Fifteen
Rafe
That evening, furious with himself and the world, Rafe slammed on the fancy top hat Verity had insisted he wear and set out to locate the cottages of Lavender’s seamstresses, the ones who had been on the drive when Kate almost died.
Widows and spinsters, for the most part, he learned a number of them lived together.
But when the mules broke loose, they all claimed to have been at the bottom of the hill, talking and not looking back.
No one had seen what had set off the animals.
Just one more mysterious accident.
Discouraged, he stopped at Henri’s tavern in search of the manor’s field steward or any of the stable hands he hadn’t already interviewed. People gathered at the tavern after work, so it was always a good source of information.
Under Henri’s watchful supervision, Miss Vivien had taken Patience’s place singing at the bar. Rafe hadn’t realized that. He ought to get out more, but with a wife and children and a pub to mind, he didn’t have time for carousing.
Removing his hat, he accepted an ale and studied the room while the pretty seamstress flirted with the customers and collected their coins.
She didn’t have the angelic voice of Henri’s wife, and Rafe was quite certain she didn’t divide the coins between Henri and the church, as Patience had done, but that wasn’t his concern.
Rafe located Tim Cooper, the manor’s field steward, at a table in the corner, talking to a few of the stable hands.
He was terrible at this interrogation bit and wished they had more privacy.
Tapping Cooper on the shoulder, Rafe nodded at an empty table.
An intelligent man, even if not well educated, Tim got up and followed him to the quiet corner.
“Has anyone given you any idea what set off those mules?” Rafe asked, more angrily than he liked.
Older and skinnier than Rafe, Cooper didn’t flinch at his tone. He sipped his ale, wrinkled his brow, and gave the matter due consideration. “Old Ned’s been delivering feed with them mules for as long as I been here, which, mind you, isn’t even a year.”
“That makes most of us. That cart was a disaster waiting to happen, but the mules seem well treated.” As if Rafe knew aught of mules, but he recognized untended animals well enough.
Tim nodded. “Never seen them behave like that. Mayhap a wasp stung one. We’ve had trouble with wasps now the weather is summat warmer. Been a cold old winter and it’s not warming up like it ought. Miss Patience—Mrs. Lavigne—is that worried about the apple blossoms.”
Rafe knew it was impossible to talk to a farmer without discussing the weather. It had been a nasty winter and the spring had been unusually gloomy. That didn’t explain runaway mules. “Do wasps normally bother mules?”
Cooper shrugged. “Not so’s I noticed. I was in the stable, watching them stack the feed. You might ask some of the boys what they saw. They were flirtin’ with that bit of muslin over there.” He nodded at Miss Vivien. “She’s trouble, if you ask me.”
“She’s young and full of herself,” Rafe agreed. “Was her sister with her?”
“I reckon. She been followin’ her about lately, though she ain’t here tonight.” The steward glanced around to be certain she hadn’t slipped in.
“I suspect Miss Vivien earns more coins off the lads without big sister glaring.” Rafe had grown up in an inn and had learned not to judge.
Human nature hadn’t changed much while he was at war.
“Does that mean the two of them were still at the top of the drive and might have been near the stable when the mules ran? I haven’t talked to them yet. ”
“Heard female voices. Reckon they were. None of the others loiter about.”
The Jamesons were new to the village. It made sense that they hadn’t become part of the closed local society of female workers yet.
“Speak to the lads for me, will you? Ask if they know why the mules bolted? They might tell you more than me. And if you can, ask the cart driver to take a look at his mules for wasp stings.” Rafe pushed up from his seat.
He knew his size and position intimidated.
Even if no wrong had been done, farmhands shied away from outsiders and kept their thoughts to themselves.
“You be thinking someone deliberately scared them?” Cooper asked, rising with him and frowning.
“I’m not thinking anything yet. But the lady has a madman frightening her, and I can’t pin him down. If he was there. . . I need to know.”
“Caught sight of him the oncet when he was raising a ruckus about speaking with the captain. Reckon I’ll recognize him if he shows his face again, but most days, I’m out in the fields and not near the big house.” Cooper returned to his workers.
Dissatisfied, Rafe tipped his hat at Henri and departed.
He’d learned the Jameson women had taken a cottage in one of the back lanes at the far end of Gravesyde from the inn.
He didn’t want to haul the minx off the bar to question her, but her sister seemed sensible.
If she’d been near the stable when the mules bolted, she might have noticed something.
He stopped at the Walker’s cottage and infirmary to ask for better directions.
He’d lived in this cottage when he’d first moved to Gravesyde.
At the time, he had admired the enormous herb and vegetable gardens.
He and Verity were trying to duplicate them, little by little.
Hunt’s best friend and steward, Daniel Walker, and his physician wife, had taken over the cottage this winter.
Spring green leaves promised a good harvest.
“The Jameson sisters?” Meera met him at the door, bouncing her toddler on her hip. “I heard they moved into a vacant cottage about half a mile down the river. It flooded the last time the river rose and no one wanted it.”
“The bank really needs to look after their vacant properties,” Rafe said in annoyance. “Rats will take over, human and animal.”
“Walker says once we’re an official village, we may be able to condemn the worst of them. But that’s a way off and costs more money than we’ll have.”
Rafe liked the idea of condemning property a bank neglected. Rich men had never done him any favors. He tipped his gentleman’s tall hat and strode off down the river road.
He needed to be at the pub, serving up dinner and drinks to the few guests who might wander in. But he simply couldn’t step aside while a lunatic walked the streets—especially if Morgan was behind these dangerous accidents.
He found the cottage from the plume of smoke rising from a crumbling chimney.
Studying the state of the thatch on the tiny house hidden behind tall blackberry thorns and an overgrown rhododendron, Rafe winced.
The roof was ready to collapse. The critters burrowing into it most likely slid into their soup of an evening. That was no way to live.
He'd like to ask who their landlord was but he probably wouldn’t like the answer. Best stay with his purpose.
A lanky, long-haired youngster of dubious age, wearing patched overalls, answered the door. He grunted at Rafe and left him on the doorstep. A moment later, the bovine, graying version of black-haired Miss Vivien arrived, drying her hands on her apron. She waited without speaking.
“I’m Rafe Russell, bailiff for the Priory Manor and Gravesyde.” He didn’t want to mention Hugh Morgan and put words in her mouth. But his only excuse for being here was weak. “I’m investigating the incident with the mules this afternoon. Tim Cooper said you might have seen what happened.”
She shrugged rounded shoulders. “Bist a lot about, unloading feed. Viv talks. Thee knows how young uns are. Didn’t see naught else.”
“Did you notice the mules at all? Were they restive? Was anyone near them?” What else could he ask without saying Did anyone hit the mules?
She shrugged again. “Wasn’t watching mules.”
And it was highly unlikely that her young sister had eyes for anyone but the lads. With a sigh, Rafe returned his hat to his head, thanked her, and hurried toward home.
He would resign this damned position if he thought anyone else would take it over. Pity Fletch was such a surly bastard.
Kate might wallop some sense into the lout. Watching them laughing hysterically after they’d nearly been killed had been quite a sight.
Returning through town, he passed Monk’s Tavern again. Miss Vivien was leaving on the arm of a widowed farmer, while Henri leaned against the door jamb and watched them go. The captain’s young French cousin was seldom alone. Rafe stopped while he had the chance.
“Do you know where the Jameson sisters come from?” Rafe asked, because he liked to know the people he had to deal with.
Henri offered a Gallic shrug. “Not Birmingham, judging by accents. They don’t talk about themselves. Patience thinks they may be hiding from abusive family.”
Rafe raised his eyes to heaven. “So now I need to be on the watch for strangers who beat women?”
Henri snorted. “You need to be on the watch for any man who beats women. Ask Verity about the Jameson children. I heard they just started attending her school. You might learn more from them.”
“Next on my list. Let me know if any lunatics show up.” Rafe left Henri grinning. Good to know someone had a sense of humor about this quandary.