Chapter 23
Twenty-three
Fletch
The normally well-mannered lady slammed her hoe into a patch of weeds as if they were a snake's head. “No, No. No. I have given it much thought and the answer is still no. We cannot partake of Rafe's hospitality without paying for it. We will stay here.”
They’d heard the news about Mrs. Young’s death. No one had cried murder, but as far as Fletch was concerned, Rafe sending out two hunting parties said it all.
“Stay with Brydie and Damien, then,” he argued, using a rake with one arm to scrape beheaded weeds from the garden row. With Lynly and Rob only a few rows over, he couldn't shout Hugh is killing women! But his head was exploding with the need to yell at this contrary, stubborn female.
A civilized, responsible female who had hosted the most eccentric dinner party he'd ever attended, while wearing a smile of delight, as if she were in the grandest company society had to offer. While he’d wanted to crawl under the table and bite ankles like the rabid dog he was.
Civilized or not, he still couldn’t accept Kate’s dangerous objections. Her sheltered existence did not allow any understanding of the perilous world he’d lived in for too long.
“Brydie and Damien have only two upper rooms, and they're newlyweds. Certainly not. Rob, Lyn, time to wash and finish your homework.” The insensible female finished the row and removed her gloves to brush strands of her auburn hair from her neck. The feminine gesture nearly paralyzed him.
He diverted his prurient thoughts by realizing she’d kept the children from complaining about homework—by making it more pleasant than the task at hand.
Once inside, with the children out of the kitchen, Kate washed at the sink and donned an apron over her distracting curves.
Bringing out the remains of the meat pie and cheese, she glared at Fletch as if he were the offender.
“We ate mushrooms Saturday night. No one died. I am heartbroken to lose Mrs. Young. She was a lovely lady and a pleasure to work with. I hate that she died in pain. I hate that we are helpless to prevent illness and suffering. But I see utterly no reason for Hugh to murder her. I will not waste my life behind locked doors, living in fear of what might happen. That’s idiocy and cowardice. ”
Fletch pinched the bridge of his too-broad nose.
No shouting, he reminded himself. Ladies did not respond well to shouting.
“You will not live at all if he kills you.
He wants this house. He has moved in, threatened you, pushed a woman who looked like you downstairs, used a pea-shooter on mules in an attempt to kill you, and now he has murdered an old lady, probably because she'd seen him carrying out his dirty deeds.”
He held up his hand when she started to object.
“He wants this house. He’s lurking, watching, stealing from your garden when he thinks the place is empty.
If you stay in the village, he'll move in, and we'll have him trapped. Rafe and his hounds have caught his scent but it’s everywhere. We can’t trap him any other way. ”
He couldn’t believe he was arguing with the fool woman.
She bustled about the kitchen like a mere servant but disagreed with him as if she knew more than an army major.
He had no responsibility for her. He should keep his head down, do his work, and shut the hell up. What the devil was wrong with him?
“Perhaps he's gone,” she said stubbornly, slicing bread. “Has anyone considered that Hugh is a lunatic who may have wandered off, and that's why the hounds can't find him?”
“He was here yesterday!” Fletch finally shouted. “Sorry.” He grabbed plates and set the kitchen table. “I am not good at protecting civilians. I need to sleep in the yard with my rifle and shoot things.”
She offered a wobbly smile that almost slayed him on the spot. “I understand. I am not accustomed to people yelling at me. We both must adapt to others.” Then she ruined the moment by adding in a more pointed tone, “I will learn to listen. You must learn to talk.”
He accepted the admonition. He knew he was a surly bastard. It had never really mattered before. Clock parts and horses didn’t care. He rubbed a hand on his unkempt thatch of hair, reined in his temper, and asked as civilly as he was able, “Why do you believe Hugh is gone?”
“The hounds and two search parties cannot find him. He’s wily enough to know they’re after him, but he's simply not smart enough to know one mushroom from another—do you? I don't.” She arranged the cold platters on the table, added greens and pickled carrots, and rang a bell to bring the children down—because ladies didn’t shout like fishwives.
Fletch had to concede her point. “Mrs. Young knew the difference,” he couldn't resist adding.
“Then she was ill. People die of illness, as we know too well.”
As Kate knew too well, Fletch understood. She'd nursed parents and husband. Perhaps, this once, Meera was wrong. The village had seen too much suspicious death and it biased their thinking. He wanted to believe in Kate’s impossible fantasy world.
Rob and Lynly arrived and conversation took more pleasant—although not necessarily less controversial—directions.
“Miss Kitty said she might teach me to play the piano,” Lynly announced. “You and Aunt Brydie don't have time anymore.”
Fletch had absolutely no say in this. He was merely an unwanted guest. He wasn’t responsible for these children. His tongue would have holes in it shortly.
“That's thoughtful of her, but we are only home in the evening, when you have chores and homework.” Kate didn't look up from cutting Fletch's meat. He’d put his arm back in its sling.
“Perhaps we ought to ask your aunt if she'd like to move the piano to her new home. Then she could teach you after school.”
Easily satisfied, Lynley responded to a question about her Easter frock and supper ended with no further mention of their unusual neighbors.
Fletch wasn't as complacent. To him, strangers meant the possibility of more trouble. They could be the murderer for all anyone knew. His duty to keep Kate safe from Morgan was starting to bleed into territory that was none of his damned business.
After supper, he returned to work, rearranging the clockworks to fit the diagram he’d drawn.
Since the family always ate in the kitchen, he'd returned the parts to the dining table.
He was back to sleeping on the cot. He couldn't make himself move into the intimacy of the family's personal quarters.
He didn't belong there. And he ought to be downstairs when trouble arrived.
If he weren't needed to guard Kate and her family, he'd move back to the inn and suffer the indignity of eating soft food until his shoulder healed. Until then, he required the distraction of work.
After cleaning up in the kitchen, Kate stopped in the dining room doorway. “Did you hear Jacques’ guests mention Vivien as one of the seamstresses in Worcester who worked on their costumes?”
He set down the piece he was filing to study her, uncertain where this was going. “I heard. That the same chit flouncing about the manor?”
“I'll find out, but I think so. There is just something odd about Vivien finding a position in the sewing room but an experienced modiste like Ana Marie ending up as a maid.” She hesitated and when he did not reply, she turned away.
His battered brainbox didn't want her turning away, even if it meant actually speaking his thoughts. “Is it possible Mrs. Marie was losing her eyesight? I understand that is a difficulty for women who do fine handwork.”
She flashed a small smile. “Two sentences. We'll have you conversing again any day. Her son didn’t believe so.” She gave his question more thought. “Her daughter wrote urging her to try again. I cannot help thinking that had to do with the sewing room. But Lavender says she never applied.”
She looked unhappy. “I dislike thinking ill of anyone, but Vivien was hired first, I'm fairly certain. I think I'll ask Walker. And write Ana Marie's daughter to ask why Vivien left their shop and when.”
Given their earlier conversation, Fletch followed that thought with a cold chill. “You think Vivien had something to do with Ana Marie's death, not Hugh? But Vivien was pushed too.”
Kate rubbed her pale hands, then wound her fingers together. “Hugh might have pushed Ana Marie because she looked like me. I'll go to my grave carrying that guilt. But Vivien? Does she in any way look like me?”
“Not in the least,” Fletch said without hesitation. “She's skinny and wears shoes that make her look taller than she is. And her hair is dull black and doesn’t glow with red like yours. The only similarity is the gown all of you wear. She probably tripped over her boot heels.”
She smiled faintly. “Interesting way with words when you choose to speak. Thank you, I think. Perhaps I should stop wearing blacks. Or wear a pink scarf around my neck so no one else is mistaken for me.”
She drifted away without a farewell, leaving Fletch to fret.
Until Mrs. Young, he'd believed Kate the target of a lunatic. For all anyone knew, Hugh could be half blind as well as mad.
But she was right. If Meera concluded Mrs. Young had been murdered. . . The killer knew mushrooms and was indiscriminately attacking women. Or they had two killers on their hands. They couldn't possibly lock all the women in the village behind closed doors.
Mrs. Young had to have poisoned herself accidentally. Nothing else made sense. And that was none of his concern.
Except he couldn’t stop fretting over the danger to Kate.
Maybe, if he eliminated the danger, he could return to his simple life, where his only concern was making a clock tick.