Chapter 25
Twenty-five
Fletch
Tuesday morning, with everyone gone into the village, Fletch verified the solidity of Kate’s windows and doors.
He tested the new bolts and installed sash blocks, completely in the interest of not being responsible for anyone but himself.
That way, he’d work undisturbed, without shooting anyone attempting to break in—absolutely in his own interest. He set the front shutters so he could see anyone approaching the front door and returned to work.
Finally ready for the ponderous brass pendulums, he dipped his cleaning rag into the polish and painstakingly rubbed at a century of grime, expecting to uncover an engraving of the Wycliffe crest. Instead, an elaborate pattern of lines emerged.
They weren't the usual scrolled embellishments but straight lines drawn at various angles, occasionally crossing each other.
Loud shouting outside distracted him from the puzzle. Growling at the disturbance, he shoved his pistol into his coat pocket and peered out the front window. He could just see the tall male actor in woman’s clothes over the hedge bordering the front lane. Who the devil were they shouting at?
He'd rather not be involved in a domestic dispute, but if there was any chance of catching Hugh. . . He’d be a free man again. Fletch unbolted the door and strode out.
Since saying you bellowed was probably not conducive to neighborliness, Fletch could only call out the only name he'd been given. “Miss Kitty, may I help?” Kate would be proud of his restraint.
Wearing sprigged muslin and a green spencer but no bonnet over fair curls, Kitty shook a massive fist at the lane. “I just bought that hen! I wanted eggs for breakfast.”
Venturing further down the drive, Fletch studied the empty lane. “The thief escaped?”
“Obviously.” Recovering, she fluffed up her curls. “What you must think! I was just so angry. . .” She dipped a curtsy. “My apologies for disturbing you, sir.”
Fletch ignored the posturing in favor of his goal of murdering Morgan. “You saw the thief? What did he look like?”
Kitty waved her big hand as if it were a fan. “Oh, no, I simply needed to shout, in case he was listening. I mean, who steals poultry?”
“Hungry thieves.” And killers hiding in barns. “I warned you about the lunatic. Kate took her chickens into town or I'd offer our eggs.” Ours. As if they were his to give. He was becoming entirely too comfortable here. “Did your intruder use the stable again?”
“Ott and I bolted it with a tree trunk and rolled a boulder. Now, I suppose we'll have to keep all the livestock inside.” She frowned—not prettily.
If Hugh was still around. . . Fletch still believed trapping the madman was their best choice. He needed to consult with Rafe.
Evil plot forming, he attempted a reassuring reply. “I need to ride into town for some parts. I can have Mrs. Morgan bring a hen and eggs in the carriage this evening and ask the blacksmith about an easier lock than a boulder so you can keep the poultry locked up.”
“And what do you want in exchange?” Not entirely stupid, Miss Kitty dropped the flirty act for suspicion.
Since he had only the inkling of an idea at this point, Fletch wasn't prepared for reciprocity. “My only goal is to catch the madman harassing Mrs. Morgan. Stay on guard for anything odd and let us know.”
Kitty narrowed her eyes to glare down the rutted lane. “I'll hang him myself, if I can. Mrs. Morgan is a very fine lady.”
“That, she is.” Fletch started to turn away, neighborliness stretched to his limit. But then he remembered Mrs. Young. “I don't know if you heard, but the mushroom lady died. The physician thinks it may be mushroom poisoning. You may want to throw out any left over.”
Kitty waved a gloved fist. “Reynard grew up with wolves. He knows mushrooms and every other edible in the woods. Theater does not pay well.”
Wasn't Reynard a fox? Working his way through that confusing declaration, wondering if he should be concerned that one of the new neighbors knew enough to poison an old lady, Fletch returned to the house.
He was more inclined toward action than thinking, but Kate wasn't acting or thinking. Someone had to end this lawlessness.
He'd had Rob help him don his boots earlier. Saddling his horse presented difficulties. Fletch patted the old pony the Morgans had put out to pasture and studied the situation. The pony wouldn’t suit.
His gelding needed exercise. He was risking the rest of his limbs if he rode him bareback with only one good arm.
Needs must. Bearing the weight of the saddle on his good right arm, he removed his left from the sling to cautiously hold it in place. Cinching took ten times longer than it should, but he managed.
As he rode off, Fletch hoped the lunatic was watching. He'd left the door unlocked so the madman wouldn’t break it again, if he tried to enter. But this time, Fletch didn’t intend to be caught unaware.
He rode to the inn first, hoping to catch Rafe.
He might as well hope to catch the wind.
The kitchen staff didn't know where he'd gone.
Fletch grabbed a slice of good roast beef and some bread and started through the lobby, until he heard Kate.
His shoulder ached like the very devil, but he gave it no notice in following her voice.
There had been a time when he would have gone the opposite direction. He probably should now, but. . . like a swinging pendulum, he had no choice once set in motion.
“Yes, if you'll set the table there, the glass case can go on top of it. Vivien, help Mr. Upton and quit gawking out the window.”
Fletch almost laughed at her modulated irritation. Heavens forfend that she raise her voice.
He strode in, and using his uninjured arm, grabbed the end of the heavy oak table the curate was moving, hefting it to where Kate pointed.
The young vixen had turned from the window and now studiously worked on a button display, while watching him from under her lashes. Fletch didn't mind being examined like a stud horse, but he was too old to enjoy fillies.
“Major Fletcher, thank you. What may we do for you today?” Kate examined the new display case with the delight he’d like bestowed on him.
Which was ridiculous. He preferred seeing her happy and didn't want to remind her a killer lurked. Capturing Morgan was his task. “I'm looking for Rafe but finding you is beneficial.”
“Beneficial? “A gleam leaped to her eye, but she refrained from teasing him. At least now, she was looking at him.
Was that the reason he was dusting off words he'd never used in his life? He refused to rise to the bait. “Your new neighbors have lost their hen and require eggs. I thought perhaps Brydie might sell them both and Damien bring them home with you tonight.”
“Lost their hen?” She looked skeptical, as she should.
Picturing that group of clowns raising poultry took more imagination than he possessed. “I'll tell you later. Have you seen Rafe?”
“He's studying books and hunting mushrooms,” Upton said. “Meera thinks the only kind toxic enough to kill isn't in season yet. Our good bailiff could be anywhere.”
Books were in a library. He’d start there—after he spoke with Upton. He had to find someone to aid in his scheme, meager as it was. The curate was clever. “Fine. If you're finished here, Upton, I'll walk you out.”
“If whatever you're not saying in front of me involves my house or family, I want to hear it.” Understanding him too well, Kate slammed the display case closed. “Vivien, you're done here. Go back and finish that hem.”
“And walk up the hill?” the girl whined. “Let me stay here and work. It's late.”
“No, it's not late. And you should have thought of that when you insisted on walking down in Odila’s place.” Kate pointed at the door.
When the chit huffed off, Kate turned on Fletch. For a female nearly half his size, she fluffed her ruffled feathers wide. “Brydie will be happy to sell a few eggs and a hen. It's spring. There are chicks popping out all over. Now what are you plotting?”
Like an enraged banty hen, she’d fly straight into the boughs if he told her.