Chapter 26
Twenty-six
Rafe
Unsatisfied with learning that the stable lad who had delivered Mrs. Young’s composted straw had left for a position elsewhere, Rafe cleaned off his boots to the best of his ability and took the service entrance into the manor’s cellar kitchen.
He purely despised questioning the aristocratic—eccentric—family inhabiting Priory Manor.
He’d been raised the son of an obsequious innkeeper who did everything possible to please his important guests, until they’d stabbed him in the back by arranging to build a highway far from the inn.
And now here he was, practically in the same position as his father, catering to the needs of the wealthy.
Except the manor’s cook was the immensely wealthy daughter of an earl, which made his noggin hurt. As a mess sergeant, he’d known where he stood. He knew how to deal with aristocratic military officers, but not an earl’s daughter who wore aprons and cooked, just like him.
He found Lady Elsa directing the kitchen’s usual anarchy, wearing a cap over her fair hair and a splattered apron over her plump form. She shook a wooden spoon at one of the scullery maids, then turned on Rafe with a smile so glorious it might have rivaled the sun.
“Mr. Russell! Have you stolen Brydie’s recipe for hot cross buns yet? Or must I buy them from her for our Easter dinner?”
How did he respond? As his superior, she’d expect him to comply. But Brydie worked hard and selling bread was how she made a living. “Buy them?” he suggested, since she’d said it first.
Lady Elsa laughed. “Or figure it out for myself, fair enough. What can I do for you, sir? You do not often dare my lair.”
Relieved that she wasn’t angry, he twisted his hat brim while he formed his questions. “Do you preserve mushrooms? Have you bought any from Mrs. Young?”
“I don’t bother preserving them. If Mrs. Young has a fresh crop, I’ll find a use for them, but that’s not often.
And yes, I bought a basket of her latest crop because she needed the funds, but I’m thinking I’ll toss them on the compost heap.
I have to consider the health of everyone from infants to the elderly. ”
“Will you let Dr. Walker look at them first? We are trying to determine what poison mushrooms she might have accidentally picked.” Rafe clung to the notion it had been an accident. Anything else. . . he didn’t want to consider.
“I’ll leave them in Meera’s laboratory. They look perfectly harmless to me, but. . .” She gestured helplessly. “This is Gravesyde. I prefer to take no chances.”
Murder was too common an occurrence, which had them looking under every rock. He understood. “Do you know of anyone else who sells them or may have helped her pick them?”
“I’ll ask about.” She gestured to indicate her bustling staff. “And let you know if I learn anything interesting.”
“Thank you, my lady.” He bowed and started for the stairs up to the ground floor.
The cook was already returning to the fray, shouting at her beleaguered staff, a woman who thoroughly enjoyed her less-than-noble authority.
Rafe located Meera and the curate’s librarian wife emptying library bookshelves and stacking ponderous tomes next to jars of what he assumed were pickled mushrooms. He was grateful they were willing to work their way through all those ancient volumes. He wasn’t that good a student.
“I asked Lady Elsa to leave the mushrooms she purchased in your laboratory, ma’am.” Rafe worried at his hat some more. The brim would wear out at this rate. Adapting to civilian dress was another challenge. “Have you learned anything else that might help me?”
“Very little,” Meera said with a slump to her shoulders.
She offset her resemblance to a small brown wren by wearing peacock-colored shawls.
“These books are old. The most recent was apparently written by one of the third earl’s nephews.
He attempted identification and classification and experimented with toxicity but there is really nothing definitive. ”
“Different mushrooms have different effects on different people and they don’t know why,” Minerva added in frustration.
“And there is no research on whether pickling, drying, or cooking makes a difference. We’d have to experiment and kill rats.
I have written the duke’s librarian to ask if they have more recent tomes, but science is not what he collects. ”
She referred to the Duke of Castlefield, where her father was steward. Rafe appreciated any aid they could find.
Dr. Walker flung down a book in frustration.
“I do not have the experience or equipment to even begin testing for chemical substances in the stomachs of rats and certainly not Mrs. Young. All we know is that the varieties of fungi in the Amanita family are most likely to cause gastric distress and worse, depending on too many circumstances for us to possibly define.”
“And for all we know, the mushroom might have been combined with some other substance to aggravate the consequences. But illness is the more likely effect, not death, so was murder the intent? I fear you will need to concentrate on learning who had access to Mrs. Young’s kitchen.
” The petite librarian began lining the books up in some order known only to her.
“Or to her mushroom garden or the basket she picked or. . .” Rafe grimaced. “Thank you, ladies, for trying.”
To his surprise, he ran into Fletch coming in just as he was heading out.
His partner grabbed his arm and dragged him outside to the drive. “I need a company of guards to surround Mrs. Morgan’s house.”
“Right. I’ll rub my magic lamp and summon them.” Rafe continued walking toward the inn. He’d missed his noon meal. He was a big man and needed fuel.
“Morgan stole a hen last night. He’s still out there.
” Fletch didn’t miss a stride. “The only way we’ll catch him is a trap.
I left the house open. If he was watching, he saw me leave.
He has to know the family is gone all day, which means the house is empty.
The lunatic might take this chance to move in again. ”
“Or he might be sleeping off a drunken binge in a hedgerow or be halfway to Worcester by now.” Discouraged, Rafe didn’t know why his surly partner was suddenly involving himself in law enforcement. He’d never bothered before, except a little when his favorite lightskirt had died.
If he was looking at Kate that way, Rafe would have to punch his friend in the nozzle.
“You have a better idea?” Fletch demanded. “Because she can’t keep living like this and women keep dying.”
He had a point. “Where am I to find enough men to surround the house in the middle of the day, especially after I had them all out yesterday? Hunt might stir a few of the layabouts to take the dogs out, but that’s all we have.
Upton has to make a coffin. Damien has gone to the city on some legal matter.
I can’t ask Hunt or Jack to quit whatever they’re doing and ride out with us. What do you suggest?”
“I’ll ask.” In furious determination, Fletch returned inside the manor.
Rafe could only stare after him. Yes, Fletch had the education and former officer’s position to be considered almost equal to Captain Huntley and Lt. de Sackville, but to actually confront them? For someone other than himself?
That, he had to see.