Chapter 34
Thirty-four
Fletch
Fletch despised becoming a soldier again. After loading his pistol and rifle, he realized he disliked carrying weapons that killed. He’d hoped civilian life would allow him to peacefully tinker with clocks and his automatons. He could fix machinery. He couldn’t fix dead people.
Which was why he was bristling with weapons—he couldn’t fix women and children after monsters broke them. Which meant he had to stop the monsters, while risking becoming a monster himself. How was that even possible?
Leaning against the bar, halfway between the stage and Kate and her children, Fletch studied the crowd.
The village wasn’t large. He recognized almost everyone, from Lavender’s sewing crew to the manor’s residents and staff.
Even Jacques, Damien’s former valet, avidly followed the silly performance.
The manor gentlemen stood at the back, keeping an eye on the performance and the audience.
Two skinny urchins had been given floppy hats to pass through the crowd for donations. Fletch hadn’t met all the village children, but he’d been told these two belonged to Mrs. Jameson.
Why had the actors chosen the Jameson children to collect funds if the family were known thieves? Unless they were working together. . .
The question was—who wasn’t here? And the answer seemed to be—not the Jameson women. Or Parsons, the inn’s criminal clerk. Certainly not Hugh Morgan.
And he’d never got a good head count on all the actors.
Damien had said he’d met half a dozen. On stage, Fletch recognized the three who had come to dinner, plus Jacques’ friend, Reynard.
Someone was manipulating the donkey’s ass.
That made five. They had what appeared to be a sturdy child or a dwarf plucking a lute.
Six present. Didn’t mean there weren’t more.
His gaze drifted back to Kate and her family. They were laughing and whispering as they worked out the plot of the skit. For a brief moment of weakness, he wished he could sit with them, carefree and smiling. But that part of him had died and what was left wasn’t fit for company.
He tore his gaze away and followed the urchins again, catching one sliding a large coin into his pocket. He’d have to tell the actors to shake the pair down at the end of the performance.
The curate joined him. “I’ve seen worse,” he commented in a low voice. “Only rude minds will interpret the gestures.”
“Minds like ours? I’m not sure referring to tax collectors as asses is exactly polite.
The troupe needs to look to their coin collectors.
They’re thieves. I take it they belong to Mrs. Jameson?
” Fletch noted movement at the kitchen door, but he suspected that was the disapproving staff sneaking a peek.
“Yes. Verity says they’re not eager to learn.” Upton refilled his mug at the cask and dropped a coin in the coin box on the bar.
With Rafe guarding the lobby, Fletch had to keep an eye on the bar’s cash—a better target than the farthings the audience donated. “Have you seen their mother or aunt?”
“Not the mother. She’s not a sociable sort, I take it. Miss Vivien was busy rearranging the dress shop when I saw her last.” The curate chuckled.
If the Jameson women were thieves, who would they rob? Fletch hadn’t left anything valuable in his room. The few inn inhabitants didn’t have much worth stealing. The manor really was the only place with valuables.
If only he could figure out how Hugh Morgan fit into this. . .
If Vivien was minding the shop. . . Fletch glanced around for Miss Marlowe.
He thought he’d seen her fair hair over by Clare Huntley.
The manor ladies were all laughing and putting their heads together.
As the earl’s descendants, they all had the peculiar Reid family attributes, fair hair being most visible.
Now that he studied the group, Miss Marlowe wasn’t among them. He straightened abruptly. “Was Miss Marlowe with Miss Vivien?”
“Yes, and the little seamstress, Maryann, I believe?” Upton studied the crowd as well. “They had eager customers for their ribbons. I expect to see many fanciful hats in the morning.”
Fletch didn’t see anyone resembling the modiste or the young seamstress in the pub. Had they not closed the shop for the performance? Damn the women. . .
But Jasper was in the room next to the shop and Rafe guarded the only unlocked door. No one could enter or leave without being noticed. They should be fine.
“I’ll ask Minerva if she’s spoken to them.” Upton began working through the crowd to his wife, who sat with some of his parishioners, away from the manor ladies.
The Uptons’ consultation produced worried frowns. Uneasily, Fletch verified that Kate and her children were fine. He swept his gaze over the room again. Everyone was laughing heartily. The performance was reaching its natural conclusion as the donkey’s ass produced the misplaced groom.
The Jameson children had almost reached the exit into the lobby.
Fletch gestured at his former officer, Jack, who had already spotted the little thieves.
Wearing a gentleman’s frockcoat, now that he was married to an earl’s daughter, Jack slid from his seat to block the doorway, catching the urchins by their collars when they attempted to run.
The laughing, clapping audience would have made the perfect diversion for their flight.
Diversion. Ignoring the Uptons waiting to speak to him, Fletch straightened and shoved his way through the standing, laughing crowd, clapping for the actors making their extravagant bows.
Kate startled when he lifted Lynly and gestured for them to follow him. Lynly thought it was part of the performance and applauded in delight. Rob frowned, just like his mother.
“Miss Marlowe and the Jamesons are missing,” he warned as he pushed them into the kitchen. “And Morgan hasn’t shown his face.”
At Fletch’s arrival, the staff hastily returned to chopping vegetables and kneading bread.
“Take Mrs. Morgan and her children to Verity’s office,” he ordered. “Kate, lock the door. I’ll send someone to guard it.”
He operated on instinct and had no explanation to give. Fletch took advantage of everyone’s bewilderment to escape. Even the kitchen staff wasn’t accustomed to him giving orders. He seldom participated in the inn’s operation. He just hoped Kate had the sense to listen.
He returned to the noisy pub, where the audience didn’t seem eager to leave. Good for business, Fletch assumed. Maybe they’d stay to eat or drink, provided Rafe didn’t have to chase thieves or. . . worse.
Jack had the squirming urchins in hand, hauling them over to Hunt. Coins didn’t matter. The women did. Even in rage and fear, Fletch knew priorities. Ignoring the little thieves, he pushed toward the lobby.
The curate and his wife hastened to follow.
“Before the show, I saw Lavender talking to customers.” Minerva had to speak loudly over the din of the crowd in the pub and those leaving. “Vivien was with her. I didn’t see Maryann.”
Maryann? Maryann—the gap-toothed cheerful clerk, right. Surely. . . Letting his imagination roam did not help.
Looming a head over the departing guests, Rafe guarded the inn’s only open door. No one could slip past his giant partner. All the other doors were locked. The women had to leave through Rafe, unless they went upstairs. . . .
“Have you seen Miss Lavender or the Jamesons?” Upton asked Rafe before Fletch could frame a question that wouldn’t cause panic.
“She and Vivien and the clerk were flitting in and out, talking with ladies on the boardwalk. I was only counting heads coming in.” Rafe shifted from genial host to soldier alert in an instant. “They weren’t in the pub?”
Rafe had a wife and family now. He needed to be a genial host and not a soldier.
Fletch slapped his partner’s massive shoulder and pointed at the pub.
“Feed the masses. Congratulate your thespians. We’ll locate our eager shopkeepers.
Oh, and the Jameson children are thieves.
You might straighten that out. Jack has them. ”
Curse the damned women for not staying inside!
Fletch tried his best not to look too grim as he pushed his way across the wide lobby filled with folk eager to discuss the performance.
Following in his wake, Upton and his wife did their best to divert anyone blocking his path.
Most people didn’t know Fletch and were happy to speak with their curate.
He broke through the crowd to the quiet hallway on the other side.
At first, the neat little shop appeared undisturbed.
He wasn’t accustomed to ladies’ apparel shelves.
But a second look revealed the table at the window was no longer perfectly straight.
The hat display appeared as if some were missing.
And from the stink, someone had been ill.
“Oh my,” Minerva whispered, having escaped her husband’s adoring parishioners. “Lavender wouldn’t have left those ribbons dangling. And the Sunday bonnet is missing. Shall I fetch Hunt?”
“Let’s not cause alarm until we know what happened. Fetch Jack. If there’s any danger, we need to keep people in the pub for as long as possible.” Mostly, Fletch didn’t want anyone underfoot until he figured it out.
Minerva nodded and hurried off. Fletch took the corridor in the opposite direction from the lobby, looking for Jasper. Could one of the locked doors been broken?
He didn’t have to go far. Jasper, the hardware clerk he’d left guarding the room with unshuttered windows, lay sprawled across the empty floor in a litter of glass and splintered wood. Repairing that swollen window frame had been one of the many tasks they hadn’t tackled.
Didn’t have to worry about it now. A good kick could have easily taken out wood that rotten. Fletch dropped into a crouch to verify the boy breathed. Jasper appeared to have lost his lunch but he was stirring and not dead.
Hearing boots pounding down the hall, Fletch rose to greet Parsons, their clerk, in addition to one of the soldiers Jack must have sent.
“Find Dr. Walker. See if Miss Marlowe and Miss Jamison have returned to the manor.” As far as he was aware, the clerk lived in the village.
He needed men in too many places at once.
Accustomed to obeying orders, Parsons and the soldier ran off.
Fletch returned to the room, stepped over Jasper, and kicked out the rest of the window so he could fit through.
Whoever had done this had been smaller than he was.
The younger women would fit, not broad Mrs. Jameson. Hugh Morgan, probably. Anyone else?
The hell of it was, he wasn’t sure enough of who had been murdered, or which deaths had been accidental, to create a list of suspects. Had all the actors been on stage while this happened? What could anyone gain from a dress shop?
Had they kidnapped Vivien? If so, he probably ought to let them get away. But he needed to establish the whereabouts of all three women who’d last been seen in the shop.
Outside, he studied the muddy mess of footprints on the boards Rafe had laid out for pedestrians, but all the village had come this way.
A line in the dirt looked as if someone or thing had been dragged from the boardwalk.
The drive was full of wheel tracks. Damien’s carriage was still here, but he’d unhitched the team and taken them to the stable.
The manor’s carriage was gone. The dowagers had mostly likely left rather than mix with hoi polloi.
Fletch glanced to the exit Rafe had guarded.
People were leaving, chattering and laughing.
They couldn’t be stopped without reason.
He needed a direction. He hated taking Rafe from the pub, but if Miss Marlowe wasn’t at the manor, Rafe knew how to search the inn. Fletch needed to start with Kate’s house, where they’d stationed guards in hopes of catching Hugh. He started toward the stable and his horse.
Before he could cross the yard, Captain Huntley emerged from the inn with his nearly identical cousin, Arnaud.
The tall artist was no soldier, but he was dangling one of the young thieves with a long arm, avoiding his kicks.
Henri, Arnaud’s younger brother, was smaller, but as a tavern owner, he knew how to hold the skinny girl by her wrists, easily managing her twisting and spitting.
“They claim the money is owed to their mother,” Hunt said in distaste. “I’m hauling this pair to the manor. We are requesting that our thespians join us. My men say young Jasper has been hurt?”
Reluctant to speak with so many listening, especially given the news he had to impart, Fletch gritted his teeth and spit it out bluntly.
“Someone broke into the room next to the shop. Jasper is unconscious. The shop has been. . . disturbed. Have you seen Miss Marlowe? The Jameson sisters?” He reckoned Hunt wouldn’t know Maryann.
Hunt stiffened. “Lavender? Lavender is missing?”
“We don’t know. She, Vivien Jameson, and possibly a seamstress named Maryann were last seen in the shop and are unaccounted for.
When he wakens, Jasper might tell us more.
Someone needs to see if the women went home.
In the meantime, I’ll ride out to check on the Hall and Kate’s farm to determine if your men have caught our resident lunatic.
Keep the actors occupied as a precaution.
” He probably shouldn’t have ordered the captain as if Hunt were a lowly recruit.
Fletch ran for the stable before shock turned to questions. He had no answers, just the instinct that had kept him alive through years of war.