Chapter 11
Eleven
Rafe
“A guest,” Parsons shouted into the kitchen, where Rafe was adding milk to mashed potatoes for tonight’s shepherd’s pies. “In a fancy gig!”
The inn’s ex-convict clerk was easily impressed by anything shinier than a farm cart. Still, Rafe took off his apron, donned his coat, and hurried out to the lobby. Guests were rare enough that he greeted each one.
To his amazement, Mr. Bosworth, the banker, stepped down from the gig, leaving his horse in the hands of a stable lad. Bosworth was too cheap to pay drivers or footmen, so usually drove himself.
He never visited the inn. As a possible heir and one of the late earl’s estate trustees, he had a permanent room at the manor.
Rafe hastily buttoned his coat and entered the yard to shout unnecessary orders to his ostlers, just to impress. His lads knew what to do without being told. “Mr. Bosworth, welcome! How may we help you this evening?”
“I understand Lord Greybourne is staying here and not at the manor?” A stout, middle-aged man with thinning blond hair, Bosworth swept past him and into the lobby.
“He does. Shall I see if he’s available?” Rafe signaled Parsons, who was practically shaking in his tattered boots. His clerk had a problem with authority—and just about anything else related to proper society. The penal colonies he’d spent half his life in had not catered to civilized standards.
Bosworth studied the shabby lobby. “If you would, please.”
Rafe nodded at Parsons, who raced up the stairs for the gentleman’s quarters.
“And while we wait, explain to me what happened to Mr. Comfrey? I am frankly appalled by the lawlessness that abounds in this purgatory. I dare not send any more of my employees for fear they might not return.”
Having spent half his life in the army, Rafe had learned to bite his tongue around his superiors.
Personally, he did not consider a banker any higher ranked than an inn owner, but Bosworth had wealth and influence and his goodwill meant much to the manor folk.
Rafe bowed and offered a seat in the pub.
While Bosworth leaned against the bar and studied the polished but well-worn pub, Rafe pulled a tankard of his finest ale.
“From all we have learned so far, Mr. Comfrey went to Bradford House before Lord Greybourne arrived, presumably to inspect the work being done. There must have been an altercation. We have no witnesses.”
Bosworth gave a snort of disgust. “You have nothing but speculation?”
Rafe ignored the interruption and continued with his report.
“I only met Mr. Comfrey the once, the night before he died. If he was in Gravesyde while the house was being renovated, he did not make himself known. His workmen did not stay with us, so I don’t know who they are.
There are no other occupied cottages in the vicinity, so no neighbors to question. ”
Bosworth scowled. “What workmen? Comfrey was only to hire a local to dust and sweep. I did not authorize expenditures for repairs.”
Rafe narrowed his eyes at this news. “Someone has been pounding on the roof this past week. The place is scarcely habitable. You thought to let it out in disrepair?”
Bosworth shrugged. “The bank has lost enough money on unpaid mortgages over decades. If someone wishes to buy or let property, they’ll have to hire their own workers. I certainly won’t pay them. I daresay Comfrey must have confronted these mysterious workers.”
Rafe found this highly unlikely, but Greybourne sauntered in at that point, and he kept his thoughts to himself.
The curly-haired twins followed his lordship in, like an entourage. After last night’s contretemps, Rafe didn’t blame them. He was amazed the professor hadn’t packed up his carriage and moved on.
Rafe made the introductions. Greybourne insisted they take the best table, the one with actual chairs and not benches. Miss Leonard set a small stack of letters in front of her. They all declined ale but accepted cider.
Rafe was starting to regret letting out the private parlors to shops. He knew the villagers. They’d all be filtering in here as soon as word of the gig’s arrival spread about.
He set down the mugs. “Mr. Bosworth says that work was not authorized on the house. Did you, perchance, arrange it, my lord?” Rafe had an interest in any information he could gain. He saw no other means of locating Comfrey’s killer.
“I most certainly did not. I expect any house I lease to be prepared for my arrival. Comfrey’s correspondence assured me it would be.” Grey gestured toward Miss Leonard, who produced the letters in question.
“This first one is dated nearly a fortnight ago.” Bosworth glared at the collection and donned spectacles. “Bring me a lamp.”
What little daylight remained had vanished into the clouds, casting the pub in shadow. Rafe brought a lantern out from beneath the bar and lit it.
“That is the response to my first inquiry, after the decision was made to visit. Had I not thought suitable accommodation available, I would have merely stopped at the inn to visit my cousin and gone on. Comfrey’s letter assured me that he had a house suitable for an extended stay.
” Greybourne sat back to sip his cider while the banker perused the correspondence.
“You agreed to pay this princely sum for a hovel in this wretched hole?” Bosworth asked in astonishment. “What has Miss Talbot told you that would make you so agreeable?”
“Obviously, once we saw the place, we would not have been agreeable.” Greybourne waved away the letter. “We signed no lease.”
Hovering, Rafe frowned at the oddity. Miss Leonard slid him the letters so he could scan them for himself.
He skimmed them as he spoke. “So, we are to believe that Mr. Comfrey agreed to let out Bradford House for an unreasonable sum that he must have known Greybourne would not accept—if he saw it in its original condition. Then he spent this last week hiring men to make repairs in hopes his lordship might stay? Was Comfrey paying them from his own pocket?”
“Presumably.” Bosworth slammed his mug down huffily.
“Although I cannot imagine where he found the blunt. I will have to examine his accounts. This is most unprecedented. Comfrey was an excellent employee. I had hoped to entrust him with the village’s properties.
He thought he might find buyers and renters, and I welcomed his initiative. ”
Greybourne sipped his cider, eyeing the banker warily. “Had he brought contracts to you for other properties?”
“In fact, he had, several of the small ones. The amounts were minimal, but better than the nothing we’d been collecting. He claimed the occupants would do the repairs themselves in exchange for the lesser rents.”
“Did Comfrey have family in the area?” Rafe asked. The financial aspects flew over his head, but people, he knew how to hunt.
“Not in Gravesyde, that I am aware of.” Bosworth tapped his nails on the table. “I had best investigate his accounts in the morning.”
“Might I make a suggestion, sir?” Andrew spoke up. The slender lad did not look much stronger than his sister, but he spoke with firmness and an unexpected degree of authority.
Greybourne nodded. “Go ahead. You likely have more experience at leases and renters than I do.”
“I have been speaking with some of the folk at the gallery. They claim to be staying in deteriorating cottages for outrageous sums. I cannot say they are truthful, but just in case, you might wish to check your books, Mr. Bosworth, to see what sums Mr. Comfrey recorded. In my experience, some landlords overcharge, give the property owners a lesser rent, and pocket the difference.”
“He could then have taken the profit on those rents to pay workers on Bradford House, hoping to earn even more?” Miss Leonard suggested. “Men are desperate for employment these days, I understand. He may not have paid much for their labor.”
“None of that is a reason to kill him,” Rafe protested, despite himself. “One just refuses to work, or to pay the exorbitant rent. . . The pitfalls of such a scheme are multitudinous.”
Greybourne sent him a surprised look, but Rafe wasn’t uneducated. He’d spent half his life working with aristocratic officers who had learned less in school than he had. He simply preferred playing host to any other profession.
Bosworth was too lost in thought to acknowledge his contribution.
“We’d still like to lease Bradford House, if the sum is reasonable.” Greybourne finished his cider. “But we’d rather not be hit over the head if there are disgruntled, unpaid workers about.”
“And how am I to discover who said workers might be?” Bosworth asked, as disgruntled as any unpaid employee.
“I can’t see that much work has actually been done, but I’ll ask about,” Andrew suggested. “I understand your curate has a carpentry shop. He might know people too. People feeling cheated aren’t shy about their complaints.”
“And if we are staying at the house in question, then won’t the workers come to us with their hands out?” Miss Leonard spoke in a low, pleasant tone, although Rafe thought he heard a hint of steel in the inflection. He’d learned better than to dismiss the ladies.
Bosworth foolishly paid her no notice. He addressed Greybourne.
“I’ll be at the manor making arrangements to have Comfrey taken to his family.
While I’m there, I’ll consult with Captain Huntley about rents and have a lease drawn up.
You will understand that the lease will not be broken should any more dead men show up on the property. Apparently, death stalks Gravesyde.”
He shoved away from the table and strode out.
“How rude,” Miss Leonard murmured. “Let us start writing amendments for that lease.”
Rafe almost snorted up his drink.