Chapter 21 #2
“Large, rusted, set to kill. We were looking for a footpath through the back wall. It was set just inside where there might once have been a gate. Valuing our boots, we didn’t look further.” He tried to sound casual and not reveal his concern. Or his superstition.
Rafe muttered an obscenity. “Set for Comfrey or you? We’ve just learned Comfrey is possibly a descendant of the original owners.”
Grey sipped his drink but alcohol did not untangle this puzzle. “We can’t know how long the device has been there,” he concluded, because it was more comfortable to do so. “Comfrey may have set it to keep out trespassers or vandals. Did you discover aught else of the former owners?”
Apparently content to accept Grey’s explanation, the busy bailiff explained what the curate had discovered, adding, “The bank has spoken with Comfrey’s family and arranged his transport to the Stratford graveyard.
As far as we’re aware, none of his family recently visited here. They seem unlikely suspects.”
Which meant the killer was most likely local.
Rafe rushed off to another customer, leaving Grey to contemplate improbabilities.
If the rent manipulation was any indicator, Comfrey had been practicing his ancestor’s habit of theft.
His only victim appeared to be the bank, unless one wished to consider the starving artists for being stupid enough to pay the outrageous sum.
Hardly a matter worth killing over. Although if he’d stolen those parts. . . Still not worth killing over.
That left Grey considering Miss Leonard’s notion that he was the target, and Comfrey simply showed up at the wrong place at the wrong time.
Or the sinister blackguard who accosted her really did not want anyone living in the house for reasons unknown and was prepared to kill and maim to prevent it. Seemed extreme.
Either way, the twins were in as much danger as he was. Now what did he do? Send them back to Edinburgh? They wouldn’t go. They were settling in here like pigs in mud. And now he had servants to consider.
How had he thought he could set up housekeeping? The book had become more important than common sense, apparently—and he hadn’t wanted to lose Miss Leonard’s invaluable help.
Stupid. He was growing stupid with age.
Andrew arrived promptly on the hour. A few people greeted him as he limped in. The lad knew how to make himself known.
He shook his head at the offer of ale. “If you’re ready, I’ll tell you what I’ve learned on the way home. I have the carriage outside. And I’ve found a pony cart I can purchase in return for my aid with a few chores.”
Grey laid down his coin and followed him into a downpour, leaping under the curricle’s hood to preserve his hat. Once Andrew settled at the reins, Grey announced, “I’ve learned Comfrey is a descendant of the original owners, if that matters.”
“Let us hope Comfrey has no murderous relations still roaming the village, hoping to inherit, if he was the intended victim.” Andrew took up the reins and sent the horses into a trot.
“I learned that the black beard scaring El is itinerant. He showed up here about the same time as Miss Talbot’s artists.
He sells fish on market days and to the manor, when he can.
People just call him Black Dickie, for reasons unknown. ”
“An obscenity, perhaps? Or after the highwayman, Dick Turpin. Or from Tom, Dick, and Harry, Oxfordshire highwaymen. People lack imagination,” Grey said absently, pulling on his store of history while processing this new information.
He could see no reason why an itinerant fisherman should be a danger.
His insane warning was, though. Both Bradford heirs were long gone. . . weren’t they?
Grey returned to Comfrey’s history. “Apparently church records show the Bradford children baptized between 1750 and 1766 and their parents, deceased. If the skeletons in the cellar are as old as Dr. Walker believes, I don’t think Comfrey or even Black Dickie, if there’s a chance he might be related, were old enough to have abused them.
There does not seem to be anyone to care if the skeletons are uncovered. ”
“Well, if the family were known pirates, the fanciful may imagine buried treasure. Poor people dream of miraculously becoming rich, and the tales from the manor feed the fantasy.” Andrew slowed the curricle as they reached the river lane.
The carriage’s single lantern caught the gleaming eyes of a furry creature hiding from the downpour in the undergrowth.
Grey snorted. “Why look for treasure now, after all these years? Still, let us encourage the rumor, have people dig up the weeds and overgrown shrubs and clear the property.”
Andrew laughed. “We can hand out shovels.” He fought the wind in turning the curricle up the drive. The arch of dripping tree branches swayed and rattled in the gale.
An ominous crack, followed by a crash on the curricle’s hood, spooked the horses into a mad gallop up the mud-rutted drive.
Grey just had time to fear killing another friend when the curricle slid and flipped over and he was flung into the darkness.