Chapter 42
Forty-two
Rafe
Saturday morning, Rafe dodged Captain Huntley’s irate pacing. In the the late earl’s small, crowded study, the indignant wave of Hunt’s walking stick invited decapitation.
“Why wasn’t this Tiny scoundrel locked up with the rest yesterday and is his name really Tiny?”
Rafe backed against a bookshelf, dodging the next swing. “We ran out of cells and guards. Everyone said he wasn’t no more than a servant, fixing, cooking, running errands. They claimed he wasn’t bright and too scrawny to cause harm.”
Hunt leaned against his desk and rubbed his damaged leg. “None of them are very bright.”
Rafe grimaced. “True, but Tiny is not one to give orders. He says his real name is Timothy, and Mort told him to pack up his work and take it home. I reckon the little louse simply panicked when he saw Miss Leonard looking through Mort’s paintings.
” He felt guilty for what had happened, but a manor was not a prison and there were only so many places to lock up miscreants.
At the time, the runt hadn’t been accused of anything.
“She paints a more sinister picture. If that canvas proves Tiny was on the roof the day Comfrey was killed, he’s a witness and knows it.” Hunt finally took his chair. “I’m ready to send the lot to assizes and let real judges decide.”
“They’ll hang them all simply to be rid of them. Although, I suppose the Greybourne heir may only receive a slap on the hand, being as he’s aristocracy.” Rafe liked justice. A man who had tried to drown his benefactor ought to be hanged, gentry or not.
“Let’s not repeat yesterday’s courtroom circus.
Lord Greybourne and Miss Leonard appear to be the most harmed, after Comfrey.
If we can achieve evidence for their assaults, we might hope for a confession.
In the large study, though. The baron has sufficient explosive energy to blast cannonballs.
” Hunt grabbed his walking stick and sauntered off, confident that Rafe would provide witnesses and suspects on command.
Rafe feared the audience gathering outside the Great Hall would have his head if he denied them their entertainment.
But following orders, he singled out the professor and his assistant.
The crowd muttered as he led them to the new wing.
The dowagers were loudest in their complaints.
The lot of them would no doubt lurk, waiting to see who was dragged from the crypt.
Rafe was grateful that Lord Greybourne had insisted Miss Leonard attend this time, so she wouldn’t be on her own again.
With her hair done up in ribbons and a lace cap, she appeared fashionably elegant to his eyes and none the worse for her ordeal, except for the walking stick she held much as Hunt did his—as a weapon and not an aid to progress.
Once Rafe installed them in the larger study in the new wing, he went after Tiny Timothy Bradford. He prayed this scalawag wasn’t as intransigent and devious as Lord Greybourne’s heir and Percival.
Tiny looked even tinier than usual, shrunk in on himself, skinny shoulders hunched, emphasizing the concavity of his chest—most likely tubercular, if Rafe was any judge.
The man was so weak, he had to use a cart to carry Miss Leonard, who couldn’t weigh more than a couple of sacks of flour. He’d not survive long in prison.
But if the Bradford family had been terrorizing riverboats for half a century, it was time their depredations ended. Law had finally returned to the village.
Entering the study, Tiny cringed at the sight of Lord Greybourne and Miss Leonard.
He didn’t speak but collapsed on the chair Rafe pushed under him.
Rafe buckled the prisoner’s bound wrists to the chair back.
The position of bailiff was teaching him to trust no one, which warred with his innkeeper’s nature.
“Timothy Bradford?” Hunt boomed, verifying the suspect’s name for his steward, who took notes for the court.
Tiny bobbed his head, not meeting anyone’s eyes.
“Do you admit to assaulting Miss Leonard and holding her captive in a cellar?” Hunt demanded.
“Didn’t mean to,” the prisoner replied sulkily. “She shouldna been there.”
“But you admit you did it? I can have Miss Leonard identify you, if you like. And bring in more witnesses of your assault on Lord Greybourne at the river. . .”
Tiny shook his head. “Just wanted Mort’s paintings, that’s all. She were in the way.”
Hunt growled in exasperation at not receiving a straight answer, but he was learning his position, as Rafe was learning his. “Why did you take the paintings? They weren’t yours, were they?’’
Tiny struggled with a reply. “They’s Mort’s. Didn’t want no one else to have ’em.”
Greybourne appeared ready to detonate. Miss Leonard placed her gloved hand over his and interrupted the questioning in a more agreeable tone.
“They are marvelous works of art. We had intended to buy one. We particularly liked the view of the river from our attic. Did your brother paint it from up there?”
“Tried to. Comfrey wouldn’t let ’im inside. Place belonged to the whole family, not just him. He had no right.” Tiny slumped in his chair after the effort of saying all that.
Hunt waited expectantly for Miss Leonard to continue, since Tiny seemed to find a lady less frightening—another lesson learned over this past year.
“I suppose Mr. Comfrey said the bank owned the house? Surely, it wouldn’t have hurt to let an artist work in an empty house?”
Apparently approving the direction she was taking, the baron leaned back in his chair and rested his arm on her chair back. Rafe hid a smile. That was a declaration of possession if he’d ever seen one.
“Comfrey didn’t want us knowing he was hunting for the money. Coulda told him it weren’t there, but he was too uppish to ask.” Tiny seemed to gain a little more confidence with this line of questioning.
Miss Leonard nodded sympathetically. “So you and Mort found another way to create that masterful painting?”
Tiny nodded. “We done it afore. Mort likes to paint big scenes from high up, but he can’t climb trees and not many let him on their roofs. I can even climb chimneys to block out what he needs,” he said with a hint of pride.
“That’s brilliant, seeing how trees are taller close up and smaller the further away you go. It’s a shame you don’t paint.” Miss Leonard spoke as if to a respected gentleman instead of a slimy worm who had tossed her down a hole. Or rolled her, most likely.
As Tiny had rolled Comfrey’s body into the well. Rafe froze at that realization.
“I’m good at fixing things, pays better than paintings,” the worm said. “Got more coins out of fixin’ that roof than Comfrey ever found digging around!”
“Smart as well as talented, I commend you, sir. I don’t suppose you happen to know why Mr. Comfrey thought he might find money after all these years?
” All lady-like grace with her brown curls capped in lace, Miss Leonard focused her feminine attention on the whelp, as if he were the only man in the room.
Flattery worked well. The canary continued to sing. “Can’t say for certain but heard he had a new wife. She prob’ly wanted baubles. When he came here for the bank, he heard the gossip. He ain’t never bothered to look our way afore.”
“And your other cousin, Mr. Percival? Was he looking for hidden treasure too?”
“Percy orter of known better. Pa said it was Percy’s ma what stole the coins, after they sent her brother to hang. All they had to do was ask me or Mort, we coulda told ’em. Mort said to let the useless sods fight it out, weren’t no skin off our noses. He didn’t want to get wrong with Percy.”
So both Comfrey and Percy had been hunting for the mortgage money once hidden in the old couch.
As long as Tiny was talking, Rafe bit his tongue on questions, as did Hunt, who just gestured for Walker to keep scribbling.
Grey leaned over as if to kiss Miss Leonard’s ear, but from the way she nodded, she was listening to what he was whispering.
“Percy knew about Mort’s art? Is that how Miss Talbot heard of him?” Miss Leonard asked, most likely speaking for Grey.
Tiny shrugged. “Mort heard about the gallery hisself. Percy said a fancy magazine sent him.”
“And Mr. Comfrey? How did he learn about Bradford House’s treasures?”
“Old rumors,” Tiny insisted impatiently. “Him and Percy squabbled over what belonged to them. Comfrey set locks, said anything inside belonged to the bank.”
Rafe clenched his fingers. Was this the argument that had ended in the banker’s death? He’d like to shake Tiny until he spewed the story.
He’d have to find out who the rest of Tiny’s brothers were and if they were any smarter than him and still playing pirate. Tiny could act as look out, but larger men had most likely stolen those machine parts. Comfrey and Percival wouldn’t know how to steal from boats.
“And you stayed above all the silly fighting to repair our roof,” Miss Leonard said in approval. “What happened next was none of your fault.”
Tiny nodded vigorously. “They was shouting about money when Comfrey shoved Percival, told him to scarper, that he had a wealthy baron coming to rent the place, and he wouldn’t let the likes of Percy ruin his chance of earning a tidy sum.”
That sounded genteel enough for Tiny to be parroting the argument nearly verbatim, a useful trick, like the geometry.
“Well, Mr. Comfrey was counting his chickens before they were hatched,” Miss Leonard said sympathetically. “Lord Greybourne isn’t foolish enough to pay a fortune for a place with a leaky roof. What happened after the tiresome banker shoved Percy?”
The prisoner hesitated, abruptly realizing he wasn’t just talking to a pretty lady. “I shouldn’t say.”
Rafe’s fingers itched to collar the scum, but that would accomplish naught.
“It will go better on Mort if you do,” Hunt offered, almost genially.
Tiny looked to Miss Leonard, who merely nodded in interest, as if he were telling a captivating tale.
“Mort weren’t there,” Tiny insisted. “He didn’t do nothin’. All I was doing was nailing tiles. We can’t help it if gentry gets in a fracas.”
Rafe rolled his eyes at the squealing toad’s excuses and tried to enjoy the show.
“Of course, you can’t,” Miss Leonard agreed soothingly. “You were paid to finish a task, and you do what you’re paid to do. You’re very handy with tools, aren’t you?”
He nodded proudly. “I’m not big, like Mort, but I’m smart. I can move crates from the river with pulleys. I knew what to do when Comfrey couldn’t get up.”
Ah well, then it was likely Tiny had hauled the stolen parts. Rafe would worry over that later.
“Mr. Comfrey fell and needed a physician?” Miss Leonard asked encouragingly. “And you knew how to move him?”
Tiny grimaced. “I didn’t have no cart. Percy was all scared of the blood and said he’d fetch one.
But by the time he got back with that flatbed one, it was too late for a doctor, and the baron was on his way.
So he gave me coins, told me to dump him in the river, and he ran.
How was I to lift him without a ramp, I ask ya? ”
“You couldn’t, of course, but you’re smart. What did you do next?” Miss Leonard clutched her hands in her lap, but her voice had a grim edge to it.
“I heard a carriage and didn’t have time to do more than shove the flatbed next door and grab the grapplin’ hook. I’d fixed the winch in the well, like Comfrey told me. So I hid him and figured I’d come back later.” He threw Greybourne a glare. “And then the gents showed up.”
Hunt pinched the bridge of his nose. “Very clever. And you moved Miss Leonard onto the flatbed using the ramp you bought with Percy’s money?”
Tiny didn’t even have the sense to look wary. “It works right well for haulin’ canvases about. Ramp lets me move crates.”
“Tied her up and then just trundled her into a hole?” Greybourne asked in a low voice that rolled like thunder.
Rafe thought he must have kept his students awake with that voice.
“Weren’t deep. I needed to get Mort’s paintings to the river. And I woulda got them clear away if you hadn’t a’stole my oars!” The prisoner actually managed to look indignant.
Miss Leonard placed her hand on Greybourne’s arm, and Rafe stepped in between him and Tiny. “I’ll take him back to his cell now, if you don’t mind. Who do you want next?”
“Percival, but let us take a break, first,” Hunt said before Greybourne could launch from his chair and twist the weasel’s head off his shoulders.