“I’m not thinking anything yet. But the lady has a madman frightening her, and I can’t pin him down. If he was there. . . I need to know.”
“Caught sight of him the oncet when he was raising a ruckus about speaking with the captain. Reckon I’ll recognize him if he shows his face again, but most days, I’m out in the fields and not near the big house.” Cooper returned to his workers.
Dissatisfied, Rafe tipped his hat at Henri and departed. He’d learned the Jameson women had taken a cottage in one of the back lanes at the far end of Gravesyde from the inn. He didn’t want to haul the minx off the bar to question her, but her sister seemed sensible. If she’d been near the stable when the mules bolted, she might have noticed something.
He stopped at the Walker’s cottage and infirmary to ask for better directions. He’d lived in this cottage when he’d first moved to Gravesyde. At the time, he had admired the enormous herb and vegetable gardens. He and Verity were trying to duplicate them, little by little. Hunt’s best friend and steward, Daniel Walker, and his physician wife, had taken over the cottage this winter. Spring green leaves promised a good harvest.
“The Jameson sisters?” Meera met him at the door, bouncing her toddler on her hip. “I heard they moved into a vacant cottage about half a mile down the river. It flooded the last time the river rose and no one wanted it.”
“The bank really needs to look after their vacant properties,” Rafe said in annoyance. “Rats will take over, human and animal.”
“Walker says once we’re an official village, we may be able to condemn the worst of them. But that’s a way off and costs more money than we’ll have.”
Rafe liked the idea of condemning property a bank neglected. Rich men had never done him any favors. He tipped his gentleman’s tall hat and strode off down the river road.
He needed to be at the pub, serving up dinner and drinks to the few guests who might wander in. But he simply couldn’t step aside while a lunatic walked the streets—especially if Morgan was behind these dangerous accidents.
He found the cottage from the plume of smoke rising from a crumbling chimney. Studying the state of the thatch on the tiny house hidden behind tall blackberry thorns and an overgrown rhododendron, Rafe winced. The roof was ready to collapse. The critters burrowing into it most likely slid into their soup of an evening. That was no way to live.
He'd like to ask who their landlord was but he probably wouldn’t like the answer. Best stay with his purpose.
A lanky, long-haired youngster of dubious age, wearing patched overalls, answered the door. He grunted at Rafe and left him on the doorstep. A moment later, the bovine, graying version of black-haired Miss Vivien arrived, drying her hands on her apron. She waited without speaking.
“I’m Rafe Russell, bailiff for the Priory Manor and Gravesyde.” He didn’t want to mention Hugh Morgan and put words in her mouth. But his only excuse for being here was weak. “I’m investigating the incident with the mules this afternoon. Tim Cooper said you might have seen what happened.”
She shrugged rounded shoulders. “Bist a lot about, unloading feed. Viv talks. Thee knows how young uns are. Didn’t see naught else.”
“Did you notice the mules at all? Were they restive? Was anyone near them?” What else could he ask without saying Did anyone hit the mules?
She shrugged again. “Wasn’t watching mules.”
And it was highly unlikely that her young sister had eyes for anyone but the lads. With a sigh, Rafe returned his hat to his head, thanked her, and hurried toward home.
He would resign this damned position if he thought anyone else would take it over. Pity Fletch was such a surly bastard.
Kate might wallop some sense into the lout. Watching them laughing hysterically after they’d nearly been killed had been quite a sight.
Returning through town, he passed Monk’s Tavern again. Miss Vivien was leaving on the arm of a widowed farmer, while Henri leaned against the door jamb and watched them go. The captain’s young French cousin was seldom alone. Rafe stopped while he had the chance.
“Do you know where the Jameson sisters come from?” Rafe asked, because he liked to know the people he had to deal with.
Henri offered a Gallic shrug. “Not Birmingham, judging by accents. They don’t talk about themselves. Patience thinks they may be hiding from abusive family.”
Rafe raised his eyes to heaven. “So now I need to be on the watch for strangers who beat women?”
Henri snorted. “You need to be on the watch for any man who beats women. Ask Verity about the Jameson children. I heard they just started attending her school. You might learn more from them.”
“Next on my list. Let me know if any lunatics show up.” Rafe left Henri grinning. Good to know someone had a sense of humor about this quandary.
Sixteen
Fletch
“You have a pistol in your sewing basket,” Fletch growled in the few minutes after supper when Lynly and Rob were off on tasks. He deposited the old tub in front of the kitchen hearth, where directed. “You could have blown yourself up with that thing! Those ancient flintlocks aren’t stable.”
“I can do more damage with it than one of the many blades you carry, sir,” she said sweetly, pumping water into a kettle. She already had another kettle boiling. “It’s not as if I can keep a kitchen knife in my shoe, even had I the strength to use it against a man twice my size.”
He didn’t want to know why she needed a pistol to protect herself from a man twice her size. Ladies should not have to protect themselves. But this was Gravesyde and she didn’t have footmen or any man to shield her. He wanted to smash faces at the world’s inequality.
