“People preserve lots of things,” Minerva said with a frown. “They could have thought them harmless. But then, why would Mrs. Young add pickled ingredients to fresh soup?”
Kate hesitated. “Jacques' guests—they are very knowledgeable on many subjects and one is a chef who uses mushrooms. They were in town buying mushrooms on Saturday. Could we be looking in the wrong direction?”
“Two killers?” the curate’s wife asked in shock, following it with a string of shocking expletives learned at her soldier father's knee.
Twenty-five
Fletch
Tuesday morning, with everyone gone into the village, Fletch verified the solidity of Kate’s windows and doors. He tested the new bolts and installed sash blocks, completely in the interest of not being responsible for anyone but himself. That way, he’d work undisturbed, without shooting anyone attempting to break in—absolutely in his own interest. He set the front shutters so he could see anyone approaching the front door and returned to work.
Finally ready for the ponderous brass pendulums, he dipped his cleaning rag into the polish and painstakingly rubbed at a century of grime, expecting to uncover an engraving of the Wycliffe crest. Instead, an elaborate pattern of lines emerged. They weren't the usual scrolled embellishments but straight lines drawn at various angles, occasionally crossing each other.
Loud shouting outside distracted him from the puzzle. Growling at the disturbance, he shoved his pistol into his coat pocket and peered out the front window. He could just see the tall male actor in woman’s clothes over the hedge bordering the front lane. Who the devil were they shouting at?
He'd rather not be involved in a domestic dispute, but if there was any chance of catching Hugh. . . He’d be a free man again. Fletch unbolted the door and strode out.
Since saying you bellowed was probably not conducive to neighborliness, Fletch could only call out the only name he'd been given. “Miss Kitty, may I help?” Kate would be proud of his restraint.
Wearing sprigged muslin and a green spencer but no bonnet over fair curls, Kitty shook a massive fist at the lane. “I just bought that hen! I wanted eggs for breakfast.”
Venturing further down the drive, Fletch studied the empty lane. “The thief escaped?”
“Obviously.” Recovering, she fluffed up her curls. “What you must think! I was just so angry. . .” She dipped a curtsy. “My apologies for disturbing you, sir.”
Fletch ignored the posturing in favor of his goal of murdering Morgan. “You saw the thief? What did he look like?”
Kitty waved her big hand as if it were a fan. “Oh, no, I simply needed to shout, in case he was listening. I mean, who steals poultry?”
“Hungry thieves.” And killers hiding in barns. “I warned you about the lunatic. Kate took her chickens into town or I'd offer our eggs.” Ours. As if they were his to give. He was becoming entirely too comfortable here. “Did your intruder use the stable again?”
“Ott and I bolted it with a tree trunk and rolled a boulder. Now, I suppose we'll have to keep all the livestock inside.” She frowned—not prettily.
If Hugh was still around. . . Fletch still believed trapping the madman was their best choice. He needed to consult with Rafe.
Evil plot forming, he attempted a reassuring reply. “I need to ride into town for some parts. I can have Mrs. Morgan bring a hen and eggs in the carriage this evening and ask the blacksmith about an easier lock than a boulder so you can keep the poultry locked up.”
“And what do you want in exchange?” Not entirely stupid, Miss Kitty dropped the flirty act for suspicion.
Since he had only the inkling of an idea at this point, Fletch wasn't prepared for reciprocity. “My only goal is to catch the madman harassing Mrs. Morgan. Stay on guard for anything odd and let us know.”
Kitty narrowed her eyes to glare down the rutted lane. “I'll hang him myself, if I can. Mrs. Morgan is a very fine lady.”
“That, she is.” Fletch started to turn away, neighborliness stretched to his limit. But then he remembered Mrs. Young. “I don't know if you heard, but the mushroom lady died. The physician thinks it may be mushroom poisoning. You may want to throw out any left over.”
Kitty waved a gloved fist. “Reynard grew up with wolves. He knows mushrooms and every other edible in the woods. Theater does not pay well.”
Wasn't Reynard a fox? Working his way through that confusing declaration, wondering if he should be concerned that one of the new neighbors knew enough to poison an old lady, Fletch returned to the house. He was more inclined toward action than thinking, but Kate wasn't acting or thinking. Someone had to end this lawlessness.
He'd had Rob help him don his boots earlier. Saddling his horse presented difficulties. Fletch patted the old pony the Morgans had put out to pasture and studied the situation. The pony wouldn’t suit. His gelding needed exercise. He was risking the rest of his limbs if he rode him bareback with only one good arm.
Needs must. Bearing the weight of the saddle on his good right arm, he removed his left from the sling to cautiously hold it in place. Cinching took ten times longer than it should, but he managed.
As he rode off, Fletch hoped the lunatic was watching. He'd left the door unlocked so the madman wouldn’t break it again, if he tried to enter. But this time, Fletch didn’t intend to be caught unaware.
He rode to the inn first, hoping to catch Rafe. He might as well hope to catch the wind. The kitchen staff didn't know where he'd gone. Fletch grabbed a slice of good roast beef and some bread and started through the lobby, until he heard Kate. His shoulder ached like the very devil, but he gave it no notice in following her voice.
There had been a time when he would have gone the opposite direction. He probably should now, but. . . like a swinging pendulum, he had no choice once set in motion.
