Rafe
Summoned to Miss Marlowe’s new dressmaking shop, Rafe scanned the missive Kate handed him, nearly crumpling it in his fist as he read. “Let’s send them all back to Worcester! I don’t have time for this.”
Fletch yanked the paper from his hand to read it again.
Who knew his surly partner actually read anything? But Fletch had the tactical mind that Rafe lacked. Rather than show this tittle-tattle to Captain Huntley, he’d brought Miss Marlowe down here where they might bludgeon out the implications and offer sensible solutions before handing it over.
Kate and Miss Marlowe sat unhappily on the chairs Fletch had hauled in from the pub while they discussed this latest news. Rafe rather have villains standing over a body with a bloody knife, not gossip and insinuations and. . . Gahhhh!
“They all know each other? Including Ana Marie?” Fletch scanned the tiny handwriting crisscrossed over two pages. “And they all came here, why?”
“To work in my shop,” Lavender said miserably. Even her hair ribbons drooped.
“The clowns aren’t here to work in your shop,” Rafe argued.
“And neither is Hugh,” Kate added. “Could he have told Vivien or her sister that my farm is his to bring them here?” She wrinkled her brow. “Or, since the actors knew both Jamesons, would they have suggested your sewing room? How do they even know Gravesyde exists?”
“Jacques,” Fletch said curtly.
Rafe had to agree. Damien’s former valet was lonely and looking for clients for his new boot-making business. If Jacques knew anyone in the thespian troupe, which he apparently did, he would have happily related all the wild tales surrounding Gravesyde.
“Hugh must have told the Jamesons,” Kate offered reluctantly. “He’s been here.”
“Anyone could have mentioned Gravesyde. Grisly tales of murder fly.” Rafe paced. The walls of the orderly, feminine shop closed in on him. He needed to be outside. “Let’s put the lot of them in the crypt until they talk.”
“Even the Jameson children?” Kate asked, reasonably enough. “If we lock up both Vivien and her sister, the children have no one looking after them.”
“If Hugh once worked for the Jamesons, they are most likely harboring him. Since we can’t catch him, let Hugh look after the children, keep him out of trouble,” Fletch grumbled.
“According to this, Reynard and his merry band of thieves also know the Jamesons. One of them might be offering refuge to Hugh as well,” Rafe corrected. “Just because they didn’t make their presence known until Saturday does not mean they weren’t somewhere close all week. They responded to Jacques’ invitation swiftly enough.”
“I can’t believe any of them capable of murder.” Kate angrily poked a needle into the fabric she had removed from her basket. “Just because Ana Marie’s daughter accused the Jamesons of theft and sent them packing, doesn’t mean they are killers. We don’t even know for certain they’re thieves. People are wrongly accused all the time. And suggesting a troupe of actors might be involved. . . Well, you’ve seen them. They’re likely to be accused of every crime in their vicinity simply on their looks, just as Parsons is.”
Fair point, Rafe knew. He’d been judged stupid often enough just for his size and red hair.
“But Ana Marie had to have known of the accusations. She may even have known facts that her daughter didn’t. Had she been allowed to speak with Miss Marlowe, she might have warned her about the Jamesons. The most likely person to have snatched Mrs. Marie’s application from the desk is someone who worked there. When was the older sister employed?” Fletch handed the letter back to Kate, who refused to touch it. He dropped it in her basket instead.
“The older sister only started working with us this past week. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t in Gravesyde before then,” Miss Marlowe said mournfully. “I’m desperate for good workers. Vivien has been here for months but only recently suggested that we hire her sister.” She hesitated before adding, “Mrs. Jameson didn’t apply until after Ana Marie died.”
Kate wiped at her eye. “That only means Mrs. Jameson knew Ana Marie might accuse her of theft and she might not be hired. Ana Marie’s accident was providential, perhaps, but taking advantage of misfortune is not illegal.”
“How does Ana Marie’s daughter know that Hugh worked for the Jamesons?” Rafe demanded, following a different path. “Why would all of them leave their farm to come here? Why would Reynard’s thespians follow them? What would make her even claim that?”
Instead of pacing like Rafe, Fletch examined an ornate shelf clock. White porcelain trimmed in gold and decorated with painted flowers, it had obviously come from the manor and fit right into the lacy surroundings. “We’ll have to talk to the troupe.”
Rafe rolled his eyes. “Right, Hunt will appreciate a study full of clowns jabbering and telling tall tales. Surely you don’t think that lot wouldn’t be noticed if they were in the manor to push Ana Marie?”
“They’re actors,” Kate said quietly, poking her needle a little too hard and drawing blood. She sucked on it to stop the bleeding before finishing the thought. “They put on performances. We don’t really know them and haven’t met them all. Were we not introduced because they might be recognized? If one donned a footman’s clothes, would you remember him? But why would they harm anyone? It is the Jamesons who are accused of theft, isn’t it?”
“The insinuation in the letter is that the Jamesons worked with the actors in order to steal the cash box and rings. Some of them boarded with the Jamesons or were related or. . .” Rafe held out his hand for the letter. The tiny print had crossed his eyes.
Kate returned the letter. “So the implication is that they conspired to steal from Ana Marie’s and other shops so they might leave Worcester and come here? That’s as lunatic as Hugh. Wouldn’t London be better?”
“Could I just tell the Jamesons we don’t need them anymore and send them away?” Young Miss Marlowe twisted a ribbon into a complicated bow. “And then have Hunt or Damien tell the troupe to pack up and leave?”
In the silence that followed, Rafe wanted to retreat to the bar and a mug of his best ale. Except Fletch didn’t need to be drinking and the ladies who were key to his investigation didn’t sip ale in a pub. This was definitely a problem that belonged in the manor’s lap, but he hated to admit he couldn’t solve it.
“What if the troupe is entirely innocent?” Fletch said what Rafe couldn’t. “What if they really are here to visit Jacques and practice? Is this how we want to treat visitors?”
