“I don’t expect so, but I’ll ask about. It is for us to express our regrets that your visit is so marred.” Russell bowed and stomped out.
Which was when Grey realized the bailiff was leaving them with the body. They couldn’t all just abandon it here. “Andrew, will you drive Dr. Walker home and return your sister to the inn?”
“My house is around the corner. It is no distance.” The lady physician filled her satchel. “I’ll wait for Henri’s cart. You should go.”
Grey was in agreement, but Miss Leonard shook her ugly bonnet. “Making you walk would be appallingly rude. Andrew, assist Dr. Walker and we’ll wait for the cart. We can have a look around the house, as planned.”
The unnatural female meant to stay in this abomination?
Of course, she did, even if the banker haunted it. It was better than the hovel the twins had vacated.
A well polluted by corpses however. . .
Once the physician and Andrew had departed, Grey’s intrepid assistant opened the doors into the room across the hall and revealed her true intent. “Someone didn’t want Mr. Comfrey here. Perhaps we ought to learn why.”
“So they can murder us all?” Grey asked, still uncomfortable with treating her as a lady and not his former assistant. Her thoughts had exactly followed his.
Even as she was asserting the ridiculous premise that there was safety in numbers, Grey headed upstairs.
If she didn’t mind, evidence seeking was exactly what was needed. If there were villains hiding upstairs, he damned well wasn’t sending a female up there first.
Seven
Rafe
After arranging for the removal of the corpse, Rafe Russell paced Priory Manor’s study, aligning all his angry thoughts before conveying his report.
Captain Huntley offered a brandy, but Rafe preferred ale, and not when he had to organize a case.
“Minerva is writing the bank. The letter should go out in the evening post.” Hunt offered the only help he had at this stage. They’d done this before. They’d learned each other’s limits.
“Why would anyone kill a banker?” Rafe finally asked. “He was no more than a clerk! If anyone deserves killing, it would be Bosworth. He’s the one who claims the land, not Comfrey. The poor fellow was only here as a courtesy to Mr. Greybourne.”
“Thea’s relation?” Hunt clarified. “Didn’t she say he was a baron?”
“Is he? He never said so. I thought he was a professor. He and his assistants didn’t seem to know Comfrey. Is there anyone else who might? We need to notify his family.” Rafe ran his hand through his unruly hair. He had more questions than answers and was lousy at interrogating.
“I’ll have Greybourne up for dinner tonight, and we’ll see who else has anything to offer. Arnaud and Thea might more discreetly question their—what are we calling the spongers? Artists?” Hunt sipped his brandy.
“Thank you, sir. Even if no one has met Comfrey, it might be good to discover if anyone was aware that he meant to be at the house this morning.”
“Since he spent the night, everyone knew he was about, even if they didn’t know who he was.” Hunt grimaced as he followed that thought. “Motive is sorely lacking. Surmising money is the root of most evil, I’ll have Minerva research the house’s original owners, before the bank evicted them. There are those who paid for years before they defaulted. The resentment lingers.”
“Too true, although most of the original owners are long gone, I thought.” Rafe dug his hand into his hair again, trying to summon other possibilities. “Meera says Comfrey couldn’t have died too long before he was found, perhaps two or three hours at most, judging by the degree of stiffness or lack thereof. There was something about temperature being affected by the coolness of the well house and the heat outside making it difficult to assume the time any better.”
Hunt tapped his fingers on his desk. “The Greybourne party found him about two?” At Rafe’s nod, he continued, “Then, if Meera is correct, he may have died anywhere from midmorning until a little after noon? What time did Comfrey leave the inn?”
Rafe thought about it. “He didn’t expect Greybourne to arrive until after noon, depending on when they set out from Stratford. He was in and out, presumably talking to the workmen doing repairs. I didn’t pay attention after he broke his fast around eight-thirty, so I don’t know the last time he left. He did not return at noon, as expected, but that is meaningless.”
Hunt scowled. “It may come down to who doesn’t have an alibi from midmorning on, especially if it was just a disagreement and motive is irrelevant.”
Rafe nodded. “Hotheads argued. He got punched, and oops. . . Shoving him down a well, though. . .”
“Panic. Stupidity. Drunkenness,” Hunt suggested. “Was there any evidence he might have crawled?”
“Not any more than if he was dragged. Hard dirt, gravel, half a dozen people tramping back and forth. . . We found blood traces, but that’s all.”
“What do we know about the people Greybourne brought with him?”
