Rafe smelled a rat. The artists never had coin. Evidently the twins thought the same. They exchanged glances, and Andrew stood, crossing to the trestle table where the noisy lot jostled for seats.
“Good morning. I’m Andrew Leonard. I’ll be helping Monsieur Henri with his clothing shop. Have you considered using some of your earnings for a new coat or linen? He has very reasonable prices, and I am a most excellent tailor who can adjust anything to suit.”
Monsieur Henri. Rafe almost snorted the ale he was not drinking. What the devil was the lad up to?
“Why would we want new linen? To impress the yokels?” The one Rafe thought might be a journalist glanced at a disapproving Miss Leonard sipping her tea and shut up.
“Are you not expecting patrons from Town? I heard Miss Talbot and Lord Greybourne discussing it, and thought. . .” Andrew didn’t finish, leaving them to their own conclusions.
The artists looked at each other, then at Andrew, hope forming in their eyes at the possibility Grey meant to bring buyers to the village.
Did that mean the artists hadn’t unfastened the wheel? They needed Grey’s connections, didn’t they? Wasn’t that why Miss Talbot had brought him here?
“Wouldn’t hurt to have a look and spend a few of our coins, I suppose,” the squat one Rafe knew as Gustav said reluctantly. “We’ll come by later, see what you have.”
After they took baths, Rafe hoped. If they had come into an unexpected windfall, they could buy a washtub. Or pay to use his.
Andrew made a wry face. “Well, there is a slight problem in my returning later. We shall be moving out to Bradford House today, and without a curricle, I cannot easily hobble back. I don’t suppose anyone knows how to mend a wheel?”
Fletch almost choked on the last piece of toast he was shoving down his great maw.
Miss Leonard demurely patted her mouth before speaking. “I’m sure Lord Greybourne will consider the repair a great favor.”
Rafe studied the table of miscreants. Percival, the journalist, shrugged. Gustav concentrated on his ale. The young, pleasant city fellow—Jones—exchanged a glance with a burlier fellow with black hair laced with gray, whose name Rafe did not know.
A ragged, thin chap Rafe had never seen before shrugged bony shoulders. “I can look at it. Can’t promise anything until I see what’s wrong.”
Perhaps they weren’t all artists. Rafe had to learn more.
Fletch shoved back his chair and flung the missing piece on their table. “It needs pinning. Save your bath until it’s done. I can’t move the gig out of the stable yard until the wheel works.”
Miss Leonard blinked big brown eyes at them. “I’m sure his lordship will include extra for a bath.”
The skinny young man saluted. “Aye, aye, miss. I’ll take a look as soon as I eat my fill, right boys?”
Rafe took what he assumed was blood money for their breakfast, then held out his palm for more. “You still owe a tab from your first nights here.”
Gustav looked rebellious. “I don’t recall any tab.”
“Not your coin. Pay the man.” Percival spread his arms in largesse, keeping an eye on Miss Leonard—who paid no attention whatsoever.
Did that mean it was Percival’s coin? Was he trying to impress the lady? Unable to determine which of the oafs the purse belonged to, Rafe accepted payment and brought fresh tea and toast, while quietly seething.
Fletch followed him to the kitchen. “They’re like a creeping fungus, impossible to determine where the rot starts or ends. I’ll have to set up shop in the gallery and actually work there to sort one from the other.”
Until recently, Rafe’s partner had been reluctant to participate in village affairs. It was a relief to have his aid now. “Could you? They’re the only newcomers besides Greybourne’s party. I want to lay blame for everything on the idle lot. Most of them have pockets to let, but it only takes one bad apple to ruin the barrel.”
“You are the company you keep,” Fletch acknowledged. “Miss Leonard said she’d give the mechanic’s payment to you to cover any future tab. We have no proof that the one who knows how to fix the wheel, broke it, but this way, we prevent the whole rotten barrel from profiting.”
“Find out who wants Grey gone and why,” Rafe suggested. “The house? Him, personally? His book? I need answers before anyone else dies.”
Because in Rafe’s experience, once a killer realized he could get away with murder, he almost always did it again.
Sixteen
Grey
Head still aching, chin scratched from shaving, wearing yesterday’s linen because they hadn’t taken time to find a laundress, Grey sat in the pub later that morning, swallowing the swill Rafe called coffee.
