“Multiple fractures over multiple years. . . those children were abused. That much does not change over time,” Dr. Walker said emphatically.
“But Mr. Comfrey was not old enough to know about the abuse, correct?” Rafe wanted his job clear. “Some poor parent or killer buried the crime half a century ago, when family still lived here. I don’t have to search for parents who are most likely dead or doddering?”
Like the historian he apparently was, Lord Greybourne continued to poke among the other holes and rotted wood. “May we assume the family was in the habit of burying what they didn’t want found? If the cellar was built sixty years ago, did they start then? Or were these caskets here all along? And who buries horse collars?”
Rafe did not want to know. “We’d need experts to tell us how long it takes for wood to rot.”
“In ground that damp, lumber might rot in as little as ten years.” As a carpenter, the curate knew wood. “They were not proper coffins. Construction was that of little more than shipping crates, from the little I can tell of what is left. The graves were shallow and not dug by professionals. The children were buried like the rest of this rubbish.”
Rafe rolled his eyes heavenward as the twins ignored Lord Greybourne’s objections and continued picking through the uncovered objects. Miss Leonard held up what appeared to be a crudely carved horse’s head.
“Might I suggest that at least some of these contained children’s toys? Perhaps they saw their father bury those bottles. . .” She nodded at broken jugs once containing long lost liquid. “And added their treasures.”
“More likely someone buried the evidence of the children’s existence, along with their bodies,” Lord Greybourne said with cynicism.
“Burying became a family tradition?” the doctor suggested, apparently intrigued. “They found Roman coins in the fields and hid them in old crates, maybe with stolen goods?”
His lordship shook his head in disbelief. “Then never dug them up again?”
Having had quite enough of speculation, Rafe glared at the rubbish they’d collected. “Before or after they buried those bones? I’m not fretting over old crime when I have a living killer to catch.” He stomped back upstairs on the heels of the casket bearer.
At the top, Greybourne’s staff pretended they hadn’t been listening at the door. Rafe glared at them. “If any of you know aught of children gone missing sometime last century, let me know. Otherwise, we’ll bury them proper and there’s no treasure to see.”
Mrs. Barton shook her graying head. “I wasn’t but a child when the old earl lived. There were Bradfords about for a while after that, but I was young and that’s a long time to remember one from another.”
“They probably couldn’t afford funerals,” the young cook suggested. “My ma had to bury her stillborn in the flower bed.”
“That’s most likely it.” Greybourne followed his assistants into the kitchen, leaving the physician and curate in the cellar. “We should put a decent floor down there. No sense in keeping milk in the mud when it rains.”
Apparently ready to be rid of them all, the baron led a procession down the hall.
Not adverse to leaving, Rafe followed him to the front door. “We’re having gravel dug up from the river for the innyard. Want to order more for the cellar?”
His lordship considered it. “River stones are too round for carriages, according to McAdam. But for the cellar, an easy solution, I suppose. A few flat stones for setting dairy on. I think I’ll charge the bank.”
Too round? How could gravel be too round for carriages? One more thing to research, as if he had time. Rafe would have Verity ask the librarian.
Obviously disgruntled, the baron escorted them to the door, done with murder and mayhem. At least he wasn’t one to pull apart a mystery the way the manor inhabitants did.
Rafe donned his hat and strode off. Saturday was his busiest day at the pub. He’d wait for Upton to search church records before concerning himself over abusers long gone.
He didn’t even make it as far as the pub before a pair of the drunken puppies from the gallery staggered out, swinging inexpertly at each other, accomplishing no more than rolling in the dirt. Rafe considered stepping over them, but Miss Thea appeared in the doorway.
He stopped to greet her, and she gestured at the brawling artists. “They are accusing each other of thievery, although I cannot imagine either owning anything worth stealing.”
“I had a purse full of coin!” The one Rafe thought to be a hack writer picked himself out of the street and dusted off his coat. “This thief just used it to pay the mercantile for the canvas he had delivered. That makes it my canvas.”
“That was my own money!” The short stout one called Gustav shouted. “You had no right to give that canvas to Jones. It’s mine! At least my work sells. He can’t even pay rent!”
“Does the crypt have separate cells you can lock them in?” With that dismissive remark, Thea returned to the gallery.
“If a theft has been committed—and you didn’t spend your coin at the tavern—then report it properly. Don’t steal to get even or I’ll have to lock up both of you.” Rafe was about to walk away when Arnaud emerged from the dark cavern of the gallery.
The Frenchman’s glare sent the pair scampering. “Thea would like to speak with her cousin. Is it safe for her to visit?”
“Matter of opinion.” The baron’s surliness was rubbing off on Rafe. “We’ve removed the skeletons. The staff seem adequate. His assistants are pleasant. Greybourne probably needs to be defanged.”
The once-reclusive artist actually laughed. “Temper, I can handle, mon ami. Skeletons and corpses, I rather not.”
