“Then hurry out before they uncover more. Apparently, Gravesyde is a veritable haven of pirates and brutes.” And drunken artists, these days, Rafe thought, walking away. At least, the thespians leasing the Hall mostly stayed in the countryside, when they weren’t traveling.
Gravesyde needed to hire a proper constable—when they had a proper village and taxes.
Returning to the inn, Rafe set his staff to meal preparation, then sat down and prepared a report about the skeletons for Captain Huntley, the magistrate. Before he could finish and move on to his next task, the curate and his wife arrived, bearing ancient tomes.
Books were better than corpses, he told himself. “You’ve discovered something interesting?”
“Hard to tell.” Minerva Upton laid out a ledger created by Hunt’s staff over this last year. As the manor’s librarian, the curate’s wife could find information faster than most. “We have created a list of who lived in each cottage at the time the viscount theoretically sold the village to the bank. Hunt then had the bank prepare a list of those families who were able to buy the homes they lived in, so we know which lots the bank owns.”
Rafe had forgotten that. The entire village and surrounding fields had once been owned by monks, then the earls—and then, the bank. “Bradford didn’t actually own that house?”
“He was buying it from the bank. His family had lived on that land for centuries, paying rent to the estate. That’s not the original house, so presumably the family made improvements.” Minerva showed him the plot book. “We don’t know how Bradford earned a living or paid for anything.”
“Granda called him a merchant. Most of the village worked at the manor while the earl was alive, so the wife or children might have as well.” Upton’s maternal grandfather had lived here all his life. His stepfather had been curate before him. The curate and his mother knew a lot of history. “The villagers only started leaving when the earl died in 1781.”
And the viscountess who moved in had no money to pay staff, Rafe recalled. So, thirty-five years of abandonment, essentially. “I am not investigating deaths that old. Do you have names for the graves?”
“Not exactly.” Upton opened his church ledger. “Parish records show two boys and four girls baptized under the Bradford name, from 1750 up to 1766. Mother died that year, father in 1780. The only other death listed is in 1786, Gabriel, the son my grandfather said was knifed. If the skeletons are any of those children, their deaths were never recorded. The elder brother, Ezekial, was the one sent to the Antipodes. Up until 1786, he was paying parish fees and was presumably heir to the house—and mortgage.”
“Bertram Bradford, Ezekial’s father, is on the bank’s property list.” Minerva closed her ledger. “We need to inquire at the bank, but one assumes after one son died and the other was transported, the daughters forfeited the mortgage.”
Rafe grew impatient with ancient history. “Are you going to tell me who was buried out there?”
“No. The church has no record of more Bradfords. For all we know, the children may have been servants. What we are going to tell you is that an Arabella Bradford married a Charles Comfrey in 1787. George Comfrey was baptized less than nine months later.”
The murdered Mr. Comfrey from the bank had signed the inn’s guest book as George Comfrey.
Twenty
Eleanor
Taking Greybourne’s letters to post, Eleanor saw Dr. Walker working in the lovely cottage garden she’d admired when they first arrived. The physician was speaking to a well-dressed blond lady heavy with child. El hesitated to interrupt, but the physician waved her over.
“Excellent timing. Clare Huntley, meet Miss Eleanor Leonard, who assists Lord Greybourne in copying out his books.” Dr. Walker handed El a bundle of herbs, with a few bright flowers she didn’t recognize. “I do not practice the old religion that claims sage clears spirits, but it smells good, and your servants might appreciate it.”
“Thank you.” Sage, to expel the unhappy spirits of those poor children. El appreciated the gesture, but, pragmatically, meeting the lady of the manor was more important. Dealing with a bundle of herbs, a stack of letters, and her unaccustomed skirt, Eleanor bobbed a wobbly curtsy. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Huntley.”
“Clare, please. We are very informal. Dr. Walker is Meera. And if I do not mistake, one is supposed to burn sage to clear spirits. We would have to ask Thea. You do copy work, Miss Leonard? That would be most advantageous. I fear, in a few months, I’ll not have time to finish copying out my edits.”
“I have a fair hand,” El said cautiously. “But I cannot say how much time I can call my own. Professor Greybourne is in a rush to finish his book, and we are still organizing his notes.”
“We have time,” Mrs. Huntley—Clare—replied. “I don’t plan on delivering this babe immediately. Have the professor bring you to dinner some evening and your brother too! I hear he may do some tailoring?”
Except for ancient graves and killers, El was enjoying the easy passage of information. In Edinburgh, she might have walked the streets for weeks looking for work. Here, every talent was needed. “He hopes to, yes. I really must take these letters to the post before it goes out. I’ll see you in church tomorrow?”
After saying their farewells, Eleanor hurried down the street, past the pecking chickens in the village green, to the center of business, such as it was. She’d like to explore more, but the professor would fret if she didn’t return soon. Accustomed to going about alone as a man, she wasn’t ready to accept that a child like Peg added to her safety, so she’d left the maid behind.
Delivering the letters, purchasing more ink, she stepped out to find Miss Talbot waiting for her.
“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I am Thea Talbot, Grey’s annoying cousin. He will not invite me to visit because he’s convinced he is a lodestone for disaster. It is time he is disabused of that fantasy.”
Startled, El dropped a curtsy and introduced herself, while searching for words to caution the heiress against her foolish presumption. “The professor I know is all scientific logic and fact. I cannot imagine how you came to think he believes in any such fustian?”
“Ask him why he never visits his beautiful home and estate, why he only writes to family and never visits. I’m quite amazed that he actually traveled with you. He never travels with companions.”
That was true, as far as El knew, which wasn’t far, she realized. “I have only known him for a year and only as an employee. There has been no occasion to discuss his preferences. But Andrew and I have never been outside Edinburgh and could not have travelled on our own. We would have been at a loss as to how to arrange accommodations and probably robbed twice over. He had no choice but to travel with us.”
Thea nodded knowingly. “Did you travel safely? If so, perhaps he can be persuaded from his superstition. And he calls me a Bedlamite because I occasionally sense ghosts!”
