But the children buried in the cellar. . . Surely, that had been before the time of anyone present.
Black Dickie’s—Mr. Bradford’s—beard contorted into a scowl. “Dad said he left the funds to pay off the bank. He wanted his family to have a home they could always return to. That’s what the fight was about. He told me the tale a dozen times. He killed in self defense. Uncle Gabriel hated Gravesyde and tried to steal their earnings. Dad had to stop him from leaving his sisters homeless.”
Well, that was what a convicted felon might say to his son, attempting to make himself sound better than he was. How much of this did she believe? Given no direction, El sipped her tea and simply listened.
“Nevertheless, the bank was not paid,” Mr. Bosworth replied stiffly.
Marching Mr. Percival back to the table, Greybourne picked up the threads of the discussion as if he’d never been out of the room—or further than the stairs. “One assumes someone stole the funds while your father was busy being transported.” He grabbed a scone before returning to his seat at the far end of the table from Eleanor.
He didn’t even look at her. What, exactly, did he want her to do? She ought to be working on his pages. . . but she couldn’t tear herself from the mystery.
“I cannot imagine who might even have known about Ezekial’s funds,” Mrs. Comfrey said, wrinkling her pale brow. “Isabel and I were in Bath, with our aunt. We were never told anything of our resources, even while our father was alive. After Father died, Ezekial stepped into his place. I know he and Gabe argued often. There was only a year or two difference between them, and Gabe wanted to leave. Perhaps rightfully so. The house is cursed.” Mrs. Comfrey set down her cup and regarded it sadly.
The young Mrs. Comfrey nodded and began to weep.
Eleanor had so very many questions. . . Greybourne merely nibbled his scone as if the conversation had nothing to do with anything. As his assistant, she assumed her task was to listen, not that the dratted man explained anything.
Percival threw back his tea as if it were whiskey and contributed nothing. She’d like to cuff them all over their thick heads. She managed a strained smile and folded her hands in her lap, as she’d been taught.
If she’d been wearing men’s clothing. . . But even then, she really didn’t have an equal place at the professor’s table. She was a mere clerk, nothing more. She lifted the teapot to see if anyone wished a refill. Her burgeoning independence didn’t work well for an employee.
Bosworth grimaced. “We should head back to Stratford unless we want to drive in the dark.”
Angrily, Percival shoved away from the table and stalked out.
“Isabel’s son did not grow up to be a pleasant gentleman, did he?” Mrs. Comfrey asked of no one, following the banker’s cue and rising as her husband held her chair. “That’s what happens when a mother dies young, I suppose. Servants cannot raise a child proper, even with the fancy name and titles.”
Percival had a title? Eleanor hadn’t heard of one. Grey had simply said he came from minor gentry. But it was becoming obvious none of the younger generation had lived here, and this sad woman must be the last of the older generation.
“So the money my dad said was to pay for the house was stolen?” Mr. Bradford asked ominously, raising one of El’s many questions.
Stolen, or buried in the cellar with the bodies? El really wanted to ask about the toys buried there.
Grey finally spoke up. Holding El’s chair so she might stand, he asked, “Was Gabe or Ezekial in the habit of burying their toys in the root cellar?”
The elder Mrs. Comfrey froze.
Twenty-eight
Grey
After their fascinating and uninformative discussion with the Comfreys about the house’s—cursed—history, Grey wished to debate the implications with his perspicacious assistant.
Instead, after their visitors departed, she wordlessly stalked upstairs to her worktable. Undaunted, he followed. She handed him neatly copied sheets for his perusal—not what he wanted.
Perhaps concentrating on the book was sensible, but his was not a narrow mind. He needed intellectual stimulation, and Bradford House’s mystery had fired his imagination. When she returned to work, Grey grudgingly carried the papers upstairs to his desk, holding off their discussion, apparently until a more appropriate moment.
By the time dinner was called, he was past ready to set aside work to discuss the latest developments. Rather than let her escape to the end of the table again, he held a chair for Eleanor next to his and gestured for Andrew to take the seat opposite, on his left hand. This was his household. He got to make the decisions.
“Has your sister told you of our most enlightening company this afternoon?” Grey reached for his wineglass and realized. . . he had a wineglass.
“El has said to ask you, that she is here merely to copy chicken scratching.” Andrew spooned his soup without concern. “I take it that means she was ignored. I don’t recommend that as a general policy.”
Grey tasted his wine, decided it was palatable, and attempted to translate what Andrew was telling him. “I cannot imagine what more could have been said. The Bradford descendants are unfamiliar with the house. Mrs. Comfrey is the only one who lived here, and it appears she escaped Gravesyde young, to live with an aunt, shortly after her father’s death. The father, we must assume was an abusive brute.”
Eleanor sipped her wine, grimaced, and set it aside.
Grey tried not to snarl when Andrew hid a grin. Instead, he waited to see how long Eleanor could stay silent. Mrs. Comfrey’s revelations hadn’t been enlightening, but they were worth discussion.
