“If I offer to pay for guards, do you have enough cells to lock up the entire lot until morning?” Sick of the proceedings, and most of mankind, Grey simply wanted a hot bath and his own bed.
He had to testify against his heir next. He was not looking forward to that. And now, it seemed someone had most likely killed Comfrey and used a grappling hook to haul him to the well. Grey feared that was his fault, too, if only for existing.
His curse was very real. He tried not to look at the woman at his side, scribbling her ever-present notes. He’d brought her to this hell-hole.
Rather than ponder the obvious, he cursed himself for not recognizing the significance of the well winch. River pirates knew how to use winches and hooks to snare their loot. Grey could almost see how they’d dragged Comfrey’s body. . .
Mort would have been able to carry a body. If he’d used the hook, he would have thrown it into the river before revealing it to them. The hook almost exonerated the artist. There was a nice piece of news. The man might be a thief, but he was artistically talented.
Having been summoned from his care of the horses, Andrew volunteered to help guard the prisoners at the manor. Grey almost agreed, until he realized that would effectively leave him alone with Ellie. He didn’t trust himself that much. He wanted a woman in his bed to erase the horrors of this day, but Eleanor was not just any woman. She was the marrying kind.
As today’s events proved, he was most definitely not the marrying kind. If anything happened to her, he’d confess to murder just so they’d lock him up. He would deserve to hang.
So he ordered Andrew to stay, suggested they take the curricle to haul the prisoners, then handed over a pouch of coins to the men who had surrounded him with safety. If nothing else, that should prevent his evil heir from bribing them to let the prisoners free.
“What about Mr. Bradford from next door?” Ellie murmured, setting down her teacup as the soldiers began rounding up the truculent, complaining scoundrels.
He really needed to return to calling her Leonard to keep his mind where it belonged instead of on her soft, sensible voice—and other enticements.
But he understood what she was saying. They knew nothing about the man’s character, and Black Dickie had more reason than most to kill Comfrey.
As much as Grey disdained being a figure of authority, he’d been born and bred to it. He stood, commanding the attention of those remaining in the parlor. “Mr. Bradford—if I might call you Richard to differentiate you from your relations. . . ?”
Bradford moved his broad shoulders uneasily. “Dickie or Blackie will suit. It appears there are a right lot of us.”
“Mr. Blackie, thank you. You’ve been very helpful this evening. Unfortunately, given your relationship to what appear to be a family of reprobates, we really should keep you in. . . let us say. . . protective custody, until we sort this out.” Grey acknowledged the magistrate’s grumble about guards and cells.
Blackie frowned, gave it some thought, then shrugged. “There been things I want to do here that I couldn’t on account of everyone coming and going. Give me a shovel and a bedroll and you can lock me in the cellar for the night. That way, I can’t be blamed for anything the. . . reprobates. . . do.”
“The cellar under the kitchen?” Eleanor asked before Grey could. “We’ve already dug up two graves.”
The bearded man somehow arranged to look somber. “Dad said my grandad was a mean bastard, pardon my language. Dad and his brother buried him under that old chestnut out there, so there’s another grave you’ll find.”
Grey remembered the conversation about not finding what was buried under tree roots. A mean bastard with grown sons and daughters. . . he’d not inquire into how the father ended up dead if they didn’t bury him a proper graveyard. “This village has been here over three centuries, maybe more. We’re a living cemetery. What then, do you expect to find in the cellar?”
“I’ll leave the dead lie, but my dad was curious about one corner where his pa wouldn’t let anyone dig. He said he saw him hide a box there, but he never dug it up. He didn’t expect coins because his dad drank what his ma didn’t spend, but he always wanted to know. When he lay dying, I promised to find out.”
“Protective custody it is, then.” Hunt strode for the door. “I’ll have someone carry down a lantern, cot, and bedroll. The cellar have a fair lock?”
“Sturdy enough.” Grey saw the magistrate out, then returned to the parlor to discover Ellie and Blackbeard examining couch cushions.
“Bein’ as how she’s dad’s sister, I reckon Mrs. Comfrey knew about the stash,” Blackie was saying. “I’d think my aunts woulda found it after he got transported, and if they didn’t, she might have sent her son to claim it. But we orter look.”
He removed a seat cushion from the back and ran his hand over the bottom. “There.” Blackie stepped aside so Eleanor could run her hand under the cushion. It came out empty. “It had to be a place they could all get at. Did the fools really think they’d turn over a couch every time they needed coin?”
Mort flung the cushion back in disgust.
“Money is why the scoundrels were molesting furniture.” Grey shook his head, but he’d seen far stupider actions, many of them just today. “I gather any coins are long gone?”
“Comfrey may have found them. I take it he did not die poor?” Eleanor asked. “Or is that what he and Percival argued over?”
Since no one knew the answer, Grey shrugged. “Money is the usual, if no woman is involved.” He nodded in appreciation as Andrew arrived with several digging instruments. “If you don’t mind, I’ll escort Miss Leonard to her room and leave you to sort out the cellar.”
He offered Ellie his arm. He desperately wished for a few minutes of her time, if only to assuage the ravening beast gnawing at his innards. Did he dare kiss her? Probably not. He shouldn’t encourage what he couldn’t have. Her company must suffice.
To his shock, she refused his arm, picked up her skirt, and headed toward the hall without him. “Miss Fields has kettles heating and Andrew brought in a tub. I’ll heat hot bricks for your bed. I’ll not have you moaning about, coughing and sneezing. The book will never be finished.”
Grey had the horrid notion that he’d lost control of his neatly organized life and the universe was now in charge. How had that happened?
