Hunt leaned against his desk and rubbed his damaged leg. “None of them are very bright.”
Rafe grimaced. “True, but Tiny is not one to give orders. He says his real name is Timothy, and Mort told him to pack up his work and take it home. I reckon the little louse simply panicked when he saw Miss Leonard looking through Mort’s paintings.” He felt guilty for what had happened, but a manor was not a prison and there were only so many places to lock up miscreants. At the time, the runt hadn’t been accused of anything.
“She paints a more sinister picture. If that canvas proves Tiny was on the roof the day Comfrey was killed, he’s a witness and knows it.” Hunt finally took his chair. “I’m ready to send the lot to assizes and let real judges decide.”
“They’ll hang them all simply to be rid of them. Although, I suppose the Greybourne heir may only receive a slap on the hand, being as he’s aristocracy.” Rafe liked justice. A man who had tried to drown his benefactor ought to be hanged, gentry or not.
“Let’s not repeat yesterday’s courtroom circus. Lord Greybourne and Miss Leonard appear to be the most harmed, after Comfrey. If we can achieve evidence for their assaults, we might hope for a confession. In the large study, though. The baron has sufficient explosive energy to blast cannonballs.” Hunt grabbed his walking stick and sauntered off, confident that Rafe would provide witnesses and suspects on command.
Rafe feared the audience gathering outside the Great Hall would have his head if he denied them their entertainment. But following orders, he singled out the professor and his assistant. The crowd muttered as he led them to the new wing. The dowagers were loudest in their complaints. The lot of them would no doubt lurk, waiting to see who was dragged from the crypt.
Rafe was grateful that Lord Greybourne had insisted Miss Leonard attend this time, so she wouldn’t be on her own again. With her hair done up in ribbons and a lace cap, she appeared fashionably elegant to his eyes and none the worse for her ordeal, except for the walking stick she held much as Hunt did his—as a weapon and not an aid to progress.
Once Rafe installed them in the larger study in the new wing, he went after Tiny Timothy Bradford. He prayed this scalawag wasn’t as intransigent and devious as Lord Greybourne’s heir and Percival.
Tiny looked even tinier than usual, shrunk in on himself, skinny shoulders hunched, emphasizing the concavity of his chest—most likely tubercular, if Rafe was any judge. The man was so weak, he had to use a cart to carry Miss Leonard, who couldn’t weigh more than a couple of sacks of flour. He’d not survive long in prison.
But if the Bradford family had been terrorizing riverboats for half a century, it was time their depredations ended. Law had finally returned to the village.
Entering the study, Tiny cringed at the sight of Lord Greybourne and Miss Leonard. He didn’t speak but collapsed on the chair Rafe pushed under him. Rafe buckled the prisoner’s bound wrists to the chair back. The position of bailiff was teaching him to trust no one, which warred with his innkeeper’s nature.
“Timothy Bradford?” Hunt boomed, verifying the suspect’s name for his steward, who took notes for the court.
Tiny bobbed his head, not meeting anyone’s eyes.
“Do you admit to assaulting Miss Leonard and holding her captive in a cellar?” Hunt demanded.
“Didn’t mean to,” the prisoner replied sulkily. “She shouldna been there.”
“But you admit you did it? I can have Miss Leonard identify you, if you like. And bring in more witnesses of your assault on Lord Greybourne at the river. . .”
Tiny shook his head. “Just wanted Mort’s paintings, that’s all. She were in the way.”
Hunt growled in exasperation at not receiving a straight answer, but he was learning his position, as Rafe was learning his. “Why did you take the paintings? They weren’t yours, were they?’’
Tiny struggled with a reply. “They’s Mort’s. Didn’t want no one else to have ’em.”
Greybourne appeared ready to detonate. Miss Leonard placed her gloved hand over his and interrupted the questioning in a more agreeable tone. “They are marvelous works of art. We had intended to buy one. We particularly liked the view of the river from our attic. Did your brother paint it from up there?”
“Tried to. Comfrey wouldn’t let ’im inside. Place belonged to the whole family, not just him. He had no right.” Tiny slumped in his chair after the effort of saying all that.
Hunt waited expectantly for Miss Leonard to continue, since Tiny seemed to find a lady less frightening—another lesson learned over this past year.
“I suppose Mr. Comfrey said the bank owned the house? Surely, it wouldn’t have hurt to let an artist work in an empty house?”
Apparently approving the direction she was taking, the baron leaned back in his chair and rested his arm on her chair back. Rafe hid a smile. That was a declaration of possession if he’d ever seen one.
“Comfrey didn’t want us knowing he was hunting for the money. Coulda told him it weren’t there, but he was too uppish to ask.” Tiny seemed to gain a little more confidence with this line of questioning.
Miss Leonard nodded sympathetically. “So you and Mort found another way to create that masterful painting?”
Tiny nodded. “We done it afore. Mort likes to paint big scenes from high up, but he can’t climb trees and not many let him on their roofs. I can even climb chimneys to block out what he needs,” he said with a hint of pride.
“That’s brilliant, seeing how trees are taller close up and smaller the further away you go. It’s a shame you don’t paint.” Miss Leonard spoke as if to a respected gentleman instead of a slimy worm who had tossed her down a hole. Or rolled her, most likely.
As Tiny had rolled Comfrey’s body into the well. Rafe froze at that realization.
“I’m good at fixing things, pays better than paintings,” the worm said. “Got more coins out of fixin’ that roof than Comfrey ever found digging around!”
