He settled into the chair next to Timothy, waiting for his friend to speak. He didn’t want to appear too anxious regarding Mrs. Reid, as he didn’t want Timothy to get his hopes up regarding any attachment of the heart. Still, Beckett’s chest feltlighter than it had in ages. There was a joy held close, small like a walnut shell cracked open at the seams, the precious meat waiting for a delighted finger to dig it out.
“First, the village with that pub is called Billig. Small place, few dozen families, set just east of Colchester. If my man didn’t have a name and building description, he would’ve ridden right past.”
Beckett nodded, absorbing the information. He knew her family wasn’t landed—he could tell by her manners and her accent. This was no surprise. But she had an education, so her family must have been elevated in some kind of way. Access to books was expensive, let alone a tutor.
“However, there is no family by the name of Reid living there. Not alive, nor dead, according to my man. He went through the parish register the next village over and walked through the cemetery.”
“That is her married name,” Beckett pointed out. “And if the village is on the road from London, any number of travelers may have come through. Perhaps her husband had been one of them.”
Timothy sipped from his snifter and glanced at Beckett, concern evident. “When my man mentioned Mrs. Reid—not by name of course, but by your description of her—she was remembered. But not kindly.”
He frowned. “She can be a bit strange in her mannerisms. I suppose in a small community they might ostracize someone who is unable to conform.”
Timothy shook his head and downed the rest of his liquor. “When I say not kindly, I mean that one woman claimed she was a murderess.”
Beckett dropped his port. The glass didn’t break on the soft pile of the carpet, but the liquid seeped into the fabric, staining it dark brown, the color of old blood. Beckett stared at it.
“Do wish to know more?” Timothy asked.
“There’s more?” Beckett asked, his voice hoarse.
“Might as well top up that glass. You’ll need it.” Timothy handed him his own glass. “Mine as well, if you please.”
Beckett rescued his glass from the carpet and took his friend’s. “What else could there be?”
“The story my man relayed to me is from a maid at the inn. The innkeeper and his wife refused to acknowledge any such woman ever existed there, and he speculated that Mrs. Reid may be the daughter of the couple. It’s unclear. The maid appears unhappy with her lot, so there is some doubt as to the veracity of her claim.”
Beckett nodded, happy to hear that perhaps this was a story that had the tinge of gossip, not one that held any truth to it.
“The story goes that maybe fifteen years ago, give or take, an artist came through the village. Master Roger Cobb, a portrait painter by trade, and fairly good by all accounts. Sadly, he was a bit of a drunk and ran up his bill at the inn far more than he could pay. Knowing that he might run off instead of paying his bill, the village agreed to let him run art classes for the girls of the village, thinking that it might give them an air of education and entice a wealthier patron who might make his way through one day.”
Beckett nodded. It was a bit unconventional, but he could understand the impulse. If the man didn’t have any money, there wasn’t much a villager could do, since he could run off and be lost in other places. Entice him to trade his talents instead. That must have been how Mrs. Reid developed her interest in painting in the first place.
“But the man was a lecher, and his attentions on some of the girls went a bit too far.”
His stomach clutched at the thought of Mrs. Reid being subjected to such pressure from an instructor. “Mrs. Reid was one of the affected girls?”
Timothy shook his head. “The maid claims that she had not been allowed to take the class and was angry that Master Cobb didn’t show her any preference.”
Beckett frowned. That didn’t sound like her at all. Even as a young girl, Beckett couldn’t imagine Mrs. Reid pining over a man’s attentions.
“Apparently, your Mrs. Reid found the artist inflagrante delictowith another girl and cracked him over the head with a mallet. He died a few days later.”
Beckett absorbed the information. He could not conceive of Mrs. Reid as a murderess either. She was practical to a fault, which was not something he imagined was an entirely adult-honed trait.
“Your lady is a murderess, Beckett. I am sorry.” Timothy gazed into the fire again, sipping his port.
“How certain are you of this maid’s tale? And does she have any misgivings about Mrs. Reid?” Beckett could not help but think of this as a trial of Mrs. Reid’s character. Could he envision Mrs. Reid cracking a man over the head while he was in the middle of an assignation? Or, perhaps, was the instructor committing the act without consent of the girl, and Mrs. Reid happened upon them, thinking to save the girl?
Those were possible. But how to prove such? He needed to be careful who he associated with publicly, of course, and he’d hoped Mrs. Reid was the unnoteworthy widow she appeared to be. Yet, it was looking as if this wasn’t the case.
“My man returned to give me the report, but he could go back and continue to ask around. The trouble is, someone is going to wonder why he’s sniffing about. Do you want to bring that kind of attention to her? And eventually, to you?”
Beckett shook his head. “No, and it would be better to come clean with Mrs. Reid and figure out her side of the story. And in fact, if this is her at all. Didn’t you say that Mrs. Dove-Lyon had a completely different report of her? Merchant family from Colchester, no siblings, parents are dead?”
Timothy nodded. “According to Mrs. Dove-Lyon, yes.”
“Given that Mrs. Dove-Lyon runs a gambling house and manipulates lives for entertainment, I would say she might be the type to assist in a rebirth of sorts, wouldn’t you?” Beckett supposed. “Marry her off to an older Mr. Reid for protection?”
