The Scoundrel’s Deadly Deed, page 1
The Scoundrel’s Deadly Deed
Gravesyde Village Mysteries
Book Two
Patricia Rice
Contents
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Author’s Note
Characters
Monday
One
Two
Three
Tuesday
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Wednesday
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Thursday
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Friday
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Saturday
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Sunday
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Gravesyde’s Couples by Book
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Gravesyde Village Mysteries
Gravesyde Priory Mystery
About the Author
Also by Patricia Rice
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Author’s Note
In the Gravesyde Priory Mystery series I introduce readers to the heirs of Wycliffe Manor, who turn a derelict manor into a home. Each of the couples have their own romance and mystery to solve and some of those couples will continue to appear in this spin-off.
In this new series, I’m writing about the people who bring Gravesyde Village back to life. The history of the village is wrapped around the manor, the ancestral home of the Earls of Wycliffe, built on a former priory. In the way of medieval fiefdoms, the earls resisted district boundary changes, so the estate, in 1815, is an exclave of Shropshire, although south of Birmingham and surrounded by Worcestershire, creating legal havoc when it comes to crime. As appointed executor of the trust operating the manor, Captain Huntley has been chosen as the local magistrate.
Due to various circumstances, the manor has been empty, or nearly so, for decades. The village has been left to die. With the return of the manor’s inhabitants, spurred by the industrial revolution, the locals are gradually returning to their ancestral homes.
As the series continues, we can watch the village and its inhabitants grow and find romance—and solve a few crimes along the way. Each story stands alone.
As a side note, I have referenced the town of “Stratford” where the bankers and solicitors reside. Although there is a Stratford in London and the famous Stratford-on-Avon nearby, this Stratford exists only in my mind. Birmingham, however, is completely real, an industrial and technology center akin to today’s Silicon Valley.
Characters
VILLAGE:
Damien Sutter: lawyer, son of shoemaker
(Harry Sutter: deceased, Damien’s soldier brother)
Meg Sutter Butler: Damien’s mother
Brighid (Brydie) Calhoun: spinster, neighbor of Sutters
Caitlin (Kate) Calhoun Morgan: widowed with three children, Arthur age 14, Rob age 12, Lynly age 8.
Edward Evans: shoe factory owner
Zebediah Johnson: itinerant preacher
Thomas Butler: Damien’s former neighbor, now works for Zeb
Elizabeth Butler: Tom’s nearly blind sister
Verity Russell: teacher, Rafe’s wife
Sgt. Rufus Russell (Rafe): retired army; innkeeper
Sgt Major Fletcher Ferguson (Fletch): retired army; Rafe’s friend
Jacques Rousseau: Damien’s French valet
Paul Upton: curate
Daniel Corcoran: curate’s grandfather
Mrs. Hatter: one of Zeb’s followers
Martha Mayfield: widowed camp follower
Harlan Terwilliger: financier
Mr. Oswald: mercantile proprietor and postmaster;
Charley Jones: church deacon
MANOR:
Captain Alistair (Hunt) Huntley: US Army engineer
Clarissa (Clare) Huntley: wife of Hunt and secret novelist
Arnaud Lavigne: Hunt’s artist cousin, former French comte
Henri Lavigne: Arnaud’s younger brother, tavern owner, peddler
Lady Elsa Villiers de Sackville: manor cook
Honorable Jack de Sackville: stable owner; Elsa’s husband
Lavender Marlowe: young seamstress
Dorothea (Thea) Reid Talbot: haunted interior decorator
Sofia Lavigne: young cousin of Arnaud and Henri; perfumer
Daniel Walker: Hunt’s friend, steward; Meera’s husband
Meera Abrams Walker: physician/apothecary; Clare’s best friend
Henrietta (Nettie) Upton: curate’s stepmother; housekeeper
Patience Upton: Nettie’s daughter and curate’s stepsister; gardener
Minerva Peniston: librarian
Duke of Castlefield: visiting manor
Montague Dacre, Earl of Weston: duke’s eldest son
Gavin Smith: duke’s investment advisor
Monday
One
Damien
November 1815
* * *
“No room at the inn?” Damien Sutter asked in amusement, gazing around at the nearly empty, half-timbered lobby. A gray wolfhound sprawled in front of a coal grate, undisturbed by childish voices emanating from an area that ought to be a pub. Other than those limited signs of life, the deteriorating medieval inn echoed hollow—evidently inhabited by no more than ghosts.
The tall, carrot-haired man behind the battered counter shrugged his powerful shoulders. Behind him, Damien’s valet whistled softly in admiration. Jacques would be exceedingly displeased if they didn’t obtain rooms.
“Like everything around here, this place has been abandoned for half a century,” the innkeeper said apologetically. “We’re working on rebuilding and furnishing, but it probably won’t be usable until spring.”
“I see. What is considered usable?” Damien kicked himself for listening to Evans. After losing everything with the war’s end, the former factory owner was desperate.
Damien had an alternative place to lay his head. He simply wasn’t prepared to face real ghosts without a good night’s sleep.
Before the innkeeper could explain, a dark-haired, raw-boned man of about thirty, wiping greasy hands on a rag, emerged from the corridor behind the desk. Soldiers, Damien began to understand, just back from the Continent.
At Damien’s request to define usable, the newcomer smirked. “As in, we have no one to carry your water and slops or make your food. This is a luxury campground for us.”
“Army?” Damien guessed. “I lost my brother at Waterloo, cavalry. I’m Damien Sutter. I grew up around here. I’ve come to look at the shoemaker’s shop he left.” He turned to Jacques. His valet was a slight man but reasonably strong. “Can you manage the water and slops?”
“And prepare light meals,” Jacques said fervently, eyeing both muscled soldiers. “If you do not need me to clean and mend three sets of attire a day.”
The red-haired innkeeper sketched a vague bow. “I am Rafe Russell. This is former Sergeant Major Fletcher Ferguson, but we call him Fletch. The manor will be happy to hear some of the original landowners are returning. Any other time, we’d have found a room for you up there.”
The dark-haired Fletch didn’t offer his grimy paw but gestured in the direction of the hill behind the inn. “The manor is full to overflowing. The curate is getting leg-shackled and all his bride’s friends and family have descended for the occasion.”
“And their retinues,” Rafe added dryly. “Dukes travel with a blamed lot of people. But he’s paying to stable their mounts and keeping Fletch busy, so we can’t complain.”
At hint of a need for cash, Damien removed his purse and set a sovereign on the counter. “We’ll pay to stable ours as well. I have a friend arriving this evening, Edward Evans, so if you have three empty beds, we’ll take whatever is available. I had no idea duke’s daughters resided in the area these days. Which duke?”
He already knew which one, and that His Grace had no daughter, but he had reason to remain unremarked for as long as he could.
“Castlefield. It’s not his daughter,” Fletch explained. “Daughter of Colonel Peniston, the duke’s steward. His Grace simply wants an excuse to raid the manor’s library. The captain can hardly refuse him. The duke’s book buying is paying to restore the old keep.”
Rafe chuckled. “Our curate nearly refused His Grace when he offered to purchase a special license so the wedding could be held at the manor. He said he could feed the village for a year or build an addition to the chapel with the cost of the license.”
“But dukes can’t attend services in tiny publ
“Once the inn is open, we hope to expand and improve the chapel next. Upton understands that the manor’s great hall is more suitable for a duke. Our good parson simply dislikes the waste of all the fol-de-rol. He gave in when he realized a duke was the only way to entice his wealthy vicar into a day-long carriage ride to tie the knot, since he can’t do it himself. But it took some fancy negotiation,” Rafe said in amusement. “The duke’s paying dearly to plunder the library. The bride is curating what she’ll allow him to buy and demands high prices.”
Educated soldiers, Damien concluded. But they hadn’t reacted to his name, so they probably hadn’t known the brother Damien hadn’t seen since adolescence. He’d always thought there’d be more time. He should have learned that lesson by now.
Rafe spun the gold coin in his fingers, considering. “You’d be our first paying guests. I hope to set this up as a fancy establishment for business travelers. I don’t want to develop a bad reputation before we even open.”
“I can assure you, I will have nothing but praise for your hospitality. I am interested in setting up a business here, also, so it’s in my interest to encourage visitors.” Which was only half a lie. Evans wanted to set up a shoe manufactory. Damien never wished to live in this hellhole again.
Before they could accept his offer, a squeal followed by a howl rose over the piping voices in the room off the lobby. A marmalade kitten dashed out and attempted to scamper up the innkeeper’s leather breeches. He scooped up the creature, placed it on his shoulder, and waited in expectation rather than rush to the rescue.
The shrill voices hushed as some miscreant shouted, “I didn’t do nuttin!”
“We’ve told you to leave the girls alone.”
Damien couldn’t resist the urge to peer into the next chamber. As he’d expected, it appeared to be a pub, with huge mullioned windows—only the blackened bar was loaded with books and the trestle tables were filled with children.
“I just pulled her ribbon!” a lad of about ten protested, while dangling by his collar.
The woman hauling him from his feet stood a head above the bemused teacher at the front of the room. All athletic muscle and grace, the Amazon swung her victim off the floor and lugged him to the door. Ignoring their stares, she deposited the boy in the lobby. “Go home and tell your mother why you’re not in class or I will.”
She watched the boy scamper out the door. Then, unfazed by male stares, she brushed off her hands and marched back to the schoolroom.
In that brief moment when she had practically looked him straight in the eye, Damien’s breath caught in his throat. Surely not. . . But the wild bush of auburn hair, the proud chin and haughty cheekbones. . .
As if his shock had hit her, she swung back around, wide-eyed. “Damien?”
“Brydie?” He hadn’t seen her in fifteen years, but how could anyone forget a Celtic warrior goddess? She’d been all skinny awkwardness back then, but she’d filled out nicely. He’d thought her married and well gone from here by now.
“You bloody bastard.” She reached him in a single step and smacked his jaw hard enough to spin his head.
Two
Brydie
Brydie was still steaming hours later. She’d made her excuses and slipped out of the schoolroom after making the usual spectacle of herself. But she had to warn Kate.
To keep busy, she laundered the bed linen in the washing shed, where she kept the fire hot so as not to freeze. She had to wear gloves to hang them, though. Awkward, but she didn’t want another case of chilblains and end up like her mother, her fingers crippled with arthritis.
Besides, from the washing line, she could see Kate approach down the wooded path from the manor. It had once been called Wycliffe Manor but the Wycliffe title had died with the last earl. Newcomers had taken to calling it the Priory, like the village and monastery that had once stood there. Times changed, but she’d never thought Gravesyde would.
Strolling down the hillside, her sister carried a basket of sewing work. They needed all the coins they could earn, but it was difficult to work and mind families too. While they were in the schoolroom, the children were out of trouble, and Brydie was there, if needed. But classes ended early so all the students might return home before dark and do their chores. Kate needed to be with hers.
“Don’t go in yet,” Brydie called, crossing the packed dirt of the inn yard.
Her sister glanced up in alarm. “Is Lynly well? Did she have another spell?”
Kate was a miniature version of Brydie, her auburn hair darker and straight enough to make a sleek chignon. She took after their mother’s shorter, sturdier side of the family. Brydie had their father’s height and distinctive angular features. On Kate, the angles were more rounded and feminine. Brydie had been called handsome, never beautiful, graceful, or delicate. Kate achieved a welcoming prettiness.
“Lyn and Rob are fine,” Brydie assured her. “I just wanted to warn you that Damien Sutter is in town. He’s staying here at the inn and not out at the farm.”
“Damien?” Kate looked surprised, and then she remembered. “Oh, his brother died, didn’t he? We read it in the newssheets. He was one of the cavalry officers who led the charge against the French.”
Brydie frowned. “What if he sees Arthur? They look enough alike. . .”
Kate caught her breath and glared. “Don’t you dare, Bree Calhoun! George is Arthur’s father and I’ll hear no more said of it.” She marched off in a huff.
Lynly and Rob had none of the Calhoun traits. They were unmistakably George Morgan’s children—at eight and twelve, they were small, dark, and sickly. Arthur, at fourteen, however, was as tall and healthy as Brydie—and had the same golden-brown hair as Damien Sutter.
She’d cuff the dastard again, but she couldn’t afford to lose her position at the inn. Rafe was kind and generous, but he was also the town bailiff, and Damien was apparently a guest. Rafe’s patience for her temper would only stretch so far.
Slapping linen on the line gave her over-active mind a chance to seek nefarious ways to make the scoundrel pay. He’d seduced and abandoned her sister that last summer and never returned—not even after his parents vanished. Brydie had always assumed the Sutters had run away to avoid responsibility for their son’s behavior, but they’d never returned. Perhaps he knew where they were, but everyone else still gossiped about the mystery.
The village talked about poor Arthur, too, born months after the wedding, but George had given him a name and been a decent husband to Kate. Only, now that the consumption had finally taken him. . .
Arthur needed a proper education. And Kate deserved an easier life. Without George, they couldn’t keep running the farm. There were only so many hours in the day. This winter. . . She shuddered to think of how they’d afford coal once the pile ran out. Maybe she’d chop down that forest springing up on the Sutter’s abandoned land.
School over for the day, Verity Russell, the innkeeper’s bride and the village’s new schoolteacher, emerged to help pin the last of the linen. Sturdier even than Kate, but with soft feminine features and wispy brownish curls at her nape, she appeared motherly even if she’d only just married. “We need a drying shed. These are likely to be frosted on overnight.”
