Patrick sent Thora an ironic glance. “Or perhaps she has.”
Jane stood in front of the inn, head tilted back, watching Mr. Broadbent high on his ladder. She certainly hoped the man wouldn’t fall. Unfortunately, he had reported finding several broken roof tiles while repairing the gutters. So they would soon need to have the slater out too.
She became aware of someone behind her and glanced over to see Gabriel Locke—arms crossed—looking up as well. He said, “Patrick is congratulating himself, no doubt. He thinks you’ll fail and he’ll end up with the place yet, with new paint and gutters in the bargain.”
“I think you’re wrong about him,” Jane said. “He has been nothing but supportive since he returned. He has worked here selflessly to help me, and without drawing a salary.”
“No salary, hm? I wonder where he gets the money to buy rounds down at the public house, then.”
“Are you saying he is a liar?”
Locke looked at her, and whatever he saw in her face made him change tack. “No, Mrs. Bell. I think he believes himself everything you say he is.”
Jane changed the subject, her attention caught by the old roof angel Talbot had mentioned. The carved stone statue depicted an angelic figure in robes, its curled hair giving it a feminine appearance. Unfortunately, a cracked crater marred its face, and it was missing part of its wing.
“I wonder if I should have him take down that broken angel while he’s up there. With that damaged face, it looks more like a gargoyle than an angel. Probably struck by lightning once or twice.”
“Once,” Tuffy said as he hobbled by. “The second strike came from Liam McFarland.”
Jane looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”
Colin McFarland came out the front door at that moment, and Tuffy put a finger to his lips and shuffled away.
Colin held up a printed Inn Tally form. “Mrs. Bell, would you mind summing this bill for Mr. Wagner? He’s ready to depart. I’ve got to pour the cider for the next coach.”
“Of course. I’ll be just a moment.”
Colin nodded and retreated back inside.
When she looked again, Gabriel Locke still had his head tipped back, considering the statue.
He said, “Probably difficult or even impossible to repair.”
Jane agreed. “And I can’t see that it would be worth the expense and trouble to do so. Not when the place hasn’t been called The Angel in more than thirty years.”
He nodded, then sent her a sidelong glance. “Speaking of angels, I hear your adoring cat dropped another gift on your doorstep.”
She met his gaze, then looked away without replying.
He went on, “Joe mentioned you asked him to dispose of it for you. I’m surprised you didn’t ask me.”
“I was hoping to avoid being teased about it,” she said wryly. “Clearly, I failed.”
After that Jane summed the bill for Colin, and Mr. Wagner paid it. Then she returned to the keeper’s lodge, feeling unsettled. Had she been rash to withdraw her settlement and use it to pay off the inn’s suppliers and finance repairs? She had not yet spent it all but probably would by the time they’d finished all their plans. Was she foolish to do so, as Thora seemed to suggest?
She had thought Thora would appreciate her act, but appreciation was not what had come across in Thora’s reaction. Her mother-in-law’s words echoed through Jane’s mind once again. “Tell me you did not withdraw your entire settlement and sink the lot of it into this old place. That was your future security. Your nest egg. We could still lose the inn, and then where will you be? What will you live on?”
Jane’s stomach cramped. Would she live to regret her decision? Would she lose the inn to the bank after all? Jane felt suddenly more vulnerable than ever.
Spurred by the notion of being a penniless widow with no roof over her head, Jane thought again of the missing loan money and Patrick’s suggestion that John might have hidden it away somewhere. Perhaps with his copy of the loan agreement, wherever it was. She decided to look through their small dwelling just in case.
She supposed it was time to clean out John’s belongings anyway, though she dreaded the prospect. Perhaps she should gather John’s clothes and see if Patrick wanted any of them, and if not, sell them to the secondhand clothes dealer or donate them to the almshouse.
She had already looked through John’s bedside table to find something to give Gabriel Locke in place of his wages. Now she looked deeper, and in more places.
She began by digging through his dressing chest, then looking behind his small collection of books on the shelves, and then behind the framed prints on the walls. She lifted a square box from the cedar chest at the foot of their bed and looked through memorabilia from John’s younger days: a few old playbills, calling cards from prominent guests, whist tokens, a Newmarket race bill, and a Roman coin like the one she had given Mr. Locke, this one bearing an image of the emperor. She read a yellowed newspaper clipping announcing him as the new proprietor of The Bell, then picked up a length of pink ribbon, which gave her pause. She reminded herself that he had courted other women before her, including Miss Prater, so it probably belonged to one of them and he simply never discarded it.
At the bottom, she found a piece of stonework, heavy and broken. From the shape and carved feathers, she guessed it had been a part of a wing—perhaps even from the roof angel. Now it was just a fragment of someone’s work—of someone’s life. Like all these small bits and bobs John had kept. But nothing of monetary value.
Jane rose and looked at the few things atop John’s writing desk in the corner of the sitting room, then opened its drawer. She had looked in it before, to extract a quill-sharpening knife or more sealing wax, but had not lingered long. Now she tugged the crammed drawer all the way open and picked up the stack of papers—notes, letters, trade cards, and billheads—she had long ago dismissed as business-related and out of date, and flipped through them again. John had done most of his work at the desk in the office, but here were a few odd pieces of correspondence: a faded reminder from his father to increase the year’s order with the coal merchant, a note of thanks from the brewer for their business, a bill from the Salisbury piano tuner, a letter Jane had sent home when she’d gone to London with Mercy, and a folded cover sheet, embossed with the Blomfield, Waters, and Welch seal. She opened the cover sheet, but the folder was empty except for Mr. Blomfield’s card. Strange . . .
At the bottom of the pile, she found another paper—a letter that had been carefully refolded, and folded in half once again. The handwriting on the outside was scrawled and somewhat smudged, but she made out Mr. John Bell and the inn’s direction. She unfolded the small sheet all the way and read:
Dear Mr. Bell,
I was surprised to receive your letter and your offer of help. Especially after the way things ended. Yes, I would be pleased to see you again. If you are serious about wanting to offer some recompense, I will meet you on the 27th as you suggest. You can find me at the Gilded Lily in Epsom. I will be at liberty after 5 o’clock.
Sincerely,
Hetty Piper
Jane frowned and read the brief letter again, thoughts of the banker’s card evaporating. In their place, other disturbing thoughts began clanging through her mind like poorly played church bells. Who was Hetty Piper? The name seemed vaguely familiar. A former employee, perhaps? A flicker of an image, a buxom redhead with a winning smile wobbled into memory, then away. Why would John offer to help her? Recompense for what? Surely the first thought that struck her must be wrong. What sort of establishment was the Gilded Lily? A brothel? And finally, the 27th in Epsom. John had died on May the 27th in Epsom. . . .
Jane’s stomach roiled, and she swallowed bile. Surely she was reading too much into this. She had to be. John had gone to meet Gabriel Locke to look at horses and attend the races together. A lark, John had said. To keep his friend Locke company. Nothing about a woman, but would not the wife be the last to know? Jane squeezed he
r eyes shut as another wave of nausea washed over her. Had it all been lies and secrets? Had he been carrying on an affair and she none the wiser? True, their marriage had had its ups and downs—several low periods those last few years. But she’d never thought . . . No. Not John. Not this. He wouldn’t.
Would he?
Jane groaned, pain and dread quickly igniting into indignation. Tell me I did not just invest my settlement into your inn when all the while you were betraying me! If so, Thora was right; Jane would regret it. Did regret it. Here she was trying to save her husband’s inn, his legacy, only to have her loyalty thrown back at her like a bucket of cold water!
Did everyone know? Were they all laughing at her behind her back? “First her dowry, then her settlement. We sure took advantage of that foolish gentlewoman. . . .”
Don’t jump to conclusions, Jane told herself sternly. She would discover the truth first and then alter her plans as needed. If the worst was true, she would horde every penny she had left, sell every inch of pipe and gallon of paint her money had bought, and leave The Bell to rot without a backward glance. Let the bank have it, or Patrick. Let it burn to the ground.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
Jane found Thora seated at John’s former desk in the office, wearing spectacles and sorting through papers in the drawers.
“Thora?”
“Hm?” she murmured without pausing her search.
Jane scraped a drop of hardened wax from the desk with her fingernail and attempted to keep her tone casual. “Who is Hetty Piper?”
“Hetty?” Thora looked at her over the rims of her small spectacles.
“Um-hm.”
Thora squinted in thought. “Hetty worked here briefly as a maid. Why?”
“Just curious. Was she that ginger-haired girl? The pretty one?”
“Yes,” Thora replied. “Too pretty for her own good. Or anyone else’s.”
“What do you mean?”
“We hired her to clean and change beds, not turn heads. Tempted more than one male, I can tell you.”
“Male guests or . . . staff?”
“Both.”
Jane dug her fingernails into her palms. Not the answer she wanted. “Why did she leave?”
“I dismissed her—that’s why. Gave her the sack, and good riddance. More trouble than she was worth.”
“When was this?”
Thora shrugged. “Maybe two years ago. I could look up the exact date in the wage log if you need it for some reason.”
“No. That’s all right.”
Thora studied her, eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking about Hetty Piper now, after all this time?”
“Oh, I . . . ran across her name somewhere, that’s all. Just curious. What are you looking for? Still searching for the copy of the loan agreement?”
Thora kept her wary gaze on Jane’s face, ignoring the change in topic.
Jane continued, “I just looked in John’s desk in the lodge, and unearthed a folded cover sheet from the bank. I thought I might have found the loan papers, but there was nothing inside except Mr. Blomfield’s card.”
Thora frowned at that, shut the drawer, and removed her spectacles. “That’s unfortunate. Patrick seemed to think it might be important. By the way, the greengrocer took advantage of you in Talbot’s absence. I found an invoice for a pineapple of all things.” She waved the offending billhead.
Jane replied, “I am afraid I ordered that. Delicious. But that was before I realized how expensive such luxuries were.”
“I see.” Thora set the bill aside.
“Well then.” Jane forced a smile. “I shall leave you to it.”
Jane thought about asking Patrick what he knew about Hetty. But when she glanced into the taproom, she saw him in animated conversation with several other men and didn’t want to spur ribald talk about the apparently infamous redhead.
Instead, she sought out Gabriel Locke. She found him in the stable yard, trimming a horse’s hooves.
She leaned her elbows on the gate. “What is the Gilded Lily, Mr. Locke?”
He looked at her over his shoulder in surprise, then scowled. “Not a place I would ever venture into. Why do you ask?”
But John had? she thought. Instead of answering, she asked another question. “You were with my husband the day he died—is that so?”
He grimaced. “You know I was.”
“Then do you know he planned to meet a woman named Hetty Piper while he was in Epsom that day? At a place called the Gilded Lily?”
He stared at her a moment, then looked down. “I believe he mentioned something about meeting a former employee, but not the details.” He sent her a wary glance. “Where is all this coming from?”
“I found a letter in John’s things.” She pulled it from her apron pocket. “Miss Piper wrote that she would meet him after five o’clock on May 27th.”
Gabriel’s face puckered. “Five o’clock?”
“Yes. But John died . . . ?”
“Around four, give or take.”
“So this supposed meeting never took place?”
He released the horse’s leg, then straightened. “May I see the letter?”
Jane frowned at him, suddenly vexed with the man. “You never mentioned any such meeting before. Or any woman John knew in Epsom. Did he have a mistress? Is that why he was gone from home so often that last year?”
Gabriel looked around to make sure no one was in earshot, then ran a hand over his face. “I never saw him meet a woman. Though, granted, we were not together round the clock. But I don’t think so—not when he was married to you.”
“I am not such a prize. Our relationship was not all it should have been. But still, I never thought . . .” She fluttered the letter in her hand and turned away.
He called after her, “What are you going to do?”
“I am going to Epsom, apparently,” she shouted back.
“Jane. Mrs. Bell. Don’t. That establishment is no place for a lady.”
She walked on, but he caught up with her.
“Please, don’t go. Not now and certainly not alone. I am traveling north later this week to see that associate about a horse, remember? I could inquire on your behalf. Or if you must go, allow me to escort you.”
“I think not, Mr. Locke. Something tells me that if I want the truth, you are not the man to give it to me.”
He looked pained again, and embarrassed in the bargain. He said, “I am in general an honest man, but I have learned the hard way that those who ask for the truth often wish back their ignorance. Truth, like medicine, is sometimes best in small doses.”
“I disagree. And I do not require your protection, Mr. Locke. In deciding how much truth I can handle, or in traveling. I will go by mail, with a maid.” She added sardonically, “I believe I may know someone who works in a coaching inn and can help arrange the fare.”
Jane turned on her heel and walked smartly away, feeling no satisfaction and weighed down with a queasy dread that he was probably right—it was doubtful she would like the answers she found.
Jane went directly to the reception counter that served double duty as booking desk. Patrick sat there, routes and timetables spread before him.
When she stated her request, he looked at her askance.
“You want to go where?”
“Epsom.”
Patrick studied her face, then asked, “Who is in Epsom?”
She went on as though she’d not heard the question. “It’s southwest of London.”
His eyes remained on her face. “I know where it is.”
“Do you?”
“Of course.” He slid the route plan forward. “I have the map right here.”
For a moment, Patrick set aside his questions and showed her how far she could go on the Royal Mail and where she would have to alight and book passage on a stagecoach to travel the rest of the way.
“The Brighton Road goes right through Epsom, but unfortunately not the Exeter to Lon
don route.”
She made note of all he said and insisted on paying the fares from her own money.
When they had completed the booking, Patrick rested his elbows on the desk and regarded her again, a strange light in his eyes.
“I’m curious, Jane. Locke was in here last week, asking about the best way to reach Epsom. And now you want to go there at about the same time. Some people might call that a suspicious coincidence. Not I, of course.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Jane dryly replied. “I would hate to think you know me so little as to suspect some assignation.”
“Of course not.” He smirked. “Not the proper Lady Jane.”
She gave him a sour smile. “Mr. Locke has been planning to visit his associate about a fly horse ever since our planning meeting, remember? While my . . . errand came up rather suddenly. Unrelated, I assure you.”
“What is this errand?”
Jane sighed. “Patrick, Epsom is where John died. Can we not leave it at that?”
His smirk fell away, and his appealing eyes turned downward at the corners. “I’m sorry, Jane. I did not mean to upset you.”
She so rarely saw him without a playful smile. Far less looking sincerely sad.
She patted his arm. “That’s all right, Patrick. I know you like to tease.”
He laid his free hand over hers. “True. But I would never want to hurt you, dear Jane.”
“I know that, Patrick.”
But did she? She thought of Locke’s warnings about her brother-in-law, then brushed them aside. Patrick was not the Bell brother uppermost in her mind.
As Jane crossed the yard on her way back to the lodge, she noticed Kipper waiting for her on the doorstep. Before she could reach him, Mr. Locke hailed her. She reluctantly paused, and in a few long strides he stood before her.
“Still planning to go?”
“Yes. And you—when do you depart?”
“Friday.”
Jane nodded. “Excellent. Cadi and I leave Thursday.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but she raised her hand to cut him off.
“We have booked the last two seats on the upline, and that is for the best. It is not necessary, nor would it be appropriate for you to travel with us.”