Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery) (16 page)

“What?”

I could see from her intense expression that she was mulling this question over seriously. “I don’t know. Perhaps it was the way she held herself. She always seemed so confident, so assured. As if she knew who she was and that she was where she was supposed to be. Do you know what I mean?” Miss Remmington turned to me to ask.

I nodded. My maternal grandmother, Lady Rutherford, for whom my sister had been named, had been like that, and even as a young child it had struck me as something unique. She had died when I was five, but I remembered her vividly: her white hair and laughing blue eyes—lapis lazuli, the same shade as my own—her musical voice. And that distinct presence that was so powerful, and yet soothing, that seemed to say that she had made peace with herself, and nothing you could do or say would change that.

I also recalled the things people whispered about her when they thought a small child wasn’t paying attention. The scandal over her marriage to my grandfather. The unnatural appeal she seemed to have, had always seemed to have, to other men, before her marriage and after. Her family’s lowly origins as Irish nobility. In Ireland, Grandmother Rutherford’s family might have been well respected, with the blood of ancient Irish kings flowing through their veins, as well as that of the transplanted English nobility who took over their land in 1606 under the direction of King James VI and I, but in Scotland they were less than nobodies. Which made the way my grandmother had held herself all the more fascinating, in defiance of them all.

Did Miss Wallace also have something in her past she had overcome? Some hardship that tested the mettle of a person and forced her to accept herself as she was, because no one else was going to do that for her?

Realizing that Miss Remmington was still speaking, I shook aside my own thoughts.

“She also seemed so . . . knowing.” She shook her head in bafflement. “I can’t explain it any other way. It was as if she knew things before you ever told them to her. Nothing, and no one, seemed capable of shocking her.” She reached out to run a hand down her horse’s neck before murmuring, “It was comforting.”

It sounded as if Miss Wallace was good at reading people. But if that was the case, if she was so astute, so aware of the people around her, then why was she now missing? Perhaps someone she didn’t know had surprised her. If so, then that made our search all the more difficult and widened its range considerably.

Of course, there was another explanation. Maybe Miss Wallace had not been taken but gone into hiding of her own accord. And if that was the case, what was she hiding from? What had she discovered or read in the intention of others to make her flee?

I could feel Gage’s eyes on me where he rode to the side and a pace behind Miss Remmington and me. I knew he had been listening to our conversation and I was eager to hear his thoughts on the matter.

“Did you and Miss Wallace meet often?” I asked, wondering how much credence to give Miss Remmington’s observations.

“Twice a week, without fail. Until last Friday, that is. I worried when she didn’t meet me at our usual place, but I know she has responsibilities in the village and at home.” Her face tightened. “I thought maybe she just had other things to do.”

When Miss Remmington said “other,” I knew what she really meant was “better.” That she feared Miss Wallace had better things to do than meet her.

At the top of a rise, we paused to stare down at the village of Cramond spreading out before us. The main road on which we had been traveling paralleled the river on its way toward the sea. Most of the buildings were concentrated on this thoroughfare, their uniform white stone bright in the sun. The Cramond Kirk, with its square, medieval tower and its surrounding kirkyard, stood to the right of the road about halfway down the hill. Through the trees beyond the church, the very top of a stone tower could be seen—the derelict remains of Cramond Tower, Michael told us. At the base of the hill, the road met the firth, pointing straight like an arrow out to the tiny island I had seen from the shore of the Dalmay estate, named for the town it lay so close to.

Lambden Cottage stood on a tree-lined lane at the crest of the hill. The home had evidently been built in two stages and resembled nothing so much as two squat, square blocks offset so that the back half of one connected with the front half of the other. Simple, rectangular windows were all that alleviated the pale gray stone of the façade and the dark black slopes of the roofs other than the stark white door. The Wallaces clearly favored clean lines over fussy colors and shapes.

As we dismounted, two stable boys ran around the corner, jostling each other as young boys do, and skidded to a halt at the sight of all of us. I laughed silently at their eagerness to take the reins of Gage’s gelding and Michael’s spirited brute, a stallion named Puck, of all things, clearly named for his disposition and not his size. From the lads’ reactions, it was apparent the Wallaces didn’t have the same taste for fine, expensive horseflesh as the Dalmays.

The footman who answered the door appeared to have been expecting us, for he bowed and led us toward the drawing room, promising to inform Mr. Wallace of our arrival. An assurance that proved unnecessary, as the man in question emerged from another room down the passage just as we arrived at the door to the parlor. He was frowning quite ferociously at whatever the man beside him was saying. When he caught sight of us, his expression transformed into a strange mixture of relief followed swiftly by dismay, and I couldn’t help but wonder why our presence should cause him such a conundrum.

The other man stopped talking and followed his gaze toward us. I suspected he might be the village constable, or whatever title he went by. Small Scottish villages rarely employed anyone specifically for the purpose of keeping law and order, often relying on their citizens to police themselves with the help of retired soldiers. Only the larger cities had anything resembling a police force, because to establish one officially required an Act of Parliament. With Edinburgh so close by, Cramond might have followed the Scottish capital’s example and appointed a constable, but until the man was introduced I couldn’t be certain.

He wore no exterior accoutrements proclaiming his office, but he had the bearing of a man who enjoyed being in charge, and I judged from the way his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of us that he did not take kindly to having that authority questioned.

“Sir, Mr. Dalmay and his guests,” the footman announced to his employer. “I was just escorting ’em to the drawing room.”

The constable appeared delighted by this news, his red mustache fairly quivering with importance. Mr. Wallace, on the other hand, looked less than pleased, and I began to suspect that this was the source of his dismay—having the constable sit in on, and attempt to overrun, our conversation. And, in fact, it was the constable who strode forward quite rudely ahead of Mr. Wallace to introduce himself. I resisted the urge to scowl at the man, who was using his current position of power to overstep the bounds of propriety.

“Mr. Dalmay, ’tis a pleasure to meet ye, sir. M’ name’s Paxton, Cramond’s constable. I woulda visited ye mysel’ if I’d kenned ye had any information for me.”

Michael shook the hand the man had thrust at him. “I’m afraid, as such, we don’t have information for you. We simply wished to express our condolences over Mr. Wallace’s justifiable distress, and offer our assistance in any way we can.” He delivered this last looking over Mr. Paxton’s shoulder at our host.

“Thank ye, Mr. Dalmay,” he replied. “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room? I’m sure the ladies would appreciate a seat.” He smiled kindly at Miss Remmington and me, though the light did not quite reach his eyes.

“O’ course, o’ course,” Mr. Paxton said, preening at the realization that he’d been able to manipulate his way into the drawing room. Policemen were not, as a rule, gentlemen, as from Mr. Paxton’s manner and speech it was evident he was not, and as such, they entered the houses of the nobility and gentry through the servants’ door and were not escorted to the best rooms of the house, such as the drawing room. If offered any kind of refreshment, it was done in the kitchens. Sir Anthony had received much the same treatment as a surgeon, as opposed to a gentleman physician, until he’d been granted his baronetcy, boosting him into the ranks of the nobility.

We filed into the drawing room, ignoring Mr. Paxton’s response, and settled ourselves on the worn but well-cared-for furniture clustered near the center of the room. The chamber was warm from the rays of the sun shining through the west-facing windows. I opted for a Chippendale chair positioned near the empty hearth and Gage claimed its twin.

Mr. Wallace was an elderly man of about sixty with a head full of hair that had managed to remain mostly dark. He sported only a streak of gray at the top, much like the picture I had seen of a polecat from North America, and a dusting of silver at the temples and sideburns. His eyes were dark, though I suspected they were deepest blue rather than brown, and clouded with fear and worry. He was making a valiant attempt to hide his fatigue and anxiety, but it was evident in the slouch of his shoulders, the dark circles around his eyes, and the twitching movements of his hands as he straightened his jacket or snuck a glance at his pocket watch.

Michael began the necessary introductions. I noticed that he failed to mention Gage’s famous father, or his occupation, but from the tightening of Mr. Paxton’s mouth he was not to be fooled.

“Yer father is Captain Lord Gage, is he no’?”

Mr. Wallace’s face drooped with weary resignation. He had clearly hoped Mr. Paxton would miss the connection.

“He is,” Gage answered with aplomb, as if the association had no bearing on our current situation. I had to admire the effort, even if Mr. Paxton did not.

“I’m sure we appreciate his lordship’s help, but we’ve got matters weel in hand,” he pronounced with a determined gleam in his eye.

“My father didn’t send me.”

The constable appeared baffled. “He dinna?”

“I’m not here in an official capacity, Mr. Paxton.” Gage smiled disarmingly. “I’m simply staying with a friend and wished to accompany him on his visit to his neighbor. I have every confidence you are conducting your investigation with the utmost diligence and skill.”

Mr. Paxton seemed to be caught off guard by this compliment, for he shifted in his seat. “Why, thank ye, sir.”

“Such a sad circumstance. Mr. Wallace, you must be sick with worry.”

He nodded. “That I am. Mary was never one to disappear like this. I always knew where she was going and who she would visit, even if she was only going doon to the village,” he replied, his Scottish brogue emerging, whether from fatigue or because he had no care to affect the English accent as other Scottish gentlemen had been taught to do.

“Well, then you’ve been able to trace her movements that day.”

“That we have,” Mr. Paxton cut in. “And I was just tellin’ Mr. Wallace that we think we puzzled it oot.” His pronouncement was met by a stony glare from our host, one the constable chose to ignore.

“And what is that?” Gage prompted.

“She mun have failed to begin the crossin’ from Cramond Island afore the tide came in, and it dragged her oot to sea. It’s happened afore and it’ll happen again.”

“And I told ye, my daughter knows that crossing weel. She’d never start if she couldna make it across,” Mr. Wallace argued. “She’s no’ daft. She understands the danger.”

The constable crossed his arms over his round stomach, unmoved by his arguments. “She would if she were in a hurry.”

Mr. Wallace sat forward in his seat, his face reddened with anger. “Are you presuming to tell me what my daughter would or wouldna do?”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “I don’t understand.” I glanced around at the others, wondering if anyone else was as confused as I was. “Why would the rising tide cause a woman in a boat so much danger? And wouldn’t she have asked someone to row her across? Where are they if she’s missing?”

“It’s a tidal island,” Michael explained. “At low tide the water recedes far enough so that there’s a path that connects it to the shore. But the distance is nearly a mile, and when the tide comes back in, it does so quickly. More than one person has lost their life by trying to make the crossing too late.”

I allowed this information to digest for a moment before asking the obvious. “But why do you think Miss Wallace made such a crossing?”

“Because Miss Wallace paid a visit to Mrs. McCray that day,” Mr. Paxton answered before the girl’s father could utter a word. “The McCrays ain an ole farmstead on the island.”

“And Mrs. McCray was the last person to see her?” I asked, leading the man on in hopes he’d let slip more information.

“Aye!” He nodded at me in approval, seemingly pleased that I’d caught on. “No one’s seen hide nor hair o’ her since she left the McCrays. If she’d made it back to the mainland someone woulda seen her.”

“Except Mrs. McCray told ye my Mary left wi’ plenty o’ time to cross before the tide.” Mr. Wallace fisted his hands in his lap. “It makes no sense.”

Mr. Paxton waved this away as inconsequential. “Mrs. McCray was in bed wi’ the ague. How could she ken the time? And besides, she’s always been a wee daft. What with her talk of bogles and beasties.” He leaned toward Damien and lowered his voice. “Claims she saw a selkie.”

Mr. Wallace’s scowl was fierce. “Ye do the ole woman an injustice. Just because she’s a wee superstitious disna mean she’s daft. And she wouldna lie aboot my daughter leaving in time.” Mr. Wallace turned away from the constable to appeal to Michael and Gage and me. “In any case, Mary woulda been mindful. If she had misjudged the time she woulda stayed the night wi’ the McCrays and come home in the morn. It’s happened before. ’Tis why I didna know she was missing until the next day.” His last words were heavy with guilt. It was clear the man blamed himself for not realizing his daughter had gone missing sooner. What could have happened in those twelve hours or more between her last being seen and his raising the alarm?

“What of the other residents on the island?” Gage asked. “Would she have gone to any of them?”