Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery) (17 page)

“The only other person livin’ on Cramond Island is Craggy Donald,” Mr. Paxton answered with a frown, unhappy to have the conversation taken away from him. “We questioned him and searched his croft, but he wasna any use.” He shook his head stubbornly. “Nay, it looks like the lass tried to make the crossing and got swept oot to sea.”

I wasn’t willing to concede to his conclusion, not so quickly, but it was Gage who spoke up.

“Perhaps, but what time does the tide . . .”

“Mr. Gage,” Mr. Paxton interrupted, an edge of warning in his voice. “Official visit or no’, I’ll warn ye to stay oot o’ my investigation. Cramond is my patch, and I’ll handle it as I see fit.”

Gage stared at the trumped-up policeman evenly, his demeanor carefully indifferent, but I could sense the fury bubbling below the surface and tightening his jaw.

“And what if I decided to hire him in an official capacity?” Mr. Wallace challenged. It was clear he’d had enough of the constable and his posturing. “You hav’na found her, and you’ve had over four days to do so. Maybe it’s time I gave someone else a chance. I might have better results.”

Mr. Paxton’s round eyes narrowed to slits. “That is your choice, o’ course, Mr. Wallace. But I mun say, I’d have to view such a move as very suspicious.”

Mr. Wallace stiffened.

“May be ye have somethin’ to hide.”

“Are you threatenin’ me?”

“Nay, sir. Just offerin’ ye a bit o’ friendly advice.”

I bit my tongue to withhold the insults I wanted to hurl at this man. It was men like him, manipulating it for their own means, who had made me so wary of the law. Mr. Paxton enjoyed the power his office gave him, and he would use any means necessary to keep it. The feelings of even Mr. Wallace, a gentleman of some fortune, mattered little. Mr. Paxton clearly cared nothing for the missing girl, and I questioned whether he had the imagination to solve any crime that wasn’t straightforward. I could only hope that Mr. Wallace would complain to Mr. Paxton’s superior, heedless of the man’s threats.

“Noo, I’m sure we want to allow Mr. Wallace to rest after his shock,” Mr. Paxton said, his gaze still locked with the man in question, and without an ounce of compassion tinting his expression or his voice. “I’ll send Dr. Littleton to ye.”

Mr. Wallace looked as if he might wish to argue, but kept his lips clamped in a tight line. I half wished he might, just to set a flea in the constable’s ear, but I knew we would never make headway in the matter today with Mr. Paxton looking over our shoulders. Even if we got more information out of Mr. Wallace and his servants, we would never be able to question anyone in the village.

We rose to our feet, preparing to take our leave alongside the constable, but before the man could usher us out, I crossed the room toward Mr. Wallace determined to offer my sympathies. If the man’s daughter had, indeed, been caught in the tide and swept out to sea to drown—and I couldn’t even begin to imagine the grief a loved one’s dying that way would cause a person—he deserved our kindness and consideration. But Miss Remmington beat me to it.

“Mr. Wallace,” she murmured, her voice wavering slightly, “I don’t know if your daughter mentioned me, but I considered her my friend.”

“O’ course, Miss Remmington.” He offered her a kind smile. “She mentions you often.”

Her eyes brightened, and I could tell she was choking back tears. Whether it was because she had started to speak of her friend in the past tense or because Miss Wallace had spoken of her to her father, I didn’t know, but I thought perhaps it was a little of both.

“I hope they find her.” Her voice was no louder than a whisper. Mr. Wallace nodded and squeezed the hand she had offered him.

I hesitated to say anything after such an emotional scene, but Mr. Wallace looked up at me and spoke first. “Lady Darby, you are the sister-in-law o’ Lord Cromarty, are you no’?”

“Yes,” I replied, wondering if he was acquainted with Philip.

When his eyes strayed toward where Mr. Paxton stood near the door keeping a close watch on Gage and Michael, I realized it was for an entirely different reason. Apparently the tale of my recent actions at Gairloch had preceded me; the constable just hadn’t realized it.

Mr. Wallace leaned toward me and spoke in a hushed voice. “Mr. Paxton travels to Edinburgh tomorrow morn, should you and Mr. Gage like to call on me again.” His gaze met mine significantly.

“Of course,” I told him, doing my best to appear as if I were offering him my condolences should Mr. Paxton look our way. “Shall we say nine o’clock?”

He bowed over my hand, following my lead. “Your servant, m’lady.”

I nodded and turned from him, lest we give ourselves away.

Gage did not question me as we mounted our horses and rode away from Lambden Cottage, leaving the constable behind in a cloud of much-deserved dust, but I could feel his gaze on me. As we reached the road and turned south toward the bridge, he drew his mount up next to mine.

“Nine o’clock tomorrow,” was all I needed to say, as I was certain he had observed my exchange with Mr. Wallace. I saw Gage smile out of the corner of my eye.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

M
ichael dropped back beside me as we turned off the main road and back onto Dalmay land, shaking his head at the trio in front of us. Seeing my look of query, he explained. “Lord Damien is trying to impress the worldly Miss Remmington with tales of his exploits.” I could hear the sarcasm in his voice. “And, unfortunately, Gage is only egging him on.”

“But Damien hasn’t had any exploits.”

“And Miss Remmington is not in the least worldly, though she likes to pretend it.”

“Oh, dear,” I murmured.

His eyebrows arched in agreement. “This can only end badly.”

“Should we try to separate them?”

He sighed. “I doubt it would do any good.”

I stared at the back of Gage’s evergreen coat. It was fairly quivering with suppressed humor. “Then perhaps we should trust Gage to handle it.”

Michael glanced at me, a gleam of levity entering his eyes as he comprehended my meaning. Pulling on his reins, he checked his stallion’s pace.

I smiled and directed my mare to follow suit, allowing an even larger gap to open between us and the trio of riders. The mare seemed perfectly happy to have the stallion all to herself and tossed her mane playfully.

“You are rather vain, aren’t you?” I scolded her with a chuckle.

“Don’t be too hard on her. All the ladies preen for Puck.” Michael patted his horse’s shoulder. “Don’t they, boy?”

I shook my head. “That name.”

“I know. Blame the stable master. I jokingly told him that this horse was going to be ‘quite the buck,’ but he misheard me. Quite deliberately, I might add,” he said, speaking louder to be heard over my laughter. “I found out later that Laura had been reading
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
and described it to one of the stable lads one day when he accompanied her on her ride. The lad told the tale to the others in the stable,
including
the stable master.”

“Well, at least Puck doesn’t seem to mind his name,” I offered.

“Yes, happily he doesn’t know what it means.”

“Just please don’t tell me this mare’s name is Titania.”

A smile quirked his lips. “No. That is Dewdrop.”

I reached out to brush a hand over her dappled coat. “Quite fitting.”

“I thought you would appreciate her.”

We fell silent as we crossed beneath the bower of one of the forests, losing sight of the others for a moment around a curve in the road. A few birds still twittered in the gloom of late afternoon under the trees, but the predominant sound was the clopping of our horses’ hooves on the smooth dirt track. The closer the calendar crept toward the end of the year, the swifter the sun set, and I knew by the time we reached Dalmay House the sun would already be approaching the horizon.

I’d been reluctant to bring up the scene in Mr. Wallace’s drawing room, but I decided it was necessary if we were ever to discover the truth.

“I take it you’ve never met Mr. Paxton before.”

Michael turned to look at me. “No. But I’ve heard of him.”

“And today’s actions only confirmed what you’d heard?”

He nodded.

“Which is another reason why you would not want the authorities involved should Will become suspected in Miss Wallace’s disappearance.” I could only imagine how Cramond’s constable would behave in such a circumstance. He would be out of his depth, but refuse to admit it.

“Do you place any credence in his proposition that Miss Wallace was swept out to sea while crossing back to the mainland from Cramond Island?” He was careful not to appear too eager to accept such a possibility, particularly as it almost certainly meant the girl’s death, but nonetheless I could hear the ring of hope in his voice.

I had been too distracted by Mr. Paxton’s provoking attitude and Mr. Wallace’s obvious frustration to contemplate what the constable’s theory meant for Will. If it were true, then Will could be cleared of all suspicion in her disappearance. The problem was there was no way of proving it. What if she had made it back to the mainland and walked west to the trails leading onto the Dalmay estate?

Of course, that would necessitate her taking the ferry across the River Almond to reach it, and I would have supposed that Mr. Paxton had questioned the ferrymen. What were the chances that those men had forgotten they’d helped her across that afternoon? They couldn’t shepherd across more than a few dozen people each day, and I was willing to wager they would remember someone as highborn as Miss Wallace. So, if she didn’t take the ferry, then the odds of Will having gotten to her were infinitesimal, and that was supposing he wanted to do her harm.

Yes, the odds were looking more and more in favor of Will’s innocence. But without finding Miss Wallace there would always be that small sliver of doubt, and I would prefer not to leave that to fester.

“I don’t know,” I told Michael. “But I would rather find Miss Wallace alive and well.”

“Of course,” he replied, abashed. “I didn’t mean to imply that I wished Miss Wallace ill.”

“I know.” I offered him a reassuring smile. “You’re just looking out for your brother.”

Deep furrows of worry etched his forehead.

“Did Gage tell you, he and I are going back tomorrow while the constable is away.”

Michael’s eyes widened. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

“No. I think the fewer of us there are to draw attention the better. Besides, Mr. Paxton is liable to cause trouble when he hears of our interference, and I’d rather the man not harbor any resentment toward you.”

Michael grimaced, knowing I spoke the truth. It would be best if the constable caused as little trouble at Dalmay House as possible, particularly for William.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he told me. “And Gage.” He closed his eyes as if in prayer. “Thank goodness he sent me that letter.”

“That he was finishing a case in Edinburgh?” I prompted, having wanted to know exactly how Gage ended up at Dalmay House at such a propitious time.

“Yes, and asking if he could come for a visit.”

I sat up straighter.

“Told me some fiddle-faddle about how he was worn out from working so many investigations for his father. I didn’t believe it for a minute, of course. Gage’s work has been his life these past few years. He seems enthralled by it. But I was happy to welcome him, in any case, and badly in need of some friendly advice regarding my brother.”

I
knew
there was more to Gage’s presence here than mere coincidence. And when I’d asked him about it, he’d lied straight to my face, the weasel. He’d told me he’d written to Michael upon his arrival in Edinburgh, not upon the completion of his latest investigation. And then he’d implied that
Michael
had been the one to invite him to Dalmay House, not that he had effectively invited himself.

But why? Why had he lied to me, if not in a barefaced manner, at least by implication and omission? It was one thing for him to withhold the truth about his past from me. I understood that was his right, even if I didn’t agree with him. But to lie about the origins of his invitation to Dalmay House, that simply didn’t make any sense.

My eyes narrowed. He had to be hiding something, something he didn’t want me to know, something important, or he would never have taken the risk of being so easily caught out. Gage was smarter than that. But what could it be?

“Is everything all right?” Michael asked.

I glanced up at him, realizing I’d lapsed into silence. “Of course.” I offered him a quick smile. “Sorry. Just woolgathering.”

“About what?” His eyes shone with curious concern. “Your expression was quite intense.”

I considered sharing my doubts about Gage, but only for a moment. This was an issue between Gage and me. There was no need to bring Michael into it, especially when he already had so much on his mind.

“Just . . . wondering if Philip and Alana made it to Edinburgh without incident.”

He nodded. “You’re concerned for your sister’s health.”

“Yes,” I replied honestly.

“Once Philip has her settled in Edinburgh, she’ll be fine.”

I turned to stare at the low-riding sun where it peeked between the trees to our west, dappling us with light. “I hope so.”

* * *

W
hen we emerged from the trees and came into sight of the manor house and stables, we could see a black gig parked in the stable yard. Michael leaned forward, narrowing his eyes to study the carriage.

“That’s Dr. Winslow.” He spurred his horse faster.

From his reaction, I deduced he must be Will’s physician and urged my mare into a gallop. The others glanced at us in confusion as we rode past, but followed without question.

When we reached the stables, Michael threw his reins to one of the hands who had run out to meet us and slid from his horse’s back. “Walk them out,” he ordered. He whirled around as if looking for something, and when he caught sight of me, he pushed aside the stable lad who was assisting me and reached up to wrap his hands around my waist and lift me out of my sidesaddle. My feet had barely touched the ground before he was pulling me toward the front door.

“I wasn’t expecting him today,” was all he murmured, and I was struggling too much to catch my breath to ask questions.

I glanced over my shoulder as Gage’s long stride caught us up, but his attention was focused on Michael, a deep furrow of concern running down the middle of his forehead.

Michael’s butler met us in the entry hall.

“Is he with his lordship?” Michael asked as we passed into the space.

“Yes, sir.”

But Michael was no longer listening. He halted at the base of the stairs, staring up at the gentleman descending toward us.

I pressed a hand to my abdomen, grateful my riding habit did not require a restrictive corset beneath it. I would have passed out by now, first from the gallop and then the mad dash across the front drive. I glanced up at the man we were in such a hurry to see to find his gaze already rested on me. His hair was shockingly white, particularly for a man I estimated to be no more than fifty. His frame was slight and thin, but straight as an arrow.

“Mr. Dalmay,” he said, interrupting whatever Michael had been asking him, “I’m not certain what the rush was, but perhaps you should allow Lady Darby to sit down. She appears a trifle winded.”

Michael glanced down at me and flushed. “Of course. Tea?”

Dr. Winslow smiled benignly as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Mrs. MacDougall has already promised me a cup.”

He nodded and laced my hand through the crook of his arm and led us toward the drawing room. Hearing their quick steps, I turned to look over my shoulder as Lord Damien and Miss Remmington entered the house. Gage paused to have a few words with them, likely discouraging them from joining us, before following us alone to the drawing room.

“Have we met?” I asked the physician as Michael handed me onto the pale blue and white damask settee before the tea table.

He tilted his head quizzically.

“How did you know my name?”

“Ah.” Dr. Winslow sank into the chair opposite. “Lord Dalmay has been telling me of you. But, of course, he didn’t speak of you as Lady Darby,” he added, glancing at Michael. “He was as informal as always, and he seemed to have trouble remembering you by your recent title, though he was aware of your marriage.”

“William has preferred first names since his release,” Michael explained. “Especially for those he knew before. And he has trouble retaining new information, such as your and my sister’s new title.”

“Then how . . . ?” I started to ask Dr. Winslow, and then stopped when I realized he was probably aware of my reputation. I dropped my gaze to the tea and began pouring.

When I looked up to hand him his cup, his eyes were kind. “Yes, I know who you are. But you’ll hear no condemnation from me.” He frowned into his tea. “I’ve seen too much of the world to pass judgment.”

I watched the man take a sip of the hot brew. “War?” I guessed.

He nodded.

I finished pouring Gage’s tea and was just adding his cream when he spoke up as if he’d been contemplating the matter.

“Isn’t it rather odd for a physician to take part in battle? I thought the army and the navy employed mostly surgeons.”

Dr. Winslow bobbed his head in acknowledgment as he leaned forward to set his cup down. “That they do. But I wasn’t there in the capacity of a physician, though my fellow officers often came to me with their problems rather than visit the sawbones.” He glanced at Michael. “In fact, I served alongside Lord Dalmay for a time.”

I sat up straighter at this admission.

“At Salamanca and such. Lord Dalmay’s regiment took part in some of the heaviest fighting of the war. And I could tell, long before he and his remaining men were shipped home, that he was suffering from what I call battle fatigue.”

“What do you mean?” Gage asked.

Dr. Winslow tapped the fingers of his right hand against the chair arm, as if deciding how much to tell us. “It starts with exhaustion, from too much marching and too many restless nights, and then the exertion of battle, some that last days on end. But it goes far beyond that.” He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “The sights and sounds and smells begin to prey on the mind. In the short term, extreme cases can lead to disconnection with one’s surroundings, indecisiveness, slow reaction times, and an inability to think straight—all of which can be deadly during combat.” He sighed heavily. “I saw soldiers who had charged across many a battlefield, bravely and without hesitation, suddenly stumble to a halt and glance around them in confusion, unable to accept where they were or what they should be doing.”