Page 117 of Death at a Highland Wedding

Cranston bows her way. “From your lips to God’s ear. Now, as much as I long for company, I long for hot food and a bath first. You may all join me in the first, but not the second.”

A round of laughter, with Violet shaking her head at his impudence. Then, with Cranston leading the way like the Pied Piper, they all file into the dining room to await breakfast.

I change into a proper dress and join them. Over breakfast, Cranston regales us with the horrors of his imprisonment. He exaggerates, but in thatbooming way that makes it clear he’s playing to his audience. McCreadie had only told Ross about the attack on me, but the constable had decided he had a new suspect for Sinclair’s murder, which necessitated releasing the old one.

As we eat and listen to Cranston, I take time to think, my brain working better now. I keep circling back to the notes between Violet and Sinclair. Having her waiting to meet him the night he died had seemed a tragic coincidence when we thought Sinclair a fine and upstanding fellow. But now that we’ve seen his sinister side, I can’t help but feel “coincidence” is not the answer.

When breakfast wraps up, I quietly ask Violet if I might have a word. She quickly agrees. I am, apparently, her brother’s “savior,” even if unintentionally. Gray and McCreadie both glance over, a question in their eyes, but I shake my head. I need to handle this one alone.

We retreat to the smallest of the sitting rooms. With Cranston still holding court in the next room, no one is likely to overhear our hushed voices.

“You know that I was attacked last night,” I say as we sit. “What you may not know is why I was out of doors at such an hour. I was lured with a fake note purporting to be from someone I trusted.”

A smile tugs at her lips. “Dr. Gray.”

When I hesitate, she says, “Your secret is safe with me, though I suspect it is no secret to anyone who sees you together. But I understand the need for discretion, and a response is not required. You were lured out by a note apparently from another.”

“Yes, and it got me thinking about your note from Mr. Sinclair. Is it possible that was also false?”

Her answer comes quickly. “I do not think so.”

“It was not unusual for him to write you such notes?”

Her cheeks pink but she says, levelly, “We have known each other a very long time. He trusted my counsel.”

“Counsel…” I muse. “I hate to ask this, but one of the maids swore she saw a discarded version of the note and it was romantic in nature.”

Another flush, but accompanied by a firm “No, it was not.”

“You were not courting Mr. Sinclair in private? I offer you the same discretion you offered me. It will only help me to understand the circumstances myself, which I do not need to pass along to anyone else.”

“Ezra did not write me a romantic note. When you first asked, my brother was imprisoned, accused of murdering Ezra. I would never have concealed something as frivolous as a secret courtship.”

“So Mr. Sinclair wanted to comfort you, because Detective McCreadie was here?”

“Yes.”

“But you said he trusted your counsel, which suggests he wished to speak to you about something, as well. Seeking your advice. Perhaps about Lenore Hall?”

Genuine surprise slackens her jaw. “Mrs. Hall’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

She blinks, shaking her head as if to clear it. “No, certainly not.”

“Perhaps another one of the maids?”

“No, and this is a very odd line of questioning, Miss Mitchell.”

Maybe, but the expression in her eyes looks more like dawning dread than irritation or confusion.

“My apologies,” I murmur. “Mr. Müller said something to me that meant I had to ask.”

“He said something about Miss Hall and Ezra?”

“Not specifically,” I demur. “I am simply trying to piece together things he did say.”

She nods, but her gaze has gone distant.