Page 123 of Death at a Highland Wedding

McCreadie checks with me—his expression asking whether I have questions. Then he dismisses the housekeeper.

Once she’s gone, he turns to me. “At the risk of defending Ezra, I cannot imagine he poisoned the wildcat. It makes no sense.”

“So he was in the pantry, looking for biscuits right after he took tea with the rest of us? He had a full plate, which I remember, because Duncan grumbled that he took the last piece of cake.”

“True. I teased Duncan about that.”

A memory flashes. Alice taking the kitten into Sinclair’s bedroom. How it had hissed and wanted to flee. Freaked out by the smell of a corpse? Or by the smell of the man who poisoned its mother?

“He was out that night,” I say. “I saw him come back. He mentioned hearing the cat. He was also very eager to bury it, though he eventually backed off when we insisted on examining it.”

“Butwhywould Ezra poison it? He protested its death louder than anyone.”

He certainly had. Sinclair had been there comforting Fiona, furious on her behalf, outraged that her fiancé would have allowed such a thing. Why would he…?

Oh.

The last piece of the puzzle finally thuds into place.

When Violet sees me coming, she deflates, but manages the wan smile of one resigned to yet more uncomfortable questions.

“May we step outside?” I say.

“Of course.”

I lead her toward the gardens. When she sees McCreadie, she tenses, but I murmur, “He is only ensuring we are not overheard. Dr. Gray is doing the same on the other side.”

Her shoulders droop. If she’d had any hope this conversation might not be an unpleasant one, it disappears with my precautions.

Once we are in the garden, McCreadie nods and moves toward the house, getting out of earshot.

“I need to discuss something requiring great discretion,” I say. “A matter you will not wish to discuss. I will ask you, though, to hear me out. You do not need to confirm what I am about to say, but let us pretend that your denial has already been registered, as well as any outrage at my theory.”

“This sounds most foreboding,” she says, struggling for a smile she can’t find.

“I saw the marks on your stomach. I know you were pregnant. I strongly suspect Ezra Sinclair was the father, as the result of a youthful affair that has long since ended.”

She opens her mouth, as if the denial comes automatically, and then shuts it.

“You do not need to confirm any of that because it is not relevant to what I am about to say. It may become relevant. But at this point, it is not.”

She doesn’t answer. I take a deep breath.

“I think I know why you went to speak to Ezra that night.” I use his given name, deciding to drop the “Mr. Sinclair” honorific. “I do not think it was because he requested the meeting. I believe you intercepted a note intended for another.” I look at her. “Intended for Fiona.”

She doesn’t answer, but the flash of surprise in her eyes tells me I’ve guessed right. Not so much a guess, either, as a conclusion.

“Ezra had set his sights on Fiona,” I say. “He was going out of his way to pay attention to her. That wouldn’t seem odd to most. He had a reputation for kindness, and she was his best friend’s fiancée. But you noticed it. I did, too, though I chalked it up to a generosity of spirit. Especially when he took her aside, late the first night, to talk about you. To express his concern about you.”

She makes a small noise. Oh, she stifles it with a cough, but I didn’t miss that noise—a derisive snort.

I continue, “You recognized his wooing, having been the target of it yourself. I then learned that Ezra was making plans for Fiona to visit the estate while your brother was busy. Ezra himself would have been here, to look after her and keep her company. Again, that seemed like an older man’s kindness to his friend’s young wife. It was not, was it?”

She says nothing, but her mouth firms. She’d heard of those plans, too, and knew them for what they were—a way to get Fiona alone for an extended period.

“Then there was the wildcat.”

She looks over, frowning as if she’s misheard.