Page 76 of Death at a Highland Wedding

“Thegirlis about to be your employer,” Isla says.

His expression grows crafty. “Is she now? Does she plan to marry a man accused of murder? I hear that is a hanging offense in this country.”

“But if Mr. Cranston is hanged, the property goes to her, as his fiancée,” Isla says. “That is Scottish law.”

Müller hesitates. He doesn’t know enough about his adopted country yet to call bullshit on Isla’s lie.

“What time did you retire to bed last night?” I ask.

“By ten. I must be up early, and so I am in bed at dusk, which is later than I like in this cursed cold land.”

“Did anything disturb you in the night?”

Müller eases back. “No. I sleep soundly.”

“What time did you rise?”

“Dawn, also earlier than I like. It is not natural for the sun to be up so long.”

His distracted answers suggest his mind is elsewhere—probably mulling over what I said about Fiona. He’s responding on autopilot.

While it’s tempting to take advantage of his distraction, I have a feeling any hard question will snap it. I’d love to ask whether Cranston confronted him later over the wildcat, but if Müller realizes he’s a suspect, he’ll also realize he shouldn’t let that slip. I’ll leave those questions for McCreadie. Keep this simple, treating him as a witness, not a suspect.

“Dr. Gray and I found that partially butchered stag,” I say, angling in a new direction.

“Poachers,” he spits. “That lame girl and her brother. They do not even bother to hide that it is them. They are insolent and disrespectful, and at home, they would have been hauled before the magistrate, their hands chopped off.”

“Both hands?” I say. “They’re being punished for stealing, but afterwards, they would need to rely on charity. Seems counterproductive.”

His eyes narrow, as if he can’t tell whether I’m being sarcastic or just prattling. “They take one hand only. From each of them.”

Is that really still the law in nineteenth-century Austria? Somehow,I doubt it. Of course, it could have been the “law” where he worked—punishment inflicted by the local lord.

Müller continues, “Cranston is too soft on them. He feelsbadfor what he did to their father.” His lip curls, in obvious disdain. “He is weak. My former employer was not weak.”

“It does not sound as if you much like this position,” Isla says. “I am surprised you took it.”

“My former employer died, and the son was but a shadow of the father. When Mr. Sinclair told me of this position, he said his friend was a strong man, a man of action. I believed him.” Müller spits to the side.

“Are you hoping to return to Austria then?” Isla asks.

Müller only gazes off into the distance, as if that’s answer enough—he’s not sharing his thoughts with a mere woman. Unless, of course, it’s thoughts on the “weakness” of his current employer.

I think through my next question. I won’t get many more. Should I pursue the dead-deer lead? No. If Müller killed Sinclair, then I can’t suggest that the Hall kids may have witnessed his crime.

“About the traps—” I begin.

His jaw sets. “I am not removing them.”

“Did someone ask you to?”

He gives that distant look again. Not answering.

“If you need Mr. Cranston’s order, we can still get that,” I say. “I will be visiting him tonight.”

“I have already given him my answer.”

Well, that also answers my question about who ordered the traps removed. How the hell can Müller refuse a direct order from his boss?