Page 13 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

THIRTEEN

McCreadie and I start by cordoning off the scene. Hey, since we aren’t in Edinburgh, this seems like the perfect time to demonstrate the concept of crime-scene preservation. Oh, McCreadie gets the idea. He’s just a little slow to implement it, which I understand. It’s that old “but this is how we’ve always done it” mentality, and as open-minded as McCreadie is, it can be hard to convey the importance of avoiding contamination when almost nothing from the scene can be used in court.

DNA analysis is a hundred years away, and even fingerprints aren’t yet admissible. Most of what Gray does in the realm of forensics only helps McCreadie find the culprit. Then McCreadie has to prove the killer did it without needing to explain hair analysis and wound impressions to a judge or jury.

But here, McCreadie understands the need to protect the scene. We have damp earth, which might contain footprints. We also have a missing murder weapon that the killer may have stashed nearby. With the long grass, we even have a hope of tracking the killer through broken blades. All that will be ruined as soon as the household knows Sinclair is dead and tramps out here for a look.

We mark an area where people will be allowed to enter and leave the scene. Then we make sure there’s no obvious evidence in that area. We’re also looking for footprints and evidence in general, but the only prints we find are ten feet away, and they belong to Sinclair. As for my hope of tracking the killer through trampled grass… that doesn’t work out, probably because neither of us has any experience at tracking. Any faint paths we find all lead to the nearby lake, suggesting they’re just routes left by deer.

“We’re going to need to talk to the housekeeper’s kids,” I say. “I doubt it’s a coincidence that they left half a deer near a dead human body.”

McCreadie nods. “They saw or heard something. The problem will be getting them to admit they were out here, given what they were doing.”

I let out a long breath. “I know.”

“The larger problem, though?”

I glance at him as he surveys the scene, and I say, “The larger problem is the fact this isn’t our case at all. From my policing history, I recall that before organized forces, law enforcement was mostly handled by the local lord. We’re past that, though not at the stage of a national or regional force. So what should we expect?”

“I wish I knew. The General Police Act requires that each county have its own police force or, if it cannot, that it join with a neighboring county to establish one. However, that legislation is just over a dozen years old. A decade may seem long enough to enact a point of law. However…”

I snort. “Yeah, organizations don’t move that fast, especially if you’re talking about the creation of that organization. If they’ve only been ordered to form local police forces thirteen years ago, I shudder to think what they actually have.”

“It will largely depend on whether or not they were establishing a force in expectation of the act. Unless people have been the victims of crime, they are not eager to pay for policing, and local governments are not eager to tighten their belts or to raise local taxes. My hope is that—”

He’s cut off by the babble of voices. We look to see Gray coming our way, followed by Cranston… and pretty much everyone else staying at the house.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, my hands flying up.

“I will handle this,” McCreadie murmurs.

I bite my tongue and stay where I am, having learned that Victorians look askance at a young woman acting like a cop. Before McCreadie reaches the group, Gray is already stopping them.

“My apologies, Hugh,” he says, seemingly through gritted teeth. “I did explain that no one except Archie ought to come, but the only people who listened were our sisters.”

Cranston is in the lead. He strides toward the body, his face held tight.

“Did you check for a pulse?” Edith says, moving past her husband.

“Yes,” Gray says tightly. “Being a doctor, the first thing I did was confirm that Ezra could not be resuscitated.”

Edith and her husband follow right on Cranston’s heels. Violet hangs back, blinking and looking about, as if she’d been carried here on the tide and now realizes it is not where she wishes to be. She glances toward the house.

Seeing her distress, McCreadie rocks forward, as if to offer her an escort back. Then he seems to remember he’s the last person she’ll want. I consider stepping in for him, but as much as I want to help, I do not want to walk away from the scene.

Everyone here is a suspect, and I need to see their reactions. That includes Violet. I don’t know which woman was out last night, and if the weapon was indeed a shillelagh, then I can’t rule out the women. The cudgel would provide them with the height and force needed to kill Sinclair. That reminds me to make note of the women’s outerwear. Both have shawls, neither is wearing a hat, though they wouldn’t if they came out quickly.

Violet doesn’t notice my scrutiny. Her gaze slips to the house, and then she steels herself, as if retreat would be the coward’s way out. She looks toward her brother, and she takes a half step in his direction before stopping herself. She chews her lip as her gaze stays on Cranston, watching him with obvious concern.

Cranston is striding forward like he did yesterday heading for that dead wildcat. The landowner taking charge of the situation. But when he sees Sinclair, he falters. He stares down at his dead friend and swallows hard. His fists clench and unclench. Then he notices me and straightens as if he’d been caught sobbing.

I half turn away, giving him privacy while still watching.

“That is my coat,” Cranston says, and he isn’t looking at anyone except Sinclair. “He is wearing my coat.”

I look over, trying to gauge his meaning.

Cranston says again, “That is my coat,” and his tone is… Definitely not accusation. Not confusion or irritation either. It’s as if his mind has found something to seize on, anything except the fact that his best friend lies dead at his feet.

I move in Cranston’s direction. “I noticed it was gone last night.”

He blinks at me and frowns. Then he nods. “Yes, I saw it was missing this morning, and I was waiting for Ezra to come back, so I could snap at him for it. He is forever taking it. Teasing me, I think. Saying my coat is warmer than his, saying he could not find his. Always making excuses for borrowing it, and then I will growl and grumble at him and he laughs it off and…” Cranston swallows and looks away.

When I passed through time, I thought back over all the final conversations I’d had with people. I’m not what anyone would call difficult. At least, not in the sense of someone like Cranston, who seems to argue and needle and grumble as easily as he breathes. But in our everyday life, we’re always butting heads with our nearest and dearest. Inconsequential disagreements we’ll resolve later. When I passed through time, one of my worries was that someone’s last memory of me would be that everyday head-butting.

It doesn’t even need to have been actual friction. We could just have been annoyed with the deceased—like Cranston with that borrowed coat—and then they’re gone, and all we can think is that, an hour ago, we’d been ready to give them shit over something so trivial.

“I ought to have gifted him the coat,” Cranston says, his voice so low that I don’t think I’m supposed to hear it. “He liked it, and I could easily have bought another.”

Gray moves up beside me and says, gently, “My condolences, Archie.”

Cranston looks up. There’s a long pause and then he gives a bitter snort. “I wondered for a moment why you were offering them to me. I am not his brother or his father. But there is no one else, is there? Only distant relatives Ezra has not seen in years.”

That isn’t what Gray meant. He was offering condolences on the loss of a very dear friend, but he only nods.

“I will handle the arrangements,” Cranston says. Then he curses under his breath. “And that is not what I should be thinking at this moment. It is only…” He gestures at Gray. “You are an undertaker. You handle such things, and I was thinking that Ezra has no family and…”

“It will be handled,” Gray says. “You need not concern yourself with that.”

A throat clearing behind us, and I look to see McCreadie. “Speaking of things it is awkward to discuss, I must ask that no one leave the estate.”

Cranston frowns.

“Everyone will need to be interviewed,” McCreadie says.

Cranston blinks. Then he seems to realize what McCreadie means and that lost look vanishes in a flash fire of fury. “Because someone murdered Ezra. Someone came onto my land and killed—” He stops and seems to hang there before he audibly swallows. “Killed Ezra while he was wearing my coat.” He wheels on me. “You said it was gone from the cloakroom last night?”

I nod.

“I saw him around eleven, when it was growing dark. He did not say he was going out, or I would have gone with him. So he went out, after dark, wearing my coat and someone hit him…” Cranston looks down at Sinclair and his voice lowers. “Hit him from behind. Mistook him for me.”

“We do not know that,” McCreadie says.

Cranston gives a bitter laugh. “Do we not? You are too kind, Hugh. Always have been. No one had any cause to want Ezra dead. I am the one they hate.” He looks over at Edith and James Frye, and then past them and points at Violet.

“There is the only person here who does not have some cause to wish me harm, and I cannot even be sure about that. I have surely done some careless thing to hurt her, as much as I have tried not to.” He waves at me. “I do not think I have given Miss Mitchell cause either, but with time, I would have.”

“There may be reasons someone might have killed Ezra,” McCreadie says softly. “Reasons that have nothing to do with you or even with him. If he saw something or learned something or even simply surprised someone out here.”

“Poachers?” Cranston’s head lifts. “Müller has been warning me about them, saying I do not fully understand the danger.”

“The local constabulary will investigate every avenue.”

Cranston frowns. “But you are a detective. Better than any country lump who earns his pay breaking up drunken fights.”

“We will… see what we are dealing with,” McCreadie says cautiously.

“But you will not abandon him, yes?” Cranston looks at Sinclair’s body. “Our old friend has been murdered.”

“I have sent my groom to the village,” Gray says. “We shall see what happens now.”

“What happens now” is that we wait nearly two hours for the constable. Literally wait in the field because we can’t abandon a body to scavengers or interference.

I don’t know what to expect. I’m praying for a miracle straight out of a British cozy, where the local vicar or schoolteacher is actually a professional-grade detective. Okay, I can’t imagine that—we’d at least need to get deeper into the age of mystery novels, where someone could be an armchair expert. But maybe we’ll get a former Edinburgh or Glasgow criminal officer who retired to the country.

The problem with that scenario is that there have only been criminal officers for a few dozen years. The chance of one getting fed up with the city-cop life and moving out here is minimal.

When someone finally does appear, my heart drops—and my annoyance rises—because the guy in charge couldn’t even bother coming himself. He’s sent some rookie who looks like a freshman dropped off at university for the first time, awestruck and overwhelmed. He wanders over to us, looking left and right and all around.

When McCreadie steps out to greet him, the kid nearly bowls him over in his distracted gaping.

“Oh, my apologies, sir. I was called here. Someone has died?”

“Yes, are you with the local police?”

The young man straightens. “I am indeed. Peter Ross, at your service. Er, Constable Ross.” He flashes a grin. “Still getting used to that one.”

McCreadie returns the smile. If he’s pissed off about this rookie’s superiors sending him out, he gives no sign of it.

“New to the business, are you?” McCreadie says.

“Nearly two years now, but I always forget the title. No one calls me Constable in a place so small they’ve all known you since you were in short pants.” He looks around. “I was told there was a murder?”

“There was. Have you ever worked one, Constable Ross?”

“I have not, which means this is very exciting. I don’t know that there’s been a murder in the county since I was born.” He leans past McCreadie. “Is that the fellow there? On the ground?”

I bite my tongue against saying no, that’s just someone taking a rest. Having the patience of a saint, McCreadie says, “That is. But it really was murder, and we ought to wait for your supervisor.”

“That’s me,” Ross says brightly. “First Constable Ross. Head of the local constabulary.”

There’s a long pause, as McCreadie studies the young man, trying to decide whether this is a prank or a misunderstanding.

Gray—not having the patience of a saint—steps forward. “Dr. Duncan Gray. I examined the victim. Are you telling us you are the primary police officer in this county?”

“Yes, sir. It was my grandfather, but he retired last year. I was already working with him, so the other fellows decided I would inherit his position.” He lowers his voice, conspiratorial. “In truth, they did not want the title. It is very little extra pay for a great deal of extra work.”

“I understand,” McCreadie says slowly. “However, as this is a murder, while you would clearly be the primary on the case, you might want one of the more experienced officers helping.”

“They said no.”

McCreadie blinks. “They said…”

“Dougie said they don’t pay him enough to solve murders. That’s what he said, to the word. And Bill is off.”

“Off…? Away?”

“Bill drinks. A great deal, I’m afraid, and sometimes he is on and sometimes he is off. Currently, he is off. He would not be much help, though, even if he were on.”

I stare at McCreadie. He doesn’t look my way, but I do notice sweat beading at his hairline, and his eyes are just a little bit wider than usual, as if there are things he wants to say—so many things—and he’s holding them all back.

Thirteen years. That’s what he said earlier. The act that forces all counties to have a police force is barely more than a dozen years old. Some areas will already have the kind of local forces that will one day inspire those British crime shows. Others will take the option to use the police services of a larger nearby county. Then there will be those that decide they don’t need much in the way of policing. Just a few guys to keep the peace.

Gray eases forward again. “How much do you know about the situation here?”

“Not a thing,” Ross says brightly. “Oh, except that there is a dead body. Or a body that seems to be dead. I probably should check that first.”

“The victim is quite dead,” Gray says. “I believe proper introductions are in order, as they may resolve this issue.”

Ross frowns as if to say, “What issue?”

“May I introduce Detective Hugh McCreadie,” Gray says. “An Edinburgh criminal officer.”

Ross’s frown grows, and he inches back. “You are a criminal, sir?”

“I am a police officer,” McCreadie says, his tone making me decide the guy deserves a Nobel Prize for patience. “City forces are large enough to divide officers into various specialities. There are constables, of course. Then there are criminal officers, which you might also call detectives or, if you were in England, inspectors.”

“Criminal officers investigate crimes,” I say. “Like murder.”

Ross turns and gives a start on seeing me. Then he stares. Just stares until Gray clears his throat.

“That is my assistant, Miss Mitchell,” Gray says. “She is correct. Detective McCreadie has investigated… How many murders is it now, Hugh? Seven? Eight? With every killer successfully brought to justice.”

Ross’s eyes boggle, and I’m just about to think he understands what Gray is getting at when he says, “Seven or eight murders? No wonder my mother says Edinburgh is the devil’s playground.”

“The point,” Gray says, teeth snapping, “is that Detective McCreadie is very experienced at this, and will be glad to aid in your investigation. As will Miss Mitchell and I.”

“Aren’t you a doctor?” Ross says.

“Dr. Gray is a forensic scientist who works with the police,” McCreadie says. “He assists in all my cases and has gained great renown for his own detective work.”

“Ah.” Ross nods. “We all need a little help now and then, as my da always says. I am sure you are a fine… criminal officer, sir, but I will not be needing your help. This isn’t one of your city murders. Things are different here.”

“Which I understand,” McCreadie says, and there’s an edge to his words that suggests he’s finally losing patience. “The case is yours. I am merely offering my services, as I knew the victim, and I do have some experience—”

“No need,” Ross says. “I will take it from here. Now, you said that is the dead body over there?”

As the young man steps in that direction, Gray gives a rumbling warning growl. McCreadie moves in front of Ross.

“That is the body,” McCreadie says. “Can I confirm that you have summoned the doctor?”

Ross frowns. “Why? You said he was dead.”

“A dead body requires a doctor to examine it,” McCreadie says.

“For what?” Ross sounds genuinely perplexed.

“To determine how the man died. For the investigation.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can tell that on my own. I see blood from here.”

Ross continues making his way toward the body.

“Call the doctor,” I say. “Or let Dr. Gray handle it.”

Ross turns and again, he just stares at me. Then he says, “Pardon me, miss?”

I walk over. “You have a dead body. A murder victim who is the dear friend of the man who owns this estate, which I am guessing is one of the biggest in your county.”

“Er, yes, the biggest actually, but—”

“The owner of this property will expect a proper investigation. Now, you may do things one way here and we do them another in the city, but if Mr. Cranston”—I nod toward Cranston—“is from the city and a childhood friend of Detective McCreadie’s, he will expect things done in a certain way, and if they are not, he will raise a fuss. Do you know what happens when men like Mr. Cranston raise a fuss?”

“Er…”

I step closer, and his breathing picks up as I lean in. “People like you and me lose our jobs. Now, if you don’t want to bother the local doctor—or pay his fees—then might I suggest you let Dr. Gray help you.”

Ross’s gaze shoots to Cranston.

I continue, “If you need to confirm this procedure with anyone, that is understandable. I presume you do not, though, as you are first constable.”

It’s a cheap shot, and in the twenty-first century, it’d get me in a heap of trouble. You can’t just walk into a small town and suggest the local police chief hire another coroner to investigate your friend’s murder. But we’re in a time before that system is well established. A time when there obviously is no coroner, just a country doctor who may have never had to deal with homicide before.

Ross straightens. “I do not see any reason to bother Dr. Rendall.”

“You should still mention it to him,” McCreadie says. “As a courtesy. In fact, you could leave the choice to him.”

“It is my case,” Ross says, his jaw setting as he looks up at McCreadie. “I don’t care if you’re some fancy city policeman. You will not take it from me.”

“I am not trying to. But will you allow Dr. Gray to conduct the autopsy?”

“The what?”

“The medical examination required to prove cause of death.”

Ross looks from McCreadie to Gray. “I cannot do that myself?”

“Have you ever cut a man open and removed his internal organs?” I ask.

He stares at me again, and this time, it’s a very different look, his face paling before he shakes his head.

“Then leave it to Dr. Gray,” I say. “Who is not only a trained medical doctor but a trained surgeon and an undertaker. He will deal with the messy bits and leave you to the much more important police work.”