Page 18 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

EIGHTEEN

We find the Rendalls in their living room, both looking pale and worried. Seeing that, I slow and glance at Gray. He strides in as if not detecting their unease. Probably because he actually doesn’t detect it. Gray always says I’m better at reading people. It’s not that he lacks empathy; he just doesn’t pick up on body language and emotional cues as well as I do. His gift is for reading and interpreting evidence.

I take a seat. “Dr. Gray has shown you the note.”

Dr. Rendall nods. His wife only grips her hands tighter in her lap.

“I am sorry if it has caused you distress,” I say.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Gray blink. Then distress flickers over his own features. Yes, he didn’t notice it, and that bothers him.

“My apologies,” Gray says in a low voice. “I did not intend to upset you.”

Mrs. Rendall manages a weak smile. “We are not upset. Just…” Her gaze goes to me. “As Miss Mitchell said, we are somewhat distressed by that note. Of course you had to bring it to us, and of course we had to tell you what it means. We do not believe that is connected to poor Mr. Sinclair’s death, but now that the note has been given to you, you must give it to Petey—Constable Ross—and we…”

Her husband completes the unfinished thought. “We fear he lacks the expertise to properly handle such a thing.”

“That he might take the note as evidence,” I say, “when it does not accuse anyone of killing Mr. Sinclair. It only says that the victim—presumably Mr. Cranston—deserved his fate.”

“Exactly so,” Mrs. Rendall says. “Constable Ross is out of his depth, and we have known him from the hour he first drew breath—I was there as midwife. There are children who are quick to admit they do not know a thing, in hopes of learning it. And there are children who see that as an admission of failure.”

“It is admirable to want to solve problems yourself, rather than relying on others, but there are times for self-led education and times when… it is not the best course of action.”

Mrs. Rendall laughs softly. “That is a very diplomatic way of putting it.”

“In this situation, while Constable Ross may not wish the assistance of others, I can assure you that those others are present to oversee his work. We mentioned that we are here with a criminal officer who has conducted several homicide investigations. He will respect Constable Ross’s jurisdiction in this case, but he will not allow a miscarriage of justice.”

There’s a moment of silence, and I replay what I said, wondering if I messed up with some anachronistic phrase or concept. Nope, I just started talking like a cop again.

“Very well said,” Mrs. Rendall murmurs after a moment. “Thank you. We are fond of Pet—Constable Ross—and we believe he will one day make an excellent first constable, but we do appreciate that there will be more experienced eyes on his work.”

“As for the note,” Dr. Rendall says. “We can give no insight into the writer, as we have already told Dr. Gray. The penmanship is unremarkable, and the poor penmanship is, sadly, common. As for the sentiment, there are those who might have shared it if the victim really were Mr. Cranston. We would not. What happened to Nora…”

He trails off and when silence falls, I say, softly, “Mr. Cranston is believed to have taken advantage of her?”

They both blink. Then Mrs. Rendall says, “Oh dear, no. Yes, I suppose that is what it would sound like, isn’t it? A wealthy gentleman from the city being blamed for doing something to a woman. No, that is not it at all.”

“Good. So Nora…”

“Nora Glass,” Mrs. Rendall says somberly. “The second-eldest daughter of our blacksmith. Some children love to ramble off on their own, and she was one of those. A dreamy girl who would be gone from sunup to sundown if she had her way of things.”

I don’t miss the past tense, and my gut seizes as I begin to suspect where this is going. A girl who likes to wander. A nearby estate with deadly traps.

Mrs. Rendall continues, “Nora knew she was not supposed to go onto the grounds, but she was twelve, at the age where children begin to think for themselves and decide that their parents are still treating them like children.”

I swallow. “There are traps on the property.”

Mrs. Rendall looks up sharply. “No. I mean, yes, we know about those, but so did Nora. She is cousin to the Hall children, who grew up there, and they made sure she knew about the traps. But she was accustomed to her uncle being the gamekeeper. It was the new fellow who caught her wandering about.”

Again, my gut clenches, so sure once again that I know where this is going.

“What did he do?” I ask.

“Frightened her off. Shouted at her in his native tongue, and she had no idea what he was saying, but she understood his tone and ran like the devil himself was on her tail.”

Ran and fell? Stumbled over a cliff edge? Or tripped and incurred an injury that turned septic? There are so many ways to die in this world.

“What happened?” I ask.

“She made it safely back with a grand story.” Mrs. Rendall’s lips curve in fond recollection. “That is the sort of child she was. She might have been sent home in a terror, but she soon turned it into a story. Few people had met the new gamekeeper and now she had a fine tale to tell. How he leaped out of nowhere, this wild-haired man who cursed her in his native tongue. Each time she told the tale, it grew grander. And then…” Any trace of a smile evaporates. “Then, a week later, she took ill.”

“Measles,” Dr. Rendall says. “There was a fellow traveling through whose horse threw a shoe, and he told Nora’s father how he’d come through a village where a child had died of it. He showed no symptoms himself, and the Glasses thought little of it. Nora had been in the blacksmith shop with the man. She loved to speak to travelers and hear their stories.”

“He was infected, simply not showing symptoms,” I guess. “She caught the measles from him.”

Dr. Rendall nods. “One of her younger brothers also came down with it soon after. He survived. Nora did not.”

I glance at Gray. I’m missing something in this story if the villagers blame Cranston for Nora’s death.

“Do people think she caught it from the gamekeeper?” I ask.

“In… a manner of speaking,” Dr. Rendall says.

Mrs. Rendall shifts in her seat, obviously uncomfortable. “Some believe he cursed her.”

“Cursed? Oh.”

She’d said Nora told stories of Müller cursing her in his native tongue. I’d interpreted that to mean swearing at her.

When the Rendalls don’t elaborate, Gray says, “A village like this would not see many people who speak another language. There is always… suspicion.”

Mrs. Rendall sighs. “Dr. Gray is being polite. I suspect he has been the victim of such suspicion himself. People here often never travel more than a few miles from their home. They only see others like them, and they respond poorly to all outsiders, but particularly those who do not look or sound like their neighbors. Nora did not mean any harm. I do not even think she believed he was uttering curses.”

“She embellished her story for the audience,” I say. “He shouted at her in another language, and since she didn’t know what he was saying, it would be easy to claim he cursed her. Dramatic license.”

“Dramatic…? Oh, yes. I see. That is it precisely. She meant no harm, and it would have fallen on the adults to gently tell her that she ought not to interpret a foreign tongue in such a way. But even those with a greater knowledge of the world might not have seen the harm in it. She was a child having a child’s fun.”

“Which took a sinister turn after her death.”

Mrs. Rendall squeezes her hands in her lap again. “I know how this must look to you and Dr. Gray. The simple countryfolk and their wild superstitions.”

“Not at all,” Gray says smoothly. “There are as many superstitions in the city. A young girl died, and people want answers. I have seen that both as a doctor and an undertaker. Those in medicine understand”—he glances at me—“to some degree how diseases are transmitted, though we still have much to learn. Yet we have a history filled with people trying most desperately to explain what often seems supernatural in origin.”

Dr. Rendall nods. “The answers we have are too new for most people. They grew up believing miasmas caused illness, and that is what they continue to believe. While most no longer believe in curses, it only takes the tragic death of a child to resurrect old fears and beliefs.”

“Progress comes slowly,” Gray says. “Set back, as you say, in the face of tragedy.”

“So people thought,” I say, “that the gamekeeper—Mr. Müller—cursed Nora.”

“ Some people,” Mrs. Rendall says firmly. “Most knew better.”

“But the note seems to blame Mr. Cranston for her death.”

“Mr. Cranston is… not a popular figure in town,” Dr. Rendall says carefully.

“We have heard that. In this case, he is responsible for bringing Mr. Müller—and letting Mr. Hall go—and so if Mr. Müller cursed Nora, her death would be Mr. Cranston’s fault.”

“I presume that is the thinking.”

I glance at Gray. While part of me wants to pursue this lead, Sinclair’s murder is not our investigation. Also, the Rendalls are already uncomfortable with the note. They’re worried that Ross will jump on it and blame one of the locals for murdering Sinclair. Which means I can’t ask whether they think it’s possible.

Is it possible? Suspicion and resentment have had time to fester. Someone might have decided to avenge Nora. Her father is the blacksmith. That means he’s going to be a guy with some muscles, one who could easily have cracked open Sinclair’s skull.

“Do you have anything more to add, Miss Mitchell?” Gray prompts.

I shake my head.

It should be a lively coach ride back to the estate. With the postmortem, the note, and the story behind the note, our brains should be percolating and boiling over in a rush of words, Gray and me bouncing ideas off each other and zooming through all the implications.

Except this isn’t our case.

Oh, it’s never “our” case. It’s always McCreadie’s. Yet we happily gather information for him, knowing he’ll use it. With Ross, we can’t be sure of that. Hell, we can’t be sure he won’t discard evidence just because we uncovered it.

Finally, as we reach the long road into the estate grounds, I say, “I think it’s best if you speak to Ross directly, instead of giving him your findings through Hugh.”

“Yes.”

When I lapse into silence, he gives me a sidelong look. “You want to say more.”

“No, that’s it.”

“Mallory…” He tilts his head down to catch my eye. “You fear insulting me by advising me on how to best deal with Constable Ross. My manner can seem haughty, even imperious, to those inclined to see that in me. The perils of being partially raised by Annis.”

I have to laugh at that. “True. But in her case, she actually is haughty and imperious.”

“Perhaps you should speak to the constable?”

I shake my head. “He’s sensitive about anything he perceives as big-city folks looking down on villagers. He’d interpret it as you sending your assistant because he’s not worth your time.”

“You are suggesting I speak to him the way you speak to Addington. Behave as if I think he has the situation under control when I know he does not.”

“Addington buys it. I think Ross will, too.” I gaze out the window at the passing valleys. “I’d like to take a look at Archie’s collection of shillelaghs. Do you see any issues with that? I’d rather not set Ross on that trail until I’ve taken a look.”

“Because he might see a bit of blood on one and helpfully clean it with his handkerchief?”

I shudder. Then I lean toward the window. “Is that Hugh and Isla?”

Gray moves to look out. Two figures sit on a bench by the smallest lake.

“It does appear to be,” he says. “Shall we stop and speak to them?”

I give him a hard look. “Your sister is alone with Hugh, in a pretty and romantic setting, the two of them engrossed in private conversation. Are you seriously asking whether we should interrupt?”

“Er. Yes. I see. I will leave them to it.”

“You’d better,” I say with a glare.

His lips twitch. “I would say that you are wonderfully protective of your friends, but I cannot help but wonder, in this case, how much is protecting them and how much is indulging your hidden hope to see romance blossom.”

He’s teasing me—and he clearly means my hope with Hugh and Isla—but it recalls too much of that conversation I just had with Simon, and I shift in my seat. Then I cover it with a roll of my eyes. “Hidden hope? My hopes for those two are not at all hidden. At least not from the guy who shares them. You would like to see some movement there, yes?”

He sighs dramatically. “I have been waiting for years to see some movement there. I know they cannot be rushed, particularly with Isla’s widowhood, but they are taking a damnable long time to get to it.”

He glances out to watch them as they disappear from view. “In full confession, I had even entertained hopes that this shared getaway—to a wedding no less—might spur them along. Which only proves I am terribly obtuse when it comes to evaluating emotional situations.”

I smile. “Hoping your sister hooks up with Hugh at his sister’s wedding… with his ex-fiancée in attendance?”

“Define ‘hook up’? I am beginning to think I understand what it means, but when you put it in that context, I wonder whether I’m wrong.”

“Nah, you just hope you’re wrong because you’re a very proper Victorian who wishes for his sister to have a very proper romance, which will end in a very proper marriage.”

His eyes narrow. “Now you are mocking me.”

“Perish the thought.” I lean back. “I would only mock you if you were startled by the thought of your widowed sister having an affair. It is not as if you’ve done any such thing yourself with widowed women.”

Color touches his cheeks as his eyes narrow more.

I continue, “Your sister will do what she wants, and if you hope to see her happily married, I might remind you that she has been married, and it was not happy. That can have a… chilling effect.”

He thumps back in his seat. “I had not considered that. You are right, of course.” He gazes out the window. “You are also correct that I am being hypocritical. In my defense, I would not begrudge Isla any joy, including an affair. But yes, my ultimate hope would be to see her in a happy marriage. Not because I think women should be married, but as compensation of a sort. Making up for the hell Lawrence put her through.” He looks at me. “Is that patronizing?”

I reach to touch his knee, my fingers barely grazing it. “No, it’s kindness and caring. In the end, it might be what Isla wants, but don’t be surprised if it’s not. My bigger concern is that, if it’s what Hugh wants and she refuses…” I pull back and shake my head. “That’s putting the cart well before the horse, and also none of my business.”

“As we both want the best for them, I believe we can consider their happiness our business. Thank you for pointing out that she may be hesitant.”

I nod. “She’s gun-shy. I’m not sure that’s a saying here but—”

“Dr. Gray! Mallory!” A voice comes from outside the partially open window. We’re drawing up on the house, and Fiona is running toward us, skirts hiked, Violet following at a brisk walk.

Gray raps the roof for Simon to stop, and he barely has the door open before Fiona is there.

“Have you seen Hugh?” she says. “I cannot find him anywhere, and we need him immediately.”

Gray and I glance at each other, neither quick to say McCreadie is with Isla.

Fiona doesn’t wait for an answer. “His boots are gone, and he did not tell anyone he was leaving, and we need him now.”

“What has happened?” Gray asks.

“That man—that constable.” Fiona spits the words, her hazel eyes flashing. “That insufferable fool has… has…”

She seems unable to get the words out in her anger, sputtering until Violet moves up beside her.

“Constable Ross has taken Archie,” Violet says. “He has arrested him for Ezra’s murder.”