Page 20 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

TWENTY

I don’t sit in on the interviews, partly because McCreadie and Gray don’t need my help and partly because it seems a very boring way to spend the next couple of hours. Or maybe that’s the same reason.

I have other avenues to pursue. I start with Cranston’s collection of shillelaghs. They’re kept in the cloakroom, which is actually more like a sitting room. It’s about ten feet square and includes wardrobes for hanging cloaks and coats and other outerwear. It also has a few low settees, which are useful for taking boots on and off, but also seem to be designed for sitting. This isn’t unique to Cranston’s estate. I’ve seen these in other big houses, where they seem to be a spot where you can comfortably transition from outerwear to innerwear and freshen up a bit. Most have mirrors. Some even have a washbasin.

The shillelaghs are arranged in stands, both for decoration and utility. The utility being as walking sticks rather than weapons, but the room is conveniently close to the door, in case of invasion.

I’d noticed the shillelaghs yesterday, and while Isla had taken her time changing out of her boots, I’d examined and admired the walking-stick clubs. I know a bit about shillelaghs, mostly from a case back home where one had been used in an assault, prompting me to do some research. As with anything that catches my interest, I delved in deeper than I needed to. I even have a shillelagh back in my Vancouver condo, a gift from colleagues, that assault being the first case I cleared as a detective.

Shillelaghs are sometimes made from oak, but that’s rare enough in Ireland that blackthorn is more commonly used. I will admit that I thought blackthorn was a tree until I came to Scotland and discovered it’s a shrub. It’s also known as sloe, and if I’d known that, I’d have realized it was a shrub, sloe berries being used for sloe gin.

The fact that it’s a bush explains the signature knotty look of a shillelagh. It’s a long and relatively slender stick with a thick knob at the end. Traditionally, the stick is cured in a chimney, for up to a year, turning the blackthorn literally black. The club is then polished and oiled, and sometimes, to add a little extra heft, that knobby end is filled with molten lead.

Yesterday, I didn’t count how many shillelaghs Cranston had in the cloakroom, but now that I’m examining them, I don’t think any are missing. Each of the three stands holds four, and I recall seeing two empty slots. So space for twelve shillelaghs but only ten in the collection.

I make my way around each stand. With gloved hands, I carefully lift each shillelagh to examine it. Of the ten, six have smooth rounded or cylindrical ends that wouldn’t have made the mark left in Sinclair’s skull. The knots on two are too shallow for the wound. The final two have the sort of knotty ends that would work.

I’m turning one over in my hands when someone clears their throat behind me. The housekeeper, Mrs. Hall, stands there, her hands on her hips.

“What might you be doing, lassie?” she says. “If you’re thinking of taking one of those for a stroll, think again. They belong to Mr. Cranston, and I’ll not be having anyone take them out while he is not at home.”

“I’m not looking for a walking stick,” I say. “I am helping Dr. Gray and Detective McCreadie, who are trying to free Mr. Cranston.”

Her gaze goes from me to the shillelagh, with a look that clearly asks how the walking sticks are connected to that.

“I’m looking for anything of value that might be missing from the estate,” I say. “Are these all accounted for?”

“Yes,” she says. “Mr. Cranston is still adding to the collection. That is why there are two empty spaces.”

“Do they get used as walking sticks?”

“Sometimes. By Mr. Cranston and Mr. Sinclair, mostly.” She lowers her hands from her hips and sighs. “Petey Ross is a fool. Always has been. Always will be. His grandfather was a fine constable, but sometimes, when folks reach an age, they declare they are done with work. They want to be done so quickly they cannot bother passing on what they know.”

“The senior Constable Ross didn’t properly train his grandson.”

“The boy could get help from constables in other towns. But no, he must do it all himself.” She moves to straighten a shillelagh. “Embarrassing, it is. Makes us all look like simpletons. Typical village folk who do not know their arse from their elbow. And now look at what he’s done. There’s a fine detective in the house, and Petey ignores him and arrests the master. The master. ”

“And that is… embarrassing?” I venture.

“No,” she snaps. “It is ridiculous. Mr. Cranston killing Mr. Sinclair over a borrowed coat? Mr. Sinclair took it all the time.” Her lips tighten. “I had half a mind to hide it from him. It’s a fine coat, and he had his own, but all Mr. Cranston would do is grumble because he is not the sort to actually complain about such a thing. Kill him for it? Kill anyone for it?” She snorts. “Preposterous.”

“People have killed for less.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. But not Mr. Cranston, and clearly not for a borrowed coat.”

“That is what everyone says, which is why Detective McCreadie is investigating.”

She stops fussing with the clubs and nods. “The detective seems a fine man. He will set this right.”

“Has he spoken to you yet?” I say. “He needs to talk to everyone in the house, to establish a timeline.”

“He has not, but I will be ready when he does.”

“About that…” I lower my voice. “He’s going to need to speak to your children, too.”

She tenses so hard the keys on her chatelaine jangle. “My children? They do not live here.”

“Dr. Gray believes they were on the property last night.” Apologies, Duncan. “A deer was killed and partly butchered.”

“And you blame my children?” Her voice rises, but there’s a shrill ring of insincerity in her outrage. “They were inside all night—”

“The deer was killed with a bow, which we know they use. The footprints indicate it was your daughter—the pattern of her gait is distinctive. It took place close to where we found Mr. Sinclair.”

Genuine fear touches her eyes even as they narrow. “My children were in bed—”

“We think they might have seen the killer. Or heard something. They left the stag half butchered, as if something made them beat a hasty retreat before finishing.”

She gives a soft exhale, as if of relief, though her face stays stony. I’m not accusing her children of killing Sinclair. I’m enlisting them as witnesses.

I meet her gaze. “Mr. Cranston will not care about them hunting a deer if their testimony sets him free. Neither will Dr. Gray nor Detective McCreadie care about the stag. It seems silly to keep all the game for one man who does not even live here.”

“I will speak to them,” she says. “I know nothing about any deer, and I am sure there is some mistake.”

“Perhaps they were only walking and came upon the stag already dead,” I say. “That seems reasonable.”

“It does,” she says firmly. “Whatever the situation, they will not withhold any information that would see Mr. Cranston set free.”

I hesitate, then I meet her gaze. “Not even when he is responsible for taking their father’s job and turning them out of their home?”

“That was not Mr. Cranston,” she says sharply. “He was misled, and the situation would have been rectified.”

“Misled?”

She sweeps her skirts past me as she heads for the door. “I will speak to Detective McCreadie when he is ready for me.”

After Mrs. Hall is gone, I consider everything she’s said. Then I return to the shillelaghs. An examination of the two knobby ones doesn’t reveal any obvious damage or trace evidence, but we’ll conduct a proper examination.

McCreadie and Gray are still in the large sitting room conducting their interviews. I pause outside the door long enough to hear them asking Fiona where she’d been last night. In bed, she says, which I’m going to guess will be everyone’s answer.

One of the women was out there. I think back to last night, the figure I’d spotted, and I curse myself for not taking a closer look.

Could that figure have been carrying a shillelagh? Could a woman have clocked Sinclair hard enough to snap his neck and dent his skull? It depends, I think, on how angry she’d been.

If any of the women had a motive to kill Ezra Sinclair, I haven’t seen it. They all treated him as a good-natured and kindhearted fellow, innocuous in every way. Especially innocuous compared to Cranston, the guy who had almost certainly been the real target.

Fiona was bristling with outrage and indignation at Cranston’s arrest. Could that be a cover to disguise the fact that she was secretly relieved? That she’d failed to rid herself of a brutish bridegroom last night, but had ironically managed it despite killing the wrong person.

Mrs. Hall said she didn’t blame Cranston for her family’s situation, but I find that hard to believe. What would happen if he died?

What about Edith? She’d been upset with Cranston over the investment, and they did have a romantic past.

The only one I can’t find a motive for is Violet, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t have one.

But just because a woman was out last night doesn’t make her a killer. I’d been out, too.

Could Sinclair have been having an affair with one of the women? Maybe Fiona? Sinclair had gone out of his way to be kind to her, as one might to the young bride of his best friend. He’d been solicitous and quick to include her in conversations, which is too risky if they were hiding an affair.

For Fiona’s part, there were no shy or flirty glances. She was friendly and relaxed around Sinclair, just as she was around Gray. Friends of her older brother and her fiancé, nothing more.

If someone had been meeting Sinclair for romance, I’d say it was Violet. They’re both single, attractive, quietly decent and intelligent people, who’ve known each other for decades. On paper, they’d make a good match, but that can be awkward if the guy is your brother’s best friend. Just look at Isla and McCreadie’s excruciatingly slow dance.

I think back to how Violet and Sinclair have behaved around each other. Sinclair has been friendly, but Violet never initiated conversation with him. In fact, when I think about it, she’d seemed to distance herself from him, walking with others, sitting near others. Far from being proof of disinterest, a careful distance between the two could mean they were having a secret affair.

These thoughts preoccupy me as I head outside for the stable. I need time alone with my detective brain, and I’ll use that opportunity to visit guests who won’t interrupt my thoughts—the wildcat kittens.

They’re being tended in the barn. When Fiona asked to keep them there, Cranston had only hesitated, as if thinking it through. Fiona hadn’t seemed the least concerned that he’d say no, but Sinclair had leapt in to her “defense.” I got the feeling that had irritated Cranston, as if he’d expected his best friend to know—as Fiona seemed to—that he was thinking it through, rather than preparing to refuse. In the end, Cranston had not only allowed it but given her a prime spot: a tiny storage room in the half-empty hayloft.

I climb the ladder to the loft and discover Alice coaxing the injured kitten to eat.

Seeing me, she rises, smoothing her skirt. “Does Mrs. Ballantyne need me?”

“No, I just came to see the kittens. How’s our little patient doing?”

She lowers herself to the floor again. “She is not eating, and Miss McCreadie said I could help with the feeding.”

“Her leg is probably hurting, and she’s likely confused by that.”

“That is what Miss McCreadie said.”

“Dr. Gray has pain medication. A wee bit could help her find her appetite.” I stroke the kitten’s back and she manages a purr. “Would you like me to ask him?”

“Yes, please. Also…” She lowers her gaze as she holds the mash to the kitten’s mouth. “It would be easier to care for her in the house.”

“Ah.”

“I know wildcats are not pets, but she is a patient, and Miss McCreadie says she will likely never be able to be released anyway.”

“There are three-legged cats in the wild, but usually they are grown cats who lost a leg to injury and adjusted, having already learned to hunt.”

“We could keep her in our room. Then I could nurse her properly and be there during the night. I cannot come out here after dark.”

“I will speak to…” I trail off, not sure who I’d speak to. The owner of the house in police custody? Fiona, the not yet lady of the house? I could also ask Violet, as the owner’s sister, but that might put her in a bad spot between her brother and his fiancée.

“I will speak to Fiona,” I say. “She might, however, need to check with Mrs. Hall.”

Alice’s face fell. “Mrs. Hall will not allow it.”

I smile. “I get the sense Mrs. Hall likes Fiona, and that it will be like Isla asking Mrs. Wallace.”

A faint smile touches Alice’s face. “Mrs. Wallace would say yes, even if she grumbled about it.”

I promise to speak to Fiona. Then I take a few moments to linger and play with the two males. Alice is too intent on feeding their injured sister to pay me any mind, which allows me to fall into my thoughts.

Those thoughts turn to the kittens. Who murdered their mother? Müller. I’m reasonably sure of that, but it also makes me wonder whether there could be any connections between that murder and Sinclair’s.

It feels as if these two deaths should be linked. One morning, we find a dead wildcat placed in a trap after being poisoned. The next morning, we find a dead man murdered, likely after being mistaken for the estate owner.

There’s no obvious connection. It’s not as if the wildcat was a trial run. Sinclair certainly didn’t die because he realized the cat had been poisoned—no one’s committing homicide to cover up felicide.

Maybe a connection isn’t so ridiculous, though. Perhaps the wildcat’s death led to a cascade of events that ended in Sinclair’s murder.

Cranston realizes Müller poisoned the cat, and he’s livid… especially knowing how Fiona would react if she found out. Cranston confronts Müller. Tells him he’s sacked. Müller sees what he thinks is Cranston walking around that night and takes matters into his own hands. If Cranston is dead, no one will know he fired Müller.

Or Sinclair figures out that Müller killed the cat, and he’s equally livid, since Sinclair recommended Müller for the job. He goes out at night and confronts Müller. Sinclair threatens to tell Cranston, and when he turns around, Müller clocks him.

Yep, I have a lot of theories, but I feel as if I’ve jumped ahead to take the midterm after only attending half the lectures. I need to slow down and accumulate more data, starting with talking to my partners in crime-solving.