Page 21 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

TWENTY-ONE

I’m nearly at the house when I hear Gray’s low voice. Now, some people tease that I am particularly attuned to the sound of his voice. Maybe. Probably.

I follow that voice into the garden, where I find McCreadie and Gray in quiet conversation.

“A post-interview analysis, and you didn’t invite me?” I say.

Gray fixes me with a mock glare. “Perhaps because you abandoned us and went haring off in search of more interesting leads.”

“Mmm. Guilty. So did you find anything?”

McCreadie shakes his head. “We are taking a break from the tedium. The stories are all the same. They were in their beds last night from dusk until dawn. They did not hear Ezra or anyone else leave. They saw nothing. They know nothing. They certainly do not know why anyone would want Ezra Sinclair dead. Now Archie on the other hand…” He sighs. “I am glad Archie is not around to overhear his friends and family list all the people who might wish him harm.”

“But it’s good that he’s not here,” I say, “so they feel free to speak plainly.”

“True. But even then, the prevailing theory is that the killer only took a swing at the person they presumed to be Archie, reacting in anger, with no wish to kill him.”

“Except they took a swing at him with more than their fist, which implies real rage, whether the intent was to kill or not.” I move closer and lower my voice. “To that end, I have examined the shillelaghs. According to Mrs. Hall, none are missing. Unless she’s the killer and is just saying that.”

“But the number of them could be easily verified with Archie,” Gray says.

McCreadie raises a finger. “Unless Mrs. Hall knows one is missing and is covering for Archie, who will agree that yes, they are all accounted for.”

“Anyway…” I say. “They all seem to be there, and two fit as possible murder weapons. We’ll want to examine them for forensic evidence. I’ll let someone else ask Mrs. Hall.”

“Hugh can do that,” Gray says. “But he will inform her, not ask her.”

McCreadie shakes his head. “And here is why I should indeed be the one to speak to her. Because I know to phrase it as a question, even if it is not.”

“Also, you’re the nice one,” I say.

McCreadie sighs. “That will go on my grave, I fear. ‘Here lies Hugh McCreadie. The nice one.’”

“Not to aim that joke at poor Ezra but was he really the nice one?” I ask. “Is it possible he had a dark side?”

McCreadie bursts out laughing. “I fear not. Though it may have made him more interesting.” His face twists in a grimace. “That was unspeakably rude. And perhaps self-insulting, as I just admitted to being the nice one myself. But Ezra was best known as Archie Cranston’s friend.”

“As you have seen,” Gray says, “Archie casts a long shadow.”

“Which blotted out his friend,” I say. “Archie is loud, abrasive, and larger than life. He takes charge. Everyone notices him.”

“It happens,” McCreadie says.

Gray’s brows shoot up. “Why are you both looking at me?”

McCreadie pats his arm. “You are never loud.”

“I realize I can be difficult at times, but I do not think I am abrasive.”

“Fine-grit sandpaper,” I say. “Archie is coarse-grit.” I raise a hand against Gray’s protest. “Fine-grit smooths and polishes. Take it as a compliment. You are only as abrasive as you need to be.”

Gray grumbles under his breath.

“Back to the shillelaghs, I’m guessing you do want to examine them, Duncan?”

He turns a hard look on me. “You’re distracting me with science treats.”

“Now, now, no need to get abrasive.”

McCreadie lifts his hands. “I am removing myself from the line of fire and speaking to Mrs. Hall about the shillelaghs. I will meet you in the parlor, as we seem to have commandeered it for our police office.”

When he’s gone, I look at Gray. “Do you know where I could find Fiona?”

“I am not certain I can answer that without being abrasive.”

I smile up at him. “I like your abrasive bits. They are one of the many things that make you interesting.”

Spots of color touch his cheeks as he shakes his head. “You do that to disarm me.”

“Do what?”

“Compliment me.”

“Would you rather I needle you some more?”

“I am not certain,” he says as he turns back to the house. As he walks away, he murmurs, under his breath, as if I’m not supposed to hear it, “I rather like that too much as well.”

First, we track down Fiona, who is in the yard playing croquet with the other women. I take her aside before asking about moving the injured kitten—otherwise, I envision Edith flying into a tizzy at the thought of an animal in the house. Fiona says the move sounds like an excellent idea, and she excuses herself from the game to speak to Mrs. Hall.

A few minutes later, Gray and I have the suspect shillelaghs in the parlor. What we don’t have? Gray or Isla’s laboratory equipment. We don’t even have a magnifying glass.

McCreadie brought us the shillelaghs and then had to go interview the staff. I’ve told him about Simon and Cranston’s valet. Better that he’s prepared for that revelation.

Now Gray and I are standing at a table we pulled into the middle of the room. The shillelaghs rest atop a white linen cloth. Testing for DNA is out of the question, obviously. We shook the clubs over the cloth first, in case any dirt or hairs fell off. Nothing did, and I’m not sure how useful that would be. Useful in the sense it would suggest the shillelagh might have been used to kill Sinclair, but any detritus could also be from its use as a walking stick, and without a microscope, we lack a way to compare dirt or hairs.

In this era, checking for blood requires a microscope. There’s no luminol or other tests. I’m still trying to figure out how to rig up a black light, if that’s even possible. The hack I know—wrap colored cellophane around a flashlight—doesn’t work without cellophane or flashlights.

“We could rub it with a cloth and see whether any blood comes off,” I say. That’s not exactly hard science, but even if we did find blood, we’re decades from being able to analyze it. We can only say that the object seems to have blood on it.

“We will likely need to do that,” he says. “First, though, we will want to examine it for signs of damage. I do not see any with the naked eye, but let us take a closer look with a lamp.”

“Is it possible to make a magnifying glass? I did that as a kid, using the base of a plastic bottle and a drop of water, but you guys haven’t invented plastic, and we can’t easily cut glass.”

He considers. “True, but the principle should work. It’s the convex surface of the magnifying glass or the droplet that we require. Let us hunt down a glass bottle and some water.”

With the bottle and the water, we’re able to test several ways of magnifying the surface of the shillelaghs. While a drop of water works for a very limited area, it does mean we’re wetting a surface that may contain evidence. Putting water in the glass bottle gives us a less magnified view, but a much larger surface, without the risk of washing away trace.

When I heartily wish for the concentrated beam of a flashlight, Gray fashions a cone for the lamp, which allows for a much brighter light source. As much as I long for my old equipment, I have to admit there is magic in this, hearkening back to childhood, figuring out the world and the science behind it.

So we have our makeshift magnifier and our makeshift flashlight and…

“Nothing,” I say, sighing dramatically. “All that, and we still didn’t find anything to suggest that either of these clubs were the murder weapon. Even rubbing the ends with a cloth didn’t reveal traces of blood.”

“I am sorry,” Gray says. “I know it was disappointing.”

“Kinda fun though.” I sneak him a smile. “Even if it is a waste of valuable time.”

“But is our time so valuable?” He sets the lamp down on a side table. “Unless you would rather have been playing croquet…”

I shudder. “Now, if I were playing croquet with you and Hugh and Isla, it’d be fun, but not with Edith.” I place the water jar by the lantern.

“Also, one could say it was a valuable use of our time in the sense that we now know how to make do in the field, if we lack the proper equipment. We spent time learning while we could afford to spend it.”

“Or we learned to start carrying around a magnifying glass.” I glance up at him. “I don’t suppose they have portable microscopes yet?”

“Hardly.”

“Yeah, not even sure that’s a thing in my time.” I look back at the shillelaghs. “Okay, so there’s no sign of blood on these and no sign of damage that could have been caused by striking Ezra in the head. I don’t know that there would have been damage to the clubs, though. I also don’t know that there would have been blood from a single blow. We could have hoped for hair, but that isn’t likely without damage to the wood.”

“You did lift finger marks. That was cleverly done.”

“Now you’re just throwing me a bone.” I sigh and drop onto the settee. “You know whose fingerprints I’m going to find? The guy who’s been arrested, because they’re his damn walking sticks, and if I find that, I need to be sure Ross doesn’t find out or I’ll have put the noose around Archie’s neck myself.”

“But what if there are other prints? Prints that have no explanation for being there?”

“That’d be a whole lot more helpful if we had any proof that one of those clubs was the actual murder weapon. I thought I was being so clever. Oh, look at that wound pattern. It could be one of those shillelaghs from the house.” I sigh again.

“There might be another way to test that theory,” Gray says.

“Like what?”

“Compare the pattern of bumps to the actual wound.”

I straighten. “Right. We’ll need to unwrap Ezra and examine…” I trail off as Gray pulls a piece of paper from his pocket.

As he unfolds it, my eyes narrow. “What is that?”

“A saved step,” he says as he opens the paper to show a wound pattern. “Do not give me that look. Am I to be penalized for thinking ahead?”

“No, you’re to be penalized for not giving me that before I started rounding up bottles and lanterns.”

“But you were having so much fun. It didn’t seem right to interrupt.”

I make a rude gesture, and he only laughs and hands me the paper.

“Even if this matches,” he says, “we would have wanted to test for the rest. And if it did not match, we would still have tested to be sure.”

I snatch the paper with a sniff, and the damn man has the audacity to laugh again.

I smooth out the paper and bring the lamp back over to improve the lighting at the table. Gray waits patiently as I study the page. There are two things on it: a sketch of the wound pattern and an actual print he must have taken before the body was moved and the head wound cleaned.

It’s a distinctive pattern, at least in the sense that it’s not just a divot in Sinclair’s scalp. There’s the main indent, but also a spot on it where the weapon struck deeper and another partial deep crater on the edge of the main one.

Both shillelagh heads are roughly the same size. I’ll measure them, of course, but weapon-matching is not the exact science I used to see on TV. Even Gray knows that.

Okay, I should say Gray especially knows that, since it’s one of his main areas of research. He realized years ago that it might be possible to match wounds to weapons, and he’s published several papers on it. What he’s learned, though, is that there’s wiggle room, mostly because, well, flesh wiggles. He can tell whether a stab was made by a kitchen knife or a switchblade. But if he has potential weapons with similar blades of slightly different sizes, he can rarely choose one with enough certainty to risk a suspect’s life on it.

Likewise with blunt force trauma, it’s not as if the scalp and skull took a perfect impression of the weapon. The amount of force used plays a role, as does speed, tissue elasticity, length of contact… These are all things I vaguely knew as a detective, but I’ve now actually helped Gray prove them.

Science isn’t magic, and I appreciate that Gray recognizes the fallibility of his work. Putting too much faith in forensics—especially early forensics—sent many people to the gallows. Hell, it continues to send people to death row, when juries raised on CSI get overly excited about scientific “proof.”

Even after measuring, we can only say that both shillelaghs are possible murder weapons, based on the width of their club-like ends. Then we try matching up the knobs, but that’s trickier than you’d think. We end up with two possible points of impact on each shillelagh.

“I believe we require a demonstration,” Gray says.

“Uh…”

“Stand right there, face the window, and let me club you in the back of the head. Then we can see which knobs line up correctly.” He catches my look and raises his brows, eyes twinkling. “For science?”

“You believe that’s a valid science experiment?”

His lips twitch. “I do. The question is whether you are committed enough to try it.”

“No, it’s whether you’re committed enough. Because I’m nowhere near Ezra’s height.” I lift a shillelagh with my bare hand. “Turn around, Doctor.”

He smiles and shakes his head. “I was joking, of course.”

“He says now,” I mutter. “You do realize the implications of a man threatening to hit a woman in his employ.”

That smile evaporates. “I did not intend—”

“I’m kidding, but you deserved that. Okay, I get what you’re saying, though. We need to test out the clubs to see which knobs would match up with a blow and whether they fit the impression. You’ll need to stand in the line of fire, since you’re tall enough to see the knobs when I swing the club.”

He stands with his back to me. I arrange my gloved hands on the club until I find a position that would work. I swing and stop a little lower than his head, Sinclair being a couple of inches shorter.

“Okay, turn,” I say.

He does and compares the knobs to the marks on the paper. He shakes his head, and we do it again with another position. Again, it’s not a match.

“Those are the only two ways to swing it with the right weight,” I say. “The bulb is slightly off to the side, so you need to hold it just right. Let’s try the other one.”

The other shillelagh has a more centered knob, but the stick is slightly bent, meaning there are only a few ways to comfortably swing it. I get a good and natural grip and feign clubbing my boss.

Gray turns, lifts the paper, and, before he can say anything, I say, “That works, right?”

“Your mind-reading is improving.”

“Nope, just my Duncan-reading.” I jiggle the club. “Can you come hold it and I’ll take a look.”

He does. I walk over, rise onto my tiptoes, and see that the knobs do indeed line up.

“One more thing.” I grab a pillow and lift it. “Swing as if this is Ezra’s head. I doubt height will change anything, but you might swing differently than I do.”

The knobs still line up. To be absolutely certain, we dust them with some of the lead powder I’d used for fingerprinting. Yep, lead powder. I really try not to inhale.

Once that’s applied, I get an impression of the club end, and it does indeed match. We set that aside for McCreadie to see and evaluate.

“Care for another experiment with the shillelagh?” Gray asks.

“Does it involve clubbing me like a baby seal?”

His brows shoot up. “Do I want to know what that means?”

“Nope. Okay, what do you want to test?”

“Height differential. We know how tall Ezra is. Now that we have what is almost certainly the murder weapon, we can test whether the killer is more likely to be my height or yours.”

We rearrange furniture to get that pillow at Sinclair’s head level. Then we both swing the shillelagh.

Our question isn’t answered as neatly as we might have hoped. The blow came from directly behind, which is not the proper way to swing a shillelagh. The stick is intended for fighting, not sneaking up and clubbing someone. Gray’s natural blow would crack down a little higher on Sinclair’s head. Mine would be lower. That doesn’t rule out anyone except Alice and maybe Violet.

We finally stop, both slightly winded.

“Okay, so we have a potential weapon and a possible height range if the killer used that weapon. I lifted four sets of fingerprints from it. One matched the prints we took from Ezra. Even if we identify the others, they won’t point to the killer. Also, there are a whole bunch from one person, and I’m going to guess that’s Archie, which doesn’t help his case.”

“Having a potential weapon is progress,” Gray says as he dabs sweat with a handkerchief. “And while it’s disappointing that we could not definitively narrow down the height of the killer, it does mean we continue to have the full range of suspects to consider.”

“Not sure that’s a plus,” I say. “But okay. Fingerprinting can wait. It’ll be useless until I have Archie’s to exclude. Time to catch up with Hugh?”

“Also tea, as we seem to have missed lunch.”

“Do you want me to see what’s left over from lunch? Skip tea instead?”

He gives me a hard look, and I laugh and then follow him out the door.