Page 24 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

TWENTY-FOUR

So the bench trip is a bust. Or it would be, if not for that conversation with Isla. Is it wrong to say that I’d take her admitting her feelings for Hugh over a piece of murder evidence any day? Bad Detective Mallory. Okay, if it was a piece of evidence that would catch the killer before they struck again, I’d need to go with the clue instead. But if it was something like a footprint in the damp earth that I could trace to the woman Sinclair had been meeting—who likely wasn’t his killer—I’ll stick with Isla’s long-overdue confession.

I actually do find a print in the damp earth. It’s a man’s boot and almost certainly McCreadie’s, which I know because I’ve had to exclude his prints before. I still measure and sketch it.

I find nothing else. No evidence to tell me who the mystery woman was. No evidence to suggest she even made it to this bench. But being here, I can better map out the route she’d have taken and confirm that the woman we’d seen last night definitely could have been heading here. I can also confirm that Sinclair was probably heading here, having circled through the field on the other side of the road to avoid them being seen together.

McCreadie and Isla had chosen this spot because it’s not only pretty but isolated. Or so it seems when you’re sitting here. Gray and I had spotted them from the road, but looking up from here, I wouldn’t see passing coaches or pedestrians… and would reasonably assume they couldn’t see me either.

It’s the perfect spot for a rendezvous.

Now, how is it for witnessing a homicide?

“Alarming how quickly your mind moves from romance to murder,” Isla murmurs when I tell her that. “I know only one other person who could veer so naturally and adroitly. Perhaps I should introduce you to him. No, wait, you are working for him.”

I ignore that. “It’s a perfectly natural change of subject, considering that the romantic rendezvous is connected to the murder, at least in the sense that it explains why Ezra was out last night.”

That gleam in her eye disappears as her face drops. “He came to meet a woman, who might have been Violet Cranston. Her chance at finally finding happiness.”

“We don’t know it was Violet,” I say firmly. “But if the woman I saw last night sat here, I’m wondering whether she could have heard anything. Can you sit while I go up the hill? I want to try shouting from the murder scene.”

“To see whether I can hear you.”

“Right.”

“Do not forget the traps.”

“Oh, I won’t. Duncan and Hugh are going to ask Müller to remove them, in light of what happened and the number of people who need to be tramping through these fields. For now, I’ll just walk carefully.”

“ Very carefully. Please.”

I head directly up the hill to the road. From there, I realize I can’t see Isla. It was the extra height of the coach that gave us the proper vantage. Once on the road, I look around to get my bearings. Then I head almost directly across and into the brush. Within twenty feet I reach the spot where we’d found the abandoned deer kill. I make a quick note of that. Then I veer left and count off the distance in paces.

Seventy-two paces.

That makes it very likely that whoever had been field-dressing the deer had heard something—or someone—related to the murder. They’d definitely have heard a cry. Maybe even the thwack of the club hitting Sinclair’s head.

They’re butchering the deer when they hear someone. Would movement make them bolt, half their catch abandoned? Probably not. They’d have braced and waited. But a cry? The sound of violence? That would make them grab what they could and go.

I look around the spot. I’d like to come back with Gray and McCreadie for another look, now that Ross won’t be running us off his crime scene. For now, I yelp. It’s a normal-volume yelp, as if I’d been caught unawares. Then I say “Hey!” with my voice raised. Finally, I take a deep breath and yell, a soundless cry of pain and surprise. There, three vocalizations to determine which—if any—Isla could hear from her spot at the lake.

I’m making my way back when someone shouts, “You there!,” and I turn to see Müller stomping toward me, hunting rifle under his arm, the barrel pointed at me. My hand slides into my pocket, where I am indeed now carrying my little derringer.

“Lower the rifle,” I call back.

His steps slow, and even from twenty paces, I see his face screw up in confusion.

“You are pointing a rifle at me,” I say, my fingers finding their grip on the derringer, still in my voluminous pocket. “Move it away from me now. ”

His eyes narrow, and that gun barrel doesn’t budge.

I pull out the derringer and point it at him. Seeing it, he blinks. There are many emotions he could show at that moment. Surprise. Confusion. Grudging respect. Even amusement. Instead what fills his eyes is a hate sharp enough to make my breath catch.

Wrong move, Mallory.

Yes, I’ve pissed off a guy with a gun, but taking out mine wasn’t necessarily the wrong move, if the alternative was letting him think he can aim his rifle at me without consequence.

“What do you think you will do with that little thing?” he says.

At this point, it would be lovely—and badass—to turn the gun and fire it at a nearby tree, in a satisfying display of marksmanship. But that’s a whole lot less risky with a modern gun that takes more than two rounds.

Instead I say, “I am alone out here, where a man has been murdered, and someone is pointing a gun at me. I would be a fool not to at least try defending myself.”

“I am pointing the gun because you should not be here, little girl.”

I bristle at that. Even in Catriona’s body, I’m hardly a little girl.

“I am looking for my employer,” I lie. “Dr. Gray came to speak to you with Detective McCreadie. Have they found you?”

He grunts. “I saw them heading for my cottage, so I turned and walked the other way. I have no time for their nonsense. Not for yours either. Walking around out here and screaming.”

“I was testing how far away Mr. Sinclair’s cries could have been heard.”

Müller eyes me. “I thought you were looking for your master.”

My jaw clenches at the word “master” and I tell myself it’s commonly used in this period. Except the way Müller says it puts my teeth on edge.

“I am,” I say. “But I paused to conduct an experiment. I am a scientist’s assistant, after all.”

“Mallory?” a voice calls, and I look to see Isla hurrying over the field. “I heard you shout.” Spotting Müller and the two guns, she stops short.

“It is fine,” I say. “We startled one another, and we were just about to lower our weapons.”

I force myself to withdraw the derringer. Only once I do that does Müller follow suit, with a little sniff of satisfaction that I backed down first.

“It seems Mr. Müller missed your brother and Detective McCreadie,” I say sweetly. “He has not yet been interviewed. We ought to escort him to them.”

“You will do no such thing, girl,” Müller says. “I am busy—”

“Doing something that is more important than helping find a killer? You knew Ezra Sinclair. Surely you want his murderer caught. You must also want Mr. Cranston released.”

“Released?”

“First Constable Ross arrested him for the murder.”

Müller lowers the rifle further and snorts. “Fool,” he mutters, though I’m not sure whether he means Ross or Cranston.

“Right now, nothing is more important than helping your employer,” I say.

His expression suggests he’s not so sure of that.

“You do want to keep your job, I presume?” Isla says.

He doesn’t even look her way. “Do I still have a job? Mr. Cranston seems to be reconsidering after the nonsense with that wildcat.” He rolls his eyes. “Letting me go because I caught the cat he wished gone? Oh, but the girl was upset. We cannot have that.”

“The girl is 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 feels bad for 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?

“I was not going to ask about removing them,” I say. “I wanted to ask whether there are any in this area.”

That crafty look again, as if he doesn’t want to answer because he likes seeing Cranston’s guests gingerly picking their way through the fields.

“It will be important for the investigation,” I say. “Mr. Sinclair was out here at night. He knew where the traps were. If there are some here—and he came into this field—it might suggest he was being pursued.”

Do I really think Sinclair was being chased? No. Everything indicates ambush. So why ask about this?

“There are no traps in this field.”

I frown. “Are you certain? I saw something gleaming over here.”

I start to walk, and he follows to prove me wrong. He walks right into a bit of marshy lowland and looks around. When his attention is diverted, I slip a few coins from my pocket and toss two.

“I see nothing,” he says with satisfaction.

“No? Then what is that?” I point at the coins.

He strides over, bends and scoops up the coins. Then he shakes his head and holds out a shilling between his thumb and forefinger. I let him drop it into my palm.

“Oh,” I say. “How peculiar. Is the other one also a coin?”

He lifts a guinea… and then smirks as he drops it into his pocket.

“You have wasted enough of my time with your foolishness,” he says, turning on his heel.

He strides off. Isla and I stay where we are until he’s out of earshot. Then she indicates the coin in my palm.

“Finger marks?” she says.

I smile and point down at very clear boot treads in the soft earth. “And footprints. Thank you, Mr. Müller. You were very helpful.”

She laughs softly as I wrap the coin in my handkerchief and then bend to measure the footprints.