Page 26 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

TWENTY-SIX

I know a little about jails in this period and region. Jail as in “a temporary holding place” rather than prison as in “a place where sentences are carried out.” Most of my knowledge comes from my childhood interest in the macabre that has persisted well past childhood. One might think jails and prisons wouldn’t qualify as macabre, but having spent a night in an Edinburgh lockup, I can say hell, yeah, that qualifies.

I’ve visited old village lockups in England. They’re basically a closet-sized stone cell in the middle of town. I can just imagine what it’d have been like to be confined there at night. I’m not claustrophobic or afraid of the dark, but something tells me I would be when I came out.

Did Scotland have those? I’m not sure. I know they did have the uniquely Scottish tolbooths—buildings that were originally intended for the collection of tolls and customs, and eventually included jails and law-enforcement bureaucracy. I suspect this village is much too small for such a thing. Maybe Cranston will go to one when he’s transferred to a larger locale. For now, I have no idea where they’ll keep him.

I soon find out.

This village isn’t big enough for a proper jail. But, like some tolbooths, the sole administrative building serves as a combination of everything from police office to town hall. That’s where the cell is—an outdoor makeshift lean-to shored up with iron bars.

Ross allows us entry. Not only does it save him from feeding the prisoner, but Fiona has brought a spread big enough for three, and he takes more than half for his own meal. He also happily accepts the coins she brought “for anything Archie might need.”

I had been concerned that Ross might not let me accompany Fiona. What if McCreadie was trying to sneak Gray’s assistant in to question Cranston for him? Silly question. I am the pretty young woman Dr. Gray pretends is his assistant. Even if they’d given me a list of questions, I probably couldn’t read them.

Oh, Ross remembers me. His stares and flushes make that much clear. But he doesn’t for one second doubt that I’ve only come to accompany Cranston’s fiancée. Nor does he seem to recall that Fiona is also Detective McCreadie’s sister.

Ross takes us out back to the lean-to. “Cranston?” he calls. “You have a visitor.”

“ Mr. Cranston,” Fiona says smartly. She looks at him. “When my bridegroom is released, this will go much easier for you if you have treated him with respect.”

Ross blinks, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek. Until now, she has been the perfect model of maidenly decorum, with downcast eyes and a quavering voice. Now that she got what she wanted, she returns to form.

Ross doesn’t seem to know how to respond and opens the door. “You will have to go inside. I cannot leave it open.”

Fiona swans in as if he’s holding the door to a ball. I follow and squint against the interior gloom. The only light is sunshine sneaking through cracks in the rough construction. It’s half the size of a county jail cell. There isn’t even a cot—just a few bales of hay. That’s where Cranston sits, rising quickly as he realizes he has visitors. Even in the dim light, he’s a mess, his shirt dirty and wrinkled, hair standing on end as if he’s been running his hands through it.

“Violet,” he says. Then he stops. “Fiona?” He quickly pats down his hair and pulls his shirt straight, and his voice lowers a little. “What are you doing here?”

“Come to bring you dinner.” She lifts the hamper. “Also clean clothing and a few other amenities. I am sorry if you were expecting Violet. Of course she wanted to come, but I asked whether I might instead.”

“Oh?” He sounds confused, as if unable to comprehend why his fiancée would want to see him.

“I apologize for the disappointment.”

“What? No.” More shirt straightening. “I simply did not expect… This is not the place for you, and I am the one who should apologize. I expected you to be on your way to Edinburgh by now.”

Her brows shoot up. “Fleeing my falsely imprisoned bridegroom? Do you really think me that sort of woman, Archie?”

“I…” He swallows, seeming thrown and almost shy. Then he looks at me and seems to pounce at the distraction. “Miss Mitchell. Dare I hope Hugh sent you and that he is working on freeing me?”

“Indeed,” I say. “That is the real reason Violet could not come. She knew Fiona wanted to and I needed to. Detective McCreadie has questions, and Constable Ross was never going to let him ask them himself. He cannot know we are investigating at all.”

Cranston’s shoulders roll back. “Hugh is investigating then.”

“Did you think my brother would forsake you?” Fiona’s lips curve. “His soon-to-be brother-in-law?”

A look passes over Cranston’s face, and I try to read it. Shame? Discomfort? He says, softly, “I understand that you may not wish to wed, Fiona. Even if I am freed of the charge, it will stain me.”

“If you are trying to get out of the marriage, say so,” she says tartly.

He blinks, taken aback. “Not at all. But I would understand—”

“We will discuss that later, and if you wish this to serve as an excuse to end the engagement, I trust you will be honest. For now, answer Mallory’s questions.”

His lips twitch, and he looks more like himself. “Yes, my lady.” He turns to me. “Ask away.”

I start by telling him what we know of the reason Ross has arrested him. Then I say, “Has he indicated he has evidence?”

A derisive snort. “No. He is certain that his theory is enough.”

“At the site of Mr. Sinclair’s murder, you presumed you were the target.”

Beside me, Fiona stiffens.

Cranston meets my gaze. “Is that not obvious? Ezra was walking my estate grounds in the darkness of night, wearing my coat. Someone approached from behind and struck him.”

“Thinking it was you.”

“No one would have cause to kill Ezra. Me on the other hand?” A humorless smile. “The list is long and varied.”

“Is it?” Fiona says. “You upset and anger people, but have you done anything to truly make someone wish you dead?” She looks at me. “Apologies. I did not mean to interrupt.”

“It is a valid question,” I say. “The problem is that people’s reasons for murder rarely make sense to anyone else. Also, it is not clear that murder was the intention. A single blow to the head is not usually fatal. However, I definitely need a list of everyone at the house or in the area who might have reason to harm you, Mr. Cranston. If we can even prove that you were the likely victim, it helps your case.”

“Because I would not murder myself? That was, sadly, my primary defense. That I was almost certainly the intended victim, having angered so many people. I have been composing a list.” He looks at me. “Are you ready?”

I take out my notepad and pencil. “Proceed.”

His list is very close to our own. Ross has already told Cranston that he suspects he only meant to hurt Sinclair, and so Cranston gives me everyone in the area with a grievance.

Edith Frye, for suspecting he’s cheating them on the investment, which he swears he is not. James Frye would seem a possibility, but Cranston doesn’t think he has it in him. That could seem like an insult, but he doesn’t seem to consider it one, which tracks with what everyone has said about Cranston himself eschewing violence.

Mr. Hall, the former gamekeeper, and his children make the list. They have a serious grievance, which Cranston surprisingly recognizes as valid. He doesn’t apologize for it—just says they have reason to want to frighten him or get revenge.

Müller is next on the list. As we suspected, Cranston planned to fire him, and he’s not surprised that Müller understood his predicament.

“We spoke,” Cranston says. “Or I spoke and he listened, which he did not much like. I was furious about the traps. He made it seem as if I were lying about expressing concern over them. He acted as if I ordered the killing of the wildcat. Both were false, and to question me on that, in front of others, was the height of duplicity and insolence.”

I’m still not completely convinced Müller was lying about those two things, but I won’t get clarity on that with Fiona here. If Cranston is exaggerating, it’s for her sake. I’m not even sure he’d admit to anything without her around. He’s adamant in that way of people who are either telling the truth or have convinced themselves they are.

“Anyone else?” I say.

“Locally, no.”

“Mrs. Hall?”

He shakes his head. “I realize some would question the wisdom of keeping on the housekeeper whose husband I let go. But it would have been cruel to also release her when I had no cause.”

“She does have access to your food.”

“And would poison me?” He shakes his head. “She is a sensible woman who understands I made an estate-management decision. Most people who purchase a property do the same.”

“They bring in their own staff. You believe she understood that but her husband did not?”

“I do not know her husband well enough to say. That is why he is on my list.”

“And their children?”

“They are angry. To them, I stole their family home and disrespected their father. It did not even help that I tried to hire them on.”

I frown. “You tried to hire Lenore and Gavin Hall?”

“Yes. The girl to work in the house and the lad to do some labor about the estate. The boy refused, but Lenore worked with her mother for months. It seemed to go well enough, and then she quit. Ezra thinks she had hoped if she proved a good worker, I would hire their father back and return them to the cottage. I did not—could not, as I had a six-month arrangement with Müller—but the girl apparently does not see it that way, and she has avoided me ever since.”

“You offered Gavin a job on the estate but not his father?”

Cranston sighs. “Ezra convinced me that it would be insulting to Hall and offensive to Müller.”

Sinclair had a point. Firing Hall as gamekeeper and hiring him back to work a lesser position would be insulting, and Müller wouldn’t want his predecessor on the estate, judging how he managed it, maybe even sabotaging him to get his job back.

“How about the locals?” I say. “Is anyone angry enough to wish you harm?”

Cranston throws up his hands. “Probably? They act as if I am some ogre who bought the estate and erected a moat filled with crocodiles. I purchased the property and continued on in the same manner as the previous owner. Yet it is me they are furious with.”

Fiona says, carefully, “My sense, Archie, is that they were equally angry with the previous owner. He built the house and kept them off an estate they long considered community land. They hoped that would change when you bought the property, and it did not.”

“Then tell me so,” he says with exasperation. “Form a delegation. Have the village head or whatnot come to me and discuss it. People barely say a word to me. They only look daggers and act as if I refused to hear them out when they have not said a word.”

He looks at me. “That is an issue to be solved another day. You ask whether any of them would wish to harm me. Club me over the head to show I am not safe in my fiefdom? Yes, I can see that. But do not ask me who.”

“Because you do not know any of them,” Fiona murmurs. “You have not tried to meet them. Have not frequented their shops. Have made no effort to learn anything about the village at your gates.”

He sighs, deeply and dramatically. “I only wished for a country estate. I had no idea there would be so many complications. I am not a lord.”

“Maybe not,” I say. “But that social construct is built into the land. The construct and the compact. They expect certain things from you, and if you do not provide them, they will see it as churlish arrogance.”

Cranston peers at me. There I go again, not talking like a young woman lifted up from the working class.

“Well put,” Fiona says. “But as you say, Archie, all that can be resolved later, and I will be there to smooth the waters. We will begin with a summer picnic on the estate.”

Cranston groans. “I bought the place to escape all that.”

“Too bad. You will endure the occasional social event.”

“Are the gallows really so terrible?” he murmurs. “I hear it is quick.”

“You are joking,” Fiona says. “But do not talk like that. This is a mistake that will be rectified.”

“On that note,” I say, “are there specific villagers with more reason to dislike you than others?”

He throws up his hands again.

Fiona leans in and stage-whispers, “That would require him knowing their names. Any of their names.”

This is the first time I’ve seen Fiona and Cranston together in anything other than a large group. Their energy is… interesting. Fiona is relaxed, teasing him and making plans for the future, and he is acting as if he’s not sure what to make of that. As if he really did think she’d be long gone.

It’s an arranged marriage, and to me, with my twenty-first-century Western sensibilities, I’d expect Fiona to jump at the chance to escape it. Even Cranston might, if he had hopes of more than a domestic partner to manage his household and bear his children.

It’s obvious that they know one another, in the way children of long-connected families do, but it’s also obvious that those families didn’t bother with even a sham courtship. It’s like being told you’ll marry the son of your dad’s work partner, a guy you’ve seen at social events for years but barely exchanged five words with. I’m horrified at the thought, but the only thing that seems to horrify Cranston is his bride’s youth, which may come from having known her since she really was a girl.

As for Fiona, I don’t even know what to think. I do get the sense that this wouldn’t be the worst marriage ever, as arranged marriages go. Not a love match, but a decent working partnership, the sort Isla had foreseen between McCreadie and Violet. The romantic in me always hopes for more, but the realist looks at all the spectacularly shitty “love matches” she’s seen and has to admit this might not be as horrifying as it appears.

“I do know some of their names,” Cranston says with a mock glare at Fiona. “Constable Ross for one.”

She snorts.

“And Doctor…” He trails off and then comes back with, “There is a fine doctor and his wife, both elderly. The name escapes me.”

“What about Nora?” I ask.

He frowns. “Lenore Hall?”

I shake my head. “Nora Glass.”

His eyes roll up in thought. Then irritation sets in as he shakes his head. “If you are testing me, Miss Mitchell, I have already admitted I know few of the villagers. Several of the young women have worked at the estate, but I do not know any by that name.”

“Nora Glass is—was—twelve. As far as I know, she never worked at the estate. She died earlier this spring after contracting measles.”

He blanches. “Of course. Yes, when I returned last month, I heard that a village child had died.” He sneaks a look at Fiona. “I ought to have offered condolences, I suppose.”

“Yes,” she murmurs. “But again, I will handle these things, and no one would truly have expected it of a bachelor.” She frowns at me. “Did someone take umbrage at the lack of condolences? Enough to attack Archie over it? I cannot see that, but I do not know the local customs.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t hear anything like that. I did hear, though, that Nora was on the estate grounds shortly before she took ill.”

“What?” Cranston says, his surprise seeming genuine.

“She liked to walk on the grounds. Mr. Müller caught her and ran her off.”

He stares at me. “And then continued insisting we leave out those traps? Knowing children played there?”

I note his use of “children.” Nora was twelve, on the cusp of puberty. In my experience, men who prey on children of that age are quick to mentally push them into the realm of adulthood. Young woman. Teenage girl. Not a child.

“Müller did not tell you about her?” I press.

“Certainly not. Likely because it meant I’d never have allowed the traps. I was already concerned that they might hurt someone.”

“Isn’t the point of traps to hurt someone?”

He gives me a hard look, as if I’m baiting him. “No, the point is to keep people out of the fields. To discourage poaching.”

“Poaching was a serious problem?”

“The former owner said it was. I have not been here long enough to judge for myself, but with all that is being said, I begin to wonder if his account was not exaggerated.”

“You heard about Nora’s death when you came back last month. When exactly was that?”

He provides the dates in May, which are a couple of weeks after Nora died. Before that, he’d been up briefly in March, but the mud made him decide to wait until spring. He’d been up frequently last fall, hunting, and again in December, hosting friends, but since the new year, it’d been only the early March and late May trips. If that’s true, he wasn’t here anytime close to when Müller ran Nora off.

“There are villagers who may blame you for Nora Glass’s death,” I say.

He frowns. “They think she caught the measles on my estate? Duncan could set them straight on that.” He pauses. “Or do they think she caught it from Müller? I know there has been grave suspicion about him, as a foreigner.”

I tell him about the so-called curse and add, “The blame seems to come because you hired him.”

“Hired a foreign devil to chase off children and kill them with foreign curses?” He looks at Fiona. “You really believe we can socialize with these people?”

“Obviously not everyone thinks Müller cursed Nora,” I say. “It might only be a tale told among the children.”

“I am now a monster in the tales of the local children? Lovely.”

When I tell Cranston about the note, his shoulders slump and he shakes his head, muttering about the mess he’s gotten into.

“Detective McCreadie needs to look into it,” I say, “on the chance—however slim—that the killer targeted you for that. The problem is that he does not dare start asking questions in town, or Constable Ross will know he is investigating. We need an unrelated reason for speaking to Nora’s family. Fiona mentioned that you ought to have sent condolences. Might we do that, on your behalf? Claim that you only just heard of Nora’s death and, although you are obviously unable to visit yourself, you wanted to send something?”

His eyes narrow. “Will that not look like blood money, if they believe me responsible?”

“It would be a gift, not money. If they take offense, they will say so. If they feel, in any way, that you owe them, while I know that would be uncomfortable for you, it helps with the case. It would get them talking.”

“Fine. Whatever Hugh deems fit. I trust him to handle this correctly. Now, if you have more questions, is there any chance I can answer them while eating? I have not had a bite since last night.”

I pick up the basket. “Of course.”