Page 28 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

TWENTY-EIGHT

Once again, I can’t sleep. This time, even having a tiny furry roommate doesn’t distract me. I cuddle the wildcat kitten, who has decided she will tolerate such things, and I play “catch the finger” with her for a few minutes, until her excited squeaks have Alice tossing and turning. With one last apologetic pat, I set the kitten back in her box, put on my wrapper and slippers, and then head into the hall.

Of course, once out of the room, I have no idea what to do. I wouldn’t bother Isla. While I’d love to poke my head into Gray’s room, hoping the sound will wake him, that’s wrong. Plus it runs the risk of me being caught coming or going from his bedchamber.

I wander downstairs. The house is silent and still. As I scan the hall, I remind myself that I’m not nearly the “guest” I was on my first night here. Everything is so topsy-turvy that no one would blink twice at Gray’s assistant availing herself of the library at night.

I slip in there, and once I do, I need to kick myself for being a lousy detective. Apparently, I haven’t paid nearly enough attention to this room or I’d have noticed that the library has a distinct lack of books.

There’s a desk and bookshelves, but those shelves are mostly bare, the few items gracing them being knickknacks that seem to have been left by the previous owner. Just random Victorian bric-a-brac, mostly imitation antiquities, like a statue of a Greek nymph and a Chinese vase. The half-dozen books also seem to have been left behind, all nonfiction of the sort guaranteed to cure my insomnia.

I should have brought a book. Gray’s house is certainly full of them, fiction and reference, and no one would have objected to me taking one on the trip. I’m just still too accustomed to my world, where I always have a device, and that device will hold my latest novel plus a virtual to-be-read shelf.

I should ask whether Isla brought books. I remember her coming downstairs today holding one, and I’m sure she brought a backup. For now, I’m stuck leafing through The Wealth of Nations. Yes, I know it’s a classic, written by a Scottish economist and philosopher, but holy shit is it boring. The guy will make an interesting point and then go on for dozens of pages explaining it with examples that probably made sense to an eighteenth-century reader—or a historian—but I’m dying. So when footsteps sound in the hall, I shut the book in relief.

I resist the urge to hide, but I don’t call out a greeting either. Those footsteps are moving so slowly and lightly that it’s clear the person doesn’t want to be heard. After they’ve gone past the library door, I slide the book aside and rise.

The footsteps continue deeper into the house. I tilt my head, frowning as I try to figure out where they’re going. The kitchen for a snack? No, the steps are coming back my way.

I hold my breath and wait. The footfalls pass and return to the stairs. Going back up? That’s odd. Is someone sleepwalking?

I creep to the door as a stair creaks, as they return upstairs. Were they down here checking whether anyone else was awake? Like me, unable to sleep, hoping for company?

Gray wouldn’t creep about. Isla and McCreadie might, not wanting to wake anyone. Or could it have been Alice, waking to find me gone? That’s the most likely answer.

I head back to the stairs. As I near them, though, the door that clicks shut is on the next level. Not Alice then. If it was Isla or McCreadie, I’m sorry I missed them.

I creep up the steps in hopes of hearing a noise in one of their rooms. If I do, I can softly knock and let them know I’m awake at this ungodly hour, too. Insomnia loves company.

I pause at the top and listen. The faintest swish of fabric comes. I follow it to my right, across the hall from Gray’s room. Who was sleeping in there? One of the men, I think. Sinclair or Cranston. The women’s rooms are all down farther, with Isla’s.

No, that wouldn’t be Cranston’s chambers. He has the main bedroom, and if I recall correctly, it’s up another set of stairs. These are all guest rooms.

Then I realize whose room that is. I’d stood atop these stairs earlier today as Simon and another groom came up… carrying Sinclair’s body.

Someone is in Ezra Sinclair’s room. Where his dead body is laid out.

I hold my breath as I creep toward the door. I’m careful not to step in front of it, in case my slippered feet shadow any light underneath.

The interior has gone silent. Even when I strain to listen, I pick up nothing.

The obvious reason for someone to be in Sinclair’s room is to retrieve something. Evidence that might indicate Sinclair was the actual intended victim? Planting a clue to divert attention? Or planting a clue to exonerate or convict Cranston?

I wait another minute as I listen, but when no sound comes, I take hold of the doorknob, turn it slowly, and ease the door open a crack.

At first I see nothing. There’s no sound either—no one gasps or scuttles for a hiding spot. Cold air blasts out, from the windows all being opened to delay decomposition. Then I catch a figure seated in a bedside chair.

Is someone paying their respects? If so, I should retreat. That would be the polite thing to do. But I’m no longer just a guest in this house. I’m a detective solving the murder of the man lying on the bed.

I ease the door another inch, until I can see the form better. It’s a woman. A dark-haired, petite woman.

Violet Cranston.

I consider my options, but really, there are no options. Sure, I could back out and leave her to her silent vigil, but if I did, I’d be a decent person and a shitty detective.

“Oh!” I say as I push the door a little further open. “I am so sorry.”

She whirls, sees me, and scrambles to her feet.

I step in and close the door, and then move close enough to speak softly. “My deepest apologies. I was coming downstairs when I thought I heard someone in here and I feared it might be…” I trail off as my gaze shifts in discomfort. “I do hate to suggest this, but I feared one of the servants might be taking advantage of Mr. Sinclair’s death to pocket a valuable or two.”

She doesn’t answer. I wonder whether my explanation landed wrong. Then I see her, face drawn, breath held, and I realize she’s barely heard my excuse. She’s waiting for me to ask hers.

Uh, so, what exactly are you doing in here with a dead body, Miss Cranston?

“I am sorry to interrupt your grief,” I say. “Might I bring you tea from the kitchen?”

She visibly relaxes as she realizes I don’t see anything odd about her sitting beside a dead man. Certainly, in my time, finding someone sitting with a sheet-wrapped corpse in the middle of the night would be concerning. But Victorians are much more accustomed to death and more comfortable with the dead. Also, would I really think it odd if someone wanted to sit, alone, with the body of a loved one in a funeral home? No.

But would I have considered Violet close enough to Sinclair to visit his body? While he was her brother’s best friend, I don’t get the sense they were like Isla and McCreadie, growing up together and staying close. Cranston hasn’t lived with his family for years.

Would Violet sneak in here, in the middle of the night, to sit vigil with her brother’s friend?

I remember my thoughts and suspicions from earlier.

According to that maid, Sinclair wrote a note to a woman in the house, asking her to meet him at the lake. The most likely person he’d been meeting, I had decided, was the one now sitting beside his body.

Violet hasn’t answered my question about the tea, so I decide to skip it or she might not be here when I return.

“I am sorry to intrude,” I say again. “However, since I am here, I feel there is something I must warn you about.”

Her brow furrows, as if she’s wondering whether she heard me right. “Warn me?”

“It is about last night,” I say. “I saw something, and it concerns you. I do not believe it signifies, but as Detective McCreadie and Dr. Gray are now on the case, if I were to keep this from them, I could lose my position.”

I lean in and whisper, “I saw you going out. I do not sleep well in strange places, and I have been up every night, wandering as I try to sleep. I was gazing out the window when I saw you hurry past. I became alarmed, knowing of the traps and what they did to that poor wildcat. I pulled on my boots and went out after you. I saw you heading up the hill to the south, on the road, but once I crested the hill, you were gone. I realized then that I might be interrupting a romantic rendezvous and quickly retreated.”

She says nothing. Just watches. After all, I haven’t asked a question, have I?

I continue, “I wouldn’t have mentioned it to Dr. Gray or Detective McCreadie. Obviously you are not the killer. But then Detective McCreadie learned of a note sent to one of the women, from Mr. Sinclair, inviting them to join him at the small lake, which is exactly where you seemed to be going.”

Still she says nothing. Smart, really. If there’s one piece of legal advice that clients often ignore, it’s this: Don’t volunteer information. Especially don’t volunteer it when the cops haven’t asked an actual question. That goes for the innocent as well as the guilty.

“I will need to speak to Dr. Gray,” I say. “That is one of the things that has kept me up tonight—the fear that I have already held back too much. It will help, though, if I can say I spoke to you about it already. Dr. Gray will see that you had nothing to do with Mr. Sinclair’s death and there might be no need to bother Detective McCreadie with it.”

Oh, that’s low. Very low. I should be ashamed of myself. But I need to take the shot. I am here to solve a case, not to be nice, even to a woman who probably deserves a little more niceness in her life.

Sure enough, Violet flinches at McCreadie’s name, and a look like horror crosses behind her eyes. I said I’d seen her, but she hadn’t taken that to the obvious end point—that I needed to tell her former fiancé she’d been meeting a man last night.

“I know it was you,” I say, my voice lowered. “If I could say I was not sure, I might be able to ignore it, but I cannot.”

“It was not what it seems,” she says quickly. “I realize how it might appear, but Ezra is”—her gaze shoots to the bed—“ was my brother’s best friend. I have known him for most of my life. Yes, he sent me a message. Yes, he asked me to meet him at the lake. I expected he wished to offer quiet sympathy, away from prying eyes. He knew I have been upset. It was not easy, being here.” She looks up at me. “I do not expect you to know this, but I once had an attachment to Hugh McCreadie.”

“You were engaged,” I say softly.

The look that crosses her face now is pure humiliation, and I hate that look so much. I hate that—years after a man decided not to marry her—she still bears that brand, feels that shame. That the world expects her to be ashamed.

“I heard it ended,” I say. “It was arranged by your parents, and you and Detective McCreadie decided you did not suit.”

Those simple words—making the decision seem mutual—have her relaxing.

“Yes,” she says. “We did not suit, sadly. It can still be difficult, though, seeing him.”

“I can imagine.”

“I believe Ezra wished to lend me the proverbial sympathetic ear. Even a shoulder to cry on, if that was what I required. He was always kind to me. He treated me as if I were his sister.”

She quickly adds, “Not that I was in need of a better older brother. Archie is the best a woman could want. He has always watched out for me. But he can be… less than observant. If I admitted it bothered me to have Hugh here, he would have made arrangements for me or Hugh to stay elsewhere. But if I act as if it does not bother me, he does not see that it does. Some people need to be told a thing directly. They are not good at interpreting signs. That is my brother.”

“But Ezra was different.”

She manages a wan smile. “I have always thought the best friends are those who complement one another. Like Hugh and Duncan. That was Archie and Ezra. My brother cannot see anything that is not held in front of his face, while Ezra saw everything. He always knew what I needed. Last night, I needed a friend, and so I believe that is what he wanted to give me. Trusting him implicitly, I went out.”

I let the silence stretch. I can tell there’s more she wants to say, and after a moment she does.

“In light of what happened, though,” she says, “I have wondered whether he might have wanted to tell me something else.”

“Something that got him killed?”

She shakes her head. “I cannot imagine that. I know people believe Archie was the intended victim, and I would agree.” A weak smile. “My brother has that effect on people.”

“But Mr. Sinclair did not.”

She hesitates before shaking her head.

“You were thinking of something,” I press.

“Only that…” She trails off and plucks at her skirt. “I am overtired, and my mind is wandering.”

“When it comes to murder, Dr. Gray always says to tell him everything and he will determine what is important.” He says nothing of the sort to me, since that would be really condescending when speaking to a professional police detective, but it makes Violet nod in understanding.

“Yesterday, after that terrible business with the wildcat,” she says, “I saw Ezra speaking to Mr. Müller, who was most agitated. Later, I overheard Ezra with Archie, and Ezra seemed to be trying to dissuade him from letting the man go. That struck me as odd.”

“It was Mr. Sinclair who recommended Mr. Müller,” I say.

“Yes, but Ezra has apologized for that. He seemed most embarrassed to have made a poor recommendation. So why would he then argue to keep the man on?” Violet shakes her head. “I do not understand.”

Sinclair argued to finish Müller’s contract… after speaking to the man. What did Müller say?

I’ll need to confirm this story with Cranston. For now, I consider whether to push Violet. She’s admitted to being the woman at the lake. That’s one mystery solved. But according to the maid, the note said that Sinclair knew he should not send it, but he could not stop thinking about her. That sounds romantic in nature, so my gut tells me Violet is lying about that.

Or is “lying” too strong a word? It implies deliberately misleading me on an investigation when I suspect the truth is much more forgivable.

Violet says she suspected Sinclair wanted to provide a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. But the other day, I overheard Sinclair asking Fiona to be that shoulder for Violet.

Speaking to Fiona, Sinclair had acted as if he wasn’t close enough to Violet to help her. Which doesn’t seem to have been the case.

Whether Violet and Sinclair were romantically linked or not doesn’t affect the investigation, as far as I can see. But it would have a huge effect on Violet, emotionally and socially. One fiancé dumps her and the next candidate is murdered? Tongues would wag, and her marital prospects could plummet to zero.

Except…

That would presume anyone knew Sinclair was courting her, which obviously they did not, with Sinclair going so far as to enlist Fiona’s help in comforting Violet.

I need to work this through more.

“I must ask if you saw or heard anything last night,” I say.

Her shoulders droop as she blinks back tears. “I only wish that I had. I presume Ezra was attacked while I sat waiting. If I knew anything that could free my brother, I would have already put aside all propriety to admit to being out there. But I did not. I was sitting on the bench, lost in my thoughts.”

Facing the lake, turned away from where Sinclair was. Also away from where the Hall kids were field-dressing that stag, which they’d do as quietly as they could. From that distance, she wouldn’t have heard soft voices. A shout, yes, but there’s no reason to think Sinclair’s death was anything but silent, save for the thud of the blow, which she’d have been much too far away to hear.

“Did you see or hear anything ?” I press. “Even unrelated to what happened to Mr. Sinclair?”

She shakes her head. “If I had, I would have retreated to the house. The night seemed empty.”

Empty… except for Sinclair coming to meet her, a killer sneaking up on him, the Hall kids field-dressing a deer, plus Gray and me having a picnic on the hill.

Yet everyone out there had a reason to be quiet. No one would have had a lantern. And the estate is large enough that it really would have seemed empty.

I’d spotted Violet, and I believe the two teens saw or heard something. But otherwise, we all kept to our bubbles of illicit nighttime activity.

I ask Violet more questions, mostly nailing down the timeline. When did she leave the house? When did she return? Did she go straight to bed? What time did she get up in the morning? She answers them all readily… until I hit the last question.

“The note from Mr. Sinclair,” I say. “Might I see that?”

She pauses long enough that I know there’s not a hope in hell of seeing that note.

“I would keep it to myself,” I say. “I can tell Dr. Gray that I read it but returned it.”

“I will look for it,” she says. “I believe I threw it into the fire, but I will look.”

Yep, I’m definitely not getting that note. Which suggests it was indeed a final copy of the romantic missive the maid read.

“That is fine,” I say. “Thank you. And now I will leave you to your grief.”