Page 31 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

THIRTY-ONE

We’re having tea on the lawn back at the estate. By this point, even I’m starting to feel rude, separating myself from other guests, eating my meals closeted away in private conference with my friends. I remind myself this isn’t like going to a party and monopolizing those I know. There’s been a murder, and these are my fellow investigators, and we can hardly discuss the case in the drawing room.

Gray is with us. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the events outside the stable, and apparently, he’s going to act as if nothing happened. He settles into the empty chair and takes a tart from the platter.

Do I notice that he doesn’t look my way? Do the others notice? Yes and yes, but McCreadie and Isla are clearly leaving us to work this out on our own, and I appreciate that.

To be bluntly honest, while I bristle at Gray’s reaction—or lack thereof—I’m also glad of it. I don’t want to get into this now. In fact, I’d be happier if we never got into it. Let his proposal fall by the wayside, as if it didn’t happen. If that means it takes him some time to warm up again, at least he isn’t giving me the cold shoulder while engaging the others in conversation. He eats and sips his tea and listens, and when I talk, he looks my way. Good enough.

“The items are not Nora’s?” McCreadie says when I finish the story.

“They could still be,” Isla says. “Perhaps she was not supposed to have them. It could be that a boy gave her the embroidered hair ribbon or ring. Or she bought them with money her parents did not know she had. It might be better to speak to her older sister in private.”

“I thought of that,” I say, “and I agree. Her sister recognized the ring, and while she genuinely didn’t seem to know from where, she still might know more, especially about any problems with Müller. However, given her mother’s account of the incident, my gut says there wasn’t any molestation there. Nora returned home bubbling with a story to tell.”

“She thought it a proper lark,” McCreadie says. “Fleeing the ogre and skipping home to embellish the tale with stories of curses.”

“Which no adults seem to have believed,” I say. “One of the children must have, and they left that note in our coach when they heard—wrongly—that Archie was dead.”

“Except Archie was not the ogre,” Isla says. “He was not even there at the estate when Mr. Müller ran Nora off.”

“Is it possible,” Gray says slowly, “that we have misinterpreted the note?” He shoots me a look and adds quickly, “Not to question your interpretation, Mallory, as it was my own as well. Also, it was not our interpretation at all but Mrs. Rendall’s.”

“Good point,” I say, and he visibly relaxes. “We’ll need to take another look at it.”

“And find out who that ring and ribbon belong to,” Isla says.

McCreadie and I exchange a look. How important is that? Neither of us is sure. It seems more of a mini-mystery, unrelated to the murder. Like the killing of the wildcat. Both of them could be something… but both could be just mysteries cropping up at the same time by sheer coincidence.

The wildcat killing is linked if the murder had something to do with Cranston planning to fire Müller. Otherwise, it’s just Müller poisoning a cat and staging it to look like the trap got it. Likewise, the ring, ribbon, and piece of bloomers could represent an unrelated crime committed by Müller.

I just don’t like how it all keeps coming back to Müller.

“Duncan and I need to speak to Mr. Müller,” McCreadie says, as if reading my thoughts. “I say we go in hard and show him what we found, see how he reacts.”

“Mallory would be better suited for that,” Gray murmurs. “I am a poor judge of such things. She is the expert.”

Okay, someone’s trying for brownie points.

“I’d happily go,” I say, “but how would that work considering the nature of what we found? Part of a girl’s bloomers? With two men, Müller might just claim they’re mementos of a consensual fling. Would he say that in front of me?”

Isla snorts. “He would absolutely say that in front of you, Mallory. A decent man would not, but I have seen how he looks at you.”

Gray makes a noise. “Perhaps I was wrong then, and Mallory ought not to do this.”

Isla shakes her head. “It is not that sort of look, Duncan. Not one that speaks of genuine interest. It is contemptuous—a man seeing a pretty girl who would never look twice at him.”

“He finds Mallory attractive and blames her for it,” McCreadie says.

Isla’s smile beams the delight of liking a guy who notices and understands things like this. “Yes. A man like Mr. Müller will not think twice about claiming the bloomers belong to some girl he has seduced, especially in front of Mallory. He will leap at the chance to horrify and disgust her.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to miss that,” I say. “I guess I’m going to speak to Müller with you, Hugh.”

“Would you mind if Isla and I examined the note while you are gone?” Gray says, and his gaze is on me, not McCreadie.

“Knock yourselves out.”

He manages the faintest smile, even if it doesn’t touch his eyes. “I do not think we need to go that far, but we will do our best.”

McCreadie and I leave to speak to Müller. We pass the grazing cows and then hear Müller tramping through the trees. McCreadie heads over, shouting a greeting from enough of a distance that Müller immediately turns on his heel and stalks in the other direction… where he meets up with me, after I slipped around to cut him off.

“You,” he says, with a twist of his lip that confirms Isla’s assessment. His gaze sweeps over me, devouring without pleasure. I am a sweet treat meant for richer men, and he hates me for it, as if I’ve deliberately laid a trap to tease him.

“Detective McCreadie has not had a chance to speak to you,” I say. “He really does need to do so.”

Müller’s jaw works. He wants to barrel past me, but he also must sense McCreadie coming up behind him, and any departure will seem like he’s fleeing. A guy like Müller won’t flee from a man as young, handsome, and polished as McCreadie.

In the end, he turns and spits, the gob landing inches from McCreadie’s boots.

“What do you want?” Müller says.

McCreadie ignores his tone and launches into the usual array of questions we’d ask of a suspect, most of which duplicate what I already asked. Part of that is seeing whether any of his responses have changed, but it’s mostly relaxing Müller’s guard.

If Müller killed Sinclair and is worried that we’re on to him, this interview allays those fears. It’s just standard questions about where he was and what he heard or saw.

McCreadie even gives him a bonus by talking about the wildcat. Not accusing him of killing the beast, but taking another tack.

“Terrible business with the wildcat,” McCreadie says.

Müller stiffens. “He said to get rid of the cat and I did. I laid traps, and it was caught.”

“I mean how Archie treated you,” McCreadie says. “It is obvious that he did not want to upset my sister, and so he tossed you to the wolves, so to speak.”

A thin smile. “You saw that.”

“I did, and I feel as if I should apologize for my sister. You know women. They can be very soft, and we love them for it, but in matters like this?” McCreadie rolls his eyes. “It was a wild beast. A predator. Not a house pet.”

Müller nods, relaxing more. “You understand.”

“Of course. The cat had to be dealt with and you dealt with it. I do appreciate your patience with my sister in that, and your time in speaking to me.”

Müller actually assures McCreadie it was no trouble and wishes him all the best with the investigation. Amazing what a little empathy can do for someone’s attitude. Unfortunately, with McCreadie’s wrap-up, the next part falls on me.

Good cop, bad cop.

And, as long as we’re going that route, I’ll take it a step farther. I walk past McCreadie and start heading back toward the path. He doesn’t miss a beat. He joins me, and it’s only after a few steps that I say, “Oh, I need to speak to Mr. Müller about another matter. I will catch up with you, sir.”

McCreadie nods and continues on, as if completely unconcerned about leaving me with the gamekeeper… though I know he won’t go far before staking out a hiding spot. To help with that, I walk back around Müller, drawing his attention away from McCreadie. Then I crane my neck to look around Müller, as if being sure McCreadie is far enough away.

“I must ask you about these,” I murmur to Müller.

I take the handkerchief from my pocket and open it, revealing the three items. If I had any doubt about who put them under that floorboard, his reaction erases it. Confusion as he tries to see what I’m holding, then recognition as he does, followed by a scowl as his gaze flies to mine.

He doesn’t ask how I got them. Doesn’t ask what they are or feign confusion. He just looks at me, hate dripping from his gaze.

“I found these in your cottage,” I say. “Hidden under a floorboard.”

“Why were you in my cottage?” His voice oozes warning.

“I work for Dr. Gray,” I say, as if that answers the question. “I found these, but I am not certain what to make of them.”

“You think I know?”

“They were in your cottage.”

“It has not been mine for long. Speak to that girl who lived there. They must be hers.”

I lift the piece of cloth. “These come from a pair of bloomers. She would not hide those.”

“Would she not?” An ugly smile crosses his face. “As a reminder, perhaps? She was with a boy, having fun, and it was…” He bares his teeth in a smile. “Memorable. You would know all about that.”

“I do not know Lenore at all,” I say, ignoring his meaning. “But I will ask whether these are hers.”

“They are,” he says. “I am sure of it. Now take your silly questions and go. I have no more time for you, girl.”

It’s a quiet walk back to the house. McCreadie glances at me a few times, testing whether I want to talk, but when I don’t speak up, he doesn’t prod. He knows I’m thinking it through.

We’re nearing the house when Isla and Gray come out to meet us.

“What did Mr. Müller say?” Isla asks when we’re within earshot.

“May I see that note?” I ask.

Her brows shoot up. “That is not what he said. I am quite certain of it.”

She’s teasing, but Gray can tell I’m not in the mood to respond, and he hands me the note.

“We believe the misunderstanding comes from the name,” he says. “There must be another Nora in town. Do we know what the child’s mother’s name is?”

I run my fingers over the name. Nora. Or that’s what it looks like, but the penmanship is bad enough that I’m only clear on the first three letters.

“What are short forms for Lenore?” I say.

McCreadie lets out a curse. “Of course.”

“Her brother called her Len, but are there other nicknames?” I ask. “Lenore isn’t a common name in my time.”

“Nor,” Isla says. “Or Nori.”

I nod. “When Fiona and I went to speak to Archie in jail, I mentioned Nora, and he misheard it as Lenore. I didn’t make the connection—the similarity in the names—until after Hugh and I spoke to Müller.”

I hold up the handkerchief. “Müller says these belong to Lenore. He insinuated she had a fling with a boy and that’s why she stuffed the bit of her bloomers under the floor. He clearly recognized the items, but he also told us to show them to Lenore, that they’re hers and he’s sure of it.”

“Bloody hell,” McCreadie mutters.

“Now the question is whether we wait for Lenore… or we ask Mrs. Hall whether she recognizes the ring and ribbon.”

We decide to ask Mrs. Hall. It’ll be the independent corroboration we need, keeping Lenore from claiming the ring and ribbon aren’t hers. It’ll also let us go into our interview with Lenore with hard evidence.

The problem is when to ask. It’ll be dinner soon, and Mrs. Hall is busy supervising the meal. The question will need to wait. In the meantime, I want to speak to Violet again. Unofficially.

Her late-night meeting with Sinclair is bothering me. I need to speak to her in private, preferably during a casual conversation. In other words, I need an excuse, and I get it when I’m slowly heading up the stairs and sense someone impatient behind me.

I glance over my shoulder to see Violet’s maid.

“I am sorry, miss,” she says with an awkward partial curtsy. “I need to help Miss Cranston dress for dinner, and I am late.”

I’m about to step aside when I see my excuse screaming at me from the girl’s anxious expression.

“Your collar is tucked in,” I say.

She quickly tugs at it, her cheeks burning.

I lean down. “You also have something in your hair. Straw or grass.”

That part is a lie, but her hand flies to her hair, face going scarlet.

“Go on and fix yourself up,” I whisper. “I will tell Miss Cranston that you were needed for another task and that I have come to help her dress.”

She hesitates.

I lean in again. “I was Mrs. Ballantyne’s maid. I know what I am doing. I also know how to ensure Miss Cranston has no idea you were enjoying a deserved respite from your duties.”

“Thank you, miss. Thank you very much.”

She scampers off, and I smile to myself as I finish climbing the stairs.

I rap on the door to Violet’s room. When she doesn’t answer, I frown and rap again. Then I hear noise within and realize my mistake. She didn’t answer because she presumed I was her maid, only knocking to announce her arrival.

“It is Mallory Michell,” I say, and the door opens.

Violet looks behind me.

“Your maid cannot attend you,” I say. “She was needed in the gardens earlier, and she must clean herself up before she is in any state to assist with your dressing.” Not untrue… “I told her I would do it.” I move inside and smile. “I help Mrs. Ballantyne all the time. She says no one is better at tightening a corset. Of course, she may not mean that as a compliment.”

Still looking uncertain, Violet waves for me to shut the door. She’s wearing a day dress, and her dinner gown is laid out on the bed. It’s fancier than I expected, but then I remember Fiona announcing they would all dress up for dinner tonight. Get some use of the formal wear they brought. No one was going to argue with a bride on her groom-less wedding day.

I move behind Violet to assist her in removing her dress, and I chatter away, trying to relax her. Off come the dress, crinoline cover, crinoline, and the corset cover. Then she says, “I will need to change my corset as well.”

That’s to be expected. A formal dress requires a more formal corset.

When I start to unlace her corset, though, she tenses. Is she shy? That’s not really a thing with well-born Victorian ladies, accustomed to help dressing. I’d marveled the first time I helped Isla, who’d shed her clothes with a confidence even I’ve never had in change rooms.

I unlace and help Violet remove her corset. Then I walk around her and start to pull off the chemise under it. I’m pulling it up when her arm clamps down.

“That is not necessary,” she says. “This one will do.”

I nod, and I’m about to release the chemise when I see her stomach, where I’ve lifted the chemise. There are marks on her stomach. Odd striations, slightly red but turning a silvery-white. Something in me dimly recognizes what they are, but the answer doesn’t come, and I quickly pull down the chemise, knowing that’s what she didn’t want me to see.

After that, there’s no chance of asking any questions. She’s tense and distracted, and all I can do is keep up my small talk as I help her dress and prepare for dinner.

Then, as I’m leaving, the answer hits, and I know what I saw on Violet’s stomach.

Stretch marks.