Page 32 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

THIRTY-TWO

Stretch marks on the stomach aren’t necessarily a sign of pregnancy. I need to speak to someone who has known Violet, at least casually, for years. That person also can’t be McCreadie… for reasons. Nor can it be Isla… for reasons.

I also should speak to someone with the medical knowledge to tell me whether I’m missing any possible causes of abdominal marks. That narrows my choices down to one. Yes, I need to speak to Gray. In private. Which I absolutely am not ready to do, but the case takes precedence.

I eat dinner with the others. Then as we are retiring to our separate rooms, men in one and women in the other, I say to Gray, “Sir? Might I have a moment? It is about the investigation.”

I say it loud enough for others to hear. I don’t want to be seen whispering and shuttling him off. Does Edith still sniff and give me a look that calls me a forward little trollop? Of course she does. Does her husband glance at me and then give Gray a look that calls him a very lucky fellow? Of course he does. But no one else bats an eye, and Gray tells McCreadie and Frye he will join them shortly.

We go outside, which is the only place where we can be sure of privacy, but I lead him around to the south side, where windows from the sitting rooms overlook the lawn. In other words, we’ll be out of earshot but in plain view of everyone taking their post-dinner drinks.

When we’re far enough away, Gray says, “I wish to apologize—”

“No need,” I cut in, and then hear how that sounds and make a face. “I know you were suggesting a logical solution to our problem, and I took undue offense.”

“It was not un—”

“I’m still getting used to the culture here. One would think I’d understand, being at this very estate to witness an arranged marriage, but my twenty-first-century Western sensibilities are still horrified. When you mentioned your idea, all I heard was ‘marriage of convenience.’” I force a smile. “Which works out so much better in rom-coms.”

His brows rise.

I shrug. “It’s a trope in romantic fiction, especially comedic. Two people absolutely need to get married for some reason or other.”

“That is considered comedic ?”

“It’s different in my world, where the couple always assume it’ll be temporary. They’ll marry for a few months, solve their problem, and get an annulment or divorce. Except that never happens because, being a romance…?” I trail off with a shrug. “It all works out in the end.”

“How?”

That seems an odd question, but his expression is serious. I shrug again. “They get to know each other and fall in love.”

“They did not know each other before?”

“Sometimes. Maybe they secretly had deeper feelings.”

“Or one party had deeper feelings and the other did not, and the first party hoped to woo the second party, which should properly be accomplished before a wedding takes place.”

“Uh…” I try and fail to parse that out. “I guess so?” I shake it off. “Anyway, the point is that, outside of fiction, a marriage of convenience is never a good idea. Not for me, anyway. We had a culture clash, and I overreacted.”

I glance toward the window to see Edith’s face turned our way. “And since we have an audience, we should really get on with the case stuff. I have a question about Violet.” I pause. “Was she ever larger? In weight, I mean?”

His brow furrows. “Heavier?”

“Significantly.”

“I am going to require more context.”

“I know, but can you try to answer, please? You’ve known her socially for a long time. Has she always been roughly the same physical size?”

“I believe she has grown thinner in the last few years, to the point where if I were her physician, I would be concerned, but she has always been slender, so I cannot say she has lost a significant amount of weight.”

I tell him then about my scheme to question Violet while helping her dress, how she’d been reluctant to accept help, and what I’d inadvertently seen.

“Stretch marks,” I say. “Silverish-red striations on her abdomen, which could signify a sudden loss of weight.”

“Marks on the abdomen? As if from… pregnancy?” He pulls back, blinking hard, and his gaze shoots to the bank of windows before quickly looking away. Color tinges his cheeks.

“It does happen, Duncan,” I say, trying to keep annoyance from my voice. “Accidental pregnancy out of wedlock happens to both men and women. The difference is that guys can walk away without anyone knowing they had extramarital sex. Women can’t.”

“What?” He looks at me and then vehemently shakes his head. “If you heard censure in my voice, Mallory, that was not what I intended. I am horrified by the thought that Violet had to deal with such a thing.”

I relax. “Stretch marks aren’t proof positive of a pregnancy.”

“In this case, with no history of that sort of weight loss, that is almost certainly what they signify. It would also explain a great deal.”

I move to the bench and sit on one end, facing away from the windows. He sits beside me, being sure to leave a decorous gap between us.

I say, “If Violet has stretch marks, then she either had a baby or went through most of a pregnancy. Her parents must have known, and it might explain why she hasn’t married. It’d be hard to hide those marks from a husband.”

“It would.”

“That could explain why marrying Ezra would have been out of the question. But she did plan to marry Hugh. Which leads to a very awkward conclusion.”

He frowns, and I wait, knowing the answer will hit. When it does, his eyes widen. “You believe Hugh was the father?”

“That’s the logical answer, Duncan. She was going to marry him. Then, after he ends it, she goes into what seems like a depression and withdraws from society. I thought that was because of the broken engagement but this fits, too. Maybe even better.”

My hands fly up. “Not that Hugh broke it off because she got pregnant. He’d never do that, and it doesn’t make sense anyway—if they’re to be married, pregnancy is fine. Which is actually my point. They were getting married, so they’d see no problem with an early wedding night or two, and even when she got pregnant, it’d just be a matter of getting married before she showed. But what if Hugh didn’t know she was pregnant? If he ended it without knowing, and pride wouldn’t allow her to tell him, because she knew he’d marry her, which is a terrible way to start a married life.”

Gray goes quiet. He sits there, staring out over the sloping hill leading to the lakes.

“I wouldn’t judge him for that,” I say softly. “I’m sure he’s careful, but mistakes happen.”

He shakes his head. “That is not the issue. I am only trying to think of a way to say that I know Hugh was not the father, without sounding as if I am merely defending a friend.”

He looks at me. “Is there a chance he was the father? Of course. I would be naive to think otherwise. But he had no contact with Violet outside of chaperoned visits. Of course, young couples do find ways around that. However…”

He glances toward the house again. “Intending no insult to Violet, Hugh was not a smitten young man, eager to bed his bride. She is pleasing enough that he would have—” He clears his throat, cheeks flushing.

“Not found his marital duties overly onerous.”

More flushing. “Yes. But there was no reason not to wait. He respected her too much to risk her reputation in that way, and if he wanted such companionship, he found it easily enough.”

“So, while there’s the faintest chance they had an early wedding night, it’s very unlikely.”

“Exceptionally unlikely. If such a thing happened, even without a resulting pregnancy, he would have felt honor-bound to marry her.”

“Because she was no longer a virgin.”

“Yes. It is not as if any future husband would definitely reject her for such a thing. It is exceedingly unlikely one would even realize it.”

I look at him. “Realize she wasn’t a virgin, yes. Realize she’d had a baby, though, with those stretch marks?”

“That would have been much more difficult.”

Gray and I continue hashing it out. If Violet was pregnant—either carrying to term or close enough to have those stretch marks—then she would have needed to go away. Yes, a young Victorian woman going to visit an aunt in the countryside for a few months really is a thing, and I have to wonder how women in the past did legitimately go to visit rural relatives for an extended stay without everyone thinking they had a baby.

Abortion is another option. It’s illegal, and it’d be hard to find a doctor to perform it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. It has always happened. We know a woman—Queen Mab—who is known for her abortifacients. She prefers to sell birth control methods, but guys aren’t exactly beating down her door for Victorian-era condoms. And the only women who partake of her services are sex workers and widows. Young women carrying on premarital affairs don’t dare go looking for help… until they’re pregnant and desperate.

What does happen is women who—having no other options—give birth and then end the baby’s life. It’s common enough that courts don’t necessarily consider it murder. They seem to often turn a blind eye, tell themselves it was a tragic accident, and give thanks for one fewer orphan “draining” the public coffers.

Being upper middle class, Violet is unlikely to have known where to obtain an abortion. She’s also unlikely to have been able to avoid her parents discovering the pregnancy. She’d have been whisked off to the country, and if she had a live birth, the baby would… go somewhere. Gray is a little fuzzy on the process. It’s not something he’d ever considered, being a man. To give him credit, I know—from an awkward conversation with Queen Mab—that he takes all steps to avoid accidental pregnancy.

Gray doesn’t know Violet well enough to be able to say, with any certainty, when she might have popped off to the country for a few months. Could it have been recently? Is it possible that Sinclair was the father? Maybe that’s why they were meeting in secret—if he was the father and her parents had forbidden a marriage. But even if, somehow, Sinclair being the father of her child didn’t make the alliance acceptable, Cranston would never have stayed best friends with the guy who knocked up his sister. Sure, it’s possible Cranston didn’t know, but then her parents would have refused to let her come here, where she’d be with Sinclair.

The baby daddy is almost certainly no one at this party, given that the only remaining possibilities would be Frye or Gray himself.

I put the pregnancy—and how it could be connected to the murder—on the back burner for now. I need to speak to Mrs. Hall, and Gray needs to delicately bring up the pregnancy to McCreadie.

I take Isla to speak to Mrs. Hall. The housekeeper seems to like Isla. I’m not surprised. When I was a housemaid, I don’t think I really understood how good a “lady of the house” Isla was. She was an easy boss to serve, and she is an easy guest as well. She’s considerate of the staff in a way that others aren’t.

Fiona and Violet are kind and gracious, but they also make more demands. They grew up in normal Victorian upper-middle-class households, where the point of having domestic staff is for someone to clean up after you and bring you tea. Fiona and Violet remind me of some friends I had growing up, who’d never think to take their dishes into the kitchen or make their beds after a sleepover.

On the other hand, Victorian domestic staff would be horrified and even offended if their employers did everything themselves. They can be downright territorial. Our housekeeper adores Gray and Isla, but she still bristles if they try to fix themselves a snack in her kitchen.

I will point out that I am just as good a houseguest. However, my odd position means I’m still considered staff, and so I’d damned well better not be ringing for snacks or leaving my room a mess. Being extremely low maintenance doesn’t win me any brownie points with Mrs. Hall. It’s just proper behavior.

Speaking of proper behavior, Isla doesn’t go barging into the back rooms looking for Mrs. Hall. She finds a maid and says she’d like to speak to the housekeeper, at her convenience. It’s a testament to Isla’s good-guest manners that Mrs. Hall doesn’t keep her waiting.

“Thank you so much for coming,” Isla says as Mrs. Hall joins us in the library. “I hate to interrupt your evening, but some items were found in the gamekeeper cottage that might belong to your daughter, and we wished to ensure she received them, not trusting Mr. Müller to do so.”

Mrs. Hall frowns. “We did an excellent job of clearing the cottage. I cannot imagine what we would have left behind.”

“The items are small and seem to have fallen into a crack.” Isla smiles. “Or perhaps, as a young girl, Nori—” Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh! I meant Lenore. That sounded terribly forward of me. I have a friend named Lenore who goes by Nori, and that popped out.”

Mrs. Hall’s stern face lightens. “No need to apologize, ma’am. Lenore went by Nori as a girl. Some still call her that.”

“Thank you for being gracious. As for the items… Mallory?”

I take a handkerchief from my pocket and open it to reveal the ring and embroidered hair ribbon.

“Oh! My word,” Mrs. Hall says. “Yes, those are Lenore’s. The ribbon has been missing for a while now and the ring—” She stops and frowns. “You said they were in the cottage?”

I nod. “That is where they were found.”

“Well, then Lenore could not have left them there. I recall her looking for the ribbon, but that was only a few months ago. Shortly afterward I noticed she was no longer wearing her ring, and she said she had given it to a friend. That was after we left the cottage.”

“Oh?” I frown. “Perhaps she lost both while walking the grounds and Mr. Müller found them.”

Isla nods. “If Lenore lost the ribbon, she might not wish to admit to losing the ring.” She lowers her voice, conspiratorial. “I do not doubt Mr. Müller might fail to return them. He seems an unpleasant man.”

“Unpleasant indeed.” Mrs. Hall’s lips compress. “I feel badly for Mr. Cranston, tricked as he was into hiring the fellow.”

“Tricked?” I say.

She pauses and then pulls back. “I ought not to say that. I do not know the whole of it, and I should not speak ill of the dead.”

I remember Mrs. Hall earlier saying she didn’t blame Cranston for hiring Müller, that he’d been misled.

“I know Mr. Sinclair lobbied for Mr. Müller’s hiring,” I say. “Is there something—?”

“I did not say that, miss.” She fusses with the lappet in her hair bun.

I consider, evaluating her body language. Yes, there’s more here, and it involves Ezra Sinclair, but if I push, I’ll lose any ground we’ve gained with the housekeeper.

“Well, I would agree poor Mr. Cranston was misled,” I say. “Mr. Müller is…” I shudder.

Mrs. Hall relaxes and leans in. “That is not the worst of it. Naturally, I am pleased that Mr. Hall is getting his position back, but frankly, he had found work to suit and we would have been fine. My worry would have been for Miss Fiona.”

“Fiona?” Isla looks at me. “I have not liked how Mr. Müller has regarded Mallory. Is that the way you mean?”

“It is, ma’am. I cannot imagine he would touch the lady of the house. He wouldn’t dare. But it still worried me.” She looks at me. “Take care, miss. I know you have been in and out of the house, and you ought to take care around that man.”

“Has there been a problem?” I say. “There are several young maids here. Your daughter was one of them.”

“He does not turn his attention that way. He likes the lasses—ladies—he cannot have. Not that he could have had my Lenore. But that was never a concern. I watch out for all the girls.”

I look at the ring and hair ribbon. “I hate to ask this, ma’am, but given that we found these in Mr. Müller’s cottage, I feel I must. You have concerns about his behavior toward young women, and he seems to have had items belonging to Lenore. Is there any chance of…” I pause to make sure I have the period-appropriate words and tone. “Any chance he interfered with her?”

I watch for dawning horror. But when she shakes her head, the movement is measured and calm. “No. Lenore would have told me. I believe that you are correct that she lost them and then he found them and could not be bothered giving them back. He is a vile man, and I will be glad when he is gone.”

I hand her the ring and hair ribbon. “Please take these and return them. I am glad to hear Lenore was not harmed in any way.” I start to step back and then stop. “Oh, Detective McCreadie had a question about your daughter. When exactly did she leave her position here?”

“The beginning of May.” She sighs. “I hope she will consider coming back, once we are living on the grounds again.”

“Do you know why she quit?” I say, then quickly add, “It will help Detective McCreadie understand the situation here.”

“It was nothing to do with the job or Mr. Cranston. She liked both well enough. She’d had a sweetheart, I believe. She would not speak of him and adamantly denied it, but she acted like a young woman in love. Light and happy and glowing. Then it ended, and she was not herself. She left her position here and moped for weeks. She is back to herself at last, and I am glad to see it.”

“As are we,” Isla murmurs. “As are we.”