Page 34 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

THIRTY-FOUR

Once we’re far enough from the house, Gray says, “I feel I must say something, however disloyal it feels to Ezra.”

“It’s a murder case, Gray,” I say. “We can’t afford loyalty. Not to witnesses or suspects… or even the victim.”

“I know. Which does not prevent it from feeling uncomfortable.” He looks over at McCreadie. “Do you remember our last year of school together? When one of the maids was released from her position?”

“Hard for me to forget, given the scandal.” He looks at me. “She was let go for having relations with one of the students.”

I frown. “How old were you?”

“Oh, sixteen, seventeen? We were hardly children, and such relationships were not unheard of. That is the danger of having pretty girls working around young men. This was a scandal because they were apparently caught, in flagrante delicto , by the headmaster… who was leading a small group of alumni on a tour.”

“Oh my,” I say.

“Indeed.” He grins wickedly. “The scandal of the year, made even more delicious because no one knew who the young man…” He trails off and blinks at Gray. “Ezra?”

Gray rolls his shoulders in discomfort. “I walked in on Archie giving Ezra a proper dressing-down over it.”

“A dressing-down?” I say. “Over getting caught?”

“No, Archie was angry with Ezra for carrying on with a maid and getting her fired.”

“Oh.”

Gray sighs. “Yes, Archie is not the boor I might like him to be. As for Ezra, he was very contrite. Said he did care for the girl. Promised to help her find a new position. It really seemed a youthful mistake.”

“One that he might have repeated here,” I say. “With Lenore.” I remember when McCreadie had talked about Sinclair’s popularity with women. Gray had been quiet, as if thinking. He’d also been the one who made sure we kept maids on the list of women Sinclair might have been seeing the night of his murder.

I continue, “Ezra had a past affair—apparently a romantic one—with a young woman in domestic service. He starts another one, realizes he’s repeating the error, and ends the relationship.”

“But by then Müller knows of it,” McCreadie says. “Lenore and Ezra could not carry on an affair in the house, especially when her mother is the housekeeper. There are several unused cottages about, and Lenore would have an extensive knowledge of the property. The same property that is now Müller’s domain. He caught them.”

“Proving Ezra really hadn’t learned his lesson,” I mutter. “But that might also have been his wake-up call. Müller catches them, and Ezra realizes what kind of trouble he could cause for Lenore, so he ends the affair. But Müller has evidence. Blackmail loot. A ring and a hair ribbon, which Lenore could have laid aside during their liaison and then forgotten in her haste. She might even have forgotten her bloomers. Grabs her dress and what undergarments she can find and misses those.”

McCreadie nods. “Müller takes the ring and hair ribbon and tears a piece off the bloomers. He hides them in case he needs Ezra’s support.”

“Which he does after the wildcat incident,” I say. “We’ve wondered why Ezra stuck up for Müller. This explains it. The question is whether it’s connected to Ezra’s murder.”

I glance at Gray, who’s gone quiet again, listening as McCreadie and I hammer it out.

“I believe,” Gray says, “that the question is not how it could be connected but how do we sort through all the possible ways it could be connected.”

“Good point,” I murmur. “This opens up the possibility that Ezra was indeed the target. He could have told Müller he couldn’t help him anymore—blackmail or no blackmail. They argue, and as he walks away, Müller kills him. We could also be looking at Lenore. Or her brother, Gavin. Ezra could have been carrying the shillelagh as a walking stick—his prints were on it. Violet also comes back into play—what if they were involved? She discovers the affair with Lenore and confronts him. He turns around, and she hits him.”

“Violet said the nighttime meeting was to cheer her up,” Gray murmurs. “And you overheard him tell Fiona something similar.”

“Well, no, I overheard him asking Fiona to do it because he couldn’t. But that might have just been a cover-up. Hiding their relationship.”

“Whether friends or lovers, they cannot easily speak in private. Also, what if they were also meeting to discuss his problems?”

I turn to look at him. “The blackmail. Archie is hell-bent on firing Müller, and that’s a problem.”

“I am not certain he would tell Violet about his affair with a maid,” McCreadie says. “But he could say that Müller is blackmailing him and ask for Violet’s advice. Or ask for her help talking her brother out of firing Müller.”

“The problem is the note,” I say. “The maid’s recollection of it is definitely romantic. We need to speak to her tomorrow.”

Gray looks over. “What do we know about the maid?”

“Uh…” McCreadie says. “Which one is she?”

I roll my eyes. “As a former maid, might I request that you esteemed gents actually ask their names? Learn who is who?”

“I always ask names,” McCreadie says. “Which is better than Duncan here. We once spent a week at the seaside, in a house with four maids, and at the end, he was shocked to learn there was more than one.”

“They all had a similar mien,” Gray says. “Also, while I understand Mallory’s point, in our defense, it is not always wise to admit you have remembered their name. It suggests undue and unwelcome interest.”

“And we are not Ezra.” McCreadie makes a face. “That was unkind and judgmental. A man in his social position might well look to a shopgirl—or even a maid from a good family—for a wife.”

Maybe, but Lenore isn’t just a maid. She’s in her late teens, making Sinclair more than a decade older. That’s a double misuse of power. It doesn’t mean he realized the imbalance, though.

“The maid’s name is Dorothy,” I say, getting back on topic. “That’s really all I know. In my current position, I seem to float in a strange nether realm, neither fish nor fowl, staff nor guest.”

Catching Gray’s look of dismay, I hurry on. “Which is useful.”

“You are like a governess,” McCreadie says. “I once had a flirtation with one, and she said it was much the same for them. They are employees, but of elevated social backgrounds with good educations, and therefore she was not considered part of the staff. Rather more like a poor relation.”

“You had a flirtation with your governess?”

His cheeks heat, and he wags a finger at me. “ A governess. Not mine. Though mine was very pretty. I did notice that. A lad never forgets the first woman who teaches him verb conjugation.”

I laugh. “At least you didn’t say the first woman who straps him.”

McCreadie sputters and then glares at Gray.

“Why are you looking at me?” Gray says.

“As a woman in your household, she is your responsibility. Rein in that tongue of hers, old chap.”

“Like to see him try,” I say.

McCreadie grins. “That sounds like a challenge, Duncan.”

Is it my imagination or does Gray blush?

“I would not attempt it,” Gray says finally, “as I value Mallory’s help nearly as much as I value my life, both of which I would be in danger of losing if I tried to constrain her. Now, pulling you both back from your fun, the maid we must speak to is Dorothy. She will have finished her shift by the time we return, so that will need to wait until morning. Tonight, we interview Mr. Müller, whose cottage I believe I can see.”

I approach the cottage alone. That’s McCreadie’s idea, reasoning that Müller will probably answer the door for me. Gray really doesn’t like it. But they stay near enough to intercede.

As soon as I draw near, I suspect all this has been for naught. It’s growing dark, but no light comes from inside the cottage. Müller must still be out.

I knock. No answer—or answering noise from within. I knock again and then move to one of the two windows and shade my eyes to peer in. It’s dark and empty. Very empty. All I see are a table and chairs, with a hearth and wood piled beside it. There aren’t any personal items in sight. Either Müller never made this place a real home or he’s already preparing to move out.

At that thought, I move quickly to the other window, worry percolating in my gut. This one looks into the bedroom. It’s unshuttered, and I can peer inside. I have to find a good angle to see anything, but when I do, I can make out a bed and a dressing table… and nothing more.

I take two steps into the forest, and Gray appears.

“This is definitely Müller’s cottage, right?” I say.

“Of course.”

“You and Hugh searched it. How empty was it?”

“How empty?”

“What is the matter?” McCreadie walks over, undergrowth crunching beneath his boots.

“I can see inside, and there’s nothing but furniture. Either Müller is extremely tidy or he’s gone.”

McCreadie curses and strides around the cottage. He pulls open the door, which isn’t locked. Inside, he lights a lantern as Gray and I join him.

I wasn’t missing anything from my vantage points. The place is abandoned. We still search, checking in drawers and the single wardrobe.

“He’s bolted,” I say. Then I glance at the men. “Yes, it’s also possible he realized he wasn’t going to keep his job, packed his things, and stormed off in a huff, but I think we need to presume the worst.”

“That he realized we were closing in,” McCreadie says. “At the very least, he heard we had summoned Lenore back. He already knew we had found her belongings here.”

“Where would he go?” I say. It’s not as if he can call for a cab.

“He would walk to the village and then, from there, get to a coach or train station.”

“Is there an inn in town? Someplace he could stay?”

McCreadie shakes his head. “Archie grumbled about that, saying any guests who needed overnight accommodations would be forced to stay an hour’s ride away. We will need to check the stables, in case he took a horse. If so, we might be able to catch him.”

Müller didn’t take a horse. He must have set out on foot. No one has seen him since this afternoon. McCreadie offers to head out for the town with that inn, which also has a train station. But it’s not as if he’d find Müller trudging along the road. He’ll have holed up for the night.

“We will leave first thing in the morning,” McCreadie says. “Duncan and I will travel to apprehend him, and you and Isla will remain here awaiting Lenore’s return. That will also allow you to speak to the maid.” He pauses, as if realizing he just gave me an order. “Is that satisfactory?”

I smile. “It is.”

I’ve had so many unsettled nights that when I get to bed, my brain is too exhausted to even mull over the implications of everything we’ve discovered. Gray and McCreadie will need to leave at dawn, and I’ll be the sole investigator for most of the day. I need my rest, and so I get it.

I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep when my hand brushes something under my pillow, and somewhere deep in my sleeping brain, a voice whispers that I’ve forgotten something.

I jerk awake.

Gray said he put a note beneath my pillow. I reach under and pull out the folded sheet.

Then I stop, seeing what looks like a long letter.

I asked Gray to drop the marriage-of-convenience idea. I also asked him not to apologize. It’s almost certain this letter breaks one of those two requests, which will only leave me steaming and unable to sleep.

But I also won’t sleep if I’m tossing and turning, wondering what he wrote.

I take it to the window and unfold it, braced for a full letter and relaxing when I see it’s only two lines.

Mallory,

Meet me at the lake bench at midnight. We must speak.

Duncan

Goddamn it. He really isn’t letting this drop, is he?

I want to pitch the letter in the trash. Which, of course, I can’t do for fear a maid will find it and misunderstand, especially with the use of our first names. Also if I don’t go meet him, I won’t sleep. I’ll be too busy imagining everything he could say and how much it’ll piss me off.

As I think about it, I realize he may not even be there. He wrote this before McCreadie made plans for them to leave at dawn. Gray probably forgot all about the note—and forgot to tell me to skip it.

I check my pocket watch on the bedside table. It’s almost midnight. I’ll be late even if he is there.

Well, at least that’ll mean I won’t be hanging around outside waiting for him. I’ll quickly get to the lake, confirm he’s not there, and come back. Then, tomorrow, when he returns, I’ll see what he wanted.

As I’m dressing, the wildcat kitten stirs. I bend to pet it and then I slip out.