Page 37 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

THIRTY-SEVEN

The bullet hit the rib, as I thought Gray said. Only he didn’t mean my rib. He meant the rib of my corset. It was a small enough caliber that the main damage is to my corset, which is ruined. The spot will bruise, and it hurts like hell, but the bigger concerns are that blow to my stomach and the ones to my head. Gray will need to monitor me, and he thinks I have a concussion. While I’m in rough shape, I’m in no danger of dying.

In danger of crossing back to my time?

We don’t discuss that. At some point, we’ll need to, and I’ll admit that I really did start sliding back so we can figure out how to handle that.

But not now.

What makes me cross over? The last two times—coming here and then going back again—I’d been strangled unconscious. Losing consciousness from chloroform didn’t do it. Does it need to be a serious threat to my life that also induces loss of consciousness? I don’t know, but I need to figure it out. I made my choice, and as much as I would love to see my parents again, I don’t want to risk not being able to come back here.

Once I’m taken care of, it’s time to look after Müller. Gray doesn’t want to do that, and I’m not even sure he should, given the murderous look on his face when I remind him.

McCreadie is up now, and he’s with us, as is Isla, and they help convince Gray that he needs to tend to Müller. The man cannot die on our watch, or Constable Ross is likely to arrest me for murder. That gets Gray moving.

McCreadie goes with him, leaving me with Isla, who is under strict instructions not to let me fall asleep. Is that because I may have a concussion? Or because he’s worried I’ll go back to my own time?

He did seem very concerned that I’ll go back. I’m groggy, and I can’t remember exactly what he said. That whole period from the time I nearly collapsed on the road until he got me inside is only snatches of memory. I remember telling Gray about Müller. I also remember hearing the hospital monitor beeping. I think he said something before that, about… a letter? I have the sense that I really need to remember what he said, but I can’t.

The important thing is that I remember everything up to the point where I collapsed on the road, meaning I remember what Müller said. Gray hadn’t wanted me straining myself as he examined me, so that story needs to wait until they return.

They do, quicker than I expect. Müller lost blood, but not enough to endanger his life. The cut was shallow; the bleeding had already stopped by the time the grooms got to him. He’s regained consciousness, and he’s demanding to be released, but no one’s listening, obviously.

When Gray and McCreadie return, I start my story at the point where Müller ambushed me, only to have Isla cut in with, “You were outside walking alone?” She stops, cheeks reddening. “I apologize. That sounds as if I am blaming you for what happened. I am only surprised.”

I sneak a look at Gray. “Duncan wanted to talk to me.” I quickly add, “About the case. But he left the note before we realized Müller was gone, and he must have decided against…”

I struggle to find a way to word that, one that doesn’t blame Gray, but he’s frowning at me.

“Note?” he says.

“Under my pillow. You told me you’d left it, and I completely forgot about it until nearly midnight.”

“I left you a letter, ” he says. “There were things I wished…” He trails off, glancing at Isla and McCreadie before clearing his throat. “Mallory and I had a disagreement earlier in the day, and I wished to respond to it.” He looks back at me. “You received the letter and a note?”

I shake my head. “Just the note.”

“So the letter…?”

“I don’t know where it went.”

“You did not read it,” he murmurs, as if to himself. “So what I said earlier, when you were injured, it did not make any sense.”

“What did you say?” I rub my temple. “It’s all a blur.”

“Ah.” He pulls back, tugging at his tie. “No matter. It is hardly important. Now, about this note…”

I pull it from my pocket.

Gray reads it and blinks. “That is not from me. It looks like my penmanship, but I did not write it.”

“So Mr. Müller lured her out with a forgery?” Isla says. “But he could not have gotten inside to leave it, and it seems far too coincidental that it appeared when Mallory was expecting a missive from Duncan.”

“Because it’s not coincidental,” I mutter. “That maid—Dorothy—overheard you saying you’d left me a note. She took it and copied your handwriting, as well as using the familiarity of first names. She’s also the one who allegedly found a half-written note from Ezra.”

Isla rises. “I will speak to Mrs. Hall and be sure the maid is detained for questioning.”

Once she’s gone, I tell McCreadie and Gray the rest. When I get to the part about Sinclair—and what he seems to have done to Lenore—McCreadie pales.

“My God,” he says.

“It might not be true,” I quickly add.

“But it is not an outlandish lie that Müller told you. It is what you deduced from his words, and he did not deny it.”

I nod slowly. I know this is hard to hear. Sinclair was a friend, one McCreadie had admired. Even Gray rubs his mouth, shaking his head.

“It might not be true,” I repeat. “We’ll need to speak to Lenore.”

“Who will confirm it,” McCreadie says quietly. “Because it makes sense. Ezra seduced her, and then…” He struggles for words. “Gave her to Müller. Against her will. Of course she would not dare tell anyone.”

“Because she’d be blamed. She almost certainly consented to sex with Ezra, and so anything else that happened would be seen as her fault because of that. Afterward, she ended the relationship with Ezra, quit her job here, and withdrew.”

Silence falls as we all contemplate that.

“This makes it far more likely that Ezra wasn’t mistaken for Archie,” I say. “The question is who killed him.”

“I am inclined to say it was Müller and ignore any evidence to the contrary,” McCreadie mutters. “I would have no qualms seeing him punished for one crime he did not commit.”

“Really? It would never come back to haunt you?”

He gives me a hard look. “Yes. Fine. It would be wrong.”

“If I might suggest a course of action,” Gray says. “Müller will need to be turned over to Constable Ross for his attack on you, Mallory. If the young man decides—without any help from us—that the gamekeeper killed Ezra?” He shrugs. “It will help keep him out of our way, temporarily.”

I nod. “If we say what we suspect he’s actually done—with Lenore—Ross might not think it a punishable crime, especially since I doubt Lenore will confirm the story. But if he thinks Müller might have killed Ezra, that gets Müller locked up while we continue to investigate.”

“Excellent points,” McCreadie says. “I will have a couple of the grooms assist me with getting Mr. Müller to town.” He rises. “We will do that now, while you rest.”

I don’t really rest. Oh, I’m stuck in this damn bed—doctor’s orders. But I just set it up as my command center, from which poor Gray and Isla are sent to and fro tracking down answers for me.

The maid—Dorothy—left last night. Or we hope she left, and some worse fate didn’t befall her. I presume she was working with Müller. She heard Gray say he’d left a note for me, and Müller must have told her to find some way to lure me outside. She copied Gray’s handwriting from his letter and told Müller to expect me at the bench at midnight.

From there, Müller staged the kitten trap. Getting that kitten back was the first task I sent Gray on. He found it hiding in the bushes, poor thing. It’s cold and scared, but unharmed. Alice is looking after it.

Why was Dorothy working with Müller? We’d need to get that answer from her. I can’t imagine an affair, so I’m guessing blackmail or extortion or even just a hefty bribe.

My fear is that, once Dorothy has served her purpose, Müller did something with her. We have all the remaining male staff out searching the grounds. Her empty clothing chest suggests she bolted, but I don’t want to presume anything.

What about the original note, from Sinclair to Violet? Dorothy said she found Sinclair’s first attempt in the trash. Is that true? Or more staging? Violet has admitted to receiving a note, but she says it wasn’t romantic in nature. Was that the part Dorothy lied about?

I’m working this through with Isla when she says, “We have established that Ezra Sinclair had a predilection for maids.”

“So you think that’s the leverage he and Müller had over Dorothy? She was Ezra’s latest lover? But why would Müller have her tell us about the note?”

“Perhaps that was entirely her doing.” When I still look confused, she sighs, as if my blow to the head did some serious damage. “Dorothy is having an affair with Ezra. She discovers that he left a note for Violet, bringing her out in the middle of the night.”

“Jealousy.”

Isla nods. “By the time she spoke to you, Ezra was dead, but that does not necessarily diminish her hurt, presuming it was a romantic rendezvous.”

“But it wasn’t. I think Violet was telling the truth about that. But what if Lenore was threatening to reveal what he’d done? He could have gone to Violet as a friend. Told her he was being threatened by a young woman he’d spurned.”

“Then Violet learns the truth and kills him?”

“Maybe?” I adjust the pillows behind me. “Lenore told someone what happened. Whoever left that note in Duncan’s coach knew. My first thought was her brother, Gavin, but he called her Len.”

“He could have written ‘Nori’ to throw you off his scent.”

I thump back on the pillows. “I’m missing something.”

“Because you are exhausted and injured, and you have suffered a blow to the head. You need to rest.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she’s right. I feel as if the answer is there, flitting just out of reach, and I’m too tired to grasp it.

“Sleep,” she says, more firmly. “We will continue looking for Dorothy, and Lenore will be back later to answer questions.”

I wake to the sounds of jubilation downstairs. That gives me pause. Is Lenore back already? I can’t imagine her mother being quite so loud about it, and I swear I hear multiple voices.

I rise and put on my second corset, grateful that Isla had gifted me with another. Then I rise carefully, wincing at the pain as I adjust my wrapper. I don’t plan to go down—just get close enough to hear who arrived.

I’m making my way toward the stairs when a male voice booms, “Breakfast. That is what I want more than anything. A hot breakfast.”

Cranston?

I hurry halfway down the steps to see Cranston in the hall, Violet fussing over him, Fiona standing back, smiling. James Frye pumps his friend’s hand as if he just returned from war.

Cranston’s gaze rises. “And there she is. My savior.” He bows deeply. “If only you did not need to be attacked to see me freed. I am sorry for that, Miss Mitchell.” He turns. “Mrs. Hall! Please see that Miss Mallory has a proper room to recuperate in and anything she wishes. I owe her a great debt of gratitude.”

“That is very kind,” I say, “but unnecessary. I am glad to see you are free.”

“For now at least. I have been sternly warned that it might be temporary.”

“It is not,” Fiona says. “That odious constable shall not have you again.”

Cranston bows her way. “From your lips to God’s ear. Now, as much as I long for company, I long for hot food and a bath first. You may all join me in the first, but not the second.”

A round of laughter, with Violet shaking her head at his impudence. Then, with Cranston leading the way like the Pied Piper, they all file into the dining room to await breakfast.

I change into a proper dress and join them. Over breakfast, Cranston regales us with the horrors of his imprisonment. He exaggerates, but in that booming way that makes it clear he’s playing to his audience. McCreadie had only told Ross about the attack on me, but the constable had decided he had a new suspect for Sinclair’s murder, which necessitated releasing the old one.

As we eat and listen to Cranston, I take time to think, my brain working better now. I keep circling back to the notes between Violet and Sinclair. Having her waiting to meet him the night he died had seemed a tragic coincidence when we thought Sinclair a fine and upstanding fellow. But now that we’ve seen his sinister side, I can’t help but feel “coincidence” is not the answer.

When breakfast wraps up, I quietly ask Violet if I might have a word. She quickly agrees. I am, apparently, her brother’s “savior,” even if unintentionally. Gray and McCreadie both glance over, a question in their eyes, but I shake my head. I need to handle this one alone.

We retreat to the smallest of the sitting rooms. With Cranston still holding court in the next room, no one is likely to overhear our hushed voices.

“You know that I was attacked last night,” I say as we sit. “What you may not know is why I was out of doors at such an hour. I was lured with a fake note purporting to be from someone I trusted.”

A smile tugs at her lips. “Dr. Gray.”

When I hesitate, she says, “Your secret is safe with me, though I suspect it is no secret to anyone who sees you together. But I understand the need for discretion, and a response is not required. You were lured out by a note apparently from another.”

“Yes, and it got me thinking about your note from Mr. Sinclair. Is it possible that was also false?”

Her answer comes quickly. “I do not think so.”

“It was not unusual for him to write you such notes?”

Her cheeks pink but she says, levelly, “We have known each other a very long time. He trusted my counsel.”

“Counsel…” I muse. “I hate to ask this, but one of the maids swore she saw a discarded version of the note and it was romantic in nature.”

Another flush, but accompanied by a firm “No, it was not.”

“You were not courting Mr. Sinclair in private? I offer you the same discretion you offered me. It will only help me to understand the circumstances myself, which I do not need to pass along to anyone else.”

“Ezra did not write me a romantic note. When you first asked, my brother was imprisoned, accused of murdering Ezra. I would never have concealed something as frivolous as a secret courtship.”

“So Mr. Sinclair wanted to comfort you, because Detective McCreadie was here?”

“Yes.”

“But you said he trusted your counsel, which suggests he wished to speak to you about something, as well. Seeking your advice. Perhaps about Lenore Hall?”

Genuine surprise slackens her jaw. “Mrs. Hall’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

She blinks, shaking her head as if to clear it. “No, certainly not.”

“Perhaps another one of the maids?”

“No, and this is a very odd line of questioning, Miss Mitchell.”

Maybe, but the expression in her eyes looks more like dawning dread than irritation or confusion.

“My apologies,” I murmur. “Mr. Müller said something to me that meant I had to ask.”

“He said something about Miss Hall and Ezra?”

“Not specifically,” I demur. “I am simply trying to piece together things he did say.”

She nods, but her gaze has gone distant.

“Is there anything more you can tell me?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“All right then. Thank you for your time.”