Page 39 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

THIRTY-NINE

Isla and I stay with Lenore until she’s ready to return to the house. We’ve been honest that we need to tell McCreadie and Gray, because it’s part of the investigation. And if it turns out that what happened to Lenore was the motive for Sinclair’s death, then that also needs to come out. But we’re not going to be running to Ross with this new information. No one needs to know unless it becomes critical to catching—and convicting—a killer. Isla does urge Lenore to tell her mother, but only to have someone to help her through the trauma.

We arrive at the house to find Simon outside with McCreadie. Mrs. Hall is nearby, talking to Gavin after his interview. Lenore goes to join them, and Isla heads inside while I stop to speak to McCreadie.

I arrive just as Simon is leaving, tipping his hat to me as he goes.

McCreadie sighs deeply as I join him. “That boy is the height of incompetence.”

I blink and stare after Simon.

“No, not Simon, of course. Constable Ross. Simon would be a better police officer. In fact, given his help with this case, I would strongly suggest he apply for a position, so I might scoop him up to assist me.”

“Yeah, even in my world, while we have cops with Simon’s romantic preferences, they don’t have an easy time of it.”

McCreadie sighs again. “Of course they do not. Homosexuals, women, people of color, on a police force? Certainly not. They must reserve it for men like me, which means we are stuck with boys like Constable Ross, who tripped into the position despite having no talent for it.”

“His grandfather was a constable. It’s in the blood. In my day, that’s better than any actual skill. Law enforcement is a family tradition. Look at me. My mother is in law, too.”

“As a barrister. Defending criminals.”

“Made for very lively family dinners.” I notice Mrs. Hall walking past and switch to my Victorian voice. “You said something about Constable Ross, sir?”

“Simon is playing spy for me, keeping me informed on the proceedings. It seems that Müller went off on some tangent about the wildcat. He knew it had not died in the trap.”

“I fear that is my fault. I told him it had been poisoned first and accused him of doing it.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. Hall stop. She slowly turns our way.

McCreadie continues, “Well, Müller wishes Constable Ross to know that he did not poison the cat, and whoever did clearly also murdered Ezra. So now Ross is trying to say that Müller poisoned Ezra.”

“What?” I say, forgetting my Victorian manners.

“My dear girl, think it through. The wildcat was poisoned. Müller claims the same person killed Ezra. Which means he is clearly confessing to killing both and also must have used the same method. Poison.”

I groan. Then I realize Mrs. Hall has stopped parallel to us. While she could have just been eavesdropping, her expression says something in our conversation caught her ear. She looks at me and then quickly continues on toward the house.

“Mrs. Hall,” I call after her.

She keeps going, as if she’s going to pretend she didn’t hear me.

“Mrs. Hall,” McCreadie says, and that makes her slow, however reluctantly.

“Yes, sir?” she says, her face impassive.

McCreadie nods to me.

“You were startled to hear that the wildcat died of poison,” I say.

She seems to consider denying it, but then says, “Of course. I heard it was caught in a trap.”

“Poisoned,” McCreadie says. “And then posed in the trap, so it seemed as if it had simply been caught in it.”

She shakes her head. “Mr. Müller was not only a despicable man, but a terrible gamekeeper. There was no need to kill the cat. The lads were repairing the chicken coop and that would have kept it out. If the master insisted on getting rid of it, a proper gamekeeper does it quickly. With a gun. Not poison and not traps.”

I walk toward her. “But that wasn’t what gave you pause, was it? It was something about the cat being poisoned.”

When she doesn’t respond, McCreadie clears his throat. “In a murder investigation, people must tell us what they know. It is the law. If they do not, and we discover they withheld information, it goes badly for them.”

She considers as we move closer. Then she lowers her voice. “I do not know what to make of it, and I fear impugning the name of a man who is dead and cannot defend himself. Particularly as…” She looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “I did not care for the deceased myself, and others knew it.”

That’s right. While everyone else here liked Sinclair and thought him a jolly good fellow, Mrs. Hall had been unable to hide her dislike. She’d obviously blamed Sinclair for Müller being here, and she’d flat-out implied he’d tricked Cranston into hiring the man. At the time, that had seemed like misplaced anger. Her husband lost his position because of someone Sinclair recommended, and since she liked Cranston, she had to direct her anger elsewhere.

But now I wonder if it was more. If she was picking up on something we missed. An older woman in service sensing danger in a young gentleman, but not recognizing—or trusting—her gut instinct enough to warn the maids, including her daughter. I ache for the guilt she will feel when Lenore confesses. It’s not Mrs. Hall’s fault, but she will blame herself. She knew something was off with Sinclair and said nothing.

“I presume you mean Mr. Sinclair,” McCreadie says, bringing me back to the conversation.

“Yes. He was in the pantry. Before the wildcat died. I walked in and found him there, and he apologized, saying he was peckish and looking for biscuits. When he left, I found that the rat poison had been moved. I am exceedingly careful with it, and the bag was not where I left it.”

“Which suggests the poison came from there,” McCreadie says. “What time was this?”

“About five that afternoon.”

McCreadie checks with me—his expression asking whether I have questions. Then he dismisses the housekeeper.

Once she’s gone, he turns to me. “At the risk of defending Ezra, I cannot imagine he poisoned the wildcat. It makes no sense.”

“So he was in the pantry, looking for biscuits right after he took tea with the rest of us? He had a full plate, which I remember, because Duncan grumbled that he took the last piece of cake.”

“True. I teased Duncan about that.”

A memory flashes. Alice taking the kitten into Sinclair’s bedroom. How it had hissed and wanted to flee. Freaked out by the smell of a corpse? Or by the smell of the man who poisoned its mother?

“He was out that night,” I say. “I saw him come back. He mentioned hearing the cat. He was also very eager to bury it, though he eventually backed off when we insisted on examining it.”

“But why would Ezra poison it? He protested its death louder than anyone.”

He certainly had. Sinclair had been there comforting Fiona, furious on her behalf, outraged that her fiancé would have allowed such a thing. Why would he…?

Oh.

The last piece of the puzzle finally thuds into place.

When Violet sees me coming, she deflates, but manages the wan smile of one resigned to yet more uncomfortable questions.

“May we step outside?” I say.

“Of course.”

I lead her toward the gardens. When she sees McCreadie, she tenses, but I murmur, “He is only ensuring we are not overheard. Dr. Gray is doing the same on the other side.”

Her shoulders droop. If she’d had any hope this conversation might not be an unpleasant one, it disappears with my precautions.

Once we are in the garden, McCreadie nods and moves toward the house, getting out of earshot.

“I need to discuss something requiring great discretion,” I say. “A matter you will not wish to discuss. I will ask you, though, to hear me out. You do not need to confirm what I am about to say, but let us pretend that your denial has already been registered, as well as any outrage at my theory.”

“This sounds most foreboding,” she says, struggling for a smile she can’t find.

“I saw the marks on your stomach. I know you were pregnant. I strongly suspect Ezra Sinclair was the father, as the result of a youthful affair that has long since ended.”

She opens her mouth, as if the denial comes automatically, and then shuts it.

“You do not need to confirm any of that because it is not relevant to what I am about to say. It may become relevant. But at this point, it is not.”

She doesn’t answer. I take a deep breath.

“I think I know why you went to speak to Ezra that night.” I use his given name, deciding to drop the “Mr. Sinclair” honorific. “I do not think it was because he requested the meeting. I believe you intercepted a note intended for another.” I look at her. “Intended for Fiona.”

She doesn’t answer, but the flash of surprise in her eyes tells me I’ve guessed right. Not so much a guess, either, as a conclusion.

“Ezra had set his sights on Fiona,” I say. “He was going out of his way to pay attention to her. That wouldn’t seem odd to most. He had a reputation for kindness, and she was his best friend’s fiancée. But you noticed it. I did, too, though I chalked it up to a generosity of spirit. Especially when he took her aside, late the first night, to talk about you. To express his concern about you.”

She makes a small noise. Oh, she stifles it with a cough, but I didn’t miss that noise—a derisive snort.

I continue, “You recognized his wooing, having been the target of it yourself. I then learned that Ezra was making plans for Fiona to visit the estate while your brother was busy. Ezra himself would have been here, to look after her and keep her company. Again, that seemed like an older man’s kindness to his friend’s young wife. It was not, was it?”

She says nothing, but her mouth firms. She’d heard of those plans, too, and knew them for what they were—a way to get Fiona alone for an extended period.

“Then there was the wildcat.”

She looks over, frowning as if she’s misheard.

“Ezra poisoned it,” I say, “though he made it look as if it had been caught in the trap.”

Her hand flies to her mouth. “My God. Why would he…” She trails off, as if she’s realized the answer.

“To get closer to Fiona,” I say. “To position himself as an ally. As someone who understood her and agreed with her sensibilities. Ezra would feign horror at the death of the cat. Feign fury with Müller for doing it—and your brother for allowing it. When Fiona wanted to tend to the kittens—which he knew she would—he would demand she be allowed to do so. That last part didn’t work, because your brother was fine with her keeping the kittens. But Ezra still made it seem as if he had won the day.”

“For her,” Violet murmurs. “He killed the cat so that he could join her in outrage over its death. Show her that he shared her love of wild creatures. I want to say he would never be so manipulative, but I have long feared I did not fully understand the depths of him. The worst depths.”

“You realized what he was up to,” I say. “Especially when you intercepted that note. You went in Fiona’s place to warn him off.”

Her mouth twists. “I doubt it was necessary. Fiona had no idea Ezra was interested in her that way. The note would have only befuddled her. I had hoped, when she did not reciprocate, he would give up, but that was foolish. He would never have given up. When I found that note in Fiona’s room—I had gone in to get her shawl—I knew I had to act. He would not do to her what he had done to me. I would not allow it. If necessary, I would use whatever munitions I had, including the force of threats.”

“To reveal that he had gotten you with child.”

She swallows and looks away. “He seduced me when I was sixteen. It went on for three years, and it is not surprising that a child was the eventual result. He may… he may even have planned that. He wanted to tell my parents and offer to marry me. I would not let him—I knew they would never agree and I was… no longer sure he was a man I wished to marry. The affair ended with that. My parents sent me to visit a cousin in Switzerland. I stayed there while I had the baby. My cousin was married and childless and happily took him.”

“So your family knew?”

“My parents did.”

“Not Archie?”

She shudders. “Certainly not Archie. My parents did not realize who the father was—I said a young man had seduced me while we were on a seaside holiday. Archie would have uncovered the truth. Had that happened, Archie would have run Ezra out of Edinburgh, perhaps Scotland altogether.”

“It must have been difficult continuing to see him socially, as Archie’s friend.”

She flushes. “When I say the affair ended, I do not mean it ended forever. We would periodically reunite. I was often… lonely. Ezra helped me through some difficult times. But that is what he did. He was there when you needed him, offering kindness and sympathy, so when you had cause to question other behaviors, you felt guilty for doing so.”

“It didn’t help when everyone else saw him as a good man.” I look at her. “That’s what men like him do. They woo with kindness, and if anything goes wrong, everyone else can confirm they are a wonderful chap who would never do such a thing. Clearly there was a misunderstanding.”

“Yes. There was no way I could accuse him and be believed, and his reputation made me feel as if there was something wrong with me for doubting him.”

“Yet you did doubt.”

She nods, her gaze averted, and she walks a little more before speaking. “Something odd began happening. I would be with him and then it was morning, and I was back in my own bed without knowing how I got there.”

A chill slides down my back.

She continues, “He would claim I had fallen asleep and he had snuck me back home, but that seemed… odd. Would I not have woken to him carrying me? It made me very uneasy. Then I heard a story about him taking advantage of a maid. I had heard such things before, but by then I had reached the point where I did not automatically dismiss them as tittle-tattle. Four years ago, I ended our relationship for good, which has been difficult. I have always suffered bouts of melancholia. They have become worse, with my mind torn between fearing Ezra mistreated me and then being horrified at suspecting him of such a thing.”

“Being here with him could not have been easy.”

“It was not,” she says firmly. “But I resolved to put a good face on it, and if I seemed despondent, I would let everyone think it was because of Hugh. While that is not an easy situation either, Hugh was always honorable in his dealings with me. Ezra was not.”

She walks in silence, and then says, “I have feared that Hugh ended it because he learned of the baby.”

“He had no idea,” I say firmly. “He ended it…” I trail off, not sure where to go.

“Because he loves Isla Ballantyne?” A soft twist of a smile. “Yes, I see that now, and I am happy for them. For both of them, if they can find their way to each other, which I sincerely hope they do.”

“That is kind of you.”

“Hugh would have made a good husband, but I was in love with Ezra.” She looks over. “You are wondering how far I would go to ensure he did not hurt Fiona.” She shakes her head. “If I wanted to hurt him, I would have taken away the most important relationship in his life, which I could have ended with a few words.”

“By telling Archie everything.”

“Yes. I would gladly have threatened that, for Fiona’s sake, but I also would have hoped the mere threat would be enough. I would not have hurt Archie that way. For him to realize that his best friend had seduced his sister and aimed to seduce his wife?” She sucks in a breath. “I would not have wanted to inflict that guilt on him.”

We walk around the garden one more time, without speaking, before I say, “And your child? You say your cousin took him? I hope he is well.”

She lights up at that. “His name is Owen, and he is very well. They are all so happy together, and I have never regretted my choice. I visit every year, and I am Aunt Violet, who brings toys and sweets. I was there just last month, with Archie as a matter of fact.” She pauses. “That was difficult, knowing how much Archie would love a nephew, but he still enjoyed Owen immensely.” She smiles. “And Owen still got to call him uncle. It was a most lovely time.”

She glances over, catching my expression and frowning. “Miss Mitchell? Are you all right?”

No, I’m really not.

Because I know who killed Ezra Sinclair. And I know why.