Page 7 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

SEVEN

A few more curses follow the first, these ones aimed at himself for not seeing the problem. I don’t blame him, of course. Technically, this isn’t a crime scene, and since the wildcat was obviously dead, he didn’t need to take a closer look. But once he did, the problem became clear.

The jaws of the trap had snapped around the cat’s neck, and that would have killed it—either with the force or those serrated edges. Except something is missing.

“Blood,” Gray mutters as he kneels beside the dead wildcat. “There is no blood.”

“Which could mean the trap only snapped her neck. Except…”

He grunts. “The edges have clearly broken the skin, and if she was alive when that happened, there would be blood.” He exhales and leans back on his haunches. “She was placed there, already dead, and the trap sprung, to make it appear as if she died that way.” He glances over at the injured kitten, who seems to think itself well-hidden and has stopped hissing. “That little one must have been too close when the trap was sprung.”

Gray examines the trap, finds the release, and opens the jaws. Then he takes a closer look.

“The wound is clearly postmortem,” he says. “Inflicted not long after she died, given that there is some blood on the tines. As for how she did die…” He looks at the cat. “Perhaps we ought not to have told Archie that I require a dead body for a proper mystery.”

“Did someone say mystery?”

We look to see McCreadie striding over, Gray’s black bag in hand. He’s smiling until he sees the mother wildcat. Then he starts to glance away before stopping.

“Did the trap not kill her?” he says. “If it did, there ought to be more blood.”

Gray sighs. “And you see it immediately as well. Clearly I should surrender any claim to the title of detective.”

McCreadie claps him on the back. “Do not be so hard on yourself. You are only an amateur, after all. Still learning and all that.”

As Gray grumbles, McCreadie says to me, “You saw it as well then. That is what you were discussing. The mystery of who killed the wildcat, because if there is so little blood, she was killed and posed here, which makes it a homicide.” He purses his lips. “Caticide? Felicide?”

Whatever this is, it’s not our concern. That isn’t because the victim is a wild animal, but because no one will thank us for solving this mystery. It’s Cranston’s land, and his right to rid it of so-called pests. But it’s not as if we have anything else to do, and also not as if we wouldn’t welcome the distraction. So I zip my lips and adjust my skirts to lower myself and examine the cat.

“It could have been better staged,” I say. “Just add more blood, and no one would question it. Meaning the killer either doesn’t know better… or they presumed no one would care enough to look closer. I—”

“The shovel has been obtained.” Sinclair’s voice rings out over the field, and the men both straighten quickly as he approaches. I rise slower.

“I will tend to the cat,” Sinclair says. “The kittens are up at the house.”

“We will handle this,” McCreadie says, reaching for the shovel.

Sinclair frowns and keeps his grip on it.

“We will bury the beast,” McCreadie says.

“No need. I have done far too much hunting to be squeamish, and you need to work on that injured one there.”

“The kitten should rest for a few minutes,” Gray says. “As for the cat here, I was going to use it as a demonstration for Miss Mitchell. She has been learning basic anatomy.”

“Can’t let a good corpse go to waste,” McCreadie says cheerfully. “They are bloody expensive.”

“Er…” Sinclair looks from Gray to me to McCreadie, obviously trying not to judge our hobbies. “I suppose there is no harm…”

“There is not,” Gray says firmly. “It is a lesson for Miss Mitchell, after which we shall bury the beast, and then I will do what I can for the kitten.”

Sinclair shrugs and holds out the shovel. “All right then. I cannot say I mind being relieved of the task. Enjoy…” He trails off, as if realizing that might not be the right word. He clears his throat. “Have a good lesson, and I will see you up at the house.” He starts to leave and then turns. “Follow the same direction back, and you will be fine. There are no other traps between here and the house.”

Gray uses a bit of morphine on the kitten. He has some in his bag—in this era, leaving that out would be like leaving out aspirin or acetaminophen. Once the kitten is woozy, we wrap her leg pending closer examination and we put her aside to rest while we autopsy the wildcat. Or, more correctly, necropsy the cat, that being the word used for an internal postmortem on a nonhuman.

It doesn’t take a complete dissection to realize what killed her, but we want to give the kitten time to fall asleep. Gray wasn’t lying about teaching me anatomy, and we really have only worked on humans, so this is a teaching moment.

As for what killed her…

“Poison!” I say, shouting like it’ll win me a quiz-show jackpot.

“I was going to say that,” McCreadie grumbles. “I was literally opening my mouth to do so, and then I saw you opening yours, and being a gentleman, I let you go first.”

“Of course you did.”

Gray looks heavenward in an expression familiar to any teacher who has had to deal with two very competitive keeners.

“Fine,” I say, moving back on my heels. “Giving you the benefit of the doubt, Hugh, I will let you point out the signs.”

His eyes narrow. “Giving me the benefit of the doubt? Or calling my bluff?”

I smile, showing my teeth. “Either. Both.”

“Fine. There are signs of hemorrhaging in the eyes and vomit in the fur.”

“Correct,” Gray says. “Of course, were this a human patient, I would then be passing on tissue to Isla for confirmation and to narrow down the list of possible toxins. However, as she is here for a holiday and a wedding, that hardly seems appropriate.”

McCreadie snorts. “If you think your sister would rather play whist with Archie, James, and that wife of his, you do not know her very well. The only thing stopping her from helping would be a lack of equipment.”

“So someone poisoned the cat,” I say. “Likely in meat, which we’ll see when we open her stomach. Ezra did say he thought he heard her last night. I did, too, now that I think of it. I was drifting off when I heard something outside.”

Gray idly taps his probe. “What sort of noise?”

“Hard to say. A yowl maybe? A sound of some distress, but it’s the forest at night. Critters are hunting and being hunted. It didn’t last long enough to do more than catch my attention.”

“What time was that?” McCreadie asks.

“Around two?” I explain how I came down after that and heard Cranston outside.

“I thought he was patrolling,” I say. “Guarding his property. But then Ezra showed up, and Archie said something about Ezra roaming about, so I think he realized Ezra was gone and was concerned.”

“As he should be,” McCreadie mutters. “What the bloody hell is Archie thinking, laying those traps about? And blaming the gamekeeper. That was obviously to appease Fiona.”

“Was it?” I say. “Archie grumbled about the traps last night, too, and seemed genuinely annoyed.” I glance at Gray. “You spoke to him about them.”

Gray nods. “He did not appreciate that, however politely I worded it. We have never got along.”

McCreadie makes a noise that says this is an understatement, but Gray only continues, “My interpretation would agree with yours. That the traps are not Archie’s idea. If they were, he would have had no issue with saying so to me. Yes, he might blame Müller in front of Fiona, but not to me or Ezra.”

I shift to get more comfortable. “But knowing his bride would be horrified if he killed the wildcat for stealing eggs, might he have poisoned the cat and then made it look like the trap killed her?”

Gray looks to McCreadie, as if lobbing the question his way.

“I cannot say for certain either way.” McCreadie seems to choose his words with care. “Archie denied that he wanted the cat dead, but that could indeed be bluster for Fiona’s sake. My impression there…” He pauses and then speaks even slower. “I am not comfortable assessing their relationship, as I fear I am inclined to be too hopeful, for my sister’s sake. Archie has his faults—many, many faults—but I would like to think he is genuinely fond of Fiona. Not necessarily in the way a groom should be fond of his bride but…”

“Last night, when I overheard him speaking to Ezra, that was the impression I got. He recognizes how young she is, and intends to… Well, he seems to see it more as a transfer of guardianship, and he also seems very willing to take on that responsibility. He does seem fond of her. Very fond. Just more as a friend’s young sister than as a bride.”

McCreadie exhales in obvious relief. “Good. It is not the marriage I would wish for my sister, and I fear I might be responsible, our families still wishing to be joined after I ended my engagement with Violet…”

“I’ve heard nothing like that,” I say, managing Oscar-worthy sincerity. “But even acknowledging that Archie cares for Fiona only means that if he did want the wildcat dead, this might have been his way of doing that without incurring her wrath.”

“The other primary suspect would be Müller.”

I must make a face, because McCreadie shoots me a look.

“He is rather unpleasant, isn’t he?” McCreadie says. “However, Europeans often see the British as unsophisticated, particularly those living in the ‘wilds’ of Scotland.”

“It’s not only Europeans,” Gray says. “The English love to mock us with political cartoons portraying Scots as bumbling and idiotic primitives. Despite the fact, as Isla would point out, that our literacy rates significantly exceed theirs. As for Müller, he will not last. Archie is a man of his word, and he will honor the terms of their agreement and then release him. As for whether he makes a valid suspect? Yes. If Archie did not want the wildcat killed, it is obvious from our encounter with Müller that the gamekeeper would see that as interference. The cat is a pest, and pests are to be eliminated. But to keep the peace, he might poison it and then make it look as if it wandered into the trap.”

“Either way,” McCreadie says, “it is not as if we can charge the killer with anything. Or even accuse them without causing trouble.” He seems to consider the injustice of this, only to shake it off and say, more brightly, “But we can perform the autopsy.”

“Necropsy,” Gray corrects.

“Yes, yes. On with it then. Your eager students await.”

We confirm undigested meat in the cat’s stomach, but there’s no point in collecting it. This is a mental exercise only, a diversion and to satisfy our own curiosity. While the murder of an animal deserves better, even in the modern day, this wouldn’t be considered animal cruelty. Considering she’s an endangered species, there’d be some law against killing her, but that doesn’t apply here. This was just a landowner getting rid of a pest that broke into his chicken coop. So while it seems disrespectful to use her death as an exercise for bored minds, it’s better than realizing she’d been murdered, dumping her into a hole, and walking away.

When we reach the house, Cranston and Sinclair are outside with Frye, and Sinclair calls Gray and McCreadie over. That invitation will not include me. So I continue on to the house. I poke my head into the first of the sitting rooms to find Violet with an unfamiliar woman.

I murmur an apology and start to retreat, but Violet calls me in.

“Miss Mitchell,” she says, rising. “This is Mrs. Edith Frye, James’s wife. Edith, this is Miss Mallory Mitchell.”

Edith Frye is a pinch-faced woman of about thirty. Or so she seems until I realize the pinched-face part is only her expression as she peers at me. “Who? Oh. Some friend of Fiona’s, I presume.”

“No, Miss Mitchell is here with Dr. Gray.”

That look again. “Who?”

“Duncan Gray,” Violet says, with great patience. “He went to school with James, Ezra, and Archie. He is a dear friend of Hugh’s.”

“Oh. The dark one.”

Violet responds with perfect equanimity. “Yes, he has dark hair and I believe, dark eyes as well. Miss Mitchell is his assistant.”

Edith’s gaze rakes up and down me, and she gives the most unladylike snort. “Assistant, you say.”

“The Grays have always been…” Violet seems to search for a word. “Broad-minded. Have you met his sister, Isla Ballantyne? She is here as well. She is a chemist, and the most fascinating—”

“Is this not a wedding party? Someone’s sister. Someone’s assistant. It is most irregular.”

“It is Fiona’s wedding, and she invited her brother and his friends, whose company she enjoys. Just as Archie invited his friends, including your husband, whose company he enjoys. Now, why don’t we all go and see whether we can find Fiona and Isla and play a game until lunch.”

I open my mouth to excuse myself, but then I catch Violet’s expression, a silent scream that begs not to be left alone with Edith.

“That is an excellent idea,” I say. “If you can find Miss McCreadie, I will find Mrs. Ballantyne.”

I manage to duck out of the game, as does Fiona. We have an excuse—Gray wants to work on that wildcat. I am his assistant, and Fiona asks to watch. Sinclair takes the fourth place for whist, and we leave them to it.

The question becomes where to operate on the kitten. The obvious place is the kitchen… if we want the cook quitting in protest. The only animals allowed in a kitchen are the ones served on the table.

We end up in the stable, which is possibly the worst place, between the noise and the manure and the poor lighting. After trying to fix the lighting problem, Gray gives up and has a couple of the grooms carry a barn table outdoors. I scrub it down as best I can, and Fiona helps, ignoring my protests. She is indeed McCreadie’s sister, rolling up her sleeves and diving in. I may hate their parents for what they’ve done to both of them—disowning McCreadie and forcing Fiona into an arranged marriage—but I must give them credit for raising two lovely humans.

Once the table is washed, Fiona disappears into the house and reappears with a bundle of sheets that Mrs. Hall is surprisingly letting her use. They’re old bedding, relegated to servants’ quarters, but in this world, they would have been recycled until they were threadbare rags.

Gray nails down one sheet as the most sterile table topper we can hope for. We’ve reached a time when doctors are starting to understand that infection comes from dirty conditions, though cleanliness is still not common practice. While Gray believes in the new science, this insistence on a clean operating theater is in deference to his assistant, who could confirm that yes, dear God, you don’t slice into a living body without first boiling your instruments.

Once all that is done, Fiona lifts the kitten onto the cloth. Gray had been adjusting the dosage of the painkiller until the kitten was sleeping but still had a strong heartbeat. Now he conducts a thorough examination of the unconscious creature. Fiona and I silently stand by as he pokes and prods and, finally, exhales.

“I cannot save the leg,” he says. “I am truly sorry, Fiona. I thought I could, but I can see now that it is mangled beyond my skill to repair.”

“Can you amputate it?” I ask.

He goes quiet, and I glance at Fiona, who nibbles her lower lip.

“That is… not usually done with an animal,” she says. “I have treated a dog that lost a leg in an accident, and it went on to a good home with lovely people, but I would not ask Duncan to perform such a surgery on a mere wildcat.”

There’s a note in her voice that has me looking at Gray. It’s a note that says she’s being polite while hoping he’ll agree to the surgery.

“Dr. Gray?” I say.

“I certainly can do it,” he says slowly, “but a three-legged wildcat is, I believe, unlikely to be returned to the wild. Of course, Fiona is the expert at that.”

“You are correct,” she says. “However, a Highland tiger is not truly a tiger. She could be kept as a pet, and I would be happy to do so.”

We could mention that, in a few days, that won’t necessarily be her choice. She’ll need to ask her husband’s permission to keep the kitten. But neither of us is saying that. Either she’s forgotten her upcoming change in status or she believes she can win Cranston’s approval for a three-legged wild pet cat.

“I also cannot guarantee the cat would survive the surgery,” Gray says. He quickly adds, “I am happy to attempt it, to the best of my ability, but I have only performed amputation on humans, and mostly as a surgical assistant.”

“I will understand if she does not survive it,” Fiona says. “And even if she does, and the pain or shock is too great, I will not see her suffer.”

“All right then. Let us begin.”

And so, I witness my first—and hopefully last—amputation. I’m not squeamish, but this is hard to watch.

I believe amputation is far more common in this era than my own. Of course, I can’t say that without access to a computer and research stats. But I know a bit about it in this time from my medical reading and conversations with Gray, who believes that amputation rates are already dropping. Chalk that up to the discovery of ether and the ability to knock a patient out and perform proper surgery.

Before that was possible, if the affected area was a limb, it was easiest to just remove it. However, please note the “no anesthetic” part. Yep, speed was of the essence, and speed of amputation was a key surgical skill. How fast could you saw off a leg and cauterize the stump? I believe the record was a couple of minutes. Then you had the risk of shock and, later, infection, which meant you didn’t take off a limb unless it was the only way to save someone’s life. But, often, it was indeed the only way, as with this kitten.

While Gray doesn’t need to perform an Olympic-speed amputation, he does have to work fast, because the kitten won’t stay asleep. Again, we lack the necessary ingredient, in this case ether.

We’d asked around. That might seem odd—who the hell brings ether to a wedding party? The answer is “more people than you might think.”

Throughout history, every time humans discover a new substance, I’m pretty sure their first question is whether they can eat it. Their second? Whether they can get high from it. In the case of ether, the answer to the second is yes. It’s even, apparently, becoming available in some pubs, as an alternative to alcohol for those taking “the pledge.”

No one brought party ether to the wedding, sadly… and yes, I can’t believe I’m adding “sadly” to that statement. For the kitten’s sake, though, it would have been helpful. As it is, the painkillers help keep the kitten from completely freaking out, though the poor thing does wake up to a bit of a shock. Fiona and I hold her down while staying out of Gray’s way, and in a rather astonishingly short amount of time, the leg is off and the kitten is sutured.