My heart began to beat faster. “What did the man he was speaking to look like?”
“Tall, brawny. I didn’t get a good look at ’im.”
“Did you ever ask him about it?”
“Didn’t have to. He caught me watchin’ and threatened to tell Lord Keswick and have me sacked.”
“Which is why you didn’t tell anyone this until now?”
She gave a sharp nod of her head. It would also explain why she’d been so eager to share it with me. I didn’t for one second believe Irene had followed Donovan down to Banbogle just to get Nelly in trouble. She’d likely been involved with Donovan herself and perhaps was afraid he was dawdling with the other maid. That was what Donovan had threatened to reveal to her employer—loose behavior was a far more serious offense than leaving the manor at night. And from the pain and disillusionment on Lucy’s face, I knew she had also realized it.
In any case, the reasoning didn’t matter. I still believed Irene was telling the truth.
Her story told me that Donovan had been using the grounds of Banbogle, if not the castle itself, for his own purposes. So it wasn’t too far of a leap to think he might store a boat there. I also recalled the remnants of a recent fire I had seen on the beach in front of Banbogle. At the time, I’d thought the ashes were left from a fire lit by Mac to keep Will warm, but now I wasn’t so sure. Donovan could have used the fire as a signaling device to someone out in the firth. It would be easy to see from the water, but hidden from Dalmay House by the large stone block of Banbogle.
The fact that he had threatened Irene to keep her from telling anyone about his meeting with that man said volumes about how desperate he was to keep his clandestine appointment secret. What I wanted to know was just how many of these meetings he’d had over the course of the last nine months of his employment, and just who this man was he was conferring with.
“Thank you,” I told Irene and then turned to retrace my steps back to Donovan’s room, eager to share my discovery with Gage.
“M’lady,” Lucy called. Her feet pattered against the hard floor after me. “I forgot. I put this in my pocket to give to ye. Thought ye’d want to see it straightaway.”
I glanced down at the letter she handed me, seeing Philip’s familiar scrawl. I felt another surge of excitement, hoping he had information for me. But first I thanked Lucy and hurried to find Gage.
He was still in Donovan’s room with Michael, but Lord Keswick was also with them and, judging from the looks on their faces, he had not brought good news.
“The boat?” I gasped.
“Gone,” Gage replied. Angry frustration shone in his eyes.
I pressed my hand to the door frame, feeling like someone had punched me in the gut. I couldn’t believe it. He’d gotten away. To where, I didn’t know. And it didn’t really matter. The fact was, our chances of catching up with him now were slim. And even if he’d gone somewhere close, like to his suspected employer on Inchkeith Island, we would never be able to flush him out of the asylum. Not without building a strong enough case against him to get the authorities involved, and I wasn’t sure we could do that.
I relayed the information Miss Remmington’s maid had given me, adding to the pile of evidence against Donovan, all the while knowing it wasn’t the proof we needed to convince a magistrate of his guilt. Then, while the men discussed the matter, I broke the seal on Philip’s missive. It was brief and to the point, but enough to make me exclaim, “I knew it.”
Michael halted in midsentence as they all turned to look at me.
“This Dr. Thomas Callart, the man who tried to examine Mary Wallace,” I reminded Gage. “It turns out he was an apprentice to one Dr. Alan Sloane, when they worked at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh together.”
Gage’s scowl turned black.
“Well, doesn’t that give us proof that Dr. Sloane was part of this?” Keswick asked.
Gage shook his head. “It’s all circumstantial. It might convince a magistrate to interrogate them, but that doesn’t mean they would tell the truth or admit their part.” He crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance. “No, what we need is irrefutable evidence that Donovan worked for Sloane, that they had nefarious intentions toward Lord Dalmay and Mary Wallace, and that they carried through with them. Right now all we have is the testimony of Craggy Donald saying he saw a boat leave Cramond Island.”
“And head out to sea,” I interjected. “Which is, incidentally, in the direction of Inchkeith Island.”
He arched his eyebrows. “Yes, but he never saw who was in it. We have a tin of valerian root . . .” he nodded toward where it lay on the bed “. . . and the word of a lady’s maid that Donovan secretly met a man down by the beach. Our strongest evidence is that Donovan is missing, and yet we have no definitive proof of wrongdoing.”
“What about the markings we found on Miss Wallace’s body?” I said. “She was clearly bound and beaten and bled. Couldn’t we show her wounds are consistent with the manner in which Dr. Sloane’s patients are treated in the asylum?”
Gage shook his head. “The magistrate will argue that they’re consistent with any violent abduction.”
“But the bloodletting marks?” I pressed. “Why would a simple kidnapper do such a thing?”
His eyes narrowed in consideration. “That may just be our linchpin, for it won’t be easy for them to explain away. We need to speak with a surgeon, to make certain there are no contingencies for bloodletting we have not considered that would ruin our argument.” He turned to Michael. “We also need to better search Lord Dalmay’s chambers and the surrounding area to make certain we’re not missing something. Can you send some of your men out to search the woods and to ask around in Cramond and Dalmay village, and even as far away as Queensferry? I don’t want to discover later that Donovan fooled us by making us think he escaped by boat when actually he walked away on foot.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I spent the remainder of the afternoon helping Gage search Will’s rooms and then buried in the library. Our exploration of Will’s chambers achieved nothing except to heighten my concern for Will as he lay unresponsive first on his bed, and then on the settee in his parlor while we examined his bedchamber. Whatever Donovan had used to introduce the scent of valerian root into Will’s rooms had been removed, as well as any other incriminating evidence.
The library had also yielded no new information, but in this case, that wasn’t such a disappointing thing. Will and Michael’s father had amassed quite an amazing collection of medical treatises and textbooks, perhaps purchased in an effort to find information to help his battle-fatigued son. Regardless of how they got there, I was grateful for the selection, and after several long hours scouring their pages, I felt relatively confident we could combat almost any potential argument that Miss Wallace’s being bled could be related to something other than the asylum. The only point of contention I could not entirely refute was the reasoning that it would have temporarily weakened her, but I felt we could argue the redundancy of such an action when Miss Wallace had already been bound and beaten. There were also the marks themselves to consider, for they had obviously been done with some skill, pointing toward a perpetrator who had experience with the procedure—either a surgeon or an apothecary. Dr. Sloane neatly fell into this group.
I stood to stretch my back and glanced out the tall wall of windows toward the overcast skies. The already hazy light of late afternoon had begun to fade with the approach of thicker clouds from the west. I hoped those who’d gone out to search wouldn’t be caught in the rain. I began to wonder if we should have searched the ruins of Banbogle in the off chance there might be evidence there that could be washed away by a downpour, when Michael rushed into the room.
“William has escaped.”
My head snapped around and Gage shot to his feet, dropping the text he’d been reading on the table in front o
f him with a thud.
“What?” he shouted.
“He nearly knocked Mac unconscious with a wooden tray before bolting out the door.”
I pressed a hand to my mouth in shock.
Gage rounded the table toward Michael. “Are we certain he escaped—and wasn’t taken by Donovan or that fool of a constable?”
“Yes. He darted past a maid on the servants’ staircase, frightening her half to death.”
“Is Mac all right?” I ventured to ask.
Michael’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Yes. He’s got a devil of a headache, and he’s beyond furious, but he’ll recover. Mrs. MacDougall is stitching him up right now.”
I cringed at the realization Will had hit him hard enough to draw blood. “I don’t understand,” I said as I joined the men near the doorway. “Why would he run off like that? Why would he attack Mac?”
Gage’s expression was grim, and I could read the bleak thoughts shining in his eyes before he even voiced them.
“No.” I shook my head adamantly. “Don’t tell me you think him culpable of Miss Wallace’s murder after everything we’ve discovered about Donovan and his association to Dr. Sloane.” There was anger in my voice, but also desperation. We were so close to proving Will’s innocence. I simply did not want to contemplate the possibility he might not be. That he might actually have killed the girl.
“I don’t know.” His voice was carefully modulated, but I could hear in it the concern that raised it a pitch higher than normal. “There are too many other factors to consider. Other reasons he could have fled. The best thing we can do is find him.”
I bit my lip and nodded.
“Have any of the footmen returned from their search of the woodlands and villages?” he asked Michael.
He shook his head. “And neither has Lord Damien or Keswick.” They had volunteered to ride to Queensferry, some distance off.
Gage inhaled deeply and exhaled, the muscles in his shoulders flexing in an eagerness to act. “Then that leaves just the two of us. Where do you think he’s gone?”
“What about me?” I protested. “I can help.”
“We need you to stay here and direct the search. Should the others return before we do, you can send them back out to look for Dalmay.”
“But surely Laura or Michael’s butler can do that.”
“But I’m asking you to do it.”
I scowled at him in frustration. “Gage, you are already short on men . . .”
“Yes, so Michael and I need to set out, not stand here arguing with you.”
I bristled, furious that he would speak to me in such a way.
“Kiera,” he added, gentling his tone, “pause to consider the matter. What if Dalmay should return of his own accord? Someone he trusts needs to be here to receive him.”
I was not happy with his orders, but I had to concede his point. Someone should be here to manage Will, and with Mac injured and Laura ignorant of much of what was happening, that left only me. However, from the intensity of his gaze, I suspected there was more to his determination to see I stayed safely inside the walls of Dalmay House than simple common sense. Perhaps bad memories from our last interaction with a murderer.
“All right,” I murmured. “I’ll do as you wish. But you do realize this isn’t like at Gairloch.”
His pale blue eyes flashed with some nameless emotion, but all he said was “Thank you.”
I nodded and returned to my books, leaving him and Michael to decide where they would search for William first.
Ten minutes later, I watched through the open front door as Gage’s and Michael’s horses galloped down the drive toward Cramond. With any luck, they would overtake Will, whom they assumed to be on foot, before he left the Dalmay property. He couldn’t have gone far. I just hoped there was a reasonable explanation for his strange actions. I hadn’t liked the blank stare he wore earlier when we searched his rooms, but he had seemed so dejected that he appeared harmless. Perhaps I had misread the situation.
I still couldn’t believe he had clubbed Mac over the back of the head with a wooden tray. I would never have believed Will capable of such a thing. But, then again, I had never believed he would harm me. I flexed my right hand. I suspected I wouldn’t be able to hold a paintbrush or writing implement comfortably for several days, but I could tell now there was no permanent damage. I didn’t need Dr. Winslow to confirm that, but Michael had sent for him anyway—for me, for Will, and now for Mac.
Stepping back from the door as the two men on horseback disappeared from sight, I turned to retreat to the drawing room and gasped as I almost collided with a man’s chest.
“Mac.” I pressed a hand over my pounding heart and gave a breathless laugh at my jumpiness. “What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be lying down.”
A thick white bandage was wrapped around his grizzled head, stained with blood on the right temple above his eye. There were deep lines around his eyes and mouth, telling me he was in pain, but he seemed determined to ignore it. “Where are they goin’? To search for Cap’n Dalmay?”
“Yes. To Cramond.”
Mac’s scowl deepened. “He’s no’ in Cramond.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Oh? Then where is he?”
His gaze met mine levelly and suddenly I knew without his saying a word.
“Of course!” I exclaimed. I whirled back toward the drive, realizing it was too late to catch up with Gage and Michael. They were far out of sight, the dust already settled in their wake.
I pressed a hand to my forehead, considering what I should do. I could wait for one of the footmen, or possibly Keswick and Damien, to return and send one of them after Will. But that could be hours from now. It would be dark soon, and it was growing colder by the minute. I doubted Will had thought to dress warmly before his mad dash to escape.
I bit my lower lip and turned to look at Mac. The only alternative was for us to go after him, and if I was reading Mac’s expression correctly, that was what he was determined for us to do. I knew Gage wouldn’t like me leaving the safety of Dalmay House, but what other choice did I have? I couldn’t stand here and pace the floor when I knew where William was. He could catch a dreadful chill, or fall victim to an accident. The ruins of Banbogle Castle were not exactly a safe place. I glanced back out the door toward the ominous clouds building in the west. And it would start raining soon.
That decided it. If he was clambering around on those crumbling, drafty ruins in the middle of a rainstorm he would probably slip and bash his head open or break a leg.
Mac must have read the resolve in my eyes, for he offered to come with me before I even told him I was going.
“Are you certain you can manage?” I protested, eyeing Mac’s bloodstained bandage.
“’Tis no matter,” he replied.
I didn’t argue, but grabbed my cloak from its hook and followed Mac out the side door. I made a quick detour to the stables, where I ordered the old stable master to saddle a horse and ride after Gage and Michael. The old codger began to argue with me, but one look at Mac’s scowling visage silenced him. Then we rejoined the path leading into the woods between Dalmay House and Banbogle. Mac weaved a bit when he walked, as if his world was not quite steady, and the crease between his eyes had deepened, but he soldiered on, determined to accompany me.
The air was crisp, and ripe with the scent of approaching rain. Beneath the trees, the trail was already steeped in shadow, giving the tense situation an even more sinister feel. I wrapped my cloak tighter and did my best to ignore the noises of the woodland, ones that normally wouldn’t have fazed me. Twice I jumped, once at the rustle of the underbrush made by some small woodland creature and again at the sound of a nut or piece of fruit striking the ground after falling from a tree branch.
I was sure Mac thought I was daft. I caught him snea
king glances at me once or twice out of the corner of his eye. We didn’t talk. What was there to say? Either we would find Will at Banbogle or we wouldn’t. If we did, we would bring him back.
If only it had been that simple.
We swiftly reached the edge of the forest and the castle’s tall, crumbling shape loomed over us. From this angle, I could see little but weathered stone and the section of the ceiling that had caved in over the nursery. But as we rounded the castle to the side facing the firth, at the very top, seated on the edge of the battlements, I saw a familiar figure.
My stomach dropped to my knees. “What is he doing?” I gasped.
Mac and I rushed forward, dodging around or vaulting over chunks of stone. I tripped and nearly took a tumble over one large piece.
“Will!” I shrieked. “You come down here this instant.” Fear made my voice wobble. “Will! Do you hear me? Will!”
He didn’t look down at us, but just continued to stare off in the distance out over the firth. Could he not hear us? Or was he ignoring us?
I glanced around me frantically before turning to Mac. “One of us has to go up there,” I said, at the same time I apprehended the danger we would be putting ourselves in. The floor could collapse beneath us, or a piece of the ceiling could come crashing down on our heads. But we couldn’t just leave Will up there. “Has . . . has he ever done this before?”
Mac shook his head and then grimaced, pressing his hand to a rock to steady himself.
In the course of our mad dash, I had forgotten his head injury. He couldn’t go up there. Not in his current state. Not without the risk of his taking a tumble or passing out on the way up the stairs. Which left only me.
My gaze traveled up the four stories of ramshackle masonry from the scrubby brush at its base to the battlements where Will’s legs dangled over the edge. Swallowing the bitter taste of fear flooding my mouth, I pressed a hand to my pounding heart. “I’ll go.”
Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery) Page 34
