A Grave Matter

by Anna Lee Huber

  Mr. Young darted another nervous glance at his cousin, who merely parted his fingers to look at me through them.

  Neither man spoke, so I clarified. “The interruption of the first-footer.”

  “Oh, yes.” Mr. Young gasped, almost seeming relieved.

  What else had he thought I referred to?

  “That was odd,” he confirmed.

  Clearly interpreting my probing gaze, Lord Shellingham added, “We both got a little more foxed than we intended, Lady Darby. I think Archie, here, has been worried he might have gotten into some trouble he shouldn’t have.”

  “I see,” I replied neutrally, not at all sure there wasn’t more to it than that. But before I had a chance to question them further, another guest entered the room.

  “Good morning,” he announced loudly with good cheer.

  Lord Shellingham winced so sharply I thought he might collapse under the table.

  I turned to smile at the newcomer, a gentleman about my uncle’s age with a wisp of very fair, thinning hair. “Good morning.”

  He halted at the edge of the table rather abruptly and, after examining my features quite thoroughly, offered me a dazzling smile. I began to worry there was some smudge on my face or that my hair, which was never really tamed, had already fallen from its pins. But he quickly disavowed me of my fears.

  “There is nothing quite like the sight of a lovely lady in the morning to brighten one’s day,” he declared, a slight nasality to his accent betraying his country of origin.

  I blushed at his outrageous flattery, and he swept around the table to take my hand, bowing before it.

  “Gentlemen . . .” he urged the two men sitting across from me “. . . please introduce us.”

  “Oh, er, Lady Darby, may I present Mr. Stuart,” Mr. Young stammered.

  “Lady Darby.” Mr. Stuart rolled my name over his tongue like it was a savory treat. “I have heard of you.” His silver eyes twinkled. “And, I must say, the pleasure is all mine.”

  I arched my eyebrows at the old roué, but couldn’t suppress an answering smile. “Thank you, Mr. Stuart.” Then I glanced down at where his hand still held mine. “But perhaps you might let go of my fingers now. I would like to finish eating.”

  He chuckled. “Of course.” He nodded to the footman standing by the sideboard, who moved forward to pour him a cup of coffee, and settled into the seat beside me.

  I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he inhaled and then took his first sip of the beverage, preferring it black and bitter. He sighed contentedly.

  I grinned at his obvious enjoyment. “Have you been in Scotland long?”

  “A few months only. A lovely country. And such fascinating customs! The singing, the bonfire, the first-footer. I have never been here before to celebrate what you call Hogmanay in your country.”

  “But you’ve visited Scotland before?”

  He nodded briskly as he took another sip of his coffee. “My first visit was in 1812.” He paused, a strange expression tightening his features. “So long ago now, it seems,” he murmured, almost wistfully. But before I could ask him about it, he hurried on to say, “But I’m afraid I did not stay long. I soon set sail for Philadelphia.”

  Mr. Young perked up at this bit of news. “You’ve been to America?”

  A smile returned to Mr. Stuart’s lips. “I have. And quite the adventure it was. I saw the city of Washington burned by the British. Even visited the frontier.”

  Mr. Young leaned forward eagerly. “Did you see any Indians?”

  “I did. I was even able to speak to a few of them.” He paused dramatically, a knowing twinkle in his eyes telling us he had more to share. “Davy Crockett introduced us.”

  This finally caught Lord Shellingham’s interest, as he lifted his eyes to the man, still carefully cradling his head in his hands. “The frontiersman?”

  Mr. Stuart relaxed back in his chair, clearly enjoying the attention. “Fascinating man. I even witnessed him dispensing what he liked to call ‘justice’ by shooting a man who was attempting to steal his horse in the b—” His gaze strayed to mine, as he seemed to recall the presence of a lady at the last moment. “Er . . . an uncomfortable place.”

  I hid a smile, knowing Mr. Stuart was eager to share more, but had halted out of respect for me. Taking the cue that none of these gentlemen would be so impolite as to actually express, I excused myself from the table. It was unlikely I would be able to glean any useful information about the night before from them anyway.

  I couldn’t help but chuckle as I exited the breakfast room, wondering if I should believe a word Mr. Stuart said. He simply did not seem the type who would go off on these sorts of adventures. He might have visited America. He might have seen the city of Washington burn—from a safe distance. But the rest seemed more like embellishment.

  “I see you’ve made Mr. Stuart’s acquaintance,” Aunt Sarah remarked, correctly interpreting my amusement when she intercepted me at the doorway. Dark circles rung her eyes, but they twinkled with good humor as she peered over my shoulder at the Frenchman. I suspected she had only managed to snatch a few hours of sleep, but being hostess, she would feel it was her duty to be up early to see to her guests.

  “Yes,” I replied. “He’s quite a colorful character.”

  “Telling tales of his exploits, is he?”

  “Davy Crockett.”

  “Ah,” she said knowingly, and then slipped her arm through mine, striding with me a few steps away from the door into the hall. “Well, he is charming. And perhaps a bit . . .” she wrinkled her nose as if searching for the right word “. . . eccentric.”

  I smiled. That word could encompass any number of odd behaviors. I myself was called eccentric, but I was nothing like Mr. Stuart. However, I knew what my aunt was trying to say as tactfully as possible.

  “I’m glad you found me,” I admitted.

  She arched her brows in query.

  “I wanted to ask you whether anyone mentioned if they’d seen anything strange last night—before, during, or after the ball.”

  Her face tightened. “You mean, other than when that poor young man stumbled in during our first-footing?”

  “That upset quite a few people, didn’t it?” I asked, thinking of how superstitious some Scots could be.

  She sighed. “You saw how quickly everyone left.” She lifted a hand to her forehead wearily. “It was not exactly an auspicious ending to the evening.”

  “No. It wasn’t.”

  Pressing a hand to her stomach over her lavender morning dress, she tilted her head to study me. “Your uncle told me you sent for this investigator, Mr. Gage.”

  I nodded. “Lord Buchan asked me to.”

  “Well, hopefully he can get to the bottom of this nasty business.” Her eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “And I suppose you mean to assist him.”

  “If I can,” I answered demurely, though I had already determined there was no way I was going to let Gage or my uncle leave me out of the matter.

  A warm smile spread across her face and crinkled the corners of her eyes. “I expected nothing less. You are Greer’s daughter after all.”

  At the mention of my mother’s name, and the implication of her infamously stubborn nature, I couldn’t help but return my aunt’s smile with one of my own.

  “Well, then, your uncle should be in his study, if you wish to speak with him. As for the other, I’m afraid, I have nothing to tell you. None of the guests mentioned anything out of the ordinary . . .” she frowned “. . . besides their superstitious nonsense.” She shook her head. “But you’re welcome to question those guests who stayed the night. And I can provide you with a copy of the guest list.”

  “Thank you.”

  She waved it aside. “It’s only common sense. If someone saw something, I would hope they would come forward of their own accord, but people are not always sensible about such matters, are they?”

  I knew her question was rhetorical, so I did not reply.

&nb
sp; “I’ll ask my staff if they saw anything, so that will be one less thing for you and Mr. Gage to do. But should you wish to question them yourself, just say the word.”

  I was extremely grateful for my aunt’s practical nature. I knew from experience that most other ladies of the manor would have declared that the murder and grave robbing at Dryburgh Abbey had nothing to do with Clintmains Hall and refused to assist me. But then again, the damage had already been done last night when Willie stumbled in during the first-footing. What further harm could questioning a few guests or servants about what they’d seen cause?

  In any case, I was more interested in returning to Dryburgh Abbey and the earl’s neighboring manor house. If anyone had seen anything suspicious, it was more likely to be one of Lord Buchan’s staff. After all, the grave robbers must have traveled in a carriage or on horseback. Perhaps someone had seen them coming or going.

  I found my uncle in his study, just as my aunt had suggested. However, he wasn’t alone. My brother was seated before our uncle’s heavy oak desk, his brow furrowed in either fatigue or frustration, I couldn’t be certain which, maybe both.

  When I informed them of my intentions, neither man spoke for a moment, leaving me perched awkwardly on the edge of my chair.

  “Don’t you think it would be wiser to wait for Mr. Gage?” my uncle finally asked.

  “I do not,” I replied, trying to keep the sharpness out of my tone. “I assure you, Mr. Gage would expect me to begin investigating immediately. Time is often of the essence. Evidence is lost. Witnesses change their stories. I need to return to the abbey and speak to Lord Buchan’s staff.”

  Uncle Andrew glanced at Trevor and then sighed. “If you’re so determined, I cannot stop you. But I recommend taking your brother with you.”

  “Of course,” I replied, having no intention of arguing. Trevor was intelligent. I was sure his presence would prove quite useful. In any case, I knew it would be wasted breath to protest. I could read the stubborn set to his chin. He was not going to allow me to investigate alone.

  Uncle Andrew nodded in approval and explained his intentions to send out riders on the roads leading north toward Edinburgh and Glasgow—the likeliest directions the grave robbers had gone—to ask about the travelers who had stopped at the inns and pubs last night along those routes. Perhaps someone had noticed something unusual or could at least give us a description of a group or several pairs—for they may have split up—of men traveling together.

  So while our coach was made ready, Trevor ate some breakfast and I gathered my cloak and gloves, having already dressed in a warm, deep blue serge gown borrowed from my aunt. Trevor was silent as we pulled out of Clintmains Hall’s drive and the carriage gathered speed on the road to Dryburgh Abbey, but I knew better than to think this would last. He may have held his tongue in our uncle’s study, but there was no reason for him to do so now that we were alone.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  I looked away from the window I had been staring out of at the weak winter sun to find him watching me with stern resolve.

  “Doing what?”

  He arched a single eyebrow in impatient chastisement. “Throwing yourself headlong into this investigation.”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer him. With his jaw hardened like that, and his legs spread, his feet planted firmly on the carriage floor as if prepared for battle, I knew Trevor would not be placated by a dismissive answer. He was determined to have the truth from me, even if I wasn’t certain precisely what that was.

  “I . . . want to find Dodd’s killer.”

  “Yes, but Mr. Gage and Uncle Andrew could undoubtedly handle it.”

  “Maybe,” I admitted reluctantly. “But I want to help.”

  “Why?” When I didn’t immediately answer, he leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “It’s not as if you have any personal investment in this inquiry. You’re not trying to prove your innocence or protect your family. You’re not attempting to salvage a friend’s reputation,” he rattled off, listing the reasons behind my interference in the last two investigations. His bright lapis lazuli eyes, so like my own, searched my face. “Why are you so determined to be involved?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and turned once again to stare out the window, unable to still meet my brother’s probing gaze. Irritatingly, he was right. I did want to bring Dodd’s killer to justice and give Willie some peace, but that wasn’t my sole motivation. It couldn’t be.

  “Kiera,” Trevor murmured, gentling his tone. “You don’t sleep. You barely eat. And since you arrived at Blakelaw House, you’ve hardly lifted a paintbrush.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he forestalled me.

  “I know you pretend. But you’ve been working on the same landscape since you arrived, and it looks worse than that painting in Uncle Andrew’s receiving room.”

  I scowled at him, but he ignored it, continuing on relentlessly.

  “You hate painting landscapes, Kiera. So why are you even attempting one?”

  I stared blindly out the window at the countryside passing by.

  “Kiera?”

  “Because every portrait I begin is rubbish,” I finally snapped.

  “Why?”

  I shrugged, unable to put it all into words. The last portrait I had completed had been of my friend Will, just after he died. And once it was finished, it seemed, so was I. It was as if my desire and my ability to capture the essence of people on canvas, which had always been my solace in times of distress, had deserted me also.

  Trevor sat back in his seat. “Then do you really think you should be getting involved with another investigation after everything that happened with the last one?”

  “It wasn’t the investigation.”

  He arched his eyebrows in skepticism.

  “It wasn’t,” I insisted. “If I hadn’t gotten involved, then William Dalmay might never have been cleared, and that . . . blackguard . . . might have gone on to harm more innocent people. I don’t regret that. I can’t.” I swallowed the lump of emotion gathering in my throat. “What I regret is that Will had to die. And in such a horrible way.”

  Trevor reached into his pocket and offered me his handkerchief, but I shook my head at him angrily.

  “I don’t like feeling helpless,” I said, glaring at him. “And this is something I can do. Something I happen to be good at. So if it makes me feel better to be useful, even if it involves a murder investigation, isn’t that better than the alternative?” I shook my head. “I can’t go on as I have been. I know I can’t. You know I can’t.”

  My brother studied my features, as if trying to read my thoughts. “You do know that you’re simply distracting yourself from the real problem?”

  “Well, maybe that’s just what I need,” I countered. “Remember when Father died?” His gaze dropped from mine. “Did anything truly make you feel better? Except when you found something to occupy your thoughts long enough to make you forget for a little while how sad you were.”

  From the stark look that had entered Trevor’s eyes, I knew I had caused him pain, but I could think of no other way to make him understand.

  “If helping with this investigation allows me to forget for a time,” I asked him more gently, “then what’s so wrong with that?”

  He inhaled deeply and nodded.

  I gave a small sigh of relief. Not that I actually thought Trevor would have forbidden me to assist with the inquiry—he was accompanying me back to the abbey, after all—but it would be much easier to proceed with his approval.

  “But that doesn’t mean you can go off on your own,” he warned, reassuming his role as big brother. “This is a murder investigation. We don’t know what kind of criminals we’re dealing with. And I have your safety to think of.”

  “I understand,” I replied, having become accustomed to the protective stances of the males around me when it came to these investigations. Not that that had always been effective in keeping me safe . . . bu
t I knew better than to argue.

  “If you wish to investigate something, I will make myself available to you. And once Mr. Gage arrives, there will be two of us to accompany you.”

  My breath caught at the reminder of Gage’s impending arrival, and when I felt the carriage turn into the drive for Dryburgh House, I was grateful for the distraction.

  • • •

  Several of Lord Buchan’s servants were already at work in the ruins of the abbey when we arrived. Dodd’s body had been taken away, and Willie was down on hands and knees scrubbing at the bloodstains left behind. My heart clenched at the sight, and I touched a hand gently to his shoulder. He looked up at me, and I could see the stark tracks his tears had left behind on his grimy face. He sniffed and nodded, and then bent back to his task.

  I thought it was cruel that Willie should be assigned this distressing job, but then I realized the guilt-ridden young man had probably requested it. An apology for not accompanying the older man to the abbey the previous night. I knew it would do no good to point out that, had he done so, Willie would likely also be dead. Guilt did not often answer to common sense.

  Two other men were employed near the eleventh Earl of Buchan’s yawning grave. I had to admit that the sight still made a chill run down my spine, even with the pale winter sun shining peacefully on the ruins, chasing away the night’s lingering shadows. Barren creepers and ivy covered the cold stone walls of the north transept, a bleak backdrop to the scene.

  Our footsteps crunched across the frosted grass, alerting the men to our approach. One fellow stood down in the grave while the other kneeled beside it. A pile of the deceased Lord Buchan’s discarded clothes, retrieved from the coffin, lay next to the headstone.

  Trevor and I introduced ourselves and quickly learned that both men were employed by the earl as gardeners and had been at the ceilidh the night before.

  “Did either of you notice anything strange, either at the bonfire, or before or after?” I asked.

  Both men shook their heads.

  “An unfamiliar carriage on the road or a group of men on horseback?” Trevor pressed.

  “Aye, well, we seen plenty o’ unfamiliar carriages, but they was all headed t’ord Clintmains,” the man kneeling by the grave said as he rose to his feet. “Saw a fair number o’ lads on horseback as well. But they ’tweren’t no strangers.”