A Grave Matter

by Anna Lee Huber

  “Not comin’ doon wi’ somethin’ from the chill, are ye?” she asked gently.

  I shook my head.

  Her warm, whiskey brown eyes were kind as she searched mine. “Sure?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded and turned away, tossing another garment over her arm.

  “I’m sorry you had to stay up so late to wait for our return,” I said. “I should have told you that you needn’t wait up.”

  “Well, seein’ ye in the state ye were in when ye arrived, I’m glad I did. Men dinna ken how to handle such things.” She smiled, flashing her dimples. “A’sides, I had a nice long nap last evening after dinner. Another few hours this morn and I’ll be right as a trivet.”

  I yawned and nodded. The warmth of the bedding and the soothing sound of Bree’s voice combined with my own weariness were beginning to have an effect on me, despite my apprehensions.

  “Did ye catch ’em then?”

  I blinked up at her, momentarily stumped by the conversation’s change in subject. “The thieves?”

  Her bright eyes danced with excitement. “Ye were gone so long, I was certain ye mun’ have caught ’em.”

  “No,” I replied, deflating her enthusiasm. “Though we trailed their horse for quite some distance.” Or had attempted to.

  She nodded and offered me a tight smile, sympathizing with our disappointment. “These men mun’ be canny.”

  I knew she was trying to cheer me, but reminding me of their cleverness didn’t exactly help. I frowned at the fire burning in the hearth in the wall opposite the foot of my bed. “They are.”

  When Bree did not respond or move from her position beside the bed, I looked up to find her fingering a loose thread along the seam of one of my garments. Her brow was furrowed in thought, and I could tell she was debating something with herself. When she finally glanced at me, I knew it was with some indecision.

  “I wasna goin’ to say anything, especially if ye caught the men responsible. But since ye havena . . .” She sighed.

  “Bree, what is it?” I asked, my muscles tightening.

  “My friend . . . do I have to give her name?”

  I shook my head, figuring I could coerce her into telling me if it became necessary.

  “She’s a maid o’er at . . .” She shook her head, cutting off whatever revealing information she was about to share. “In another household. And she was also at the Rutherfords’ Hogmanay Bonfire.”

  I tipped my head in encouragement.

  “She told me she saw Sim’s Christie sneaking away from the bonfire afore midnight.”

  “Where?”

  “Oot into the field. Noo, I should warn ye,” she hastened to add. “My friend used to dandle after Sim’s Christie. She may just be talkin’ oot o’ spite. ’Specially if he was goin’ to meet another girl.”

  I nodded, understanding what she was trying to say. The information could be completely false, and even if it wasn’t, this Sim’s Christie may have just been in the middle of conducting a tryst. But even though he may have nothing to do with the murder and the body snatching, being farther away from the light and the noise of the bonfire, he may have seen something the others had not.

  “Thank you,” I told Bree. “I’m sure Mr. Gage would like to at least question him.”

  She dipped her head, still clearly uncertain she should have said anything. Considering how few clues Gage and I now had to follow up on, I was grateful she had. But I could also respect her dilemma. She did not want to create unnecessary trouble for her friend or Sim’s Christie.

  She turned to go and then swiveled back. “I thought you’d also like to ken, ’cause ye asked aboot him the other day, Mr. Anderley, Mr. Gage’s manservant, has been askin’ after ye doonstairs.”

  “Asking after me?” I asked in some surprise.

  “Aye.”

  I frowned, wondering just what the valet wished to know. And whether he was acting alone or on behalf of Gage.

  “Did you tell him anything?”

  “Nay,” she replied quickly, but did not elaborate. Her mouth was sealed in a tight line.

  She may have been telling the truth, but I suspected someone had talked, and she knew who. However, I decided it was unfair to ask her to betray the other servants, so I simply thanked her and sent her to find her bed for whatever remained of the night.

  Perhaps it would be best to confront Gage about his valet myself the following day.

  • • •

  Which was exactly what I did, as our carriage stumbled along through the deep ruts all of the wet weather had created in the roads. The mud had hardened in the near freezing temperatures overnight, casting the earth into rough shapes. It jostled us back and forth on our seats, making it impossible for us to rest back with any comfort.

  “Did you know your valet has been questioning my staff about me?” I demanded of Gage after we plowed through one particularly teeth-rattling portion of road.

  He looked up from his survey of the scene outside the window. The gray rippling ribbon of the River Tweed lay beyond, paralleling the road. He didn’t reply immediately, but his mouth quirked up at the corners.

  “Anderley can be rather . . . protective of me.”

  I scowled. “What does he think? I’ll poison you? Dissect you in my secret operating theater?” I demanded, irritated by the ridiculous rumors that still persisted about me.

  “No, no.” Gage twisted the hat he cradled in his hands round and round. “It’s far more likely he’s worried you’ll try to trap me into marriage.”

  “Oh.” My cheeks began to heat and I shifted awkwardly.

  Gage looked up at me through his lashes, his expression far more serious than I’d expected. Here was the perfect opportunity to tease me, but he didn’t take it.

  I cleared my throat. “Has . . . has that happened before?”

  Now it was his turn to squirm. “A . . . few times.”

  “Oh.” Clearly my conversation skills were becoming stunted.

  I turned to look out the window, relieved to see we were approaching the bridge that would lead us over the river and into Kelso. The weak afternoon sun illuminated the village’s rooftops in the distance, including that of the Armstrongs’, where Sim’s Christie worked in the stables.

  No one had been more surprised than I when I slept through almost to noon, with Earl Grey tucked snuggly against my side. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d slept even close to seven hours. And neither could my brother, which was why he and Gage had elected not to disturb me and attended church at St. Cuthbert’s on their own. I’d scolded them for letting me doze, but neither seemed the least repentant. I only hoped that Trevor’s assurances of my health had been convincing enough to prevent a tide of local well-wishers from visiting Blakelaw House in the coming week.

  Still waiting for word from Lord Buchan on the return of his uncle’s bones, and with no other information to immediately pursue, Gage had agreed to accompany me into nearby Kelso to question Sim’s Christie. He appeared even less hopeful than I was that the stable hand would have any useful information to give us, but there was no harm in inquiring. Sometimes the smallest things led one to the truth.

  The Armstrongs lived in a large gabled home near the river. Rather than pull up to the house in our carriage, alerting the Armstrongs to our presence and necessitating a social call as well as an uncomfortable explanation that could potentially get their stable hand in trouble, we decided to disembark near the bridge and stroll along the river. There was a well-tended path that provided beautiful views of the English countryside across the river, including the old royal burgh of Roxburgh. But in the bracing cold wind, we didn’t see much of it, preferring to tuck our heads down and huddle together as we hurried forward.

  Fortunately, the stable yard was sheltered somewhat by the surrounding buildings. The crunch of our footsteps must have been heard inside the stable, for a man emerged, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. As expecte
d, he smelled strongly of hay and horses.

  “Canna I help ye?” he asked.

  “We’re looking for a man called Sim’s Christie,” Gage replied, though I didn’t think he had any need to. With his thick curly hair and swarthy good looks, I strongly suspected this was the man Bree’s friend had dandled after.

  “That’s me,” he replied only after a moment’s hesitation.

  I’d already explained the Borders’ convoluted naming system to Gage, who had only looked more confused when I finished, and I hoped he wasn’t about to ask for a repeat from the stable hand. However, Gage refrained, choosing to quickly introduce us instead.

  “We were told you left the bonfire at Clintmains Hall at one point on the night of Hogmanay,” Gage informed him casually. “Can you tell us where you went?”

  Sim’s Christie’s eyes narrowed. “’Twas Callie, weren’t it?” he demanded. “She’s the one who told ye.”

  Gage and I exchanged a look.

  “I don’t know who Callie is,” Gage answered honestly. “Did you leave the bonfire?”

  The stable hand huffed out an angry breath and turned his head aside. “Aye,” he answered gruffly. “I was . . . meetin’ a lass.”

  As I’d suspected. I pulled my cloak tighter around me, resigned to hear the rest.

  “How long were you gone?”

  He shrugged. “Quarter, maybe half an hour.”

  My eyebrows rose.

  “You were in the field?”

  “Yes.”

  Gage tilted his head, watching the man closely. “Did you see anything odd while you were away from the bonfire? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  Sim’s Christie’s head darted to the side again and he stared off toward what must be the back of the Armstrongs’ house. I couldn’t tell whether he was simply anxious for us to leave or he knew something he wasn’t sure he wanted to tell. People from the Borders were secretive folk, and not inclined to share with outsiders like Gage. His gaze shifted to focus on me, and I kept my expression carefully neutral, hoping he would choose to trust us.

  “Aye,” he finally muttered. “I saw two men leavin’ Clintmains.”

  I glanced at Gage in surprise.

  “Did you get a good look at them?” he asked the stable hand.

  “Nay. They were too far off. But they was dressed like toffs. And they were in a hurry.”

  “Which direction did they go?”

  “Doon the road.” He paused, looking Gage up and down. “T’ord the abbey.”

  His brow furrowed in confusion. “And they were on foot?”

  Sim’s Christie nodded. “Aye.”

  Gage thanked him and hooked his arm through mine, leading me back toward the river path.

  “Who do you think they were?” I asked once we were out of earshot of the stable yard.

  “I don’t know.”

  I frowned down at the hem of my cloak. “My aunt said that no one could remember anyone leaving or missing from the ball. Is it really possible that no one noticed?”

  “Well, the gathering was fairly large. And didn’t you say that many of the guests were already deep in their cups?”

  “True.” It wasn’t as if anyone was worried about having to account for their fellow revelers’ whereabouts. Most of the people at the ball likely couldn’t tell me half of the people they danced with, let alone where that person went once their set was done. Most people only noticed what directly affected them.

  “But what on earth were they doing walking away from the ball on foot? And why? Were their accomplices picking them up away from Clintmains to avoid suspicion?”

  “Possibly,” Gage mused. “Though it seems an odd way to go about it.”

  I heaved a sigh. “None of this is making any sense.”

  “I know.” His voice was tight with the same frustration I shared. “And it’s about time it did.”

  • • •

  The eleventh Earl of Buchan’s body was not returned to the abbey. It was left in a pew at the back of St. Mary’s Church in St. Boswells. An unhappy present for the parishioners to find as they filed into church that Sunday. The bones were stuffed in a crude canvas sack with no discernible markings or extraneous objects except a note addressed to the current earl with nothing written inside.

  There was no way of knowing if the bones truly were those of the eleventh Earl of Buchan and not another departed human being, and given the shrewd and callous behavior of the body snatchers, it was difficult to trust that they were. But we had no choice. The ransom had been paid. The current earl had insisted upon it, in case just such a thing as our losing the horse had happened. He wanted his uncle’s body back, whatever the cost, and given the outcome, I couldn’t blame him.

  Regardless, I had recommended that Lord Buchan ask Dr. Carputhers to examine the bones. He should at least be able to tell him if the skeleton was the right size and if the skull was consistent with the late earl’s features. He should also be able to tell if any of the bones were missing, and if they had been damaged in any way since being stolen from the grave.

  Gage was furious. He’d felt certain they would return the bones to the abbey, that the men Lord Buchan had posted there would afford him one last chance to catch the culprits. But whether they had noticed the guards or foreseen his ploy, they had not fallen for it.

  I was more concerned for young Will, who looked dejected when he realized our last chance of capturing the men who killed Dodd had failed, and angry with myself for disappointing him.

  So it was with heavy hearts that we returned to Blakelaw House that Monday evening. I didn’t know where to turn next, and Gage seemed equally stifled. All we had was a bunch of seemingly random facts that led to nowhere. I wanted to ask him what he’d done in the past when he’d found himself in a similar situation, but the forbidding expression on his face told me the question could wait.

  It was lucky that Trevor had the solution to our quandary waiting for us in his study. Gage almost dismissed his summons when we entered the hall—I could see it in the tense line of his back—but he followed me into the dark-paneled room that I didn’t believe I would ever be able to enter without thinking of my father. It always made my breath tight for the first few seconds after I crossed its threshold.

  “You have a letter,” my brother told Gage, motioning toward the sideboard under a landscape of Knellstone Manor, the St. Mawr family seat down in Sussex, near where my father grew up.

  Gage’s shoulders squared. He flipped the missive over. “It’s from Sergeant Maclean.”

  Trevor and I watched as he broke the seal and began to swiftly peruse its contents. I assumed this was the friend he’d written to who was a member of the Edinburgh City Police. Maybe the sergeant would have news for us. Something more concrete than a few scattered facts.

  I stood straighter against the back of the chair I rested my hands on as Gage’s expression changed from one of intense concentration to that of satisfaction. When at last he looked up, my fingers were digging into the brocade upholstery below me in anticipation.

  “There was a third body snatching.”

  “What?” I gasped, glancing at my brother, whose wide eyes said he shared my shock.

  “Before Sir Colum Casselbeck’s.”

  “Who? Where?”

  Gage glanced back down at the letter. “An . . . Ian Tyler of Woodslea.”

  “I know his son.” Trevor moved around his desk to join us. “Their family home lies just west of Edinburgh.”

  “Do you think they’re all connected?” I asked Gage.

  “I think it would be foolish to assume they aren’t. According to Sergeant Maclean, the theft followed the same pattern. He’s making further inquiries to discover if there are other similar crimes.”

  I pressed a hand to my chin in thought. “We should speak to the Tylers. And the Casselbecks.”

  He nodded. “I agree. We seem to have reached an impasse here with Buchan’s snatching. Maybe there will be new information f
or us to uncover in Edinburgh.”

  His words gave me pause, though I didn’t know why they should surprise me. “So . . . you think we should go to Edinburgh?”

  Gage’s brow furrowed. “Yes. How else would we question the families?”

  I turned away, rubbing my suddenly sweaty palms down the woolen skirt of my gown. “You’re right. Of course. I just . . . hadn’t thought.”

  “You could stay with your sister, couldn’t you?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, nodding absently as I peered up at the portrait I’d painted of my mother and father when I was just sixteen. My mother’s likeness had largely been done from memory, as she’d been gone nearly eight years at the time, but my father had still chosen to hang it in pride of place above the hearth. I thought I’d done a satisfactory job of reproducing her image, but I could never be certain. It was like seeing something out of the corner of your eye, but when you turned toward it, it was always gone.

  I wasn’t sure why the thought of leaving Blakelaw and returning to Edinburgh so unnerved me, but it did. Perhaps because it still held memories of William Dalmay’s passing. After all, I’d made the opposite journey just two short months ago, hoping to escape those thoughts and emotions, looking for some sense of peace. In so many ways, I still hadn’t found it, and yet I couldn’t stay in this place forever. I refused to allow myself to hide here, like I’d done at Gairloch, to close myself off from the world. That would do me no good.

  Perhaps it was time to leave.

  “I’m sure Alana and Philip would be happy to see her,” Trevor was telling Gage.

  “And you?”

  “I’m afraid I need to remain here at Blakelaw,” he protested, making me wonder yet again if there was something more my brother wasn’t telling me.

  But Gage was unfazed by it. “Kiera,” he persisted gently. “Are you content to travel to Edinburgh? I suppose I could go there myself, but I confess, your presence would be most helpful.”

  I swallowed the trepidations swirling around inside me and turned to face the men. “Yes. Of course, I’ll accompany you. It’s just . . . a long journey to make in the cold,” I finished lamely.

  They both eyed me up and down, making me aware that my response had not been the least convincing.