A Grave Matter Read online

  The family was understandably distraught, but they had no idea who could have done such a thing. It was ghoulish. No one had seen anything strange on Monday evening or the morning after, until the caretaker became suspicious of the loose dirt over Ian Tyler’s grave.

  It wasn’t until the ransom note arrived almost two weeks later that they began to suspect that the entire crime had been committed for the money. What other explanation could there be? They had followed the thieves’ instructions, leaving the cash on a hilltop in a more remote part of the Pentland Hills. The next day a bag of bones was left inside the kirk door with a note attached saying they were the remains of Ian Tyler of Woodslea.

  “So there’s no one in particular you suspected?” Gage asked. “Maybe someone who had pressured you for money before? Like Mr. Fergusson.”

  Mr. Tyler sat taller. “My cousin? Thaddeus?”

  “I was told that Mr. Fergusson complained he’d been cheated out of part of his inheritance. And that he has a tendency to play too deep with his cards.”

  Mr. Tyler nodded, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Aye. It’s true. But I canna imagine he would ever stoop to something like this. ’Tis well below him.”

  In my experience, people who were desperate were often willing to do some pretty unsavory things. If Mr. Fergusson was far enough in debt to the wrong people, he just might stoop to body snatching. But Gage appeared willing to let the matter drop. Perhaps because the Tylers were not likely to give us any assistance in supporting such a theory.

  “Did you save the ransom note?” he queried.

  Mr. Tyler began to shake his head, but his wife surprised us all by saying, “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” she told her shocked husband. “I ken you told me to burn it, but . . . I was worried someone might try such a trick again. And if so, I wanted to be sure we could compare the handwriting.”

  I couldn’t tell whether he was displeased or grateful his wife had disobeyed him, but when he spoke to her in such a gentle voice, I suspected it was the latter.

  “Where is it?”

  Mrs. Tyler rose from her seat and crossed over toward the bookcase on the far wall. She reached up on tiptoe and pulled down a book from the second to top shelf. Paper rustled as she thumbed through the pages, and then pulled a folded white sheet from inside. She handed it to Gage, and I leaned closer to get a better look.

  I couldn’t be sure without examining them side by side, but the horrible handwriting appeared to be the same as that on the letter Lord Buchan received. The text was also quite similar, as if sections of the later note had been copied from this one.

  Gage refolded the note and passed it to Mr. Tyler. “Are you aware of any connections between your father and Lord Buchan and Sir Colum Casselbeck? Were they friends?”

  “I dinna ken aboot friends, but they were certainly acquaintances. They had similar interests.”

  “Yes. We’re aware they were all members of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, but as of yet, that’s the only direct connection we can find.”

  Mr. Tyler sat back deeper into the settee, his brow furrowed in thought. He sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I canna think of anything else.”

  Gage tilted his head to the side. “Are either of you acquainted with a Mr. Lewis Collingwood?”

  The Tylers looked at each other, but from the confused expressions on their faces, it was clear they were not. “I’m sorry. Should we be?”

  I could tell from the dip in Gage’s shoulders that he was disappointed by their answer. “No. He’s simply a man Lord Buchan mentioned to us. He made some accusations about the Society of Antiquaries and a gold torc.”

  Mrs. Tyler suddenly sat forward in her seat and gasped to her husband. “He must be that man I told ye aboot!”

  Mr. Tyler looked grim.

  “What man?” Gage asked.

  Mrs. Tyler screwed up her face in dislike. “Oh, a rude man came here one day, demanding to see my husband. He kept carrying on aboot a gold torch. Or, at least, that’s what I thought he was saying. I told him my husband wasna here, and that we certainly didna have a gold torch. He left in quite a huff.”

  I could barely suppress my excitement. So Lewis Collingwood had also come here looking for his aunt’s gold torc. I wondered how many other members of the Society of Antiquaries he’d visited. Had he gone to see the Casselbecks as well?

  “Do you think he has something to do with it?” Mrs. Tyler asked, clearly interpreting our interest.

  “Maybe,” Gage replied cautiously. “It’s too soon to tell. Would you mind if we visited your father’s grave? We understand it’s at Glencorse Parish Church.”

  Mr. Tyler nodded. “Aye. And the rector should be there should you have any problem locating it.”

  We shifted to the edge of our seats, prepared to take our leave, when something in the Tylers’ faces made me pause. There was an uncertainty there, an uneasiness.

  “Is there anything else we should know?” I risked asking them.

  Mrs. Tyler’s eyes dropped to her lap, where her hands were clasped tightly together, and Mr. Tyler cleared his throat, glancing at his wife before finally speaking. “Weel, there is one thing. When the thieves returned my father’s bones to us, it appears there was one missing.”

  I couldn’t help turning to Gage in surprise.

  “We had the local surgeon check, you see,” Mr. Tyler rushed on to say. “We wanted to be sure. And, well, he told us a finger bone was missing.” He reached to take hold of his wife’s hand. “It may not mean anything. The thieves may have accidentally dropped it. It is a wee bone.”

  “One of the smallest,” I confirmed, especially if it was one of the bones at the tips of the fingers.

  “But . . . we would like it back. If at all possible.”

  I nodded, understanding their discomfort. They wanted to be certain all of Ian Tyler was buried together, as it should be.

  “We’ll do what we can,” Gage promised them.

  • • •

  “Now I’m really glad I told Lord Buchan to have Dr. Carputhers check to be sure all of his uncle’s bones had been returned,” I remarked as we exited Woodslea and climbed back into Gage’s carriage.

  “I know. I could kiss you for that stroke of brilliance,” he replied, and then, with a twinkle in his eye, he leaned forward. “And I think I shall.”

  I giggled a moment later when the carriage rolled forward, forcing Gage to drop back in his seat.

  “Cheeky coachman,” he muttered. “I shall have to have a word with him later.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not his fault you have no agility.”

  His eyes narrowed in challenge. “Oh, I haven’t, have I? Well, we shall just see.”

  Several rather pleasurable moments later, he’d most emphatically proved me wrong. And I told him so.

  “That shall teach you to doubt me,” he murmured. And though playfully said, I thought there might be some emphasis behind his words.

  I lifted my eyes to his golden hair, unable to continue to meet his gaze. His tresses, normally so artfully tussled, were a bit more of a tangled mess than usual from my fingers. I reached up to try to push the hairs I’d disarranged back into place, distracting myself from the intensity of his gaze. I grimaced. Unfortunately, I seemed only to be making it worse.

  Gage laughed and I disentangled myself from him so that he could see to the matter himself. One swipe of his fingers through his locks and then back down, and they seemed to fall directly into place.

  I reached back to secure two tendrils I could feel loosening from my coil of hair, thinking back to the subject at hand before Gage could broach anything more serious. “Do you think the thieves left out the bone on purpose?”

  He watched as I pinned a curl. “Are you asking if I think they kept it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. I suppose that depends on whether the same or a similar bone is missing from Lord Buchan’s skeleton.” He turned to look
out at the passing countryside and frowned. “If it is . . . then we might be dealing with an entirely different beast.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His eyes were troubled. “If our thief is keeping bones from each of the skeletons, then he’s collecting trophies. And that says there’s a far different motive for his actions than simply money.”

  I nodded, pretty sure I understood. “Could it be Mr. Collingwood?”

  “Not unless he’s a particularly vindictive man. If he’s behind these body snatchings, then he just wants his torc back. Albeit he’s willing to go to extreme measures to get it. But he would have no reason to retain tokens of his victory over these men. The victory would be in obtaining the torc.”

  We sat silently contemplating the matter, because thus far we didn’t have any suspects who would have such a motive. Collingwood wanted the torc, and Fergusson and the Edinburgh body snatchers the money.

  We seemed to be finding more questions instead of answers, and I was heartily tired of it.

  • • •

  The rector at Glencorse Parish Church had nothing to tell us that we didn’t already know, and neither did the grave. It had already been recovered, and Ian Tyler’s remains secured underground again. The graveyard was located just behind the ivy-covered church and surrounded by thick, tall trees, shielding it from the outside, and making it an ideal place to conduct a body snatching. In the late summer and early autumn, the foliage would be so full on the trees that it was unlikely someone from the outside would even see the light of a lantern or two.

  Given the secrecy of the setting, we decided not to question those who lived nearby, assuming they would have come forward long before now if they’d actually seen something suspicious. Any other evidence had long since disappeared or been washed away, so we left the church no closer to the truth than we had been before.

  We said little on the journey back north, each of us pondering the strangeness of this case. Or, at least, that’s what I was thinking about. But when I began to notice by the increasing number of buildings and the cramped space they were built into that we were rolling into Edinburgh instead of headed east toward the sea and Musselburgh, I turned to Gage in confusion.

  “I apologize. I should have told you earlier. There’s been a change in plans.” He braced himself against the carriage wall as we turned a sharp corner. “Sergeant Maclean sent word last night. He thinks he may know where we can find this Bonnie Brock tonight.” He turned to look out the window, avoiding my gaze. “So our trip to Musselburgh will have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “I see,” I murmured, trying to keep my voice carefully neutral, though I could hear my vexation creeping in. “And am I to assume, based on your demeanor, that I’m to be excluded from this excursion?”

  “It would be best,” Gage replied, still not looking at me.

  I turned to scowl out the opposite window. I hated being left out of such things because Gage or some other man was fearful of my safety. Normally such circumstances worked to the opposite effect, leaving me in danger, but I bit my tongue. Given the situation, perhaps it would be best for me to remain behind. If they were searching for a criminal as notorious as Bonnie Brock was rumored to be, then who knew what type of unsavory establishments they would find themselves in, or what miscreants they might be forced to skirmish with. Even with my pistol, I would still be in the way.

  There was also my reputation to consider—that which I was protecting from becoming further tarnished and that which I couldn’t escape. Gage and Sergeant Maclean would likely find themselves in West Port at some point, Burke and Hare’s old haunt, and should anyone learn who I was and recall my reputation while I was there, things could turn ugly quickly. The citizens of Edinburgh Old Town were still very much afraid that more murderers were at work in their streets, selling the corpses to the anatomists at the Surgeons’ Hall. To discover a woman nicknamed the Butcher’s Wife walking among them would incite a riot.

  In any case, as bitterly cold as it was today, tonight would be even worse, and I would not enjoy shivering while I traipsed through dirty, dark, cramped closes in search of this Bonnie Brock.

  Or, at least, that’s what I told myself.

  “Well, be careful,” I bit out, hoping this Sergeant Maclean could be trusted to watch Gage’s back.

  When he didn’t reply, I turned to find him watching me with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. But when it became apparent I wasn’t going to argue or ask him further questions, he simply nodded. “I will.”

  I turned back to the window to study the cramped streets of the Old Town and said a silent prayer that he truly would.

  • • •

  When my sister discovered I would be available that evening, she immediately decided I must attend the theater with them. It was one of the few things that Alana’s physician had not restricted her from, as long as she remained in Philip’s theater box and off her feet for the majority of the performance. I made a weak protest, more interested in spending the evening sketching than watching a play, but upon seeing the joy and excitement my sister felt at the prospect of our outing, I could not deny her long.

  So that evening while Gage searched the closes and wynds of Old Town for a criminal, I found myself in a box on the second tier of the recently renovated Theatre Royal watching Thomas Arne’s ballad opera Love in a Village. No one was more surprised than I to discover that I was actually enjoying myself.

  Rather than crowding his box with friends and notables, Philip had invited only a single colleague, the Viscount Strathblane, and his wife. I had dined with Lord and Lady Strathblane more than once at my sister’s home, and so felt comfortable in their presence. They had always been remarkably affable, and though polite, not overly talkative, which allowed me to relax and enjoy the performance rather than be forced to socialize.

  I had never seen Love in a Village, though I was aware of its popularity seventy-some years before. The music was lovely and lyrical, and the soprano who portrayed the heroine, Rosetta, quite impressive. I also found myself sympathizing with her. To escape marriage to a man she’d never met and whom she feared would make her miserable, she instead chose to run away and accept a position as a chambermaid at a nearby manor.

  I admired her courage, and that made me curse my own folly. My father had supported Sir Anthony’s suit, but he hadn’t forced me to marry him. I’d done that on my own. There was an important distinction.

  So lost was I in the romance developing between Rosetta and Thomas, another runaway who’d become a gardener in the same household, that I failed to notice how often Alana shifted in her chair. When I turned to her as the lights came up during the second intermission and saw how pale and uncomfortable she looked, I reached for her hand.

  She smiled sadly. “No worries, dearest. This happens from time to time. I simply need to rest.”

  I glanced up at Philip as he came to stand over us. His eyes were shadowed with worry, but by his resigned expression and calm demeanor, I inferred this had happened before. Poor Alana. I knew she hated to be cooped up, but apparently even tonight’s minimal excitement had been too much for her.

  “I’ve sent for the carriage,” Philip told her. “But I think we should wait until the end of intermission when the lights go back down. There will be less talk, and fewer people to navigate around. Will you be well enough until then?”

  Alana inhaled deeply. “Yes. Of course.”

  I began to gather up my things, but my sister pressed a hand to my arm to stop me.

  “Oh, no. Kiera, you should stay. You were enjoying the play so much.”

  “I’m sure I can see it at another time,” I protested, but Alana spoke right over me.

  “Philip, you could send the carriage back for Kiera, couldn’t you?”

  “Of course. It’s only a few minutes’ ride between here and the town house.” He leaned down to press a hand gently to my shoulder. “Stay. There’s no reason for you to rush off as well. I’ll see Alan
a home and get her settled.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Strathblane,” Philip raised his voice to address his friend, ignoring me as well. “Would you see Lady Darby safely to my carriage after the performance?”

  “Certainly,” he replied, offering me a smile. “No trouble at all.”

  His wife, a mother herself, had leaned over to commiserate with my sister on her aches and pains and nausea.

  “Then it’s settled,” Philip declared. Seeing how pleased he looked to have worked this out for me, it felt churlish of me not to simply thank him and accept.

  So at the beginning of the third act, Alana slipped out of our theater box with Philip’s arm supporting her, and I settled in to watch the remainder of the opera. Early on I had figured out that Rosetta and Thomas were each other’s intended spouses, whom they’d each run away from, but that did not spoil my enjoyment of the ending when they discovered this for themselves.

  I followed the Strathblanes out of the box and down the central staircase crowded with other audience members. From time to time either Strathbane or his wife would stop to speak with someone, so our progress was slow, but I didn’t mind, taking the time to observe everyone around me. Most of the ladies were wearing gowns with those newly fashionable puffed sleeves I so abhorred, with varying degrees of success. One blond girl with ringlets looked quite lovely, while the excess fabric only appeared to widen the figure of the girl next to her. Contrasting fabric might have helped, for the poor young lady was simply drowning in lavender.

  “A rather unfortunate choice, I agree,” a familiar nasal male voice said beside me. Mr. Stuart lowered his quizzing glass and smiled, bowing shortly from the waist in greeting. “Lady Darby, I did not know you were in Edinburgh.”

  “I arrived only a few short days ago. Have you been in town long yourself?”

  “Only since I left Lord and Lady Rutherford. Such sad business what happened with that caretaker,” he added with a shake of his head. “Did they ever find his murderer?”