A Grave Matter Page 24

  Even so, through the reflection in the mirror, I could see her eyeing me suspiciously.

  • • •

  Gage’s visit with the current members of the Society of Antiquaries turned out to be rather uneventful. None of the men wished to speak ill of their dead members, and hearing high praise about each of them told us nothing about why they had been targeted by body snatchers years after their death. They also swore that they had no record of a donation of a gold torc from a Miss Collingwood, no record of a torc of any kind. Several of them admitted to receiving letters or visits from Lewis Collingwood, but as the man had no documentation to prove his aunt’s donation, there was nothing they could do about it.

  So we found ourselves armed with at least that knowledge when we appeared on Mr. Collingwood’s doorstep. He lived in a town house situated in a row of similar edifices on Broughton Place, and although the exterior looked much like every other town house in Edinburgh’s New Town, the interior was something completely different.

  Words could not do it justice. Every available bit of wall space was covered in an odd array of relics and artifacts, some of which I was quite certain were not authentic. Spears and daggers, masks and reliquary, arrowheads and coins mounted in glass boxes, fishhooks, old playbills, gold plates. And there didn’t appear to be any order to it. A shelf of tiny Egyptian statues hung next to a Roman gladiator’s helmet, next to a conch shell from some tropical country.

  There was dust everywhere. I didn’t know whether Mr. Collingwood did not employ maids or if he simply didn’t allow them to clean properly for fear of them damaging his possessions. Either way I was glad when the man offered us no tea or other refreshments. I wanted to escape as soon as possible.

  He received us in his drawing room, which, to my discomfort, sported an entire wall of stuffed animal heads. Their beady eyes stared down at us almost in accusation, much like their owner, who it appeared was not happy with the interruption to whatever he’d been doing. Preparing more artifacts to hang on his walls?

  He greeted us affably enough, but there was impatience in his movements and a tightness around his mouth. The man was also a snob. It was clear he had no idea who either of us were, but because I had the title “Lady” before my name, he at least treated me with civility. Gage, he took one look at while he was introduced, glared at his black eye, and instantly dismissed him as unworthy of his time.

  “Now, what can I do for you?” he turned to ask me as I perched on the edge of a lumpy horsehair sofa. To coordinate with the animal heads on the wall, I was sure.

  “Actually,” Gage said, speaking up despite the man’s efforts to ignore him. “We’ve come to ask you about the gold torc your aunt allegedly donated to the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland.”

  “Not allegedly,” he snapped. “She donated it. And they’ve lost it, or stolen it, one or the other.” His eyes traveled over Gage’s appearance, which was faultless except for the contusion over his eye, but Mr. Collingwood seemed to find it lacking, even though his own rumpled attire and uncombed hair left much to be desired. “I take it then that you are not here to tell me they found it.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Gage replied calmly.

  “And what have you to do with it? You’re not a member of the society. You’re not even a Scotsman.”

  “No. But I sometimes act as an inquiry agent—”

  “An inquiry agent?” Mr. Collingwood interrupted, scooting forward in his seat. “Then the police have finally decided to take my complaint seriously?”

  “Not exactly.” Gage tilted his head to the side in interest. “You took the matter to the city police?”

  “Yes. Not that they did me any good,” he grumbled, his rather prominent eyes shifting to the side. “They told me there was nothing they could do. Not without my having the paperwork to prove my aunt’s donation.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true. Otherwise it’s their word, or perhaps that of a dead man, against yours.”

  Mr. Collingwood completely missed the reference to a dead man, and jumped straight to indignation. His nostrils flared. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Not at all. I simply understand the police’s predicament. When did your aunt make her donation to the society? Do you know the year?”

  He nodded sharply. “July of 1816.”

  Before any of the owners of our disturbed corpses had passed away.

  Gage laced his fingers together and rested his hands over his flat stomach, a gesture I knew to mean his interrogation was about to grow more serious. “We’ve been told that you’ve contacted several of the society’s members, either by letter or a personal visit. And that you’ve even gone so far as to contact the family of past members.”

  “What of it?” he retorted, growing more belligerent. “One of them stole my family’s torc. Something my aunt had no right to give away. And I want it back.” His eyes were bright with almost a feverish anger.

  Gage was not intimidated. “Did you know that three of those deceased members recently had their graves disturbed?”

  Mr. Collingwood’s expression was startled, but only for a moment. “Did they find anything? Because if there was a gold torc, it’s mine.”

  I watched the insensitive man carefully, trying to figure out whether he was this good of a liar, or he was genuinely unaware of the thefts.

  “The only thing it appears they took were the men’s bones,” Gage replied.

  Mr. Collingwood’s face screwed up in an ugly scowl. “Well, what’s that to do with me?” He glanced back and forth between us. “I’m only interested in the torc.”

  I had to struggle not to scowl right back at the dreadful man. Now I understood exactly what Lord Buchan and Mrs. Tyler had meant when they called him disagreeable.

  “Well, did you not suggest to at least one of the victims’ families that their relative might have been buried with the torc?” The corner of Gage’s eye twitched, telling me how impatient he was getting.

  “And?”

  “And then his grave is dug up and his bones stolen? Am I supposed to believe that’s just a coincidence?”

  Mr. Collingwood’s face was growing an alarming shade of red. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing! I think you need to leave now.” He made to rise, but Gage stood his ground.

  “I think you need to answer my question.”

  He glared at Gage as though he were an insect. “I do not go about digging up graves like some common laborer.”

  “No, but you might have hired some common laborers to do it for you.” Gage leaned closer. “Perhaps a group of experienced body snatchers. And given them the idea that they could ransom the bones back to their relatives for as much money as they wished, so long as they brought you the gold torc if they found it.”

  Mr. Collingwood’s lips twisted in disgust. “You’re insane.” He glanced at me. “Both of you.” When I frowned, he sneered. “Oh, yes, I remember who you are now, Lady Darby. Perhaps it’s she you should be looking at for these body snatchings. Though I’ve heard she likes them a bit fresher, with a little more meat on the bones.”

  My cheeks flamed at hearing the old insinuations. That I was a ghoul, a killer, a cannibal. I clasped my hands tightly together, prepared to deliver the man a set down, when Gage spoke up.

  “That’s enough,” he nearly shouted. His pale blue eyes were as hard as ice chips. “You will address the lady with the proper respect she deserves, or you and I are going to have a problem. Do I make myself clear?” When Mr. Collingwood did not answer, Gage raised his voice even louder. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes,” he bit out.

  Gage’s shoulders relaxed somewhat, but he still looked as if he was ready to plant the man a facer at any moment. I found myself wishing he would.

  “Now, you did not answer my questions. Did you have anything to do with the thefts of the bodies of Ian Tyler of Woodslea, Sir Colum Casselbeck, or Lord Buchan?” Mr. Collingwood opened his mouth to reply, but Gage wasn’t fini
shed. “I’d think carefully before lying to me.”

  Mr. Collingwood’s eyes narrowed. “Or what?”

  The hair on the back of Gage’s neck fairly bristled. “Do you really want to find out?”

  In the face of Gage’s angry glare, made all the more intimidating by his black eye, Mr. Collingwood’s bravado slowly melted away, though his voice was still tight with affront. “No. I had nothing to do with it.”

  Gage eyed him a moment longer and then reluctantly nodded.

  We left the odious man soon after, and climbing into Gage’s carriage, I turned to ask, “Do you believe him?”

  Gage settled onto the seat facing me, his face still creased into a frown. “I’m inclined to. Only because I can’t imagine the man actually stooping to speak to ‘common laborers.’ Nor do I think he’s intelligent enough to concoct such a plan.”

  “But he’s certainly obsessed with finding that torc.”

  “Yes. Which makes him a bit unpredictable. Obsession makes men dangerous. I don’t think we can rule him out yet.”

  I nodded, agreeing with his assessment of Mr. Collingwood. I knew all too well how treacherous a man overcome by an obsession could be. Had we not underestimated that man, William Dalmay might still be alive.

  The carriage turned right onto York Place, passing the long rectangular building of St. Paul’s Chapel with its four rounded spires on each corner. Two women exited through one of the sets of doors, each dressed in voluminous mantels to accommodate their fashionably puffed sleeves. I grimaced, recalling my fitting, and hoping the modiste had listened to my sister’s instructions.

  “I’m sorry you had to listen to his claptrap.”

  I looked up to find Gage watching me with a pensive expression.

  “It’s all right,” I replied, simply wanting to forget it. “I should be used to it by now.”

  “No, you shouldn’t.” His voice was insistent and almost angry. “That man had no right to speak to you that way. No one does.”

  I shifted in my seat, slightly taken aback by his vehemence. “That may be true. But that’s not going to stop people from doing so. It’s best if I just ignore them.”

  “No, it’s not. You should confront their bad behavior.”

  I frowned. “And what? Cause a scene? Gage, if I spoke up for myself every time someone snubbed or belittled me, they would be able to write a separate column about it in the society papers. That’s not going to help.”

  “It would be difficult at first. But maybe after a few times, others would take a lesson and stop.”

  I stared at him, my hands fisting in the fabric of my cloak. “Are you saying it’s my fault that people are saying nasty things about me?”

  “No . . .”

  “That if I’d just stood up for myself from the beginning, my name wouldn’t have been tarnished?”

  “Well, no. Not from the beginning . . .”

  I huffed an irate breath and turned aside to glare out the window.

  “But if you’d started doing so from the moment your sister’s guests arrived at Gairloch Castle five months ago . . .”

  “You and everyone else would still have suspected me of murder.”

  He hesitated, clearly not having thought his accusation all the way through. “Then from the moment you arrived in Edinburgh.”

  “After Will died? When I could not have cared less what anyone did or said?” Tears began to burn the backs of my eyes, and I turned away. I was grateful to see the green space of Queen Street Gardens giving way to town houses, which meant our turn onto Charlotte Street would come soon.

  Gage remained silent, and I had hopes he would abandon the topic. But as the carriage turned left, he leaned toward me. “Well, now, then. You needn’t be so passive when others insult you. You should tell them the truth.”

  I glanced up at him wearily, not bothering to point out the fact that I would have defended myself to Mr. Collingwood if he hadn’t been so quick to do so. “Gage, no one wants to hear the truth. Not when the fiction is so much more interesting.”

  He frowned. “Then you must make them.”

  The carriage turned right onto Charlotte Square, slowing as the black door of my sister’s town house came into sight. I could have said nothing, walked away, and hoped he would drop the matter, but I couldn’t leave without asking him one question, though it turned my stomach sour to do so.

  “Why?”

  Gage seemed surprised by my simple query.

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Because you should not have to endure it—”

  “No,” I interrupted him. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

  He appeared confused.

  “Why is it so important to you that I defend myself? That I make them understand the truth?” I could hear the hurt in my voice, and I hated it. I scowled, wanting to hide it any way I could.

  The carriage rolled to a stop, and it swayed gently as the footman clambered down.

  The movement seemed to urge a response out of Gage. “Because I don’t like seeing you upset. I know you like to pretend you don’t care, but I can see the pain in your eyes.”

  I moved to the edge of my seat as the door opened, and I gathered up my reticule. I lifted my eyes to meet his, swallowing a bubble of emotion that seemed to be choking me. “I never said I didn’t care.”

  “Kiera,” he said, but I was already halfway out of the carriage, and I didn’t stop to look back.

  I dashed up the steps and into the town house, trying to squash the hurt and anxiety Gage’s words had brought to the surface, but they would not be smothered so easily.

  Was Gage ashamed of me? Embarrassed to be reminded of my scandalous reputation? Was that why he was so eager to see me defend myself, even when the situation was impossible? Not every person could be reasoned with—he should know that, perhaps better than most. So why was he so angry with me for not standing up for myself sooner?

  At Gairloch I still hadn’t been ready. I’d been too beaten down and afraid. It had taken someone insulting my sister’s support of me for me to finally speak up. And upon our arrival in Edinburgh two and a half months ago, I hadn’t cared. I was too wrapped up in my grief over Will’s death. What did it matter to me what others said about me?

  Since our return to Edinburgh he’d spent little time with me in public, so how could he know how I handled the slights and insults of others? It seemed grossly unfair that he should attack me for being passive. One incident, in which he’d given me no time to respond before jumping to my defense, hardly seemed like an adequate example.

  Gage was not normally so unreasonable, so I had to suspect there was more to his sudden desire that I defend myself than this single confrontation with Mr. Collingwood. Which left me with an unsettling pain in my chest and an unhappy suspicion. A suspicion I’d been trying to ignore from the very first moment I’d accepted that Gage was interested in me in more than just a friendly capacity.

  I’d known from the beginning how unlikely a relationship between a man like Gage and myself would be. He was charming and attractive and popular, I was awkward and eccentric and barely tolerated. So what would a man like Gage see in me . . . other than my abilities?

  I choked back a sob.

  I’d proven myself to be quite able as an investigator—something I’d felt great pride in, but now it brought me only an immeasurable amount of sadness. I almost wished I’d proved to be clumsy and incompetent. Then I might at least know that Gage was interested in me for me, and not for my talents of detection.

  I’d already endured marriage to a man who was solely interested in my artistic abilities. By the time I’d discovered Sir Anthony’s real intentions for me, it had been too late to obtain an annulment, and I was trapped in a living nightmare. I had no intention of ever allowing myself to enter into such an uncertain relationship again, no matter how tempting it might be. Not without knowing for sure that the man could be trusted, that his intentions were true.

  Bu
t how could I ever know for sure? How could I ever believe that Gage was truly interested in me, and not the assistance I could give him?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I tried to be cheerful, or at least responsive, as Madame Avignon’s assistant made the last few adjustments to my dress. Blessedly, the modiste had followed my sister’s instructions, making the sleeves rather short and far less puffed than many of the gowns I’d seen recently. Alana had chosen a lovely deep blue, a shade or two darker than the color of our eyes, and ordered the belt, the trim, and the flounces to be made in a complementary shade of pale blue and white. The neckline was slightly lower than I was accustomed to and, gathered as it was, showed a rather large amount of cleavage. But Alana and the seamstress assured me this was the current fashion in evening dresses, and I bowed to their expertise.

  I’d caught Alana looking at me oddly from time to time throughout the fitting, and I tried to shake myself from the sullen stupor that had come over me, but truly my effort was minimal. I was only too happy to escape to my room to bathe and let Bree dress my hair.

  She chattered happily while she curled my hair, telling me more things about the running of Philip and Alana’s household than I was certain I wanted to know. Nonetheless, I was glad to hear she had settled in so easily with a new staff, especially after the trouble I’d had with my previous maid. It was soothing somehow to just let her words wash over me—undemanding and inconsequential. I suspected Bree knew this as well, for she had never been one to prattle.

  She was also excited, her eyes bright and her movements quick, and I realized that, other than the Hogmanay Ball, this was her first chance to truly test her skills as a lady’s maid. I tried my best not to dampen her spirits, and even allowed her to style my hair taller than I normally would have permitted. I had to admit she’d done an admirable job imitating the pictures on the latest fashion plates. In an hour my unruly hair would be deflated and falling from its pins, but for now it looked quite elegant.