A Grave Matter Page 30

  Lord Fleming invited us to take a seat in the chairs across from him and his wife. “Lord Rutherford informed me you would likely be making a call.” His complexion was somewhat pallid and there were dark circles under his eyes, making me suspect he had not slept easily the past few nights. “He said you’ve been investigating similar . . . grave disturbances.”

  “Yes. There have been three other thefts that we’re aware of, and they all happened in the same manner,” Gage replied, sitting very straight in his chair. I suddenly realized how very discomfited he felt. He was clearly not used to presenting himself in grimy clothes while sporting a rather ghastly multicolored contusion across one side of his face. I suspected Gage’s carefully cultivated appearance was as much a form of armor as chain mail and a breastplate. Or perhaps he was worried he would not be taken seriously. Lord Fleming was frowning quite fiercely.

  He asked his lordship to provide us with the details of the disturbance of his grandfather’s grave, and Lord Fleming obliged.

  Apparently, the minister of Beckford’s tiny parish church often walked the perimeter of the churchyard walls in the morning as he said his prayers. Four mornings past, he had noticed the disturbance of the ground over the late Lord Fleming’s grave. He’d contacted the current lord, and when the grave was examined, it was discovered that the body inside was missing, though all of his clothing and personal effects had been left behind.

  “You’re certain nothing was taken?” Gage asked.

  Lord Fleming nodded. “Yes.”

  “What of the watchman? We were led to believe that you’ve had some trouble with body snatchers operating in the area.”

  He sighed wearily and glanced at his wife. “Aye, our parish has seen its share of trouble from the resurrectionists. The watchman admitted to falling asleep in the watchtower. He claimed the most recent body buried there was two weeks old, so he figured there would be no trouble that night. That he hadn’t counted on the men going after an old grave.”

  Gage’s expression was doubtful. “Is his story feasible? How far from the watchtower does your grandfather’s grave rest?”

  “It’s in the opposite corner. Far enough away that it’s possible.”

  Possible or not, I knew Gage and I would be speaking to this watchman.

  Two pretty young housemaids appeared then, carrying a tray of tea and another filled with cakes and sandwiches. Then just as swiftly, they departed. Lady Fleming slid forward to serve while Gage resumed his questioning.

  “How often has the parish churchyard been disturbed by these resurrectionists, I assume from Edinburgh?”

  Lord Fleming’s head tilted to the side, dislodging a dark lock of hair pushed back from his forehead. “Or Glasgow. It’s been a year, maybe two, since we last saw any trouble from them, and that last time they were run off by the man on watch. But it’s hard to say how often we actually received visits from them before that. The people in this area like to tell tales about their encounters with these men, and after a while it’s not always easy to differentiate fact from fiction.”

  Lady Fleming nodded in agreement as she handed first Gage and then me our tea. “People will make up the most ridiculous stories.”

  “Some even claim that my grandfather’s brother worked with the resurrectionists, and when he was found out, he supposedly hid here in a dark closet for three months until he could escape on a ship to the Continent. While it’s true that my great-uncle studied medicine in Edinburgh, he wasn’t assisting body snatchers, and he sailed for America, not the Continent, to serve during the American War of Independence.”

  I sipped my tea, grateful for its warmth and rich aroma, and refrained from informing them that if his great-uncle had been a medical student in Edinburgh, it was very likely he’d had something to do with the resurrectionists, even if it was only utilizing the fresh corpses they peddled to the anatomists and the schools.

  “But really,” Lady Fleming said, flicking her head to move her blond curls out of her eyes as she sat upright again. “I’m sure Lady Darby knows far more about these men and their activities than we do.” Her voice was almost indifferent, but her gaze was razor sharp as she stared at me over the rim of her teacup.

  That might be true, but I certainly wasn’t going to allow that remark to pass without some kind of comment. “Actually, I’ve never met a resurrectionist,” I replied with a good-natured smile, and then, for the sake of complete honesty, added, “That I’m aware of.”

  Lady Fleming’s eyes began to narrow, but Gage spoke up before she could say anything else.

  “Do you know if your grandfather was acquainted with the late Lord Buchan, Sir Colum Casselbeck, or Ian Tyler of Woodslea?”

  “Are those the other victims?” Lord Fleming asked, balancing his tea saucer on his knee.

  “Yes.”

  His gaze shifted to the wall over Gage’s head as he frowned in thought. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was acquainted with them all. Certainly Lord Buchan, with their estates being so close to one another.”

  “Was he by chance a member of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland?”

  Lord Fleming turned to look at his wife. “Yes, I believe he was. But what have they to do with anything?”

  Gage swallowed the tiny piece of cake he’d popped into his mouth before replying. “Perhaps nothing. But they’re the only connection we’ve been able to find so far between all of the men. However, I’ve been led to believe that membership was not so uncommon among men of their age.” He took a sip of tea. “Have you been contacted by a Mr. Lewis Collingwood?”

  “I don’t believe so,” he replied hesitantly, glancing at his wife again, who shook her head. “Is he a suspect?”

  A log popped in the fireplace and hissed as the embers rose up.

  “I suppose I would describe him as more of a person of some interest,” Gage hedged. “He wrote to or visited the families of the other victims, asking them about a gold torc.”

  Lord Fleming’s face creased in concentration. “Then maybe . . . Is that a type of necklace?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It was worn by the Celts.”

  “Then yes, I think I have heard from him. I’ll have to ask my secretary to be sure. But I vaguely remember him telling me about some correspondence I received from a man about a gold necklace.” He squinted. “Something about my grandfather having stolen it.”

  Gage and I exchanged a glance.

  “That would be Mr. Collingwood,” Gage told him, briefly explaining the man’s accusations.

  “Do you really think that’s what this is all about?” Lord Fleming’s voice was shaded with doubt. “A gold necklace?”

  “Honestly? No,” Gage admitted. “But so far he’s the only person we can connect to all four men, so we have to seriously consider the possibility. People have done far more terrible things for even less noble reasons.”

  I shrugged. “Just think of King Henry the Eighth.”

  Gage’s lips cracked into a smile, but neither of our hosts seemed amused by my quip. I cleared my throat and took another sip of my tea.

  “May I take it that you haven’t yet received a ransom note?” Gage asked them, drawing their eyes away from me.

  “No,” Lord Fleming said. “Should we expect one?”

  “Yes. And please send word to me at once upon receiving it.” He leaned forward slightly in his chair, his eyes hardening. “I warn you that these men are clever. They will leave nothing to chance. And the longer we have to prepare to intercept them, the better opportunity we have of catching them.”

  “And why should we trust that you’ll be able to catch them?” Lady Fleming suddenly demanded, leaning forward to set her teacup down on the table. “You haven’t been able to do so up to this point.”

  Lord Fleming appeared just as taken aback by his wife’s sudden display of temper as the rest of us were. He pressed a hand to her arm, speaking her name in chastisement.

  “No,” she snapped, turning on her husband
. “If it hadn’t been for their incompetence, perhaps the criminals would have been caught by now, and your grandfather would still be able to rest in peace.” She rose to her feet and strode across the room to the door, but before departing, she turned to order her husband, “Don’t you dare let them botch this, or we might never get your grandfather back.”

  The door closed behind her with a slam.

  For a moment we were all silent, and then Lord Fleming began to apologize for his wife’s outburst. I was only half listening, more interested in why the outburst had happened in the first place.

  Was Lady Fleming scared of a scandal? Her extreme dislike of me was a strong indication that she was, but I felt there was something more to it. There had been something in her eyes, something that left a bitter taste in my mouth. And if I wasn’t very much mistaken, it was fear. But of what?

  She didn’t strike me as being very religious, so I had trouble believing it had anything to do with the late Lord Fleming and his ability, or inability as it were, to rise again on Judgment Day. And surely she realized that none of the living family members of the victims had yet been harmed. Dodd had been murdered because he interrupted the body snatchers at their work. So what could it be?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Trevor was just rising from the dinner table when we arrived at Blakelaw House. He came out to the hall to greet us, folding me in a tight hug that made me suspect he might have been lonely while we were away. When he discovered we had not yet eaten, he called for two more place settings and ordered the food to be brought back up from the kitchens. I told the butler that some cold meat, cheese, and bread would be perfectly adequate, but the staff ignored me, and soon we were sitting down to a full meal.

  Trevor relaxed in his chair and sipped white wine while we relayed the latest discoveries in our investigation between bites of roasted pheasant, neeps and tatties, and apple tart. Our uncle had kept Trevor apprised of the theft of the late Lord Fleming’s bones, as well as another development—the information of which must have been included in a letter that arrived in Edinburgh after our departure.

  Trevor leaned back even farther in his seat, evidently happy to have something to contribute to the conversation. “It’s a good thing you recommended Lord Buchan have his uncle’s bones examined by Dr. Carputhers. The crotchety man resisted for a time, angry that he’d been excluded from the investigation at the beginning.” He scowled. “Even though it was his own fault he was inebriated and incapable. That’s why it took so long to discover one of the late Lord Buchan’s bones was missing.”

  I glanced across the table at Gage. “Let me guess. Was it from his finger?”

  Trevor seemed to deflate at my already knowing this. “Well, yes. How did you know?”

  “A finger bone was also missing from Mr. Tyler’s skeleton. Sir Colum’s body was reburied without being checked, but I would wager that there’s a finger bone missing from his skeleton as well.” I pushed my half-eaten apple tart away from me, too excited now to finish it. “Did he mention which finger bone it was?”

  He closed one eye to think. “The . . . proximal phalanx?”

  “Proximal phalange.”

  He pointed at me. “That. Of the index finger.”

  “And he’s the third victim. Do you know what this means?”

  Gage and Trevor both looked at each other blankly.

  “The bone taken from the first victim, Mr. Tyler, was a distal phalange, at the tip.” I lifted my hand to illustrate. “And I’ll wager a hundred pounds that the bone missing from Sir Colum, our second victim, is the intermediate phalange.” I pointed to the next bone, below my first finger joint.

  Gage’s eyes brightened, beginning to understand the point I was trying to make.

  “And our third victim, Lord Buchan is missing his proximal phalange.” I indicated the third bone below the second finger joint.

  Trevor sat forward suddenly, sloshing the wine at the bottom of his glass. “So whoever is responsible for these body snatchings now has an entire finger.”

  I studied my brother’s flushed face, wondering just how much wine he’d had to drink this evening. “Well, yes and no.”

  “But what of our fourth victim?” Gage asked.

  “He may be planning to collect the metacarpal as well.” Using the thumb and forefinger of my opposite hand, I gripped the palm of my hand below the knuckle. “Or . . .” I hesitated to speak aloud the thought that had occurred to me.

  “Or what?” Trevor prompted.

  Gage’s face reflected the grimness I felt. “Or he’s collecting an entire hand, or worse, an entire skeleton.”

  We all fell silent, considering the disturbing implications.

  I frowned and shook my head. “No. That doesn’t make sense.” I looked up at Gage. “You said yourself he’s likely collecting these bones as a sort of trophy, and he hasn’t been indiscriminate about who his victims are. He selects them very specifically. And in the same vein, I would like to suggest he’s also keeping these bones for a very specific reason.”

  “He’s figuratively pointing the finger at them,” Gage declared in a solemn voice.

  I nodded. “Yes. Or something very like that.”

  “Maybe he’s just giving them the finger,” Trevor mused, swirling the wine in his glass. He snorted. “Or taking it from them.”

  I turned to scowl at him, but Gage merely cracked a smile.

  We rose from the table soon after and crossed to the drawing room, where I dropped down on one corner of the settee. I propped my elbow on the arm and pressed my face into my hand, too tired to do much else, but knowing I needed to allow time for my meal to digest before I lay down or else I would feel ill when I was trying to sleep.

  A moment later I felt a dip in the cushion and then a warmth beside me. I peered between my fingers to find Earl Grey looking up at me. I reached out to scratch him beneath the chin. Then he circled the cushion and settled down pressed against my leg.

  “That dashed cat,” Trevor exclaimed, flopping down on the settee across from me. He glowered at the feline. “He’s been absolutely despondent since you left.”

  I glanced down at the cat in surprise.

  “Wandering the house with his pitiful whine. There were several nights when I should have liked to have gone down to the gun cabinet and taken out a pistol and ended all of our misery.”

  Earl Grey opened his eyes at the sound of my brother’s increasingly agitated voice, and then closed them again unconcerned. His purring never ceased.

  “When you return to Edinburgh for Alana’s confinement, you’re taking him with you,” Trevor declared.

  “Oh, but I don’t think—” I began to protest, but my brother cut me off with a fierce glare.

  “If you don’t, there’s no telling what may happen to him.”

  I studied the cat. I wasn’t worried Trevor would actually shoot him. But he might stick him in a bag and ride out to the middle of nowhere and leave him.

  I ran a hand down the soft gray fur on the cat’s back. He cracked open his eyes and then closed them again. I supposed it would be best to take him with me.

  I lifted my gaze to find Gage watching me from the opposite end of the settee. His eyes twinkled in amusement, and his mouth curled in a knowing grin. I turned away and ignored him.

  • • •

  Beckford Parish Church stood not far from Marefield House on a knoll overlooking a ford in the River Teviot. The L-shaped building was constructed from sturdy pale stone and boasted several fine tall windows and a tiny belfry. It was rather austere, like most tiny Border churches were. After being raided and burned down so many times in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it had become difficult for the Border people to believe anything they built would ever remain permanent.

  The graveyard surrounded the church on all sides, boxed in by a low stone fence. Beyond the wall stretched the rolling Teviot Hills, which eventually merged with the Cheviots at the Border between Scotland and Engla
nd. This morning the fields and cemetery were still covered in a thin layer of snow, with faded tufts of grass sticking up here and there among the white powder.

  The rector must have seen us through the window when we arrived, for before we’d even finished descending from the carriage, he came bustling through the door to greet us. He was a middle-aged man of medium height with a gregarious nature. I wondered how well he got along with the more typically stoic personalities of his Border parishioners.

  When Gage had explained who we were and why we were there, the rector shook his head, exclaiming about the absurdity of the entire business, and then guided us around the building. I took Gage’s proffered arm to help me through the snow, leaving Trevor to fall in step with the clergyman.

  “St. Mawr . . .” the rector murmured in thought. “Do ye by chance own a manor o’er by Elwick?”

  “Why, yes,” Trevor replied.

  “Do ye attend St. Cuthbert’s?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “Well, tell yer vicar we’d like our bell back, please, should he e’er have time to address it.”

  The rector’s voice was jovial as he explained with a chuckle, “The bell from Beckford Kirk here was supposedly stolen during one o’ the later raids and installed at St. Cuthbert’s in Elwick across the Border. ’Course, there’s no proof o’ it. But the story persists. It’s one o’ our more colorful bits o’ history.” He nodded to the left as we rounded the building. “Like our mort house. Or ‘ghoul tower,’ if ye prefer. Or, at least, that’s what the locals call it.”

  We stopped to stare at the tiny rough-hewn, red sandstone watchtower, complete with crenellations. There were five stone steps leading up to the closed dark wooden door, and two tall, thin windows on each side of the door, like arrow slits, presumably for the watchmen to fire muskets out of. It was perhaps ten feet across, and I estimated no more than two men could fit inside comfortably.