A Grave Matter Page 34

  “We know about Mr. Young and Miss Musgrave. We also know about their plan to elope.”

  She seemed to shrink before our eyes, her shoulders crumpling inward and her head dropping. “Aye.” She sighed again. “I didna ken aboot it at the time, but I was suspicious when Miss Alice suddenly declared she was too ill to attend the ball.” Her mouth screwed up in a frown. “Right disappointed, too. You’d the right of it. I’d been lookin’ forward to goin’. But Miss Alice pays no mind to that.”

  “What happened that evening? Did she sneak out?”

  Now that we’d gotten her talking, she seemed happy to relieve herself of the secret, to tell her side of the story.

  She narrowed her eyes. “I watched her all night, like a hawk. But at some point a lass’s gotta . . .” she waved her hand, trying to find polite words “. . . take care o’ things.”

  I nodded. And a servant couldn’t very well use her employer’s chamber pot. She would have to go down to the servants’ quarters or outside to the privy.

  “When I got back to her room, she was gone. Well, you can believe what a dither I was in.” She shook her finger at us. “I ken the girl was up to no good. And I’d a good guess where she was goin’. I kent she’d seen Mr. Young at the abbey that morn, even though she’s no’ supposed to talk to him. I took off doon the river path, ready to drag that girl home by her hair if need be.”

  I wouldn’t have blamed her. “Did you catch up with her?”

  She lifted her chin. “Aye. Just afore that accursed bridge. She fought me, but I told her ’tweren’t no way I was gonna let her run off like that. That she’d regret it forever.” She sniffed. “No’ that she’d regret losin’ her father. But she’d regret losin’ his money.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gage’s lips twitch.

  Peggy shook her head, seeming to relive the anger she’d felt that night, and then she leaned forward. “In any case, that’s when we heard the gunshot. Miss Alice didna want to believe me, but I’ve heard guns fired afore. ’Tis no’ easily forgotten. And there were some sort o’ lights o’er at the abbey. I told the lass that her suitor might no’ be bright, but even he wouldna be daff enough to make such a commotion when he was plannin’ to skulk off wi’ her.”

  “Did you see anyone?” Gage asked.

  She shook her head. “Nay. I hurried us away from there afore trouble found us.”

  Under the circumstances, that was probably the smartest thing she could’ve done. She’d probably saved her charge from a very unhappy fate. Had Miss Musgrave stumbled upon the body snatchers thinking it was Mr. Young, who knows what they might have done to her.

  But unfortunately, it didn’t help us.

  Gage reached forward to pick up another package resting on the seat beside Peggy. Folding back the cloth, he showed her the fine pink muslin gown we’d found in the Chapter House at the abbey. “Does this belong to Miss Musgrave?”

  Peggy’s eyes narrowed in anger. “Aye. Let me guess. You found it at the abbey?”

  “Yes.”

  Her jaw tightened and she shook her head slowly. “Why, that minx. She blamed me for losin’ it. ’Twas goin’ to be taken oot o’ my wages.”

  Gage held the package out to her, but she pushed it back.

  “Nay. You can keep it. It’s one o’ her favorites. Serves her right for doin’ such a fool thing. But you can bet she’s gonna hear all aboot this conversation, and how I convinced you no’ to go to Mr. Musgrave. She can just explain to her da’ how she lost that gown.”

  I smiled and glanced at Gage. “Well, should you ever need us to go to Mr. Musgrave . . .”

  She grinned back, and it brightened her features. “I’ll contact ye.”

  • • •

  It must have been fairly obvious how frustrated Gage and I felt about our progress in the investigation, but my uncle did not comment on it when we stopped by Clintmains Hall to give him an update and find out if he’d uncovered anything useful. The discovery that Young, Shellingham, and their friends had nothing to do with the body snatchings was a blow. Especially as we’d now spent several days pursuing it, allowing the trail to the real culprit to grow cold. Our remaining suspects for the plan’s instigator and ringleader were either in Edinburgh or destinations unknown, and the thugs they’d hired to do their dirty work had slunk off to wherever they hid between robberies.

  “Lord Buchan wished me to convey his gratitude for your assistance in getting his uncle’s remains back,” Uncle Andrew informed us as he settled in the chair behind the desk in his study. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes swirling in the air. “And hopes you’ll both attend his uncle’s reinterment ceremony.”

  “He hasn’t already been reburied?” I asked in some surprise.

  “No. Lord Buchan is actually having one of the vaults at the abbey prepared, so his uncle can be buried beneath the stone floor there. Which will take some time, but should dissuade any further mischief.”

  I shared a wide-eyed glance with Gage, recalling the Nun of Dryburgh’s presence in just such a vault the night we visited her, and her mysterious words. “I told you to be buried here. Where you’re safe. But you did not listen.”

  “Now, on to the nasty business of Lord Fleming’s snatching.” Uncle Andrew drummed his fingers on his desk. “I assume you propose to wait for this fourth ransom note to be delivered?”

  Gage sighed heavily, sinking deeper into his chair. “I don’t know that we have much of a choice. We don’t have enough evidence to solidly point at any of our other suspects.”

  My uncle frowned. “What of this Mr. Collingwood? Didn’t you say he contacted all of the families involved about this gold torc?”

  “Yes. But he also seems to have contacted nearly everyone in the Society of Antiquaries, so that in and of itself is not enough to point the finger at him.”

  “And the leader of this Edinburgh street gang?”

  Gage’s face screwed up in a ferocious scowl. “Much as I’d like to believe it’s him behind all this, there are too many variables.”

  My uncle stared at the remaining traces of Gage’s black eye, the pale yellow circle of healing skin and slight pink dappling, likely guessing at the source of Gage’s continued animosity. We’d been forced to explain the contusion during our previous visit with Anderley two days prior.

  “Then who does that leave?” he asked.

  I glanced at Gage, who stared silently at me, allowing me the opportunity to divulge what we’d discovered about Mr. Stuart. Knowing the man had been a guest in my uncle’s home during their Hogmanay Ball, I did my best to relay our findings delicately, but my uncle’s furrowed brow proved the effort might have been futile.

  “But Mr. Stuart never left the ball,” he protested. “I saw him frequently that evening.”

  “He wouldn’t have needed to nor even wanted to,” I explained. “If Mr. Stuart is the culprit, he would have marked Lord Buchan’s grave sometime during the days preceding the ball. Then he would have made sure to be seen during the festivities to remove all trace of suspicion from him.”

  “And you’ve already said Mr. Young and Lord Shellingham mentioned seeing him at the abbey.”

  Seeing the frown that lowered his features and the way his eyes avoided meeting mine, I could tell how reluctant he was to accept my suspicions. I leaned forward in my seat, trying to catch his eye. “Uncle Andrew, I like Mr. Stuart. I genuinely do. But we have to consider every possibility, no matter how disagreeable it is, until the truth is revealed or other information rules it out. Mr. Gage taught me that,” I said, turning toward him. His eyes brightened with some emotion, but before I could decide what it was, my attention was drawn back to my uncle, who was now watching us curiously. “So no matter how much we want to ignore the possibility, we can’t. Not if we want to discover the truth.”

  I thought of the young caretaker Willie, still waiting for answers, still blaming himself for not going with Dodd to check out the li
ght at the abbey on the night he was killed. He deserved closure just as much as, if not more than, these families who had paid ransoms to have their loved ones’ remains returned to them.

  My uncle inhaled and nodded. “You’re right, of course. As a magistrate, I’m well aware that I can’t simply rely on preconceived notions of people. And I know you will not move forward with this without first having definitive proof.” He glanced sharply at me and then Gage, as if to assure himself. “So what would you like to know?”

  “Well, to start, where did you meet Mr. Stuart? Aunt Sarah said it was in Edinburgh.”

  His gaze rose toward the ceiling. “It was at a dinner party, I believe. I found him to be dashed clever, and he had some interesting thoughts on Eastern Europe.”

  “Do you recall who introduced you?” I pushed. “Who hosted the dinner party?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Dalrymple were our hosts. On St. Andrews Square. But I believe it was Mr. Tyler who presented Mr. Stuart to me.”

  I sat straighter. “Mr. Tyler of Woodslea?”

  “Yes, I . . .” My uncle’s voice trailed away as he realized the implication. His face darkened with unease.

  Gage, too, had moved forward in his seat at this pronouncement. “Did Mr. Tyler say how he knew Mr. Stuart?”

  “No, not that I can recall. Though there was some intimation that he had visited them recently.”

  I turned to Gage, trying to suppress some of the excitement I felt flowing through my veins, at least for the sake of my uncle. “Didn’t Mr. Tyler say they’d hosted a gathering the weekend that his father’s grave was disturbed?”

  “Yes. And I have to wonder if Mr. Stuart was one of their guests.”

  I nodded, having considered the same thing, but then another thought occurred to me. “But neither Sir Robert nor Lord and Lady Fleming mentioned any guests. Well, other than their nephews, who we now know are innocent.”

  “Yes, but perhaps Mr. Stuart realized how suspicious it would look if he stayed at all the houses of the families involved, particularly on the weekends the thefts had taken place. Maybe he realized it would be better to stay in a home nearby.” He gestured to our surroundings. “Like here, in the case of Lord Buchan. No one would think twice about a known visitor to the area, someone who was staying at the manor of a respected community member, touring an abbey’s ruins, or a church and cemetery. He could claim to be studying the architecture or searching for an old friend’s grave if anyone questioned him, and no one would suspect him of any wrongdoing. Not unless they realized he’d been to all of the sites involved. And how would they know that if no one shared their suspicions about his visit?”

  “But we have no proof he stayed anywhere near Musselburgh or Beckford, and we can’t exactly drive about questioning every noble and genteel household for miles around them to find out if he stayed there.”

  “Actually . . .”

  Gage and I turned as one to look at my uncle, who was frowning down at his desk. He adjusted the ledger book under his right elbow so that it was more square with the other items in front of him.

  “Your aunt received a letter a few days ago from Lady Kerswood along with her invitation to the Burns Night Ball.”

  I nodded in understanding.

  “She mentioned that a mutual acquaintance of ours had been staying with her for a few days, and hoped to return in time for Burns Night.”

  Knowing Lady Kerswood, I was certain that wasn’t all she’d said, or rather implied, but that was not the matter at hand. “Mr. Stuart?” I guessed.

  His eyes were unhappy. “Yes.”

  My stomach dropped a little, even though this was the type of information we’d been hoping for. The Kerswood manor house was located no more than three miles from Beckford. “So we can place him at or nearby three of the grave sites during or just before the body snatchings took place.”

  “We’ll have to confirm with Mr. Tyler,” Gage said. “And I’ll want to send a note to Sir Robert to see if he knows of anyone who visited the area just before his father’s bones were stolen, but . . . yes. It appears we can place him near at least three.”

  I turned to stare at the fireplace, its flames crackling low. From what I knew of the man, it seemed absurd to suspect him of such a thing, but looks and even manners could often be deceiving. I’d been fooled before.

  “Do you know where Mr. Stuart has been staying?” Gage asked my uncle.

  “I believe he either owns or rents a house near Coldingham. But from the sounds of it, he’s been doing a great deal of traveling about the region. I don’t know whether you would find him there or not.”

  Perhaps not. But we might be able to find out if that was where Curst Eckie, Sore John, and the other Edinburgh body snatchers were hiding. We might find Bonnie Brock’s sister there as well.

  Gage thanked my uncle and we started to rise when he stopped us. “There’s one more thing.”

  We turned to him in query.

  His mouth tightened and he looked away. “This may be nothing. It could be completely unrelated, but when Mr. Stuart stayed with us on Hogmanay . . . my wife mentioned that he said something about a dead wife and child.”

  My heart squeezed in sympathy. “Did he say . . .”

  “He said nothing else. Not when they died or how.” His mouth curled in a tight self-deprecating smile. “I asked those questions myself. But your aunt Sarah said she didn’t think it had been a recent event, though it still seemed to grieve him greatly.”

  I nodded, trusting my aunt’s intuition, and wondering if those deaths were somehow the key to all of this.

  • • •

  “Do you want to travel to Coldingham to see if we can find this house where Mr. Stuart has been staying?” I asked Gage as we climbed into his carriage to return to Blakelaw House almost an hour later. My aunt had insisted we join them for tea, and while I normally welcomed her company, this time I’d been anxious to speak with Gage alone about what we’d uncovered.

  He seemed to have already given the matter some thought, for he shook his head. “No. It’s a journey of twenty-five or thirty miles from Elwick, is it not?”

  “Something close to that,” I estimated.

  “Then it’s too far. In this weather, it would take the better part of a day to reach it, and then we’d still have the return journey to make. It’s just as likely that Mr. Stuart won’t be there as it is that he will be. And what if the ransom note should be delivered while we’re gone?” He tapped his fingers against the leg of his buff trousers in agitation. “I don’t trust these men not to give us even shorter notice than last time. They seem to have moved up their time schedule, whether because they know we’re on to them, or they’ve grown more confident.”

  “How do you think they’ll ask Lord Fleming to deliver the ransom?”

  His expression was grim. “If there’s anything I’ve learned from this inquiry, it’s not to expect anything.”

  I had to agree, but that didn’t stop me from speculating. The first ransom had been placed on a hilltop, the second set in a boat and sent out to sea, and the third strapped to a horse and driven into the Cheviot Hills. What other method could they possibly use to collect this fourth ransom without being caught?

  I sat back to gaze out the window at the passing winter fields. The sun already dipped low on the horizon. We would not arrive at Blakelaw until after dark.

  “What do you think about what my uncle told us regarding Mr. Stuart’s deceased wife and child?”

  When Gage did not answer, I looked over to find him staring out the window, his brow furrowed and his eyes troubled. I wondered if he was thinking about his own mother. Just a few short months ago he’d confided that she’d been murdered. It had been thirteen years ago now, but I knew those memories still upset him. Time didn’t always ease the pain. Sometimes it just made it easier to distract yourself from it.

  “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “Like Lord Rutherford said, it may have nothing at all do with the
investigation. But it could be exactly the information we’ve been looking for.” He reached out to pull the curtain across the western-facing window as the carriage turned and the sun shone through, blinding him. “The trouble is we don’t know their names or where or when they died. And you told me yourself that Lady Bute said Mr. Stuart has gone by many names in his life. Which one did he use at that time?”

  They were legitimate questions, and ones I couldn’t even begin to answer. I already knew that Mr. Stuart at one time or another had lived in France, Switzerland, England, Scotland, and America. How many more cities and countries had he visited? Without the right information, the search would be far too difficult and extensive.

  “I could write to Lady Bute,” I suggested. “Maybe she knows something.”

  “And you think she would share it with you?” he asked doubtfully.

  I thought about the matron and how fond she had seemed of Mr. Stuart. “Only if she thought I was asking for friendly reasons.” I sighed. “I’m not sure how I would bring up a dead spouse in cordial correspondence without it sounding suspicious, but it’s worth a try. Otherwise, I don’t know who else to ask.”

  Gage closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the squabs. I could see the dark circles of fatigue surrounding his eyes, making his healing contusion look even worse. Apparently he had slept as poorly as I had the past few nights.

  “Then you have some letters to write as well as I,” he declared with a yawn.

  And some letters I hoped to receive. Soon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  We spent the next few days in a perpetual state of anxious anticipation. We hovered in the entry hall and drawing room at the time of day when the post was normally delivered, waiting for Crabtree to bring it up and set it on the silver tray resting on a table in the hall. Each day brought fresh hope of a letter from one of our correspondents. One that would tell us something new to aid in our investigation—some crucial bit of information we’d missed, some report of where Mr. Stuart was staying—but day after day we were disappointed.