A Grave Matter Read online

  “And what of here?” I glanced significantly at the grave. “What have you recovered?”

  The man shifted to look at the pile of belongings. “His clothes and shoes, a handkerchief—though I dinna ken what he’d need tha’ for—a watch, and some sort o’ jeweled pin. What ye call it?”

  “A stickpin,” the man in the grave replied in his deep, gritty voice.

  “Aye.”

  “No bones?” I clarified.

  “Nay.”

  So the robbers had been careful to retrieve all of the bones—even the tiny ones in the hands and feet—but had left behind the valuable items. Such circumstances were very odd. All of the items in that pile were worth a good deal of money, including the gentleman’s handkerchief, and yet none of the robbers had taken them. Not even the stickpin, something small and easily concealed.

  Either this group of men had considerable confidence in the amount of money they would be receiving for stealing the bones and nothing else—and the self-discipline not to be tempted to take one of the other objects to make a couple of extra quid—or they weren’t in need of the money. Their motive was something else entirely.

  Of course, we still needed to verify with the current Lord Buchan that all of his uncle’s effects were accounted for. Maybe something buried with the body had been taken—a ring, a medal, a jewel-tipped walking stick. At least now we knew what had not been taken and could move forward from there.

  “Did either of you see the late earl laid out in his coffin before he was buried?” I asked the men, curious if they would remember anything.

  “Aye, m’lady. We all did. Had his coffin restin’ on a table in the parlor so we could all pay our last respects.”

  “Can you recall whether anything he was wearing then is missing from this pile?”

  The man standing beside the grave glanced down at his companion, and then shook his head. “Sorry.”

  I nodded, knowing it had been unlikely they would remember.

  “But ye might ask Mrs. Moffat in St. Boswells. She be the one who cleans and lays oot the bodies o’ our dead.”

  I had not thought to confer with such a woman, but she might prove an invaluable source of information. I thanked him and took Trevor’s arm to allow him to lead me across the abbey ruins and through the west door, past Willie, who was still scrubbing almost desperately at the stone. I tried to push the image from my mind, but the vicious scraping of his brush against the sandstone dogged our steps as we moved away from the sheltered arbor of the abbey and down one of the paths that led toward Dryburgh House.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Earl of Buchan’s staff consisted of the usual assortment of characters—butler, housekeeper, cook, footmen, maids of every stripe, a valet, and even a governess who tutored the earl’s young son. We’d already questioned the stable hands and coachman with no luck, but I had hopes that one of the indoor staff would have something to tell us. Most of the servants present had attended the bonfire and ceilidh at Clintmains Hall, though the butler, valet, and governess had remained behind, the latter to care for her charge, I suspected.

  “I did see a light at the abbey when I pulled the window drapes closed in my room,” the governess admitted in some distress. “But I’m afraid I didn’t think much of it. It wasn’t my concern, in any case. The young master was. And he wasn’t very happy to have missed out on the Hogmanay festivities.”

  I nodded, understanding the woman had likely had her hands full dealing with the boy. The others might have enjoyed their Hogmanay, be it at the ceilidh or quietly on their own, but if the boy had been sullen or unruly, she may not have.

  “What of the rest of you?” I asked, scanning their faces where we stood clustered in the large entry hall. “Did you hear or see anything strange at any time yesterday or even in the days before? Did you see anyone on the roads or near the estate who seemed out of place?”

  Their blank faces and shaking heads did not encourage me. At least half of them seemed to be nursing thick heads, including the otherwise stalwart-looking housekeeper, and I wondered if that portion of my audience truly comprehended what I was saying.

  Then a petite maid with corkscrew auburn curls inched forward from where she had been cowering near the staircase. She glanced about her anxiously, and I knew she was working up the courage to speak. I smiled at her encouragingly, repressing the excitement that surged in me at the prospect that she might have something worthwhile to tell.

  “Is . . . is it true then?” she stammered.

  “Is what true?” I asked, curious just what story had been circling the manor about Dodd’s death and the goings-on at the abbey.

  She swallowed before replying haltingly. “They say the ole earl rose from the grave. Th-That he’s come back to haunt us.”

  “Or drain our blood,” another maid whispered beside her.

  I frowned at the two maids and then surveyed the others gathered around them. Some seemed as apprehensive as they were, while others smirked at their naïveté and superstition.

  “No. The late earl has not risen from the dead,” I replied.

  “But Dodd . . .” the maid persisted.

  “Was shot. So unless Lord Buchan was buried with a pistol, then Dodd encountered a very living, breathing human in the abbey cemetery.” I could hear that my aggravation had crept into my voice, and I took a deep breath. Scolding the staff would not convince them to share any information they had with me.

  “Maybe it was the Nun of Dryburgh,” the second maid whispered, her eyes wide as she glanced around at her fellow servants.

  I barely resisted rolling my eyes at the girl’s mention of the mythical figure Sir Walter Scott had written about in one of his poems. I decided it would be best to switch tactics before anyone else named a creature of fantasy as the murderer.

  “What of Dodd? Had he argued with anyone recently? Would anyone have had a reason to wish him dead?”

  This question seemed to shock the servants more than anything I’d asked, for they began murmuring to each other with astonished looks on their faces.

  The cook, a formidable-looking woman with white hair, harrumphed. “Ole Dodd was cantankerous, teh be sure. But no one ’d want teh harm ’im.”

  I had known the query was probably pointless, for it was likely the caretaker had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but it was best not to make assumptions, and so the question had to be asked.

  While the staff slowly filed out of the hall, seeming reluctant to go now that the questioning had passed, Trevor and I followed Lord Buchan into his study. The earl told his butler to have tea sent in, and then closed the door on the curious eyes of the lingering servants. He motioned for us to take a seat in the pair of burgundy wingback chairs before his heavy oak desk.

  “I wish my staff could have been more helpful,” he replied in regret. His heavy brow was furrowed, and deep grooves etched his forehead between his eyes. His chair creaked as he settled into it. “I’ve been thinking over the matter, and I must say I’m as baffled as ever.”

  I glanced out the tall windows at the swiftly flowing current of the River Tweed, feeling the same bafflement. So far I had no suspects, and I desperately wanted some direction on where to look.

  “I asked the servants about Dodd,” I told Lord Buchan. “And I apologize, but I also must ask about your uncle.” I paused, not wishing to offend him. “Did he have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted . . . revenge?”

  The earl frowned.

  “I know it seems an odd question.” In fact, it sounded ridiculous. “But none of this makes sense.”

  “No, no. I appreciate you’re simply trying to understand it yourself.” He closed his eyes as if thinking hard, and then shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t think of anyone who would do such a thing. Don’t get me wrong. My uncle was no saint. But he was more likely to annoy you than anger you. He was too vain and self-important to be concerned with others.”

  “What of you?” Trevor
asked him. “Is there anyone who might try to strike at you by stealing your uncle’s bones?”

  I tensed, worried he might be insulted, but he only cradled his chin in his hand as he gave the matter some consideration. I turned to Trevor, thanking him with my eyes for asking the sensitive question. He dipped his head in response.

  Lord Buchan’s mouth curled in chagrin. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I deceive myself, but I can think of no one who would wish to harm me in this way.”

  A tiny rap on the door signaled the return of the butler, and we fell silent while the tea tray was settled on the edge of the desk nearest to me. Once the door had closed behind the servant, I reached forward to pour the fragrant brew.

  “Then maybe we should approach this from a different angle,” I said while I added the cream and sugar the earl had requested to his cup. “Is there any way someone could benefit from the theft of the earl’s body?”

  The earl’s brow dipped low again as he accepted his cup. “How would someone benefit from it?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “It was simply a thought. If your uncle’s body was targeted specifically, then maybe the motivation was not revenge, but an attempt to gain something?” I finished uncertainly. That was the problem with this entire matter. It didn’t feel like we could be certain of any aspect of it.

  I handed Trevor his tea, prepared how I knew he liked it, and both men sat back to think while I poured my cup.

  “Were you able to find a list of everything that was buried with your uncle’s body?” my brother asked, reminding me I had failed to question the servants on that matter.

  “No, I didn’t. But I will keep looking.” He lifted the edge of a stack of papers on his desk to look under it and then set it back down. “If nothing else, it may be noted in one of the ledgers.”

  Trevor nodded, clearly understanding the earl’s line of thinking. “If all else fails, follow the money.”

  The earl took another sip of his tea and then his eyes widened. “I’ve just recalled. I did have a gentleman from Edinburgh visit me maybe three, no, four months ago. Perhaps it’s unrelated but . . . he was curious to know whether a certain item had been buried with my uncle.”

  I sat forward. “What item?”

  “It was a gold torc. Like the type of necklaces the Celts used to wear. Apparently, his family had discovered it on their estate and his aunt donated it to the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland. My uncle was a founding member.”

  “And this man thought your uncle had the torc?”

  “Yes. He was quite agitated. He claimed the torc was supposed to be part of the society’s collection, but it was missing. He accused my uncle of accepting the donation under false pretenses and then stealing it for himself.”

  I glanced at Trevor in surprise. “That’s quite a serious charge.”

  “Yes. And completely unfounded,” Lord Buchan replied in indignation. “My uncle would never do such a thing. In any case, I would clearly recall if he’d been buried wearing a torc around his neck.”

  I stared down at my cup of cooling tea. “What if he was wearing it under his clothing?”

  The earl opened his mouth to hotly deny the possibility, but then he stopped. His mouth slowly closed as he brooded over the thought. “I don’t deny that my uncle was quite eccentric,” he answered carefully. “Or that the idea of being buried in a torc might have appealed to him. They were worn by the Celts as a sign of nobility and royalty, were they not?” He looked to us to confirm. “But I balk at the idea that he would have stolen one to do so.”

  “What if this man was mistaken? What if your uncle purchased the torc?”

  “Well, I suppose that’s possible,” Lord Buchan admitted. “But as I said, he wasn’t buried in it. You can be certain that if my uncle was buried wearing a torc, he would have wanted it to be seen, not hidden away underneath a shirt and cravat.”

  I couldn’t argue with his assessment of the man. I had not known the late earl, but if he was as vain and self-important as he was portrayed, then his nephew’s opinion was undoubtedly correct.

  “The man who asked about the torc. What was his name? Do you recall?”

  “Lewis Collingwood,” he declared, lifting his chin into the air. “I remember because I went to school with a Collingwood, and a more disagreeable man you will never meet.” He sniffed. “It must run in the family.”

  • • •

  “I wonder if I sent a message to Gage asking him to track down Lewis Collingwood whether he would receive it before he left Edinburgh,” I pondered aloud as our feet crunched down the gravel drive leading toward our carriage.

  “Probably not,” Trevor replied.

  I tilted my head in thought. “I suppose I could ask Philip to locate Collingwood, but I do hate to bother him with our sister in such a delicate state. I know she’s doing well, and the baby isn’t due for another three months, but she’s not to have any excitement, and I doubt Philip could keep my request from her.” I turned to smile at our brother. “You know how Alana can be.”

  “I do.” He looked up, squinting into the sun. “She takes an inordinate amount of interest in everything her younger siblings do.”

  “Yes.” But my amusement fled as I began to wonder just what our sister had written to Trevor about me. And Gage. I peered up at my brother out of the corner of my eye. I had seen the letters she had posted to him. They were always folded together with mine, and she never failed to ask after Trevor in her missives to me, and speculate on some aspect of his life, whether it was the estate or his need to find a wife. What information, other than their shared concern over my grief, had she been sharing with him about me?

  “It must be killing her that she’s in Edinburgh while we’re both down here at Blakelaw.” A self-satisfied smirk stretched the corners of his lips. “But write to Philip anyway. She’ll discover you’ve got yourself embroiled in another inquiry sooner or later. It may as well be from you.”

  “True. And we do need to find out what we can about this Mr. Collingwood. At this point, he’s our most viable suspect.”

  “Then, write on, dear sister,” he teased as he opened the carriage door for me. “I’ll enclose it with the letter I have ready to send to Philip. Who knows? Maybe he can convince her it’s filled with nothing more than my boring estate business.”

  I arched my brows, letting him know just how successful I thought that would be, and he laughed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The church bells rang out crisp and clear in the chilly morning air. So loud, in fact, that I grimaced at the sound of their bright ting as Trevor and I passed through the doors and out onto St. Cuthbert’s front steps. I shielded my eyes against the sudden glare of the sun and rubbed my temples against the headache that had been building all morning.

  Upon our return to Blakelaw House late the previous afternoon, I had spent the remainder of the evening searching our library for any mention of uses of human bone, be it superstitious or more practical, but had little luck. I knew that the ground-up remains of Egyptian mummies had been used in some paint pigments as early as the sixteenth century, but I had never heard of more modern human bodies being used in that manner. I didn’t think it was possible. The body composition would not be the same.

  In any case, I had not fallen asleep until just before dawn, and when my new maid, Bree, had woken me for church, I had been tempted to remain abed. But then I realized that if I missed Sunday service, the next week would be filled with visits from well-meaning villagers, worried about my health or curious what had kept me from church. After all, we were the highest-ranking family in Elwick, so our comings and goings seemed to naturally concern those around us, whether I wished it to be so or not.

  I greeted Vicar Grey, who was a gentle, mild-mannered man, barely older than Trevor and me, and a recent addition to the parish. Trevor spoke highly of him, and said that his energy and eagerness to help had done much good for the tiny community. For my own part, the attribute I appreciated mo
st in the vicar was his temperance. Too many people had rushed to judge me since the scandal over my involvement with my late husband’s work broke in London nearly two years prior, including clergymen. So I did not fail to value those who would not be swayed by the gossip.

  He asked whether I had enjoyed my aunt and uncle’s Hogmanay Ball and then turned to speak to Trevor about some local matter. I nodded to Mrs. Heron as I crossed the churchyard toward the cemetery, distancing myself from the building and its parishioners. I was grateful for the warmth of my fur-lined winter cloak, but even so, the bitter wind sliced through me. Somehow it seemed fitting to my mood.

  I paused at the gate and glanced behind me at the solid block of rough-hewn stone that was St. Cuthbert’s. I knew if I truly wanted to be left alone, I would need to venture into the graveyard. The villagers would assume I was visiting my parents’ graves and leave me to my solitude. But still I hesitated. I supposed after the disturbance at the Dryburgh Abbey cemetery two nights prior, I was a bit wary.

  However, when out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Mrs. Stamper, a notorious busybody, moving toward me, I knew that word of the disturbance at my aunt and uncle’s Hogmanay party had spread. Having no desire to rehash the event with her, I opened the gate and slipped inside the graveyard.

  The ground was still soft from the recent rains. I nestled deeper in my cloak and picked my way carefully around the graves toward the tall oak under which my parents rested, side by side. I huddled close to the tree, using to it block some of the wind, and stared down at my mother’s gravestone. It was rather simple, by most nobility’s standards, but lovingly rendered with flowers and vines. Father’s was plainer still, but it suited him.

  I tilted my head back against the tree bark to look up through the oak’s barren branches at the winter blue sky. Clouds raced across its expanse, driven hard by the blustery wind. It was not a bad place to spend one’s eternal rest, with the flat stretch of fields to the south, and the curve of the River Tweed to the north. There would be the sound of church bells and singing, of farmers toiling in the fields, and children playing in the river to mark the seasons.