Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery)

by Huber, AnnaLee

  He wore no exterior accoutrements proclaiming his office, but he had the bearing of a man who enjoyed being in charge, and I judged from the way his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of us that he did not take kindly to having that authority questioned.

  “Sir, Mr. Dalmay and his guests,” the footman announced to his employer. “I was just escorting ’em to the drawing room.”

  The constable appeared delighted by this news, his red mustache fairly quivering with importance. Mr. Wallace, on the other hand, looked less than pleased, and I began to suspect that this was the source of his dismay—having the constable sit in on, and attempt to overrun, our conversation. And, in fact, it was the constable who strode forward quite rudely ahead of Mr. Wallace to introduce himself. I resisted the urge to scowl at the man, who was using his current position of power to overstep the bounds of propriety.

  “Mr. Dalmay, ’tis a pleasure to meet ye, sir. M’ name’s Paxton, Cramond’s constable. I woulda visited ye mysel’ if I’d kenned ye had any information for me.”

  Michael shook the hand the man had thrust at him. “I’m afraid, as such, we don’t have information for you. We simply wished to express our condolences over Mr. Wallace’s justifiable distress, and offer our assistance in any way we can.” He delivered this last looking over Mr. Paxton’s shoulder at our host.

  “Thank ye, Mr. Dalmay,” he replied. “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room? I’m sure the ladies would appreciate a seat.” He smiled kindly at Miss Remmington and me, though the light did not quite reach his eyes.

  “O’ course, o’ course,” Mr. Paxton said, preening at the realization that he’d been able to manipulate his way into the drawing room. Policemen were not, as a rule, gentlemen, as from Mr. Paxton’s manner and speech it was evident he was not, and as such, they entered the houses of the nobility and gentry through the servants’ door and were not escorted to the best rooms of the house, such as the drawing room. If offered any kind of refreshment, it was done in the kitchens. Sir Anthony had received much the same treatment as a surgeon, as opposed to a gentleman physician, until he’d been granted his baronetcy, boosting him into the ranks of the nobility.

  We filed into the drawing room, ignoring Mr. Paxton’s response, and settled ourselves on the worn but well-cared-for furniture clustered near the center of the room. The chamber was warm from the rays of the sun shining through the west-facing windows. I opted for a Chippendale chair positioned near the empty hearth and Gage claimed its twin.

  Mr. Wallace was an elderly man of about sixty with a head full of hair that had managed to remain mostly dark. He sported only a streak of gray at the top, much like the picture I had seen of a polecat from North America, and a dusting of silver at the temples and sideburns. His eyes were dark, though I suspected they were deepest blue rather than brown, and clouded with fear and worry. He was making a valiant attempt to hide his fatigue and anxiety, but it was evident in the slouch of his shoulders, the dark circles around his eyes, and the twitching movements of his hands as he straightened his jacket or snuck a glance at his pocket watch.

  Michael began the necessary introductions. I noticed that he failed to mention Gage’s famous father, or his occupation, but from the tightening of Mr. Paxton’s mouth he was not to be fooled.

  “Yer father is Captain Lord Gage, is he no’?”

  Mr. Wallace’s face drooped with weary resignation. He had clearly hoped Mr. Paxton would miss the connection.

  “He is,” Gage answered with aplomb, as if the association had no bearing on our current situation. I had to admire the effort, even if Mr. Paxton did not.

  “I’m sure we appreciate his lordship’s help, but we’ve got matters weel in hand,” he pronounced with a determined gleam in his eye.

  “My father didn’t send me.”

  The constable appeared baffled. “He dinna?”

  “I’m not here in an official capacity, Mr. Paxton.” Gage smiled disarmingly. “I’m simply staying with a friend and wished to accompany him on his visit to his neighbor. I have every confidence you are conducting your investigation with the utmost diligence and skill.”

  Mr. Paxton seemed to be caught off guard by this compliment, for he shifted in his seat. “Why, thank ye, sir.”

  “Such a sad circumstance. Mr. Wallace, you must be sick with worry.”

  He nodded. “That I am. Mary was never one to disappear like this. I always knew where she was going and who she would visit, even if she was only going doon to the village,” he replied, his Scottish brogue emerging, whether from fatigue or because he had no care to affect the English accent as other Scottish gentlemen had been taught to do.

  “Well, then you’ve been able to trace her movements that day.”

  “That we have,” Mr. Paxton cut in. “And I was just tellin’ Mr. Wallace that we think we puzzled it oot.” His pronouncement was met by a stony glare from our host, one the constable chose to ignore.

  “And what is that?” Gage prompted.

  “She mun have failed to begin the crossin’ from Cramond Island afore the tide came in, and it dragged her oot to sea. It’s happened afore and it’ll happen again.”

  “And I told ye, my daughter knows that crossing weel. She’d never start if she couldna make it across,” Mr. Wallace argued. “She’s no’ daft. She understands the danger.”

  The constable crossed his arms over his round stomach, unmoved by his arguments. “She would if she were in a hurry.”

  Mr. Wallace sat forward in his seat, his face reddened with anger. “Are you presuming to tell me what my daughter would or wouldna do?”

  “Wait,” I interrupted. “I don’t understand.” I glanced around at the others, wondering if anyone else was as confused as I was. “Why would the rising tide cause a woman in a boat so much danger? And wouldn’t she have asked someone to row her across? Where are they if she’s missing?”

  “It’s a tidal island,” Michael explained. “At low tide the water recedes far enough so that there’s a path that connects it to the shore. But the distance is nearly a mile, and when the tide comes back in, it does so quickly. More than one person has lost their life by trying to make the crossing too late.”

  I allowed this information to digest for a moment before asking the obvious. “But why do you think Miss Wallace made such a crossing?”

  “Because Miss Wallace paid a visit to Mrs. McCray that day,” Mr. Paxton answered before the girl’s father could utter a word. “The McCrays ain an ole farmstead on the island.”

  “And Mrs. McCray was the last person to see her?” I asked, leading the man on in hopes he’d let slip more information.

  “Aye!” He nodded at me in approval, seemingly pleased that I’d caught on. “No one’s seen hide nor hair o’ her since she left the McCrays. If she’d made it back to the mainland someone woulda seen her.”

  “Except Mrs. McCray told ye my Mary left wi’ plenty o’ time to cross before the tide.” Mr. Wallace fisted his hands in his lap. “It makes no sense.”

  Mr. Paxton waved this away as inconsequential. “Mrs. McCray was in bed wi’ the ague. How could she ken the time? And besides, she’s always been a wee daft. What with her talk of bogles and beasties.” He leaned toward Damien and lowered his voice. “Claims she saw a selkie.”

  Mr. Wallace’s scowl was fierce. “Ye do the ole woman an injustice. Just because she’s a wee superstitious disna mean she’s daft. And she wouldna lie aboot my daughter leaving in time.” Mr. Wallace turned away from the constable to appeal to Michael and Gage and me. “In any case, Mary woulda been mindful. If she had misjudged the time she woulda stayed the night wi’ the McCrays and come home in the morn. It’s happened before. ’Tis why I didna know she was missing until the next day.” His last words were heavy with guilt. It was clear the man blamed himself for not realizing his daughter had gone missing sooner. What could have happened in those twel
ve hours or more between her last being seen and his raising the alarm?

  “What of the other residents on the island?” Gage asked. “Would she have gone to any of them?”

  “The only other person livin’ on Cramond Island is Craggy Donald,” Mr. Paxton answered with a frown, unhappy to have the conversation taken away from him. “We questioned him and searched his croft, but he wasna any use.” He shook his head stubbornly. “Nay, it looks like the lass tried to make the crossing and got swept oot to sea.”

  I wasn’t willing to concede to his conclusion, not so quickly, but it was Gage who spoke up.

  “Perhaps, but what time does the tide . . .”

  “Mr. Gage,” Mr. Paxton interrupted, an edge of warning in his voice. “Official visit or no’, I’ll warn ye to stay oot o’ my investigation. Cramond is my patch, and I’ll handle it as I see fit.”

  Gage stared at the trumped-up policeman evenly, his demeanor carefully indifferent, but I could sense the fury bubbling below the surface and tightening his jaw.

  “And what if I decided to hire him in an official capacity?” Mr. Wallace challenged. It was clear he’d had enough of the constable and his posturing. “You hav’na found her, and you’ve had over four days to do so. Maybe it’s time I gave someone else a chance. I might have better results.”

  Mr. Paxton’s round eyes narrowed to slits. “That is your choice, o’ course, Mr. Wallace. But I mun say, I’d have to view such a move as very suspicious.”

  Mr. Wallace stiffened.

  “May be ye have somethin’ to hide.”

  “Are you threatenin’ me?”

  “Nay, sir. Just offerin’ ye a bit o’ friendly advice.”

  I bit my tongue to withhold the insults I wanted to hurl at this man. It was men like him, manipulating it for their own means, who had made me so wary of the law. Mr. Paxton enjoyed the power his office gave him, and he would use any means necessary to keep it. The feelings of even Mr. Wallace, a gentleman of some fortune, mattered little. Mr. Paxton clearly cared nothing for the missing girl, and I questioned whether he had the imagination to solve any crime that wasn’t straightforward. I could only hope that Mr. Wallace would complain to Mr. Paxton’s superior, heedless of the man’s threats.

  “Noo, I’m sure we want to allow Mr. Wallace to rest after his shock,” Mr. Paxton said, his gaze still locked with the man in question, and without an ounce of compassion tinting his expression or his voice. “I’ll send Dr. Littleton to ye.”

  Mr. Wallace looked as if he might wish to argue, but kept his lips clamped in a tight line. I half wished he might, just to set a flea in the constable’s ear, but I knew we would never make headway in the matter today with Mr. Paxton looking over our shoulders. Even if we got more information out of Mr. Wallace and his servants, we would never be able to question anyone in the village.

  We rose to our feet, preparing to take our leave alongside the constable, but before the man could usher us out, I crossed the room toward Mr. Wallace determined to offer my sympathies. If the man’s daughter had, indeed, been caught in the tide and swept out to sea to drown—and I couldn’t even begin to imagine the grief a loved one’s dying that way would cause a person—he deserved our kindness and consideration. But Miss Remmington beat me to it.

  “Mr. Wallace,” she murmured, her voice wavering slightly, “I don’t know if your daughter mentioned me, but I considered her my friend.”

  “O’ course, Miss Remmington.” He offered her a kind smile. “She mentions you often.”

  Her eyes brightened, and I could tell she was choking back tears. Whether it was because she had started to speak of her friend in the past tense or because Miss Wallace had spoken of her to her father, I didn’t know, but I thought perhaps it was a little of both.

  “I hope they find her.” Her voice was no louder than a whisper. Mr. Wallace nodded and squeezed the hand she had offered him.

  I hesitated to say anything after such an emotional scene, but Mr. Wallace looked up at me and spoke first. “Lady Darby, you are the sister-in-law o’ Lord Cromarty, are you no’?”

  “Yes,” I replied, wondering if he was acquainted with Philip.

  When his eyes strayed toward where Mr. Paxton stood near the door keeping a close watch on Gage and Michael, I realized it was for an entirely different reason. Apparently the tale of my recent actions at Gairloch had preceded me; the constable just hadn’t realized it.

  Mr. Wallace leaned toward me and spoke in a hushed voice. “Mr. Paxton travels to Edinburgh tomorrow morn, should you and Mr. Gage like to call on me again.” His gaze met mine significantly.

  “Of course,” I told him, doing my best to appear as if I were offering him my condolences should Mr. Paxton look our way. “Shall we say nine o’clock?”

  He bowed over my hand, following my lead. “Your servant, m’lady.”

  I nodded and turned from him, lest we give ourselves away.

  Gage did not question me as we mounted our horses and rode away from Lambden Cottage, leaving the constable behind in a cloud of much-deserved dust, but I could feel his gaze on me. As we reached the road and turned south toward the bridge, he drew his mount up next to mine.

  “Nine o’clock tomorrow,” was all I needed to say, as I was certain he had observed my exchange with Mr. Wallace. I saw Gage smile out of the corner of my eye.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Michael dropped back beside me as we turned off the main road and back onto Dalmay land, shaking his head at the trio in front of us. Seeing my look of query, he explained. “Lord Damien is trying to impress the worldly Miss Remmington with tales of his exploits.” I could hear the sarcasm in his voice. “And, unfortunately, Gage is only egging him on.”

  “But Damien hasn’t had any exploits.”

  “And Miss Remmington is not in the least worldly, though she likes to pretend it.”

  “Oh, dear,” I murmured.

  His eyebrows arched in agreement. “This can only end badly.”

  “Should we try to separate them?”

  He sighed. “I doubt it would do any good.”

  I stared at the back of Gage’s evergreen coat. It was fairly quivering with suppressed humor. “Then perhaps we should trust Gage to handle it.”

  Michael glanced at me, a gleam of levity entering his eyes as he comprehended my meaning. Pulling on his reins, he checked his stallion’s pace.

  I smiled and directed my mare to follow suit, allowing an even larger gap to open between us and the trio of riders. The mare seemed perfectly happy to have the stallion all to herself and tossed her mane playfully.

  “You are rather vain, aren’t you?” I scolded her with a chuckle.

  “Don’t be too hard on her. All the ladies preen for Puck.” Michael patted his horse’s shoulder. “Don’t they, boy?”

  I shook my head. “That name.”

  “I know. Blame the stable master. I jokingly told him that this horse was going to be ‘quite the buck,’ but he misheard me. Quite deliberately, I might add,” he said, speaking louder to be heard over my laughter. “I found out later that Laura had been reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream and described it to one of the stable lads one day when he accompanied her on her ride. The lad told the tale to the others in the stable, including the stable master.”

  “Well, at least Puck doesn’t seem to mind his name,” I offered.

  “Yes, happily he doesn’t know what it means.”

  “Just please don’t tell me this mare’s name is Titania.”

  A smile quirked his lips. “No. That is Dewdrop.”

  I reached out to brush a hand over her dappled coat. “Quite fitting.”

  “I thought you would appreciate her.”

  We fell silent as we crossed beneath the bower of one of the forests, losing sight of the others for a moment around a curve in the road. A few birds still
twittered in the gloom of late afternoon under the trees, but the predominant sound was the clopping of our horses’ hooves on the smooth dirt track. The closer the calendar crept toward the end of the year, the swifter the sun set, and I knew by the time we reached Dalmay House the sun would already be approaching the horizon.

  I’d been reluctant to bring up the scene in Mr. Wallace’s drawing room, but I decided it was necessary if we were ever to discover the truth.

  “I take it you’ve never met Mr. Paxton before.”

  Michael turned to look at me. “No. But I’ve heard of him.”

  “And today’s actions only confirmed what you’d heard?”

  He nodded.

  “Which is another reason why you would not want the authorities involved should Will become suspected in Miss Wallace’s disappearance.” I could only imagine how Cramond’s constable would behave in such a circumstance. He would be out of his depth, but refuse to admit it.

  “Do you place any credence in his proposition that Miss Wallace was swept out to sea while crossing back to the mainland from Cramond Island?” He was careful not to appear too eager to accept such a possibility, particularly as it almost certainly meant the girl’s death, but nonetheless I could hear the ring of hope in his voice.

  I had been too distracted by Mr. Paxton’s provoking attitude and Mr. Wallace’s obvious frustration to contemplate what the constable’s theory meant for Will. If it were true, then Will could be cleared of all suspicion in her disappearance. The problem was there was no way of proving it. What if she had made it back to the mainland and walked west to the trails leading onto the Dalmay estate?

  Of course, that would necessitate her taking the ferry across the River Almond to reach it, and I would have supposed that Mr. Paxton had questioned the ferrymen. What were the chances that those men had forgotten they’d helped her across that afternoon? They couldn’t shepherd across more than a few dozen people each day, and I was willing to wager they would remember someone as highborn as Miss Wallace. So, if she didn’t take the ferry, then the odds of Will having gotten to her were infinitesimal, and that was supposing he wanted to do her harm.