“Noo, then,” she declared, taking a seat across from us as the tea steeped. “Ye’ll have heard from Mr. Wallace how I had the ague and Mistress Mary were kind enough to come visit me.”
“Does Miss Wallace visit you often?” I inquired.
“Oh, every few weeks, and when me or me boy is ill.” She paused and then added, “Mr. McCray dinna get sick.” The way she said this made me suspect her husband was a stubborn man.
“How ill were you?” Gage ventured to ask. “Mr. Paxton made it sound like you were too sick to even stand.”
Mrs. McCray scowled. “That ole fool. What’d he say? That I couldna tell the time.” She blew through her lips, dismissing the man. “I had a bit o’ a cough, no’ consumption. And I tell ye, Mistress Mary left wi’ plenty o’ time to cross afore the tide. That’s a fact. So it’s a daft notion that the lass got swept away into the sea.”
She poured milk into our cups and then carefully added tea and sugar.
Gage sipped his tea. “What of this Craggy Donald? Would she have visited him?”
“Maybe. But it’s no’ likely. He dinna like visitors much.”
“Who is he?”
“Just an ole hermit. Keeps to himsel’. He dinna bother us so we leave ’im be.” She shook her head. “Paxton and his cronies tore his place apart, intent on findin’ somethin’ to arrest him for.”
“But you think he’s innocent.”
“Aye.” She nodded her head decisively. “People who dinna understand him think him strange, but he’s harmless. It’s far more likely they’d harm him than the other way aroond.”
We thanked her for the tea and set off in the direction of Craggy Donald’s hut. She’d pointed us to a grown-over trail leading down toward the beach on the northeast side of the island, facing out to the North Sea. As we rounded a curve in the path, we could see a puff of smoke rising away from the hillside farther down where the shanty must stand. The clouds were moving faster across the sky now and the sea here seemed a sterner gray. I could imagine what it looked like in a storm, with roiling clouds and thrashing waves. If I were Donald, I should be afraid my little hovel was going to be dashed into the ocean. But perhaps that was how he liked it.
As we drew closer, we were able to see that the hut itself was built into the hillside, so that only two walls of wood were visible. Even most of the roof was earth. Gage approached to knock on the slatted wood door, its boards crudely lashed together, leaving gaps at the top and the bottom. It was warped and nearly falling off its hinges. There was no answer.
“Maybe he’s down at the beach,” I suggested. “If he rarely goes into town, he must do a lot of fishing.”
And sure enough a man carrying a fishing rod and a rope strung with fresh fish emerged over a rise in the path leading down to the water. He halted at the sight of us, staring at us with blank eyes.
“Craggy Donald?” Gage guessed, taking a single step toward him before he stopped, mindful not to scare the man away. “We just want to ask you a few questions. We’re here on behalf of Mr. Wallace.” When the man still did not move, he added, “I’m not one of Paxton’s men.”
He studied us, not betraying by the twitch of a muscle what he was thinking. As to be expected, his clothes were old and worn, but kept in good repair. I could see three carefully stitched patches on the front of his trousers alone. His grizzled gray hair was kept tied back neatly in a queue and his matching beard was carefully trimmed so that it would not get in the way of eating. But it was his face that was the most remarkable thing about him, and evidently the source of his nickname. Worn and beaten until it was as thick and rugged as leather, with deep furrows grooving his forehead and the corners of his mouth and eyes. It was obvious that he had been a career sailor, be it on a merchant ship or in the Royal Navy. Given his neatness, I suspected it was the latter.
I glanced at Gage to see if he had realized the same thing. Surely, with his captain father, he would know a seaman when he saw one.
Deciding we must be trustworthy, or at least that we weren’t going to toss his abode into disarray, Craggy Donald climbed the path toward us. He stepped around us to hang his catch of fish from a hook protruding from the wall.
“Where did you serve?” Gage asked.
He paused in leaning his rod against the wall by the door, as if surprised by the question. But then he replied in a low, scratchy voice. “HMS Warrior.”
“Whom did you serve under?”
Craggy Donald turned to look at Gage. “Cap’n Phipps.”
He nodded. “I never had the pleasure of meeting him. I’m Sebastian Gage. My father is Captain Lord Gage.”
He eyed him closely. “Golden like an angel, but with the devil in his eyes. Aye, I s’pose ye could be his get.”
Gage smiled tightly.
“Why’re ye here?”
“Visiting a friend who happens to be concerned about Miss Wallace.” He faced the man squarely, speaking to him like an equal, and not some lowly cur to bully, as evidently Mr. Paxton had behaved, from the condition of Craggy Donald’s kicked-in door. “I know you’ve already been asked before, but I need to ask again. Did Miss Wallace come to visit you on Thursday last?”
He answered with calm assurance. “Nay.”
“Did you see her on the island—or anywhere, for that matter—on that day, or any day after?”
“Nay.”
Gage sighed in disappointment and turned his head to look out to sea. I felt the same exasperation, but, then, we’d known it was unlikely that anyone could tell us anything we didn’t already know.
“What about anything suspicious?” He sounded like he was clutching at straws now. “Did anything out of the ordinary happen on that day or the days around it?”
I fully expected Craggy Donald to say no, but something flickered in his eyes, arresting Gage’s attention and mine.
“Well, there was one thing. A boat. A coble, from the looks o’ its size. I didna see it leavin’ the island, but it seemed it mun ha’ came from here.”
“This was on Thursday?” Gage clarified.
“Aye.”
“Where were they headed?”
He pointed. “Oot to sea.”
That meant that if Miss Wallace had been on that boat she could be anywhere by now.
“Why didn’t you report this to Mr. Paxton?” I asked in some frustration.
His eyes turned hard. “He didna ask.”
Just set about destroying his property.
I could hear the words left unsaid. I sighed, unable to blame the man despite my agitation. It was doubtful Mr. Paxton would have even listened to him if he’d tried to tell him about the boat.
“Is there anything else you can tell us? Could you see anyone aboard the coble?” Gage shifted on his feet and I knew he was ready to be off.
Craggy Donald shook his head. “’Twas too far off.”
Gage thanked him and we started back up the path at a speed too quick for me.
“Slow down,” I gasped.
He complied, but without so much as an apology for making me winded. He was too deep in thought.
“How much would you wager that Mary was on that boat?”
“I’m not wagering anything,” I told him, though I did feel a surge of hope that we might be able to clear William after all. But our chances of finding Mary Wallace were looking slimmer and slimmer. “In any case, we need to talk to the ferrymen.”
Gage turned to me with a bright smile. “No bet, then. But if those ferrymen don’t confirm that Miss Wallace never crossed the river that day, keeping her far away from Dalmay House, I’ll . . .” his eyes lifted skyward, as if searching for inspiration “. . . eat a haggis for dinner.”
I felt a swirling in my stomach. One that I knew was due to Gage’s rising confidence in Will’s innocence rather than any nausea at the idea of e
ating haggis.
* * *
And as expected, Gage did not have to choke down the traditional Scottish dish. None of the ferrymen had seen Miss Wallace on Thursday, and they knew her well. It appeared she had something of a routine, and rarely crossed the river on Thursdays. So they promised they would remember the oddity of such a departure from the usual. There was absolutely no reason to doubt their truthfulness. So it was with a lighter heart that I began our ride back to Dalmay House, though my thoughts were still troubled over the whereabouts of Miss Wallace.
The trail wound in and out of the forest that bordered the firth, giving us glimpses of the water and then taking it away. But all the while we could hear the soft roaring of the waves as they approached the shore. Sycamores and elderberry trees lined the path with pale white asters sprinkling the ground between their trunks. Here and there stood patches of bramble bushes, reminding me that this was where Miss Remmington and Miss Wallace first met, and where they often strolled together. It was a lovely little wood, allowing just enough sunshine through the canopy above so that it did not feel isolated or confining.
I glanced at Gage, who seemed to be puzzling through something—his brow furrowed, his body loose and swaying to the gait of his horse. He had not spoken since asking his questions of the ferrymen. I knew there were things we needed to discuss, questions I needed to ask, but I was almost reluctant to voice them. I had not slept well again, my mind too full of worries and fears I dared not speak aloud. This was the most serene I had felt since arriving at Dalmay House—no, since leaving Gairloch Castle, when my sister promptly fell ill a mile into the journey—and I was reluctant to end it. Whether it was the peaceful setting or the mounting evidence that Will could not have had anything to do with Miss Wallace’s disappearance, whatever had exerted its calming influence on me, I knew it would end the moment I addressed the secrets between us.
I wanted to pretend they weren’t there. I was so tired of fighting with Gage. I tried to tell myself that whatever he was keeping from me couldn’t be that bad; that I didn’t need to know. But I did. I knew I did. And it would nag at me, affecting everything I did until I had the truth.
I gazed across the short distance between us at Gage’s profile, watching the light and shade shift across it. I was weary of all the secrets. He needed to either tell me or leave me be.
“I know,” Gage surprised me by saying.
I worried for a moment I might have spoken aloud.
He turned his head to look at me. “I know we need to talk. But first . . . there’s something I want to ask you.” He paused, his eyes heavy with some strong emotion, and I realized he was waiting for my response.
I frowned, uncertain what he needed to ask me. “All right.”
His eyes turned forward again. I wasn’t sure whether he didn’t know how to phrase his question or if he was working up the courage to ask it.
When he spoke, it was slow and hesitant. “Are there really no romantic feelings on your part for Will?”
I scowled at him in irritation. Why did he continue to persist in this?
“I know it’s impertinent,” he told me. “I just . . . need to know.”
I studied him, trying to understand why my answer seemed so important to him. Was this because he’d kissed me? Was he worried he was trifling with another man’s woman? Particularly since Will was Michael’s brother, and hardly in a state to defend my honor, if necessary.
“Gage,” I spoke softly, leaning forward to try to catch his gaze, “I care for Will, I do. But there is nothing romantic between us,” I assured him.
When I finished speaking those words, he finally looked up at me.
I shook my head. “I am never going to marry William Dalmay, even if he asked me.” It was my turn to look away, to gaze out at the strip of sea emerging through a gap in the trees. “I don’t suspect I ever will marry again,” I murmured. I’m not sure what made me add the last, but if we were going to be honest with each other, I suppose I decided to lay it all before him.
I turned back and, seeing his expression—which I read as somewhat pitying, though perhaps it was meant to be sympathetic—I smiled tightly. “Now,” I declared, jumping straight into the fire to hide my embarrassment, “where have you seen Dr. Sloane? Did you meet him somewhere?”
Gage adjusted his seat on his saddle, making his horse snuffle. He reached down to pat the gelding’s shoulder, and when he looked up again, it was as if he was on his way to face the gallows. His expression did not reassure me.
“When I was finishing up my last investigation in Edinburgh,” he began, “I received a letter from a man needing my assistance with a tricky matter. I agreed to meet with him, though I was none too pleased with the information he had to give me or the matter he asked me to investigate.”
I felt a gnawing sense of dread, making it difficult to breathe.
“He said he was concerned for the safety of one of his former patients and the people around him. The patient had turned violent while in his care and murdered a girl, but the family would hear nothing of his concerns when they demanded his release into their custody. I hesitated to take on the inquiry,” he said, glancing at me warily. “It seemed wrong, disloyal. But then I realized that if I didn’t agree to investigate, he would find someone else to do it. Someone who was far less discreet, or less disposed to see the accused in a favorable light.” He began pleading with me then. “You see, I had to take the inquiry. I couldn’t leave it for someone else, someone less understanding, who could care less for the Dalmays or what harm they suffered because of it.”
“This man . . .” I began, unable to complete the sentence.
Gage nodded slowly. “Was Dr. Sloane.”
I stared down at my horse’s mane, too overcome by hurt and anger to speak. I felt as if I were choking on it. To think I’d begun to believe the bulk of Gage’s deceits were behind us. But this . . . this was even worse than his refusal to share his reasons for dismissing my doubts during the murder investigation at Gairloch.
“Say something,” Gage urged. “I know you must be upset . . .”
“Upset!” I gasped in disbelief. “Upset? I’m bloody furious! How could you? Michael trusted you. I trusted you. And all the while you’ve been investigating for—for that man.” My horse whinnied and danced to the side.
“Kiera, please. I had no choice. How do you think another investigator would have treated them?”
“I don’t know,” I spat back, leaning over my mare and trying to soothe her. I knew she was reacting to my agitation, but I couldn’t control that. “And right now, I don’t care. Why didn’t you tell us?” I shook my head. “I knew there was another reason you were here. I knew you were lying to me. Do you ever tell the truth?”
“Of course,” he replied, actually having the audacity to sound hurt.
“When?” I demanded. “Because all I seem to ever get from you are evasions and half-truths. I can’t trust you.” The admission hurt like a knife stabbing into my very heart.
“Kiera, that’s not true.” He frowned. “You’re overreacting.”
“Oh, am I? Tell me one time, just one, when you have been totally honest with me.”
He opened his mouth to reply but I spoke over him.
“Even the way you present yourself is a lie.”
His mouth snapped shut and he scowled.
“You’re not a rake.” He looked like he was about to argue, but I cut him off again. “Just because you slept with a few widows doesn’t make you a rake. It makes you a man. I understand how the world works. But you flirt and pretend you’re one.”
His voice was hard. “It’s an image I have to cultivate.”
“For your investigations?” I replied derisively.
“Yes. It’s no different from the things you let others assume about you because of how awkward and aloof you seem in public.”
“But I don’t deliberately set out to deceive them. If they got to know me, they would see it’s not the truth.”
“It’s the same with me. If they got to know me . . .”
“But you don’t let anyone get to know you!”
He fumbled over his reply. “Well, you don’t let anyone get to know you either.”
“I let you.”
Gage fell silent, and that look I couldn’t decipher was back in his eyes. Was it sympathy? I turned away, feeling sick.
“Kiera,” he murmured.
“No! Just . . . don’t.” My horse shied underneath me again and I struggled to bring her around. I wanted to let her break free to take me away from there. “I can’t listen to you right now.” I loosened my hold on the reins and tightened my knees against Dewdrop’s flanks. “Don’t follow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The horse shot off like something had stung her on the flank. I leaned low over her neck, letting the wind whip at my clothing. I felt my jaunty little hat rip free of its pins and go sailing into the firth, but I didn’t stop to worry about it. My hair began a cascade, and soon all of it was billowing down over my shoulders and behind me.
We had emerged from the trees and the trail was running directly alongside the shore now. I let Dewdrop veer toward the firth to gallop in the surf. The water she kicked up was cold against my ankles, and I knew the hem of my gown would be soaked, but I didn’t care. The wind tasted sweet and salty on my tongue, washing away the bitterness Gage’s revelations had left behind, and it dried my tears almost before they had a chance to fall. I couldn’t even be sure whether my eyes were watering because of the wind or because of Gage’s betrayal, although from the continued ache in my chest I suspected it was the latter.
Banbogle Castle loomed up ahead, its craggy walls dominating the landscape, and I set it as my destination. I had not heard Gage follow, and I was glad he’d listened for once. Thankfully he understood that I did not play coy. I truly couldn’t be around him right now. I was too angry, too . . . hurt.
Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery) Page 25