by Karen Ranney
“You look as if you’d like to throttle the man, Alisdair. All he’s doing is smiling at your wife.”
“Let him smile at some other woman,” Alisdair had said. Hamish had shaken his head at his brother as Alisdair went to retrieve his wife, walking her away from the construction scene. He’d heard Iseabal laugh merrily, and seen Alisdair’s thunderous look.
He wondered if he looked as foolish. After India, he simply didn’t care what other people thought. With one exception, he thought now, guiding his horse around a fallen tree limb. He cared very much what Mary thought.
The sun was high in the sky by the time he entered Inverness. The city was larger than he remembered. Nor was he used to the noise of the wagons and the people in the street, a cacophony of sound that made him long for the serenity of his life at sea or his hermitage in Castle Gloom.
Hamish found the goldsmith’s shop without much difficulty. The shop looked exceedingly prosperous, with several men milling in the front. He went to the rear, tethering the reins of his horse before knocking on the back door.
A short while later, he was greeted by a diminutive young girl wearing a smock of butternut yellow, her blond hair tucked into a black wool cap.
“Patrons are asked to use the front entrance, sir,” she said, bobbing a little curtsy.
“I’m not a patron,” he said. “I want to see Mrs. Gilly.” He arranged his features in some sort of acceptable fashion. He wasn’t, however, feeling especially amenable toward Mary at the moment.
“She isn’t here,” the young maid said politely. “She’s been away from Inverness going on a month, sir.”
“She’s returned,” he said curtly.
She looked surprised. “I’m sure you’re mistaken, sir. She’s not at home.”
He studied her closely, trying to determine whether she lied. In the end, he believed her, not because of her youth or the fact that she looked guileless, but because of Mary. She wasn’t the type of woman to hide behind her servants. Instead, she’d be just as apt to stand in the doorway, point a finger at him, and demand to know why he’d followed her to Inverness.
“She’s off treating a patient, sir,” the young maid offered in the silence. “She’s a great healer, is Mrs. Gilly.”
A shadow moved behind her, and then suddenly a man was there. Mary had never described him, but Hamish knew it was Charles. He was a short man with pale blue eyes. Hamish felt an instant and unreasonable antipathy.
“What do you want?”
“He’s come to ask about Mrs. Gilly,” Betty said.
Charles put his hand on the maid’s shoulder and gave her a not too gentle shove. Hamish took a step forward, but before he could do anything, Betty had ducked beneath Charles’s arm and disappeared from the doorway.
“Why would you be looking for her?” Charles said. “You don’t look ill.”
“The reason is none of your concern.”
In his travels as the captain of his own ship, Hamish had had to learn to deal with men in diverse occupations and stations of life. He’d been surprised at the number of truly disagreeable people he’d encountered, but they’d been offset by genuinely pleasant individuals. As his experience had grown, he’d learned to restrain his comments, and guard his tongue. Now however, he realized that he’d evidently lost the patience for diplomacy.
“Where’s Mary?” he asked again.
“She isn’t here.”
“Have you heard from her recently?”
Charles didn’t answer.
Hamish stared at the apprentice, aware that he wasn’t going to get any answers from the other man. The dislike he felt for the apprentice no doubt had its roots in jealousy. This was the man who’d shared so much of Mary’s life, who had been there to offer comfort after Gordon’s death.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said.
“I doubt she’ll be here,” Charles said.
The thought occurred to him instantly. If Charles hadn’t heard from Mary recently, he at least knew where she was. Hamish was certain of that.
“Tell her I’m here in Inverness.”
“I don’t even know who you are.”
“Hamish MacRae.”
The belligerent grin slipped from his mouth, and Charles’s eyes blazed with a sudden fierce anger. The two of them stared at each other before Hamish turned, and walked back to his horse. He felt the other man’s gaze on him, and had the distinct feeling that he’d just made an enemy. It was just as well; he didn’t care for the apprentice, either.
He sought out an inn, finding the Rose and Crown along a cross street. His mind was fixed not on the accommodations he and the innkeeper arranged, but on one question.
Where was Mary?
He thanked the innkeeper, arranged for his horse to be tended, and went up to his room. Closing the door behind him, he tossed his valise onto the bed and went to the window overlooking the street.
If she’d planned to avoid him, she might not return to the goldsmith’s shop. Then where would she go?
Elspeth heard the rumors first at the shop where she went to pick up a length of lace for her mother. Two women were talking, and she didn’t want to eavesdrop on their conversation, but their voices weren’t as muffled as they should have been.
“He’s very strict, but fair, my husband says.”
“As my Harold does. Because of him and other sheriffs like him, there’s little crime in Inverness.”
“But still, a woman of her reputation. Can it be true?”
“She’s a wealthy widow now, isn’t she?”
As Elspeth moved to one side of the room, they glanced at her, and moved away.
“Who are they talking about?” she asked the shop owner, and despite the fact that she’d known him for years, he looked at her as if she were a stranger.
“I’ve no idea,” he said curtly.
Her errand done, she made her way to the market, but before she ever crossed the bridge, she overheard more troubling talk. “Wasting away, he was, and Gordon always such a vital man.”
“But he was aged when he died, don’t forget that.”
“Who’s to say it wasn’t the effect of the poison?”
Inverness might be a bustling city, but at times it felt much smaller. Now it seemed as if everywhere she went she heard only talk, all of it about how, impossibly, Mary had poisoned her husband.
Horrified, Elspeth made her way to Mary’s house. Her mother often said that some of the best news to be found in Inverness was not at the taverns, but at Gordon’s shop. People had a tendency to congregate there, especially the wealthy and more prosperous citizens. Often, in the afternoon, there would be at least four or five gentlemen in the front of the store engaged in conversation. She doubted that their talk always centered on jewelry or the cost of gold.
The front door was closed and locked, and it was evident from the fact that there was no movement inside that Charles had closed the shop for the day. Undaunted, she went around to the back of the house.
“I told you she isn’t here,” he said, opening the door to her knock. “Forgive me, Miss Grant,” he said an instant later. “I thought you were someone else.”
He moved aside so that she could enter.
“Have you heard what they’re saying about Mary?” she asked.
The foyer was decorated with French wallpaper in a narrow brown and beige stripe. The floors were always highly polished and the sideboards on either wall were dusted each day. Now, however, there was a general air of disuse. Dead flowers were standing stiffly in the crystal vase that Mary loved, and no one had thought to replenish them. The drapes at the window had not been opened, and no sunlight filtered into the foyer.
The room looked as cold and lifeless as Charles’s smile.
Charles stood at the end of the hall as if to bar her from continuing farther into the house. From the look of the entranceway, Elspeth thought that was perhaps a good thing. She didn’t want to see what he’d done to Mary’s lovely home in
her absence.
“Have you heard what they’re saying about Mary?” she asked again. “It seems as if the entire city is talking about her and Gordon.”
His expression didn’t change, but she had the feeling that the news she conveyed wasn’t a surprise to him.
Since Betty was nowhere about, and she was without a companion, being there was not a wise thing. She turned and would have left, but for Charles’s hand clasped tightly on her shoulder. He spun her around so that she faced him again. Any comment that she would have made simply faded away at the expression on his face. She’d never seen him as enraged as he appeared now.
Up until Gordon’s death, Charles had been little more than a shadow in the background of her life. She rarely had any dealings with him, and when Mary spoke of him, it was in an offhand, detached way. He’d only become more prominent since Gordon’s death. Now, as he stood in front of her, in Mary’s house, his lip curled in an expression of disdain, Elspeth realized how much she disliked him.
“She brought any trouble on herself.”
“How can you say that? You know as well as I do that she loved Gordon. She would never have harmed him.”
He didn’t answer her.
Reaching behind her, she opened the door, turning to escape before he could grab her again. Once on the steps outside she rearranged her dress, looking back at the goldsmith’s shop.
Something was terribly wrong, a feeling that only intensified as she stared at Mary’s house. Determined to discover what it was, she made her way to the market.
Hamish consulted his pocket watch before deciding that there was enough left of the day to find where Elspeth Grant lived. An hour later, after having asked another person for directions, he found the place.
He stood in front of the house, a pleasant enough looking whitewashed dwelling. A series of windows faced the street, each equipped with flower boxes now empty for winter. A brisk wind swirled around the corner of the building as if in greeting.
Gripping the brass knocker mounted in the middle of the ebony door, he let it fall heavily.
The woman who answered the door a few minutes later was quite evidently not a maid. Her dress was in the style Mary had worn, the material as expensive. He’d transported silks halfway across the world; he could easily gauge their cost in a glance.
“My name is Hamish MacRae,” he said, introducing himself.
“Brendan’s brother?” she interjected, before he could finish.
He nodded.
She startled him by reaching out and gripping his sleeve and pulling him inside the house.
“I am Nan Grant, and Brendan has told me of you. But I’m surprised to see you here,” she admitted. “Are you well enough to travel, then?” With a quick glance she surveyed him thoroughly, the way his mother or Mary would, seemingly to ascertain his health and his well-being.
“I am,” he said, wondering exactly what Brendan had told her. Something to assuage her suspicions and guarantee Mary’s reputation, no doubt. “I owe my good health to Mrs. Gilly,” he said.
She smiled. “I owe my son Jack’s as well to her. Did you know that she saved his life?”
Hamish nodded. Nan turned and walked through the hall, opening an interior door. She gestured to him. “Come in, Mr. MacRae, and welcome to our home.”
The chamber he entered was a parlor whose walls were lined in a pale pink striped silk. A black iron mantel dominated a far wall, fronted by two settees, each upholstered in a green floral fabric and arranged so that they faced each other. Wealth was evident in the room, but comfort made it cozy. A needlework frame sat in front of one chair, and a pipe table adjacent to another. It looked to Hamish as if it was a chamber in which a family gathered, and often.
“Won’t you sit?” she asked, taking a seat on the settee and looking at him expectantly.
“Thank you,” he said, taking a place opposite her while she reached behind her to pull a bell rope.
“How is Mary?” she asked, that pleasant smile anchored in place. He didn’t, however, miss the sharp look in her eye. Mrs. Grant was not to be fooled. He felt as if he trod atop the catacombs of Rome. One false step would send him tumbling into the depths below.
“I don’t know,” he said, deciding that honesty was the best approach.
She looked startled, but before she could speak, a young maid appeared in the doorway. Mrs. Grant directed her attention to her. “Bring us some tea, Bridget,” she said. Turning to Hamish, she asked, “Would you like something to eat?”
Hamish shook his head.
“Bring some of Cook’s cake anyway,” she ordered. “Perhaps a few biscuits as well. Cook makes the most delectable shortbread,” she added in an aside to Hamish.
The moment the maid left, she turned to him. “What do you mean, you don’t know? Where is Mary?”
“Haven’t you seen her lately?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Has your daughter seen or talked to her recently?”
Mrs. Grant folded her hands, and leaned forward. “Why are you asking, Mr. MacRae?”
“Mary left a day ago. I thought she might have returned to Inverness.”
“But she isn’t here,” she said. “Have you gone to her home?”
“Yes, but she isn’t there, either,” Hamish said.
Suddenly, she looked as worried as he felt.
“But that’s not right,” she said. “Have you talked to Charles? Has he heard from her?”
“I have, and he says not.”
“Then where can she be?”
The door opened, and he heard Brendan’s voice and that of an older man. Mrs. Grant stood, looking first toward him and then back at the door. A tall man with stooped shoulders entered, limping, followed by a boy and Brendan.
An instant after Brendan noticed him, his brother came forward, grinning at Hamish.
“What are you doing here, Hamish?” Brendan asked, clasping him on the arm. “Have you decided to leave your hermitage for good, then?”
“I might ask you the same, Brendan,” Hamish said in a low tone. “I thought you were in a fever to get yourself back to Gilmuir and your ship.”
“Go and ready yourself for luncheon,” Mrs. Grant said to a young boy who entered the room. “Wash your hands well, Jack.”
The boy nodded reluctantly, staring at Hamish as if he’d never seen a stranger in their parlor.
“My husband,” she said, introducing Mr. Grant. Hamish stepped forward and greeted the other man. “Hamish MacRae, sir,” he said.
Mr. Grant was a tall man with graying brown hair that ended in muttonchop sideburns. His face was pale, as if he’d spent his life inside a shadowed room, but his blue eyes were lively.
“Horace Grant, and I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” he said, smiling easily at Hamish. He limped to the wing chair and placed his feet up on the ottoman. “You’ll have to pardon my informality, sir, but we’ve just come from the distillery, and I’ve been on my feet for too long.”
“As glad as I am to see you, Hamish,” Brendan said, turning back to him, “I can’t help but wonder why you’re here.”
“He’s looking for Mary,” Mrs. Grant interjected.
“She’s not with you?” Brendan asked. His brother’s voice was carefully devoid of expression, but his eyes were concerned.
Hamish shook his head, repeating the facts he’d told Mrs. Grant.
“Where do you think she is?” Mr. Grant asked.
“I don’t know,” Hamish said. “My only alternative is to retrace her steps. Perhaps she decided to take a different road, or stopped to care for someone.”
“Do you think that likely?” Brendan asked, looking doubtful.
“Anything is possible,” Hamish said shortly. Especially since she’d left him. He hadn’t expected that.
Mrs. Grant turned from the sideboard, where she’d poured three glasses. She passed Brendan and Hamish each a glass, and then frowned at her husband when he held his up to the light.
His portion was half that of the others.
“I have a touch of gout,” he explained, “and Mary and my wife think to make me well by refusing me one of life’s pleasures.”
“It’s a very good whiskey,” Hamish said, sipping from his drink.
“I was fortunate to inherit a prosperous distillery,” Mr. Grant said, nodding his thanks.
“Which he has only made better,” Mrs. Grant declared loyally. “There is no finer whiskey in Scotland than Black Wing.”
“For all that I don’t get to partake very often.” Despite his words, Mr. Grant sent a fond smile toward his wife before addressing another remark to Hamish. “Have you talked with Charles?”
“I have. He says that he hasn’t seen her.”
“Do you think he was lying?” Hamish glanced at the older man, who smiled. “Your expression is such that it makes me think you doubt his words.”
“I’m not certain,” Hamish said. He hesitated for a moment, and then spoke the rest of his thought. “I didn’t like the man, and I think he knows more than he’s telling.”
Mr. Grant didn’t appear discomfited by his honesty. He only smiled and continued to sip from his glass. “I must admit that the man disturbs me somewhat as well. He seems almost toadying in his behavior, but if you watch his eyes, you get a different feeling.”
“Nor does her behavior sound like Mary,” Mrs. Grant said. “Not at all. She wouldn’t have people worry about her like this. She’d make certain we knew where she was.”
He nodded, thinking the same. But had she, in an effort to escape him, put herself in jeopardy? Something was wrong, he was certain of it.
All three of them looked as worried as he felt.
“Did you speak with Betty?” Mrs. Grant asked.
“The maid? I did. She professed the same ignorance.”
“Then I’m certain that’s all she knows. Betty would find it very difficult to lie.”
They heard the front door open, and Mrs. Grant stood. “That will be Mr. Marshall. Perhaps he will have some suggestions for our dilemma.”
“Matthew Marshall?” Hamish asked.