“It’s nearly midnight,” he declared, lifting a small glass of whiskey. “Let’s toast the Old Year, and welcome the New Year in.”
Everyone scrambled to find their own glasses of the preferred Scots toasting beverage. Trevor reached out to grab two glasses from the tray of a passing servant and handed one to me. Jock and his dance partner joined us, along with our cousin Andy—Uncle Andrew’s oldest son and heir—and his fiancée, the aptly named Miss Witherington.
“What are you still doing here?” Andy asked our tall, dark-haired cousin. “Aren’t you our first-footer?”
“Nay. Not this year. Yer mam asked Rye,” Jock informed us in his Scots brogue, naming one of our other cousins, who had recently been widowed. Though educated as a gentleman, Jock refused to soften his accent. A fact that none of the rest of us had ever minded, but that aggravated his mother and older sister. “She thought he could use the good luck it might bring to him.”
We all nodded in agreement.
“First-footer?” the very English Miss Witherington asked in confusion.
“Aye. It’s an old Scottish tradition,” Andy explained. “The first person to cross the threshold of a home after the stroke of midnight on Hogmanay is the first-footer, and they can either bring good or ill fortune to the house. The luckiest are tall, dark-haired men bearing gifts.”
Her brow furrowed. “And the unluckiest?”
“Well, women, fair-haired men, and redheads are all regarded to be unlucky in varying degrees.” Andy grinned. “So it’s best to simply plan who your first-footer will be ahead of time to avoid any unhappy surprises.”
Miss Witherington scrunched her nose in a manner which I suspected she thought was endearing. “But isn’t that . . . well . . . silly?”
The rest of us shared the look of the long-suffering Scot faced with English ignorance.
“Nay,” Jock protested. “Ole Mrs. Heron in the village tells of the year she fell ill with the ague, her home flooded, and she lost two of her sons, all because she had an unlucky first-footer.”
Miss Witherington’s eyes narrowed skeptically.
“In any case, it’s a tradition,” Andy told her with a pacifying smile. “Much like your mistletoe and greenery, and the Yule log at Christmas. There’s no harm in following it.”
“I suppose not,” she hedged, returning his smile with one that didn’t reach all the way to her eyes. I suspected she was merely placating him. I wondered how much these Hogmanay gatherings would change once she was mistress of Clintmains Hall.
“Ten seconds to midnight,” Uncle Andrew announced, and then began to count us down as we all joined in. “Eight, seven . . .”
I couldn’t help but smile, feeling an unbidden surge of hope and anticipation in my chest that this new year would be better than the last. After all, last year I had celebrated Hogmanay quietly with my sister and her husband in their Highland castle, afraid to face the world following the scandal. And now I was welcoming in 1831 at a ball of all places, surrounded by family who loved me, despite my quirks, and facing down those acquaintances who still eyed me with suspicion. I found myself wondering where I would be a year from now.
“. . . three, two, one!”
A shout went up as everyone raised their glass and wished one another a Good New Year. I downed my tot of whiskey, feeling the warm, smoky liquid burn its way down my throat and into my stomach.
Trevor leaned over to kiss me on both cheeks. “Good New Year, sis.” His eyes shone with the force of his affection, and I returned the sentiment, blinking back a sudden wash of tears that stung my eyes.
Jock reached out to wrap an arm around my waist, and I laughed as he pulled me into a hug. Then the whole party broke into song, as was the tradition, singing Robert Burns’s folk tune, “Auld Lang Syne.” Miss Witherington, of course, did not know the words, and she looked around at us in bewilderment, likely having difficulty understanding as we all sang it in the heavy Scots dialect as it was intended. I smiled at her in commiseration, but she either didn’t want my sympathy or, more likely, simply wanted another chance to demonstrate her dislike of me, for she shot me one of her withering glares.
When the song finished, everyone hurried out into the large two-story entry hall, crowding down the steps, and peering over the railing to see below. The front door was opened with great ceremony by the Rutherford butler, letting the old year out, and welcoming in the new. This was swiftly followed by the arrival of our cousin Rye, standing before the door with gifts tucked under his arms. A cheer went up at the sight of him, and he smiled rather shyly, unused to the attention. It was a nice change, as their usual first-footer, Jock, was quite the braggart, playing up the part for all it was worth.
Uncle Andrew and Aunt Sarah stepped forward to invite Rye into their home, but as they did so, another figure appeared beyond Rye’s shoulder. A hush fell over the assembly as the figure stepped forward into the light, showing us his bright red hair and coarse clothing splattered in mud and a dark red substance I knew from experience must be blood. It was a young man, and his eyes were wide and very white in his grubby face.
He moved forward, forcing Rye to shift to the side. Several people gasped as the redhead crossed the threshold of Clintmains Hall at the same time or just a little before Rye’s foot touched the marble floor of the entry.
The hall began to buzz with murmurs of shock and dismay. A harmless tradition first-footing might be, but most Scots were superstitious enough that they had no wish to test its validity. At least, not if they were given a choice. But it was too late. What was done was done. The suspicion was laid. Perhaps Rye’s foot had crossed the threshold first, but perhaps it had not.
“But what if they crossed at the same exact time?” the woman behind me wondered. “What happens then?”
No one seemed to have an answer for her, but from the tense atmosphere that had suddenly spread over the hall, I knew no one believed the outcome could be good.
“I mun’ speak wi’ Lord Buchan,” the young man gasped to Uncle Andrew. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to catch his breath. He was less than twenty years of age, his body still awkward and coltish, and extremely self-conscious. When he glanced up and realized the entrance hall was filled with people staring down at him, he flushed a fiery red that almost matched the hair on his head and the blood splashed across his linen shirt.
Worried the lad needed serious medical attention, I pushed past several of the people standing in front of me on the stairs still flustered by the man’s appearance. But as I got closer, I could see that most of the blood was dried, and from the quantity it was clearly not his own, or else he would not still be standing.
Just as I was about to say something, Lord Buchan appeared out of the crowd to the left of the front door. “Willie, what is the meaning of this?” His eyes flicked up and down the young man’s form. “What has happened?”
The young manservant’s name startled me for a moment, for I couldn’t help but think of another Will—a friend who had died so recently, and so horrifically. But this Willie’s words swiftly recalled me to the present.
“It’s Dodd,” he replied with wide haunted eyes. “He’s dead.”
CHAPTER TWO
Someone behind us gasped in horror, and the agitated murmuring began again.
The Earl of Buchan’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Dead? What do you mean? How?”
“He’s been shot. Oot by the ole abbey. But that no’ be all.” Willie shook his head, still breathing heavily. “The graves. One o’ ’em was dug up.”
One lady actually shrieked at this pronouncement, and the people in the back of the room and on the balcony above who couldn’t hear young Willie demanded to know what he was saying.
“Dodd, the ole caretaker at Dryburgh House, has been shot,” one man in the crowd hollered. “And a grave at the abbey’s been disturbed.”
More voices were raised in dismayed shock, and I turned to look at Trevor, who moved forward to stand
beside me, a sick feeling entering my stomach. He met my eyes with the same knowing look of dread.
“Dug up?” Buchan spluttered, clearly having trouble grasping the implication.
“Body snatchers,” I murmured softly, not wanting to alarm the entire assembly, though I knew that more than a few of them must have already had similar thoughts.
Lord Buchan, my aunt and uncle, and cousin Rye all turned to look at me, and I watched as understanding slowly dawned in their eyes, first of the grave robbers’ intentions, and then of my unpleasant history with the product of their trade.
“You mean . . .” Buchan began. I didn’t know if he was that slow to comprehend or just too stunned to make the connection with the abbey cemetery.
“Have you had trouble with them in the past?” Trevor turned to ask our uncle, as he had only returned to the area himself three months prior.
He frowned. “Unfortunately, yes.”
I was surprised to hear this news, as I’d had no idea that the body snatchers were traveling so far afield to find fresh corpses. But then it made sense, as all of the cemeteries nearby the medical schools in Edinburgh and Glasgow had added heavy security measures. They’d had to do something to keep the resurrection men from stealing their recently deceased and selling the bodies to the schools and local anatomists.
“But watchmen have been hired to guard the cemeteries these criminals most often target,” Uncle Andrew added. “So I don’t quite understand how . . .”
“But the graves at Dryburgh Abbey aren’t new,” Lord Buchan protested, finally grasping what the rest of us were saying.
I glanced at him in surprise.
“The newest grave there is my uncle’s. And he died almost twenty months ago.” His already heavy brow lowered farther, and I was surprised when he looked to me for answers. “What could they possibly have wanted from an old grave?”
“I . . . don’t know,” I admitted.
Aunt Sarah cleared her throat and nodded toward the assemblage still gathered in the entrance hall. They were pressing ever closer, trying to hear what we said. “Perhaps I should escort our guests back to the ballroom.” She arched her eyebrows at her husband in silent communication.
“Er, yes,” Uncle Andrew replied, looking at the crowd. His butler gestured toward a door behind him, to the left of the entrance. Uncle Andrew nodded at Willie and then at the circle of men closest to him. “Gentlemen, if you will,” he murmured, indicating they should follow him. “Ah, you, too, Kiera. If you don’t mind?”
I blinked in surprise, not having expected my uncle to include me. He was a good man, but not usually the most tolerant. I had always been aware that he didn’t exactly approve of me or my painting, even if he’d never said a word against me. His disapproval was evident in his stilted conversation and stony expression whenever my art became the topic of discussion. I had also overheard him express his condemnation of my father’s choice of Sir Anthony as my husband—an objection I had ignored at the time as just another indication of my uncle’s stodginess, but later wished I’d listened to more attentively. Though, to be fair, even Uncle Andrew had not predicted the exact cause of my disastrous marriage. I’m not sure anyone could have foreseen that.
In any case, my relationship with my uncle was one of polite distance. We supported each other in that we were family, but beyond that, we were courteous strangers. So to hear him request my presence, especially in regards to a matter that was rather delicate and highly inappropriate for a young lady’s ears, at least in society’s general opinion, certainly astonished me.
I allowed Trevor to guide me through the crowd as we followed in Uncle Andrew’s wake. Aunt Sarah was addressing the gathering behind us, some of whom protested our withdrawal. It appeared everyone wanted to know what the young man had to tell us.
The door through which we disappeared led into a small receiving room lined with slatted walls of gleaming oak. A bench and a few chairs were all the space held, as well as a pair of landscapes depicting the countryside surrounding Clintmains. The fireplace sat dormant, though a log and kindling had been laid, ready to be lit. I shivered, but I couldn’t be certain whether it was because of the drafty room or the topic we were about to discuss.
“Now,” Uncle Andrew declared, once the door was closed, sealing us off from prying eyes. “Tell us what happened,” he told Willie, not ungently.
The young man shuffled from foot to foot, and his shoulders slumped over. He clearly was unnerved by my uncle’s and Trevor’s muscular figures and by his employer, Lord Buchan’s, scowling visage. I sidled a step closer to the lad, hoping to offer him some sense of solidarity. His troubled gaze flicked to mine and I gave him a reassuring smile. Behind the panic, I could see pain in his eyes, and I realized that in our quest for answers, we had forgotten that this Dodd had likely been his mentor, and possibly his friend.
“It’s all right,” I said. “We just want to find out what happened to Dodd.” When he still didn’t answer, I prompted him. “Did the men who were digging in the grave shoot Dodd? Did he catch them in the act?”
“I dinna ken, m’lady,” he finally replied, lowering his head in shame. “Dodd said he saw lights o’er at the abbey and wanted to find oot what they were. But I told ’im he was seein’ things. Or else a group o’ merrymakers were out scarin’ themselves on Hogmanay. But he went to look anyway. An’ I let ’im go alone.” He scuffed his boot against the floor. “I was angry at ’im for makin’ me stay behind when everyone else was goin’ to the bonfire.”
“You heard the gunshot?” I guessed.
He nodded. “I . . . I was puttin’ our tools up—we’d been fixin’ a bit o’ fence doon by the river—when I heard it. ’Tweren’t very loud. Mare like a cracker. I went to see what it was, but by the time I found ole Dodd by the west door o’ the abbey, they was gone, whoever done it. And . . . and ole Dodd were hardly breathin’.” The boy swallowed loudly and swiped a grimy finger across his nose. “He pointed t’ward the graveyard—that’s how I ken to look there—and . . . and then he jus’ died.”
I offered him my handkerchief, but he shook his head, and lifted the hem of his already filthy shirt and wiped his nose.
I glanced at the others, who all listened with silent frowns. Lord Buchan, in particular, looked distressed, and I wondered how close he had been to his old caretaker.
“Willie,” the earl said, his voice rougher than it had been before, “run round to the bonfire and fetch Paxton. Tell him to ready the carriage.”
Willie nodded, holding his head a little higher, and bowed swiftly before dashing out the door.
Uncle Andrew moved to the door, catching it before it closed behind Willie, and beckoned his butler into the room. “Send one of the footmen to get Dr. Carputhers from the ceilidh at the bonfire,” I heard him murmur, and my heart sank. Evidently Uncle Andrew’s sensible nature had returned, and I could not argue. It should be a surgeon who examined Dodd’s body, not an anatomist’s widow with three years enforced instruction. The possibility should never have even entered my mind. The fact it had, and I hadn’t been as horrified by the possibility as I should have been, was somewhat surprising.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll join you,” Uncle Andrew told Lord Buchan as the butler left to do his bidding. “If there’s been foul play, as the lad suggested, then I’ll need to examine the evidence anyway.” As one of the county’s magistrates, Uncle Andrew ruled on many of the crimes in the region, though they were usually minor disputes between neighbors or petty thefts—nothing so serious as murder.
I turned to stare unseeing at one of the landscapes. I reached up to finger the amethyst pendant given to me by my mother that I almost always wore around my neck and wondered at my strange eagerness to assist. The past two investigations in which I had helped, I’d been compelled to take part only because my sister’s family and an old friend had been involved. They had needed and asked for my aid. Otherwise I never would have presumed, or even wished, to have anythi
ng to do with the inquiries. But I had discovered something in myself that apparently I wasn’t eager to dismiss, or have others dismiss for me.
I bit my lip, knowing in this instance there was nothing I could say. With family, I should have felt able to offer my help, but I knew Uncle Andrew. He would only flash me his disapproving frown and ignore my suggestion.
And after all, who was to say he wasn’t right? I wasn’t an inquiry agent, not like Mr. Gage or his father, Captain Lord Gage. Just because I had aided in two murder investigations didn’t mean I was qualified to conduct one alone. In any case, I was supposed to be distancing myself from things like murder and corpses. They would only remind people of my scandalous past and make my return to society more difficult.
It would be best for all if I was not involved.
Which was why I was so surprised when Uncle Andrew did address me. “Kiera,” he said, and then hesitated when I turned to look at him. I folded my hands demurely before me and waited, silently hoping he wouldn’t think better of whatever he was about to ask me.
And amazingly he didn’t.
He cleared his throat, clasping his hands behind his back. “What do you think of all of this?”
“About Dodd and the disturbed grave?” I asked in clarification, lest I had missed something the gentlemen had discussed while my attention was focused elsewhere.
“Er, yes,” he replied, and rocked forward on his heels. “I only ask because . . . well . . . you . . .”
“Have some experience with this sort of thing,” I finished for him, sparing him the embarrassment of having to say it.
He cleared his throat again. “Quite.”
“Well . . .” I glanced at Trevor but, upon seeing his stony expression, decided it would be best to avoid his gaze. “If one of the graves at Dryburgh Abbey has been disturbed, then someone must have been digging there. And doing so at night on the grounds of a deserted abbey, with only the light of a lantern to guide them, certainly suggests a desire for secrecy.”
A Grave Matter Page 2