“No exit wound.”
Willie and I gently rested Dodd’s body back against the stone arches. I surveyed the stone and the ground around the corpse and then made to rise. Trevor’s hand cupped my elbow, assisting me to my feet. Pressing my now blood-smeared fingertips together, lest I unwittingly touch anything, I turned to thank him, and then wished I hadn’t. The tight line of my brother’s mouth and the stark look in his eyes told me just how little he appreciated seeing this side of me.
I inhaled quickly and stepped away, returning to the task at hand.
“It doesn’t appear that he was shot here,” our uncle commented, and I joined him in scanning the grass-choked path through the arches.
A drop of color at the base of the stone caught my eye. “Bring the lantern closer,” I urged. Stepping through the doorway, I cautiously pivoted to the right. “Here. See the blood?” I pointed to the splatter on the stone arches just inside the door, and then backed away, circling wide of the path. “Dodd must have been coming through the doorway when he was shot.”
The men followed my gaze to the spot where Dodd must have been standing. It fit well with what we knew so far. The old caretaker must have come inside the abbey ruins to find out what the source of the light was. I wondered if Dodd had seen the man who shot him or if a lookout had been positioned near the door and stepped out to kill Dodd before he could ask questions. There were shadows deep enough to conceal a man here. And if a group of grave robbers had been working here, and they were any bit as organized as the gangs of body snatchers who plied their trade in Edinburgh and London, they would most certainly have had at least one sentry.
I turned around once again to survey the darkened ruins of the abbey church and the trees and cemetery encroaching on it to the left. At the edge of our lantern light I could see a pile of stones that had once been the base of one of the pillars, but beyond that everything was illumed only by moonlight. About a hundred feet in front of us, the hulk of the remnants of the north transept and presbytery were visible only because they towered above everything else, an island unto itself, separated from the south transept and the remainder of the standing abbey by the loss of the roof and walls that had once connected them. However, even that was only a mass of pale arches and craggy shadows.
Trevor moved forward to stand beside me, his breath condensing in the cold air around us as he sighed. “Willie, where is this grave Dodd pointed you to?” he asked, following the same bent of my thoughts.
Willie shuffled across the grass and pointed toward the ruins of the north transept. “O’er there. Near St. Mary’s Aisle.”
I glanced over my shoulder at Lord Buchan. His face was creased in a troubled frown, his thin lips almost disappearing. “That’s what my uncle always called it,” he explained, and then moved forward, his urgent stride lengthening with each step.
I shared a look with Trevor, suspecting the earl knew exactly who was buried in that prime location of the ruins. The rest of us hurried to catch up with him, dodging the bits of stone still remaining on the abbey floor. We heard him gasp a sigh of relief as he got closer to the transept.
“My Elizabeth,” he explained, standing before an undisturbed grave near the ruins, a hand pressed to his chest as he tried to catch his breath.
From the gravestone I could see that his wife had not been dead long, only since 1828, but still longer than twenty months.
I was about to ask after his uncle when at the edge of the lantern light I saw it. The mound of dirt. And beyond it the yawing hole of a grave.
Lord Buchan followed my gaze and gave another gasp, though this one was horrified. “My uncle.” He stumbled forward and then halted abruptly, as if he wasn’t certain he wanted to peer down inside the empty tomb.
I could sympathize. I felt a fluttering in my stomach at the same thought. It seemed rather like tempting fate.
Willie did not have similar qualms. Or perhaps he’d already faced them earlier. His foot sank into the loose soil, releasing the pungent scent of the earth into the night air, as he looked down into the grave. Feeling silly that this young man, barely out of boyhood, was braver than the rest of us, I moved closer, and the other gentlemen followed suit.
I’m not sure what I expected to find. A fully dressed corpse? A ghost? A vampire like Lord Ruthven in Polidori’s story? I was not normally given over to fancy. And I knew that in twenty months the body would have decayed so significantly as to be not much more than bone.
But when I looked down into the grave and into the open coffin and saw only a pile of discarded clothing, I was momentarily shocked speechless.
The effect on my uncle was much the opposite. “What the devil!” he spluttered in outrage and then turned to glare at me. “They took his body, but not his clothing. Who does such a thing?”
“From what I understand, it’s very common,” I replied softly. “After all, theft of property, whether from the living or the dead, is a more serious crime than merely snatching a body. Or at least, according to common law, it is.” I took another step closer to the edge of the grave, trying to get a better look at its contents. Trevor stepped up next to me, wrapping his hand around my upper arm to steady me and pull me back. “A grave robber who steals something as simple as a corpse’s waistcoat can be sentenced to death or transportation. A body snatcher only faces a fine or a short imprisonment if he’s caught.”
“But why?” Lord Buchan demanded, his hooked nose quivering in indignation. “Why would they steal his body, his bones, and not take his effects? What could they possibly be worth?”
He was right. It didn’t seem to make any sense. The eleventh Earl of Buchan’s discarded fine-woven suit, silk waistcoat, and gold pocket watch alone would have fetched more than fifty pounds. I wasn’t currently aware of any market for stolen bones. Maybe the teeth could have been made into dentures. Or the smaller bones of the hands and feet into trinkets. But what did they propose to do with an entire skeleton?
And why this skeleton? Why this graveyard? There were plenty of other cemeteries less conspicuous and easier to reach. And for that matter, plenty of other graves that were easier to dig up, even in this graveyard. I could see from the scuff marks and the gap in the earth above the coffin that the Earl of Buchan’s enormous headstone must rest partially over the grave, which made it difficult for the robbers to get to the top of the coffin. They’d been forced to dig a foot of earth out from the bottom of the coffin and shift the entire thing backward in order to open it. That had not been a simple feat of manual labor, and had risked the stability of the gravestone.
It seemed someone had wanted to get into this grave in particular. But why? If they hadn’t come for his effects . . .
“Do you know for certain they didn’t take anything but your uncle’s bones?” I questioned Lord Buchan. He blinked at me in confusion. “Do you remember everything that was buried with him?”
He stared down into the grave, his brow wrinkled in thought. “I . . . I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I would need to think about it.”
“It’s not written down anywhere?” I pressed.
“It might be.”
“We need to find out. Perhaps these men did take something else. Something you’ve forgotten about.” I frowned. “Though, I still can’t see why they would take the bones. Unless it was to confuse us.”
I looked to Willie to see that he had been observing our conversation in silence, his gaze still trained on the empty grave. Though, from their tortured expression, his eyes seemed to be seeing something else.
“It seems very likely that whoever dug up Lord Buchan’s grave also shot Dodd.”
Willie’s gaze rose to meet mine.
“That’s not to say it’s impossible that someone else did it. But it seems impractical to suggest otherwise, given the fact that Dodd was coming here to investigate a suspicious light, and he pointed Willie toward it when he arrived to help. And these men clearly left in a hurry . . .” I gestured to the disturbed earth �
��. . . leaving the grave exposed and their shovels behind.” Most body snatchers at least attempted to cover up their crimes.
Trevor turned to Uncle Andrew and Lord Buchan. “Do either of you know who these grave robbers might have been?”
Lord Buchan shook his head.
“I can check my magistratical records and speak with my colleagues,” Uncle Andrew replied, his eyes troubled. “But I must say, I haven’t the slightest idea who might have done this.”
I nodded, sympathizing with his obvious distress. My uncle and I might not be close, but I knew how seriously he took his responsibilities. The fact that a murder and body snatching had occurred in his jurisdiction, and on the same night, would never sit well with him.
“I suppose it will be difficult to keep this quiet,” Lord Buchan said.
After Willie’s frantic arrival at the Hogmanay Ball with the first-footer, it would be nigh impossible. But Uncle Andrew only replied solemnly, “I’m afraid so.”
“Although we can endeavor to keep the details quiet,” I suggested, looking at each of the men in turn, including Willie. “It would help with the ensuing investigation.”
I could see my estimation rise even higher in my uncle’s eyes. “Kiera’s correct, of course. There’s no need for any of us to speak of specifics with anyone who isn’t authorized to have the information.”
“True.” Buchan nodded thoughtfully. “Lady Darby, you are acquainted with Captain Lord Gage, are you not?”
I was stunned for a moment by his query. Though, in hindsight, I should have expected it. I fumbled for words. “I . . . have not had the honor. But I am acquainted with his son.”
“Acquainted” was perhaps too innocuous a word for what lay between us, but I was not about to explain that to these gentlemen.
“I’ve heard that Lord Gage sometimes assists the king and his high-placed friends when they find themselves in . . .” he arched his eyebrows significantly “. . . troubling circumstances.”
“Yes,” I replied, letting him know I understood what he meant. “Troubling” could be used to describe anything as simple as a gambling debt or as serious as the murder of one’s mistress. “As does his son.”
“Who is still in Edinburgh, I hear.”
I was startled by his knowledge of that detail, but did my best not to show it. “As far as I’m aware.”
“Would you write to him? Ask him to come to my aid?”
When I didn’t answer immediately, Buchan begged. “I don’t know what else to do. And I can’t simply allow these men to get away with stealing my uncle’s bones and shooting my caretaker.”
I understood his predicament. None of the surrounding villages had any sort of organized police force, and though my uncle, the local magistrate, would try, he had very little experience with this sort of thing. Lord Buchan’s best option was to hire a private inquiry agent, and he would find no gentleman better than Sebastian Gage.
But still I hesitated to reply, knowing I stood at the brink of a decision I should have seen coming. If I wrote to Gage, even on Lord Buchan’s behalf, and asked him for his assistance, I knew he would also see it as my asking him here for myself. To him there would be no difference, no matter how carefully I worded the request.
I had no doubt he would come. He had promised as much the last time we parted. All I need do was ask, he’d said, and he would come to me. Such a small thing, and yet so immense. And I didn’t know if I was ready for it.
My feelings were still confused when it came to Gage, and I wasn’t certain I was prepared to face them yet. It was true I had needed time and space to heal from the loss of my friend Will, but I also had needed that same time and space to sort through my emotions when it came to Gage. And though in some ways I had done just that, in others I hadn’t. I still felt Will’s loss so keenly. I didn’t know if seeing Gage would make things better or worse, whether his presence would give me comfort and clarity, or cause me more heartache and frustration.
Trevor’s feet shifted in the loose earth beside me, recalling me to the present. I felt the sting of a blush in my cheeks that had nothing to do with the wind. How long had Lord Buchan been waiting for my answer? It had likely been only a matter of seconds, but gauging by the taut silence, that had been long enough to become awkward.
I offered the earl a smile of apology. “Of course. I’ll write to him as soon as we return to Clintmains.”
Lord Buchan’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you.”
I nodded and turned away to strip off the bloodstained gloves, doing my best to conceal the fact that my hands were shaking.
CHAPTER FOUR
When Uncle Andrew, Trevor, and I returned to Clintmains Hall in Buchan’s carriage, we were surprised to see that many of the guests had already departed, though perhaps we shouldn’t have been. Normally the Rutherford Hogmanay Ball lasted long into the night, almost until dawn, but not this year. It seemed Willie’s disruption of the first-footer ceremony had dampened the festive spirit.
Most of those guests who remained were staying the night at Clintmains, but even many of them had retired. Aunt Sarah waited for our return in the ballroom with a few stragglers and two pickled men who had yet to be carried up to their assigned chambers. When Trevor asked if, under the circumstances, we might spend the night at Clintmains instead of making the fifteen-mile journey back to Blakelaw House, she readily agreed. She already had rooms made up for us and our servants were bedded down with some of her household staff.
I excused myself to Uncle Andrew’s study and sat down to write my letter to Gage on Lord Buchan’s behalf. With my uncle hovering over me, I didn’t have time to agonize over my choice of words, which was perhaps a blessing, as I certainly would have, given the opportunity. Instead I jotted off a quick missive, providing him with only a brief account of events, and stamped it closed with my uncle’s seal. He already had a rider waiting to depart to deliver the message to Edinburgh by the swiftest route.
I didn’t sleep well that night, and the fault for my restlessness did not lie with my aunt. For despite the short notice and the house overflowing with guests, she had still managed to provide me with a lovely little room facing the gardens. No, the fault lay in me. I had never slumbered easily, but my insomnia had only grown worse in the months since Will’s passing. My mind simply would not allow me the undemanding peace of a deep sleep. It was always on guard. And this night’s new worries over Dodd’s murder and the eleventh Earl of Buchan’s missing bones, coupled with my anxiety over Gage’s pending arrival, only added to the burden.
Consequently, I was up almost with the sun and down to the breakfast parlor before I expected to see any of the other guests. But I was wrong. Two young men sat conferring with one another in hushed voices at one end of the table. The tone of their voices would have seemed suspicious but for the fact that one of them was very clearly nursing a thick head from a long night of drinking. It was he who jerked upright at the sound of my approach from where he had been draped over the table and then winced, brackets of pain forming around his mouth and eyes. I recognized Lord Shellingham at once and waved him down, lest he try to rise and cast up his accounts. I couldn’t imagine why on earth he would be out of bed at this hour in his condition.
My gaze swung to take in the man beside him, who was eyeing me with some misgiving, though I couldn’t think why. Unless, having heard the rumors concerning me, he thought I was about to lure him to his death before selling his body for dissection. If that was the case, the man must not be very bright.
“Good morning,” I murmured, moving to the sideboard. A yawning footman stood to the side, ready to assist, and I smiled at him in sympathy. A servant’s duties were never done, even the morning after a ceilidh.
I settled across from the two men, observing that Lord Shellingham had nothing more than a cup of black coffee before him, while the other man’s plate of food had barely been touched. I sipped my tea and eyed him curiously. In my experience, young men of his ag
e practically inhaled their food. He didn’t appear to be suffering the ill-effects of a night of overindulgence, but I supposed he could simply be hiding it better.
“Forgive me. I’ve forgotten your name,” I said. Trevor had introduced us the previous evening, but though Lord Shellingham’s name had stuck, thanks to his friends’ manner of calling him Shelly for short, this fellow’s had not. “Remind me.”
He cleared his throat. “Archibald Young, my lady.”
I nodded. Now I remembered. Though only two or three years younger than I, thanks to his rather puppy-doggish looks, he seemed younger still. Even now he was staring at me with his big brown eyes like I was about to scold him for piddling on the carpet.
Lord Shellingham, on the other hand, was quite the fop—his clothes and hair arranged just so. Although this morning that was definitely not the case. I found him to be handsomer without the artifice. If you looked beyond the green cast to his true complexion, that is.
If I remembered correctly, the pair were cousins, and I thought I could see a shared familial trait in the strength of the jaw and the shape of the eyes, though there the similarities ended.
“Are you off early?” I inquired, taking in their riding attire.
“Er, yes,” Mr. Young stammered, darting a glance at his companion. “We’re due back in Edinburgh for a dinner.”
“Blasted dinner,” I heard Lord Shellingham mutter as I took a bite of toast, and bent my head to hide my answering smile.
“And you?” Mr. Young asked politely.
I shrugged one shoulder. “I’m up early most mornings, regardless of how late I retired.”
I studied Mr. Young as he picked at the food on his plate and Lord Shellingham as he cradled his head in his hands, and decided they were as good a place to start as any.
“So what are your impressions of what happened last night? Quite an odd way to begin the new year, don’t you think?”
A Grave Matter Page 4