A Grave Matter

by Anna Lee Huber

  Then I heard a click and shush of sound coming from behind me. I whirled about, narrowing my eyes in an effort to pierce the gloom. A blur of movement finally caught my eye, and then there was another click. I realized it was the sound of a door closing. I followed the progression of the shape, watching as it formed into a man who dashed past me toward the front door. But before he could open it, I sprang from my crouch, my pistol trained on his back.

  “Stop! Or I’ll shoot.”

  The man skidded to a halt, his shoes crunching in the glass. He wore a long, many-caped greatcoat, but no hat.

  “Turn around,” I ordered. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

  He slowly pivoted, his hands stretched out to his sides. When the light from the windows finally fell on his face, I frowned. But his reaction was by far more comical.

  His eyes flared wide and his head drew back in astonishment. “Lady Darby!”

  “Lord Shellingham,” I replied, echoing him, but with far less shock and awe.

  “You . . . you’re working with them?”

  I scowled. “Yes. Didn’t you notice me when you fired your gun at us?”

  “I didn’t shoot. That was Young.”

  I nodded, not really surprised.

  I tilted my head, listening for Gage and Trevor again. I wondered if I should yell, to let them know I’d caught one of the men. I decided against it. A shout would also reach the ears of Shellingham’s associates, and I didn’t want them stumbling upon us and turning the situation against me.

  “I should have known,” Lord Shellingham snapped bitterly. I turned to focus on his now angry visage. “What with your history, it only makes sense that you’d cast your lot in with a bunch of lowly thugs.”

  “What?” I demanded in confusion.

  But the sound of Gage’s scolding voice snagged both of our attention. I backed up so that I could better watch their progression down the stairs and keep Lord Shellingham in my sight.

  Gage and Trevor together were dragging a repentant Mr. Young between them. Trevor carried a rifle in his other hand, presumably taken from the culprit when they caught up with him.

  “I . . . I didn’t know it was you,” Mr. Young stammered in protest. “I would never have shot at you had I known.”

  “Who did you think we were?” Gage demanded.

  “Let me guess,” I said, turning to glare at Lord Shellingham. “A bunch of lowly thugs?”

  He at least had the grace to look sheepish for accusing me of working with a group of body snatchers.

  “Ah, Lord Shellingham,” Gage murmured, giving him a hard stare. “I thought it likely you were here as well.”

  “Yes, well . . .” He didn’t seem to know how to answer that.

  “Where are your staff?”

  I was not pleased to see him look even more embarrassed when he admitted, “There are only two. One’s gone to town to purchase supplies, and the other is in the kitchens.”

  “Entertaining my valet, no doubt.” Gage eyed our host up and down, from his unruly hair to his scuffed boots. “Kiera, I think you can lower your weapon. Lord Shellingham isn’t going anywhere. At least, not until we’ve had a nice long chat.”

  I hesitated, somewhat reluctant to do so. Gage cracked a smile at my obvious aggravation with the young lord. Resisting the impulse, I lowered my pistol and reached down to tuck it back inside my reticule. Feeling his eyes on me, I glared through my lashes at Mr. Young, who was watching me rather slack-jawed.

  “Now, is there a place where we might talk?” Gage asked Lord Shellingham, keeping enough bite in his voice to be sure the man understood it wasn’t really a question.

  “Yes.” He turned to lead us toward the back of the entry hall, to the door he’d entered through earlier. Gage allowed me to fall in step behind Shellingham, and I derived some enjoyment in the way the young man’s shoulders inched up around his ears. Let him worry I might actually shoot him. It only served him right.

  He opened a door near the end of the passage and gestured me into a parlor of some sorts. I lifted my eyebrows and waited for him to enter first. He swallowed and nodded.

  Clearly the room was one of the only in the manor being used. A fire burned in the hearth and two candelabras were lit and spaced about the room to provide more light on such a gloomy day. A table in the corner was stacked with dirty dishes from at least two meals, and a series of teacups and plates dusted with crumbs littered the other surfaces of the room. A game of cards had been begun and abandoned, both players’ hands discarded on the low table standing between two settees.

  If I looked beyond the mess and clutter, I could tell that the room was lavishly decorated, with Chippendale furniture and sumptuous fabrics. The wallpaper was hand painted in shades of pale yellow and smoky blue. A small crystal chandelier even hung from the ceiling, its teardrops still glistening though it was unlit.

  I settled in an elbow chair near the fire, welcoming the warmth as the cold of the weather and the wetness on my skirts had begun to seep into my bones. Gage directed both men to sit on one of the settees while he and Trevor sat across from them. My brother rested the rifle across his lap. A rather effective maneuver on his part, I thought, as Mr. Young stared down at it and swallowed.

  “Before we begin, I want to warn you, we already know everything.” Gage gave both men a hard glare. “So it behooves you to be honest with us. Do you understand?”

  Mr. Young nodded quickly and eagerly, while Lord Shellingham followed with a little more composure.

  “Now, tell us how this began.” When neither of them responded, Gage prompted. “Whose idea was it?”

  Mr. Young glanced at his cousin and then began to stammer out his reply. “I . . . I . . . I guess it was mine, sir.”

  I was surprised to hear that. Mr. Young didn’t seem the brightest or most enterprising of the group, but looks and manners sometimes deceived.

  “Why?”

  “Well, I . . . I wanted to marry Miss Musgraves, sir. And her . . . her father wouldn’t agree to the match.”

  Miss Musgraves? The girl we’d met in St. Boswells? Her father did seem like a tyrant.

  “So you needed the money to convince him of it?” Gage queried.

  Mr. Young’s brow lowered in confusion, and he glanced once more at his cousin, who appeared similarly baffled. “The money, sir?”

  Gage scowled. “Come now. We know all about the ransoms. Lord Shellingham obviously needs the money for his estate and you need it to marry Miss Musgrave. Need I explain Mr. Fergusson and Mr. Erskine’s motives as well?”

  The two young men turned to stare at each other, and it was Lord Shellingham who then spoke up. “Mr. Gage, I think there’s been some mistake. We don’t know anything about any ransom. And while Mr. Fergusson and Mr. Erskine are acquaintances, they had no dealing in this.”

  Gage arched his eyebrows haughtily. “Then you didn’t hire a group of Edinburgh body snatchers to dig up your grandfather’s . . .” he nodded at Mr. Young “. . . and your aunt’s grandfather-in-law’s bones and hold them for ransom?”

  If the subject matter hadn’t been so horrifying, their reactions might have been highly amusing. Lord Shellingham’s eyes widened and he jerked back into the cushions of the sofa, while Mr. Young leapt up from his seat, waving his arms wildly as they both spouted vehement protests.

  Gage stood up, raising his voice to be heard over their commotion and ordered Mr. Young to sit down. When he had complied and their voices fell silent, he stood over them, gesturing toward the door through which we’d come. “If you’re not involved, then what they hell was that all about?” he roared. “You certainly didn’t almost shoot me in the head for no reason.”

  “We . . . we thought you were them,” Lord Shellingham replied.

  Gage narrowed his eyes. “And why would they be coming after you if you weren’t involved?”

  “Because we saw them.”

  Gage inhaled deeply through his nostrils, his patience growing ver
y thin. “When?”

  “During the Hogmanay Ball,” Mr. Young said. “And a few days ago.”

  Gage turned to look at me, his face tight with the strain of not revealing his puzzlement. He backed away and returned to his seat across from them. “You’d better explain.”

  “Well, like I said, I wanted to marry Miss Musgrave, and she wanted to marry me, but her father would not let us. So . . .” He glanced at his cousin, who nodded in encouragement. He swallowed. “We decided that we would elope.”

  My eyebrows rose. Perhaps I had underestimated Mr. Young.

  “I convinced my cousin to help us. And we realized that Hogmanay would be the perfect time. Everyone in the area attends Lord and Lady Rutherford’s ball, even Mr. Musgrave, and they’re often out until the wee hours of the morning.” His gaze dropped to his lap where his hands were fidgeting. “Plus Miss Musgrave told me that her father often overindulged. So by the time he woke up, we would hopefully already be married at the Old Toll House in Lamberton,” he explained. “It’s closer than Gretna Green.” The most notorious of all hasty wedding sights, particularly for eloping couples popping over the border from England to obtain a quick marriage.

  “How did you arrange this?” I asked, wondering how Miss Musgrave had gotten away from her father long enough for them even to discuss it.

  Mr. Young flushed. “We would meet at the abbey. There’s a walking bridge over the river not far from Miss Musgrave’s home, so she would convince her maid to let her walk there.”

  “Did you and Lord Shellingham meet her there earlier in the day on Hogmanay?”

  He nodded. “To be certain all was set.”

  Which explained the pair of men Lord Buchan’s maid had seen that day, as well as the couple the Nun of Dryburgh had babbled on about. I suspected Miss Musgrave had also left a bundle of clothes at the abbey to retrieve before they eloped. Though I didn’t know why she wouldn’t have simply brought it with her that night. Unless she intended to bring more than one set of extra garments.

  I shared a look of resigned frustration with Gage, feeling a bit like a fool for not seeing all of this before.

  “Miss Musgrave was to pretend she was ill that night,” Mr. Young continued to explain. “So that she could sneak away and meet me at the abbey at midnight.”

  “And you bribed one of the Rutherford footmen to meet you by a side door with your coats and hats during the ball, so that you wouldn’t draw any suspicion,” Gage supplied, relaying the information Anderley had uncovered for us.

  Mr. Young nodded. “We arrived at the ball on horseback, and Shelly arranged for his valet to meet us with a hired carriage a short distance from the abbey. So we set out on foot to the abbey.” His face clouded with fear. “But about half a mile away, where the road curves north, we ran into these men. They pulled guns on us and . . . and told us they’d already killed one man that night, and that if we didn’t want to be next, we’d turn back.”

  “Did you get a good look at them?”

  Mr. Young stared down at the floor in front of him as if reliving the confrontation, so Lord Shellingham spoke up. “Well enough to recognize them when we saw them again at an inn just northwest of here.”

  “When was this?” Gage asked.

  “The night of that snowfall. We got caught up in it and stopped to warm ourselves before continuing on.”

  “What were they doing? Passing through as well?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. But they were pretty deep in their cups, and I suspect they’d been there for at least a short while.”

  Gage flicked a glance at me before asking, “Were there any women with them?”

  “There were a couple hanging about them. But I don’t know if they were barmaids or local women or lasses they called their own. I didn’t look very closely.”

  “Do you remember the village name?”

  Shellingham glanced at his cousin. “Was it in Allanton?” But Mr. Young just shrugged. “I think that’s right.”

  Gage sat back with a nod, crossing his arms over his chest. He eyed both men in contemplation.

  “What happened to Miss Musgrave?” I asked, wondering how they could have returned to Clintmains Hall without at least checking to be sure she was safe. Surely they hadn’t simply left her to stand there in the freezing cold, not knowing where they were? What if she’d run into the body snatchers? They might have done any number of horrible things to her.

  Mr. Young’s eyes saddened. “I don’t know. I know she made it home safely.”

  “Safely” being a relative term.

  “But now she won’t talk to me. It’s not my fault the elopement was botched.”

  This time I shared a look with my brother, and it was obvious that he was just as disgusted by Mr. Young’s lack of chivalry as I was. I wouldn’t be speaking to him either if I were in Miss Musgrave’s shoes. In fact, I think I might just listen to my father and find another suitor.

  “What of your friends Fergusson and Erskine and their sudden influx of blunt?” Trevor questioned them. “They both have relatives whose bodies were also dug up and ransomed. Are you going to tell us that’s all just a coincidence?”

  Lord Shellingham held up his hands. “I’m not responsible for the actions of those two. But if you’re talking about the money Fergusson was gambling with at the Assembly Rooms last week, that came from a wager he won with Mr. Radcliffe. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Radcliffe yourself. I’m sure he’d love to grumble about it some more.”

  I lifted my hand to my temples, rubbing them with my thumb and forefinger to suppress the massive headache beginning to build behind my eyes. Here we’d thought we’d finally caught the men responsible for setting these snatching-ransoms in motion, and we’d uncovered nothing. Sure, we’d answered some of our questions, but none of these answers had brought us closer to finding the culprits, only farther away.

  Of course, Shellingham and Young could be lying, but I didn’t think so. The scheme was too elaborate to be a ruse, and it would be far too easy to find them out. I intended to verify their story, but I didn’t expect to discover they’d lied.

  Anyway, in Shellingham’s case, there were far easier ways to replenish his coffers.

  “Why don’t you marry an heiress,” I couldn’t resist asking him. It was sadly the most common solution to such a predicament.

  He flushed and frowned. “I’d rather not have to resort to that. It hardly seems fair to marry a girl just for her money. But . . .” He sighed. “I soon may have no choice.”

  I glanced around the room at all the fine furnishings. If the other rooms in the house were decorated in the same way . . .

  “Why don’t you sell some of the artwork and furnishings? Surely they’re worth a great deal.”

  “I’ve been contemplating it.” His face screwed up into a nasty smirk. “But my grandfather went to such an effort to build a lavish abode for his Prussian heiress, bankrupting the estate when she didn’t marry him, it seems like a sacrilege to break up his shrine.”

  Gage ignored this display of resentment, justified though it might be, to return to the matter at hand. “Well, since you’ve finally told us the truth, can you think of anything else we should know? Anything perhaps you should have told us earlier?”

  Shellingham and Young glanced at each other and then shook their heads.

  “You didn’t see anyone else leaving the ball? Encounter anyone else at or near the abbey?” Gage pressed.

  Mr. Young frowned. “Well, several of the guests who stayed at Clintmains visited the abbey. But that doesn’t make them guilty of anything.”

  “Who?”

  He rattled off a few names, none of whom meant anything except Mr. Stuart.

  Gage’s eyes sought mine out, telling me he’d noticed as well.

  So Mr. Stuart had visited Dryburgh Abbey sometime during the days prior to Lord Buchan’s snatching. As Mr. Young said, that didn’t make him guilty, but it was worth noting.

 
; CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “Isn’t that Miss Musgrave’s maid, Peggy?” I asked as the carriage rounded a corner in St. Boswells the next morning. She was bustling down the walk, her head lowered against the wind, with a package clutched under her arm.

  Gage leaned over to see out the window. “Why, I think it is. How fortuitous,” he said with a smirk. He began to reach toward the ceiling with his cane, but I stopped him.

  “Wait until we reach those hedges before stopping the carriage. She won’t wish to be seen speaking to us.”

  He complied, timing it so that the carriage stopped within the shade of two hedgerows, sheltering us from any prying eyes that might be watching from the houses nearby. I opened the carriage door and climbed out, waiting for Peggy to notice me.

  She was nearly upon us before she looked up. Her eyes flared wide and then darted from side to side nervously.

  “Peggy, I’m sorry to bother you. But we really must speak with you again. We thought it best do so away from the Musgrave house.”

  Her eyes searched mine and quickly came to the realization that I was not going to let the matter go. She could either speak to us here and hope to keep the discussion private, or face us in front of Mr. Musgrave later. I had no desire to put her in that situation, particularly since it would likely mean her position, but we needed to confirm Mr. Young and Lord Shellingham’s story, and we could better gain access to Peggy than Miss Musgrave.

  She sighed in resignation. I gestured for her to climb into the carriage and then followed after, closing the door behind us. She clutched her brown-paper-wrapped package before her like a shield and eyed Gage and me warily.

  “We wish you no harm,” I told her. “And we know you’ve been placed in an untenable position. But we need to know the truth about what happened on Hogmanay.”

  Her gaze continued to bounce back and forth between us, but she did not speak, forcing me to elaborate.