Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery) (22 page)

“How long ago was this?”

“A few months. Less than half a year.”

Gage looked to me with a skeptical gleam in his eyes, and I knew he would want to question this Mrs. Ogston. I was of the same opinion as Mr. Wallace—grief could make people say terrible things—but I decided it couldn’t hurt to find out what her attitude toward Miss Wallace was now.

“Is there anything else we should know about your daughter?” Gage asked. “Anyone you think we should talk to while Mr. Paxton is away? We may not get another chance.”

Mr. Wallace settled back in his chair with a sigh. “I s’pose you intend to visit the island.”

“Yes. And speak to a few people in the village, as well as the ferrymen.”

“I canna think of anyone else in particular, except maybe Calum MacMath and his ole cronies. They sit ootside the inn on fair days, gossiping like a bunch o’ magpies while they watch the ships come in.”

I cracked a smile at this affable description. Every village in the British Isles must have had at least a trio of these older men who congregated in the public inn or tavern to while away their hours. They were often the best source of gossip in any village, even more so than their wives.

“We’ll speak to them, then,” Gage said, hiding his own grin of amusement. “Now, before we go, if we could see Miss Wallace’s room and speak to her maid, one of them might provide a clue that Mr. Paxton has missed.”

Mr. Wallace sat up in surprise. “But why would there be anything in her room? She couldn’t have kenned she was going to go missing.”

“No, but she might have come into contact with someone suspicious and made a note of it or kept a record of her visits and we can deduce a pattern from them. I don’t ask to alarm you.” Gage’s voice lowered to a soothing tone. “There may be nothing there at all. But I do have some experience with this sort of thing, and I would rather have a look now than discover later that there was a clue waiting for us there all along.”

Mr. Wallace nodded tentatively at first and then with more certainty. “Aye. I dinna think she kept an appointment book, but you’d best look. And I spoke to her maid the moment I kenned she was missing, but I reckon ye should speak with her, too.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

M
iss Wallace’s maid was a stalwart Scottish lass, and I was relieved to be facing a composed woman and not a timid, sobbing mass of petticoats, though I could tell from the red rims and puffiness around her eyes that she had wept at some point, and recently. She perched on the edge of a ladder-back chair while Gage and I searched Miss Wallace’s bedchamber.

“Nay, Miss Mary doesna keep a ’pointment book. She keeps it all up here.” Kady tapped her head with her forefinger. “Has a mind like a trap, that’n.”

“What about a journal or a diary?” I asked as I glanced back and forth between the maid and the bookshelf I was perusing.

The maid shook her head.

“Something to write her visions in?”

She hesitated to respond, drawing all of my attention to her. Kady didn’t seem to know how to answer, and I suddenly realized her dilemma.

“Mr. Wallace told us about her second sight.”

She searched my eyes and, apparently finding me trustworthy, replied, “She doesna write them doon. No’ those horrible things.” Her brow lowered into a fierce frown. “They’re a curse, I tell ye. And she’s told me more than once she wishes she could make ’em stop.”

I abandoned the bookshelf and moved forward to perch on the edge of the bed closer to the maid, leaving the search to Gage. Somehow I could sense that this conversation was far more important than whatever we would find in this room.

“I understand that most of her visions are quite unpleasant.”

“Aye. Many o’ ’em come as nightmares. When she was but a wee lass, she would wake up screamin’ like a banshee, puir dear. I took to sleepin’ at the foot o’ the bed jus’ so I could be here when she woke.”

“Are they always like that?” I asked in some concern. What kind of existence was that, to fall asleep afraid to dream? Unbidden, an image of Will pacing his floors in an effort to outrun sleep flashed through my mind.

The kindhearted older woman reached forward to pat my hand where it lay on my knee. “Nay. The older she grew, and the better she got at understandin’ ’em, the less they troubled her. The real bad ones still upset her somethin’ awful, but she’s learned to live wi’ the rest.” Her face clouded with worry and her gaze turned distant. “That is, ’til recently.”

I glanced at Gage, who had looked up from his search of Miss Wallace’s desk drawer at the change in the maid’s tone of voice.

“Why recently? What happened?”

Kady looked up at me, her face lined with worry. “I dinna ken for sure. Maybe it’s because she seemed so happy the few weeks afore it happened. Happier than I’ve ever seen her. But then the nightmares began again.”

My heart clenched in dread.

“Worse than ever afore.” Kady clasped her hands together in her lap, the knuckles turning white as she relived her memories. “She’d wake up thrashin’ and screamin’, beggin’ for whatever it was to stop. Woke her da’ a time or two in his room doon the hall. I asked her what it was . . .” She sounded like she was pleading with her charge again. “But she wouldna’ tell me. A time or two when she’d just waked I heard her babblin’ aboot the cold and the darkness, but that’s all I ken. And all I could think to ask her was if they were aboot her da’. She told me nay. That’s when I realized . . .” She broke off, unable to speak the words.

So I spoke them for her. “That it might be her.”

She nodded. “I didna want to ask her. Didna want to even think it.” Her face crumpled, and she came close to losing her composure. But she took a deep breath and swallowed her grief and guilt. “But it might’ve been.”

I pressed a hand to my chest, where my heart pounded furiously, having trouble coming to terms with the information the maid had just given us. If Miss Wallace had foreseen her own death, and if it had been as unpleasant as her reaction to her nightmares suggested it was . . . heavens! How could she live with that knowledge? How could she go about living her life, day after day, knowing it was only a matter of time before her nightmares came true? The very thought made me dizzy with fright.

I jumped at the feel of Gage’s hand on my shoulder. He squeezed gently, reassuring me, and I inhaled sharply.

Kady offered me a tight smile in commiseration. “Aye. The
an da shealladh
is a dark thing,” she told me, using what must be the Gaelic term for “second sight.”

“Did Miss Wallace mention anyone she might have quarreled with?” Gage asked, turning the subject. “Someone who might wish her ill or hold a grudge?”

Kady lifted her eyes in contemplation and then shook her head. “Nay. Though she doesna talk to me much aboot people. She mostly keeps her opinions to hersel’.” She squinted one eye. “But I can read her reactions fairly weel. Like when that fool Munro yelled oot his window at us after he fell off his roof ’cause he didna listen to her warnin’. Tried to blame her, the sod. I could tell she didna feel the least bit sorry for the man, though to all else she looked fair concerned.”

I felt a measure of my equanimity return during her story, especially considering the fact that I had had a similar thought about Mr. Munro and what Miss Wallace’s reaction should be to him. I even felt a certain amount of calm. Until Kady spoke her next words.

“And then there was that doctor. Miss Mary didna like him,” she added, shaking her head.

The hairs stood up on my arm. “What doctor?” I demanded.

“I dinna ken his name.” Her eyes had widened at my sharp reaction. “He approached her in the village and she refused to talk to ’im.”

“When was this?” Gage asked. I could hear the same heightened level of interest in his voice as mine but his had taken on an angry edge, which I wasn’t sure he was even aware of.

“A few weeks ago, I guess it was noo,” Kady said, stumbling over her reply.

Gage nodded to her and then turned to me. “I think we need to speak with Mr. Wallace again.”

I rose to follow him to the door, but before going I paused to ask the bewildered maid one more question. “Just out of curiosity, did Miss Wallace encounter the doctor before or after her nightmares began again?”

“Why, I think it was afore,” she replied in surprise.

I thanked her and turned back to Gage, who was watching me with an expression that said we would be having a conversation about this later.

* * *

“H
is name was Callart,” Mr. Wallace told us in reply to Gage’s query.

We had found him in his study where we had left him, deep in unhappy thought, if the frown on his face was any indication.

He rose to cross the room to his desk. “He came to call one afternoon, offering his services to help my daughter. Said he was some
brain
specialist and he’d heard of my daughter’s ‘affliction.’” He lifted his gaze, a martial gleam in his eyes. “I told him to sod off.”

I had to smile at that, despite my uneasy suspicions.

“Did he try to pressure you?” Gage asked.

Mr. Wallace bent forward to rummage through the papers in a drawer. “Aye. Had to threaten to throw him off my property to get him to leave.”

“Did you know he accosted your daughter in the village?” I inquired.

He straightened and moved back toward us. “Nay. Who told you this? Kady?”

I nodded.

“Impertinent leech,” he growled. He handed the card he’d taken from his desk to Gage. “Dr. Thomas Callart. Noo I’m glad I kept his card. Do ye think he’s behind my daughter’s disappearance?”

“We don’t know,” Gage replied cautiously after making a cursory inspection of the business card and tucking it into the inside pocket of his coat. “Can you tell us what he looked like?”

“Short, round, rather like a partridge. No’ particularly attractive.”

“Well, then, let us know if you think of anything else,” Gage told him. “We’ll send word as soon as we have any news.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“D
o you think Dr. Sloane used an alias?” I asked, having to hurry to keep up with Gage’s long stride down the hall. “Do you think this Dr. Callart could be him?”

“No.”

I was so taken aback by the certainty in his voice that it took me a moment to respond. “What do you mean?”

I had to wait for his answer, as the Wallaces’ butler appeared and handed us our hats and gloves. It took me but a moment to affix my hat atop my head and pin it at its jaunty angle, but Gage was already outside, taking the reins of our horses from the waiting stable boys.

“How can you be so certain?” I persisted.

I allowed Gage to boost me up into my saddle, looking down at him expectantly while he fiddled with my stirrup, the length of which had been perfectly fine on our ride over to Lambden Cottage.

“Because Dr. Sloane is tall and thin,” he finally replied. “There is no way he could be this short, round man who calls himself Dr. Callart.”

Gage mounted his gelding while I digested this bit of information. “You know what Dr. Sloane looks like?”

He cut a look of annoyance in my direction as he directed his horse to walk on. “It isn’t difficult to ask. After all, Michael has seen the man.”

“Yes, but . . .” Everything he was saying was true, but it didn’t explain his restless movements or why he was avoiding looking into my eyes. So I decided to be direct. “Have
you
ever seen him?”

It took a moment for him to respond—the silence that fell between us broken only by the clopping of the horses’ hooves and the jangling of their harnesses—and when he did it was barely louder than a murmur. “Yes.”

A bolt of alarm ran down my spine and I sat straighter. But before I could voice my next question, he spoke again.

“We can’t discuss it right now.” He turned to look at me, his eyes earnest but also commanding. “I promise you, I
will
tell you. But not here.” He gestured with his head to the old tower of the kirk and the pale stone buildings that lined the street at the base of the hill just coming into view out of the trees that shaded the road.

I bit back the words forming on my tongue, for I knew he was right. Whatever argument was brewing between us, whatever revelation Gage was about to make, would have to wait until we’d interviewed the villagers about Miss Wallace. We had to present a united front in our inquiries. And though it tied a knot inside me not to know, I did not try to force the words from him. However, I could not stop my mind from conjuring up all manner of possibilities.

We left our horses at the livery stables behind the Cramond Inn and walked through the village on foot. We stepped into the shops and stopped people on the street. The general consensus seemed to be that Miss Wallace was a kind, well-liked lass with a good head on her shoulders. Several people had seen her cross the land bridge to Cramond Island at low tide on Thursday last, but none of them had seen her return, not even Calum MacMath and his cronies. They swore they had been seated in front of the inn from midday through sunset, and that if anyone had seen her return, it would have been them. MacMath also made it a point, as several others did, to tell us that Mary Wallace was no fool to be risking her life crossing when the tide was already coming in, but that Mr. Paxton might just possibly be.

If nothing else, the local constable seemed a bit unpopular, but that was not an uncommon reaction to policemen in small towns, whose people liked to handle such matters in their own ways. I couldn’t see Mr. Paxton exercising compromise or compassion. He enjoyed his power too much.

No one seemed to flinch at the mention of Miss Wallace’s second sight, and the majority, even the reverend at Cramond Kirk, seemed to look on it with favor rather than disapproval. There were a few that frowned and shook their heads or rolled their eyes, but no one voiced a harsh opinion of her or her supposed ability. Even Mr. Munro and Mrs. Ogston seemed contrite over their earlier condemnation of her, though it may have been our positions as investigators into Miss Wallace’s disappearance that kept their tongues civil.

Whatever the truth, Mr. Munro’s leg was mended and Mrs. Ogston was round with child again, and I suspected these developments had done more than anything to heal any lingering animosity.

We ate luncheon at the inn, waiting for the tide to finish going out, and then traversed the mile-long trail, slick with seaweed and shingles washed smooth by thousands of years of ocean currents, to the island. I felt a little bit like Moses and the Israelites crossing the Red Sea, though there were no walls of water surrounding us, only a wide stretch of wet sand on either side and the gently undulating ocean lapping at the edges. I was grateful for my kid leather riding boots and the extra layer of woolen socks I had donned that morning as our feet sank into the sand and shale of the ocean bottom.

The island itself was green and gold with brush and lush grass and gently sloped toward a small wood roughly at its center. As we drew closer, I could see white fluffy sheep dotting the fields, nibbling at tufts of grass. The briny air whipped at my little hat until I feared I would have to remove it or else watch it blown out to sea.

When we reached the island, we followed the little path that wound up toward the wood, where we had been told the McCray farmstead rested. Nestled among the trees, the stone buildings were crude, but snugly built.

When we entered the yard, Mrs. McCray was already at her door, hands on her hips. “Are ye here aboot Mistress Mary, then?”

“Yes,” Gage replied, removing his hat. “We’re investigating on Mr. Wallace’s behalf.” He introduced us while the farmwife looked us up and down as if we were bits of useless frippery.

“Ye’ll already ken I’m Mrs. McCray. Ye’d best come in.”

We followed her through the door, ducking our heads so as not to smack them on the low lintel. She offered us a seat at the scarred, wooden table at the center of her kitchen and then turned to the great stone fireplace to swing a kettle over the fire. The room was worn, but cozy and clean. I cringed at the sight of our muddy footprints on her otherwise spotless flagstone floor.

She reached up high inside a cabinet and pulled out a lovely china teapot and three cups. I could tell from her handling of them that they were cherished possessions, quite possibly the nicest things she owned, and only brought out for special company. She set the tea things on the table and began spooning some of the precious leaves inside the pot. When the kettle whistled, she was ready for it.

“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.