Page 122 of Death at a Highland Wedding
“No, not Simon, of course. Constable Ross. Simon would be a better police officer. In fact, given his help with this case, I would strongly suggest he apply for a position, so I might scoop him up to assist me.”
“Yeah, even in my world, while we have cops with Simon’s romantic preferences, they don’t have an easy time of it.”
McCreadie sighs again. “Of course they do not. Homosexuals, women,people of color, on a police force? Certainly not. They must reserve it for men like me, which means we are stuck with boys like Constable Ross, who tripped into the position despite having no talent for it.”
“His grandfather was a constable. It’s in the blood. In my day, that’s better than any actual skill. Law enforcement is a family tradition. Look at me. My mother is in law, too.”
“As a barrister. Defending criminals.”
“Made for very lively family dinners.” I notice Mrs. Hall walking past and switch to my Victorian voice. “You said something about Constable Ross, sir?”
“Simon is playing spy for me, keeping me informed on the proceedings. It seems that Müller went off on some tangent about the wildcat. He knew it had not died in the trap.”
“I fear that is my fault. I told him it had been poisoned first and accused him of doing it.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. Hall stop. She slowly turns our way.
McCreadie continues, “Well, Müller wishes Constable Ross to know that he did not poison the cat, and whoever did clearly also murdered Ezra. So now Ross is trying to say that Müller poisoned Ezra.”
“What?” I say, forgetting my Victorian manners.
“My dear girl, think it through. The wildcat was poisoned. Müller claims the same person killed Ezra. Which means he is clearly confessing to killing both and also must have used the same method. Poison.”
I groan. Then I realize Mrs. Hall has stopped parallel to us. While she could have just been eavesdropping, her expression says something in our conversation caught her ear. She looks at me and then quickly continues on toward the house.
“Mrs. Hall,” I call after her.
She keeps going, as if she’s going to pretend she didn’t hear me.
“Mrs. Hall,” McCreadie says, and that makes her slow, however reluctantly.
“Yes, sir?” she says, her face impassive.
McCreadie nods to me.
“You were startled to hear that the wildcat died of poison,” I say.
She seems to consider denying it, but then says, “Of course. I heard it was caught in a trap.”
“Poisoned,” McCreadie says. “And then posed in the trap, so it seemed as if it had simply been caught in it.”
She shakes her head. “Mr. Müller was not only a despicable man, but a terrible gamekeeper. There was no need to kill the cat. The lads were repairing the chicken coop and that would have kept it out. If the master insisted on getting rid of it, a proper gamekeeper does it quickly. With a gun. Not poison and not traps.”
I walk toward her. “But that wasn’t what gave you pause, was it? It was something about the cat being poisoned.”
When she doesn’t respond, McCreadie clears his throat. “In a murder investigation, people must tell us what they know. It is the law. If they do not, and we discover they withheld information, it goes badly for them.”
She considers as we move closer. Then she lowers her voice. “I do not know what to make of it, and I fear impugning the name of a man who is dead and cannot defend himself. Particularly as…” She looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “I did not care for the deceased myself, and others knew it.”
That’s right. While everyone else here liked Sinclair and thought him a jolly good fellow, Mrs. Hall had been unable to hide her dislike. She’d obviously blamed Sinclair for Müller being here, and she’d flat-out implied he’d tricked Cranston into hiring the man. At the time, that had seemed like misplaced anger. Her husband lost his position because of someone Sinclair recommended, and since she liked Cranston, she had to direct her anger elsewhere.
But now I wonder if it was more. If she was picking up on something we missed. An older woman in service sensing danger in a young gentleman, but not recognizing—or trusting—her gut instinct enough to warn the maids, including her daughter. I ache for the guilt she will feel when Lenore confesses. It’s not Mrs. Hall’s fault, but she will blame herself. She knew something was off with Sinclair and said nothing.
“I presume you mean Mr. Sinclair,” McCreadie says, bringing me back to the conversation.
“Yes. He was in the pantry. Before the wildcat died. I walked in and found him there, and he apologized, saying he was peckish and looking for biscuits. When he left, I found that the rat poison had been moved. I am exceedingly careful with it, and the bag was not where I left it.”
“Which suggests the poison came from there,” McCreadie says. “What time was this?”
“About five that afternoon.”
