Page 20 of Death at a Highland Wedding
“Save pests?” Müller throws up his hands. “Your groom has been complaining about one cat stealing his eggs, and now he is going to allow three more to grow up and do the same?”
“I only grumbled,” Cranston says. “If I were truly angry, I would have asked for the cats to be relocated.”
“Relocated?” Müller shakes his head and then stomps off, muttering in his own language.
When he’s gone, Cranston spins on Sinclair. “I agreed to six months with him, and I will keep my word, but when it is done, he is gone.”
“He seems very unpleasant,” Fiona says. “I know you recommended him, Ezra, but…”
Sinclair sighs. “I recommended him for his skill as a gamekeeper, and he is very good at that, but there is evidently a conflict of personalities. You do bring that out in some people, Archie.”
Sinclair says it lightly, but this is obviously awkward for him. He suggested Müller, and yes, there’s a serious personality—and ideology—clash. That isn’t Sinclair’s fault, but he’ll feel bad about it.
“It will be resolved,” Fiona says. “For now…” She looks down at the dead wildcat, and her shoulders fall.
“I will handle this,” Sinclair says. “I take full responsibility for this tragedy, and I will deal with the mother and help you with the kittens.”
“You deal with the mother,” Cranston says. “Bury her, please. Fiona and I will gather the uninjured kittens and take them to the house. Duncan? Can you and Miss Mitchell bring the injured one?”
“We will,” Gray says. “When you reach the house, could you ask Hugh to deliver my bag? I will need to medicate the kitten before it can be moved, and I do not dare leave it.” He peers into the sky. “It seems we already have a very interested hawk watching us.”
“I will have Hugh bring your things,” Sinclair says. “And I will return myself with a shovel to bury the cat.”
He hurries off, and then Gray and I help Cranston and Fiona capture the two uninjured kittens. Fiona does most of the work. When McCreadie said she helped animals, I presumed it was… well, like the average well-to-do Victorian woman helps the poor. Charitable hobbyist work.
I had pictured Fiona instructing her maid on how to feed motherless kittens and then popping in now and then to give them a cuddle. I should have known better. She may be as kindhearted as her brother, but she’s obviously as competent as him, too. She spoke of returning animals to the wild, and I’m not sure how much of a thing wildlife rehabilitation is in this world, but she captures those kittens like a seasoned pro. There are no cuddles or baby talk. She firmly scoops them up and then speaks to them in a reassuring tone before plunking one into Cranston’s big hands and telling him how to hold it properly so it won’t escape or shred him. And the whole time, he does as he’s told and watches her work, looking a little awestruck.
Then they are off, kittens in hand. I wait until they’re out of earshotbefore turning to Gray, who is hunkered down, examining his future patient as the injured kitten spits and hisses.
“Duncan?” I say.
“Hmm?” He doesn’t look over, just keeps trying to get a better view of the kitten’s injured leg without touching it.
“About the wildcat…” I say. “I think we need to discuss how it died.”
“Hmm?” He looks up now, gaze still unfocused, trying to show me the respect of giving me his attention… but not really able to give it.
“That trap isn’t what killed it.”
Now those dark eyes focus on me as he frowns. “The trap…” He looks at the dead mother wildcat. Really looks at it. And then he lets out a curse.
SEVEN
A few more curses follow the first, these ones aimed at himself for not seeing the problem. I don’t blame him, of course. Technically, this isn’t a crime scene, and since the wildcat was obviously dead, he didn’t need to take a closer look. But once he did, the problem became clear.
The jaws of the trap had snapped around the cat’s neck, and thatwouldhave killed it—either with the force or those serrated edges. Except something is missing.
“Blood,” Gray mutters as he kneels beside the dead wildcat. “There is no blood.”
“Which could mean the trap only snapped her neck. Except…”
He grunts. “The edges have clearly broken the skin, and if she was alive when that happened, there would be blood.” He exhales and leans back on his haunches. “She was placed there, already dead, and the trap sprung, to make it appear as if she died that way.” He glances over at the injured kitten, who seems to think itself well-hidden and has stopped hissing. “That little one must have been too close when the trap was sprung.”
Gray examines the trap, finds the release, and opens the jaws. Then he takes a closer look.
“The wound is clearly postmortem,” he says. “Inflicted not long after she died, given that there is some blood on the tines. As for how shediddie…” He looks at the cat. “Perhaps we ought not to have told Archie that I require a dead body for a proper mystery.”
“Did someone say mystery?”
