Page 22 of Death at a Highland Wedding
McCreadie snorts. “If you think your sister would rather play whist with Archie, James, and that wife of his, you do not know her very well. The only thing stopping her from helping would be a lack of equipment.”
“So someone poisoned the cat,” I say. “Likely in meat, which we’ll see when we open her stomach. Ezra did say he thought he heard her last night. I did, too, now that I think of it. I was drifting off when I heard something outside.”
Gray idly taps his probe. “What sort of noise?”
“Hard to say. A yowl maybe? A sound of some distress, but it’s the forest at night. Critters are hunting and being hunted. It didn’t last long enough to do more than catch my attention.”
“What time was that?” McCreadie asks.
“Around two?” I explain how I came down after that and heard Cranston outside.
“I thought he was patrolling,” I say. “Guarding his property. But then Ezra showed up, and Archie said something about Ezra roaming about, so I think he realized Ezra was gone and was concerned.”
“As he should be,” McCreadie mutters. “What the bloody hell is Archie thinking, laying those traps about? And blaming the gamekeeper. That was obviously to appease Fiona.”
“Was it?” I say. “Archie grumbled about the traps last night, too, and seemed genuinely annoyed.” I glance at Gray. “You spoke to him about them.”
Gray nods. “He did not appreciate that, however politely I worded it. We have never got along.”
McCreadie makes a noise that says this is an understatement, but Gray only continues, “My interpretation would agree with yours. That the traps are not Archie’s idea. If they were, he would have had no issue with saying so to me. Yes, he might blame Müller in front of Fiona, but not to me or Ezra.”
I shift to get more comfortable. “But knowing his bride would be horrified if he killed the wildcat for stealing eggs, might he have poisoned the cat and then made it look like the trap killed her?”
Gray looks to McCreadie, as if lobbing the question his way.
“I cannot say for certain either way.” McCreadie seems to choose his words with care. “Archie denied that he wanted the cat dead, but that could indeed be bluster for Fiona’s sake. My impression there…” He pauses and then speaks even slower. “I am not comfortable assessing their relationship, as I fear I am inclined to be too hopeful, for my sister’s sake. Archie has his faults—many, many faults—but I would like to think he is genuinely fond of Fiona. Not necessarily in the way a groom should be fond of his bride but…”
“Last night, when I overheard him speaking to Ezra, that was the impression I got. He recognizes how young she is, and intends to… Well, he seems to see it more as a transfer of guardianship, and he also seems very willing to take on that responsibility. He does seem fond of her. Very fond. Just more as a friend’s young sister than as a bride.”
McCreadie exhales in obvious relief. “Good. It is not the marriage I would wish for my sister, and I fear I might be responsible, our families still wishing to be joined after I ended my engagement with Violet…”
“I’ve heard nothing like that,” I say, managing Oscar-worthy sincerity. “But even acknowledging that Archie cares for Fiona only means that if he did want the wildcat dead, this might have been his way of doing that without incurring her wrath.”
“The other primary suspect would be Müller.”
I must make a face, because McCreadie shoots me a look.
“He is rather unpleasant, isn’t he?” McCreadie says. “However, Europeans often see the British as unsophisticated, particularly those living in the ‘wilds’ of Scotland.”
“It’s not only Europeans,” Gray says. “The English love to mock us with political cartoons portraying Scots as bumbling and idiotic primitives. Despite the fact, as Isla would point out, that our literacy rates significantly exceed theirs. As for Müller, he will not last. Archie is a man of his word, and he will honor the terms of their agreement and then release him. As for whether he makes a valid suspect? Yes. If Archie did not want the wildcat killed, it is obvious from our encounter with Müller that the gamekeeper would see that as interference. The cat is a pest, and pests are to be eliminated. But to keep the peace, he might poison it and then make it look as if it wandered into the trap.”
“Either way,” McCreadie says, “it is not as if we can charge the killer with anything. Or even accuse them without causing trouble.” He seems to consider the injustice of this, only to shake it off and say, more brightly, “But we can perform the autopsy.”
“Necropsy,” Gray corrects.
“Yes, yes. On with it then. Your eager students await.”
We confirm undigested meat in the cat’s stomach, but there’s no point in collecting it. This is a mental exercise only, a diversion and to satisfy our own curiosity. While the murder of an animal deserves better, even in the modern day, this wouldn’t be considered animal cruelty. Considering she’s an endangered species, there’d be some law against killing her, but that doesn’t apply here. This was just a landowner getting rid of a pest that broke into his chicken coop. So while it seems disrespectful to use her death as an exercise for bored minds, it’s better than realizing she’d been murdered, dumping her into a hole, and walking away.
When we reach the house, Cranston and Sinclair are outside with Frye, and Sinclair calls Gray and McCreadie over. That invitation will not include me. So I continue on to the house. I poke my head into the first of the sitting rooms to find Violet with an unfamiliar woman.
I murmur an apology and start to retreat, but Violet calls me in.
“Miss Mitchell,” she says, rising. “This is Mrs. Edith Frye, James’s wife. Edith, this is Miss Mallory Mitchell.”
Edith Frye is a pinch-faced woman of about thirty. Or so she seems until I realize the pinched-face part is only her expression as she peers at me. “Who? Oh. Some friend of Fiona’s, I presume.”
“No, Miss Mitchell is here with Dr. Gray.”
