Page 39 of Death at a Highland Wedding
He settles for, “I will notrun.But yes, I will leave the scene to the two of you.” He pauses, and then can’t resist adding, “And I will examine it later.”
THIRTEEN
McCreadie and I start by cordoning off the scene. Hey, since we aren’t in Edinburgh, this seems like the perfect time to demonstrate the concept of crime-scene preservation. Oh, McCreadie gets the idea. He’s just a little slow to implement it, which I understand. It’s that old “but this is how we’ve always done it” mentality, and as open-minded as McCreadie is, it can be hard to convey the importance of avoiding contamination when almost nothing from the scene can be used in court.
DNA analysis is a hundred years away, and even fingerprints aren’t yet admissible. Most of what Gray does in the realm of forensics only helps McCreadie find the culprit. Then McCreadie has to prove the killer did it without needing to explain hair analysis and wound impressions to a judge or jury.
But here, McCreadie understands the need to protect the scene. We have damp earth, which might contain footprints. We also have a missing murder weapon that the killer may have stashed nearby. With the long grass, we even have a hope of tracking the killer through broken blades. All that will be ruined as soon as the household knows Sinclair is dead and tramps out here for a look.
We mark an area where people will be allowed to enter and leave the scene. Then we make sure there’s no obvious evidence in that area. We’re also looking for footprints and evidence in general, but the only prints we find are ten feet away, and they belong to Sinclair. As for my hopeof tracking the killer through trampled grass… that doesn’t work out, probably because neither of us has any experience at tracking. Any faint paths we find all lead to the nearby lake, suggesting they’re just routes left by deer.
“We’re going to need to talk to the housekeeper’s kids,” I say. “I doubt it’s a coincidence that they left half a deer near a dead human body.”
McCreadie nods. “They saw or heard something. The problem will be getting them to admit they were out here, given what they were doing.”
I let out a long breath. “I know.”
“The larger problem, though?”
I glance at him as he surveys the scene, and I say, “The larger problem is the fact this isn’t our case at all. From my policing history, I recall that before organized forces, law enforcement was mostly handled by the local lord. We’re past that, though not at the stage of a national or regional force. So what should we expect?”
“I wish I knew. The General Police Act requires that each county have its own police force or, if it cannot, that it join with a neighboring county to establish one. However, that legislation is just over a dozen years old. A decade may seem long enough to enact a point of law. However…”
I snort. “Yeah, organizations don’t move that fast, especially if you’re talking about thecreationof that organization. If they’ve only been ordered to form local police forces thirteen years ago, I shudder to think what they actually have.”
“It will largely depend on whether or not they were establishing a force in expectation of the act. Unless people have been the victims of crime, they are not eager to pay for policing, and local governments are not eager to tighten their belts or to raise local taxes. My hope is that—”
He’s cut off by the babble of voices. We look to see Gray coming our way, followed by Cranston… and pretty much everyone else staying at the house.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, my hands flying up.
“I will handle this,” McCreadie murmurs.
I bite my tongue and stay where I am, having learned that Victorians look askance at a young woman acting like a cop. Before McCreadie reaches the group, Gray is already stopping them.
“My apologies, Hugh,” he says, seemingly through gritted teeth. “I didexplain that no one except Archie ought to come, but the only people who listened were our sisters.”
Cranston is in the lead. He strides toward the body, his face held tight.
“Did you check for a pulse?” Edith says, moving past her husband.
“Yes,” Gray says tightly. “Being a doctor, the first thing I did was confirm that Ezra could not be resuscitated.”
Edith and her husband follow right on Cranston’s heels. Violet hangs back, blinking and looking about, as if she’d been carried here on the tide and now realizes it is not where she wishes to be. She glances toward the house.
Seeing her distress, McCreadie rocks forward, as if to offer her an escort back. Then he seems to remember he’s the last person she’ll want. I consider stepping in for him, but as much as I want to help, I do not want to walk away from the scene.
Everyone here is a suspect, and I need to see their reactions. That includes Violet. I don’t know which woman was out last night, and if the weapon was indeed a shillelagh, then I can’t rule out the women. The cudgel would provide them with the height and force needed to kill Sinclair. That reminds me to make note of the women’s outerwear. Both have shawls, neither is wearing a hat, though they wouldn’t if they came out quickly.
Violet doesn’t notice my scrutiny. Her gaze slips to the house, and then she steels herself, as if retreat would be the coward’s way out. She looks toward her brother, and she takes a half step in his direction before stopping herself. She chews her lip as her gaze stays on Cranston, watching him with obvious concern.
Cranston is striding forward like he did yesterday heading for that dead wildcat. The landowner taking charge of the situation. But when he sees Sinclair, he falters. He stares down at his dead friend and swallows hard. His fists clench and unclench. Then he notices me and straightens as if he’d been caught sobbing.
I half turn away, giving him privacy while still watching.
“That is my coat,” Cranston says, and he isn’t looking at anyone except Sinclair. “He is wearing my coat.”
I look over, trying to gauge his meaning.
