Page 6 of Death at a Highland Wedding
Isla nods. “You may show the young ladies to their quarters.” Then, to us, “Come see me when you are settled in, and we will take a ramble through the grounds.”
“That is not possible,” Mrs. Hall says.
Isla raises her brows.
“Mr. Cranston’s orders,” Mrs. Hall says. “All guests are restricted to the house and gardens. For their own safety.”
“That sounds ominous,” I murmur.
The woman turns her steely gaze on me.
“Any particular safety concern?” I ask. “Killer deer? Man-eating tigers? Well-armed former tenants?”
“Mr. Cranston requests guests stay within the house and gardens. For their own safety. Now, please come with me.”
“You must be more careful,” Alice hisses as we climb the endless stairs to the attic. “Mrs. Ballantyne might be amused, but your sharp tongue reflects poorly on her and Dr. Gray.”
Being schooled in manners by a parlormaid is a hard blow, but she’s right. It’s not my manners that are the problem. I’m Canadian. I say please when making automated phone selections. But in the modern world, my smart-assed comments haven’t reflected badly on anyone else since I was old enough for people to stop blaming my poor parents. Now I’m in a world where someone else will always be blamed. I am a woman, after all.
When we reach the attic, Mrs. Hall ushers us into a small room, and I smile. It’s a perfect little attic garret, complete with sloping wood-beamed ceilings and dormer windows. It’s also a whole lot warmer than downstairs. Castles—even replicas of them—are drafty.
The best part, though, is the tiny door in the corner, where someone has posted a handwritten sign reading, in all caps, “DANGER!!! DO NOT OPEN!!!” Yes, there are three exclamation marks both times.
Seeing the sign, I laugh. Then I look at Mrs. Hall, who peers at me suspiciously, as if wondering whether I might be touched.
I point at the sign. I’m presuming it’s a joke. I mean, it’s a small door in an attic marked with dire warnings. Of course anyone staying in this room is going to open it, if only out of pure curiosity.
But from the look the housekeeper gives me, it’s not a joke.
“So we… should not open the door?” I say.
Alice suppresses a snicker.
“No,” Mrs. Hall intones. “That is what the sign says, in case you cannot read.”
I look from her to the door. “May I ask—?”
“No.”
The housekeeper turns on her heel and leaves. I walk over and close the door behind her. Then I turn and Alice has already sprinted to the tiny marked door. I do the same, but she beats me there.
“Wait!” I whisper. “That could be where they keep the inconvenient relatives.”
She rolls her eyes skyward. “Then it would be locked.”
“Ah, but that would be illegal. You can hide your embarrassing relatives in secret attic rooms as long as the door isn’t locked. That’s the law.”
She eyes me, uncertain.
“I’m joking,” I say. “Although, if it is Mr. Cranston’s mad former wife, she might be fine company. All right, open the door so we can meet her.”
Alice turns the handle. When the door sticks, I reach over to help and we yank… and it flies open with a wall of spare pillows and blankets tumbling onto us, knocking her down and me back onto the bed. We look at each other, covered in blankets, and start to laugh.
“I told you not to open the door,” a distant voice calls. “Now mind you put all those back before you come down.”
THREE
While Alice repacks the linen closet, I go to help Isla change and settle in, as her “companion.” As soon as she releases me, I go in search of Gray. I have questions. Time to stop detecting and start asking.
