Page 61 of Death at a Highland Wedding
I don’t sit in on the interviews, partly because McCreadie and Gray don’t need my help and partly because it seems a very boring way to spend the next couple of hours. Or maybe that’s the same reason.
I have other avenues to pursue. I start with Cranston’s collection of shillelaghs. They’re kept in the cloakroom, which is actually more like a sitting room. It’s about ten feet square and includes wardrobes for hanging cloaks and coats and other outerwear. It also has a few low settees, which are useful for taking boots on and off, but also seem to be designed for sitting. This isn’t unique to Cranston’s estate. I’ve seen these in other big houses, where they seem to be a spot where you can comfortably transition from outerwear to innerwear and freshen up a bit. Most have mirrors. Some even have a washbasin.
The shillelaghs are arranged in stands, both for decoration and utility. The utility being as walking sticks rather than weapons, but the roomisconveniently close to the door, in case of invasion.
I’d noticed the shillelaghs yesterday, and while Isla had taken her time changing out of her boots, I’d examined and admired the walking-stick clubs. I know a bit about shillelaghs, mostly from a case back home where one had been used in an assault, prompting me to do some research. As with anything that catches my interest, I delved in deeper than I needed to. I even have a shillelagh back in my Vancouver condo, a gift from colleagues, that assault being the first case I cleared as a detective.
Shillelaghs are sometimes made from oak, but that’s rare enough in Ireland that blackthorn is more commonly used. I will admit that I thought blackthorn was a tree until I came to Scotland and discovered it’s a shrub. It’s also known as sloe, and if I’d known that, I’d have realized it was a shrub, sloe berries being used for sloe gin.
The fact that it’s a bush explains the signature knotty look of a shillelagh. It’s a long and relatively slender stick with a thick knob at the end. Traditionally, the stick is cured in a chimney, for up to a year, turning the blackthorn literally black. The club is then polished and oiled, and sometimes, to add a little extra heft, that knobby end is filled with molten lead.
Yesterday, I didn’t count how many shillelaghs Cranston had in the cloakroom, but now that I’m examining them, I don’t think any are missing. Each of the three stands holds four, and I recall seeing two empty slots. So space for twelve shillelaghs but only ten in the collection.
I make my way around each stand. With gloved hands, I carefully lift each shillelagh to examine it. Of the ten, six have smooth rounded or cylindrical ends that wouldn’t have made the mark left in Sinclair’s skull. The knots on two are too shallow for the wound. The final two have the sort of knotty ends that would work.
I’m turning one over in my hands when someone clears their throat behind me. The housekeeper, Mrs. Hall, stands there, her hands on her hips.
“What might you be doing, lassie?” she says. “If you’re thinking of taking one of those for a stroll, think again. They belong to Mr. Cranston, and I’ll not be having anyone take them out while he is not at home.”
“I’m not looking for a walking stick,” I say. “I am helping Dr. Gray and Detective McCreadie, who are trying to free Mr. Cranston.”
Her gaze goes from me to the shillelagh, with a look that clearly asks how the walking sticks are connected to that.
“I’m looking for anything of value that might be missing from the estate,” I say. “Are these all accounted for?”
“Yes,” she says. “Mr. Cranston is still adding to the collection. That is why there are two empty spaces.”
“Do they get used as walking sticks?”
“Sometimes. By Mr. Cranston and Mr. Sinclair, mostly.” She lowers her hands from her hips and sighs. “Petey Ross is a fool. Always has been.Always will be. His grandfather was a fine constable, but sometimes, when folks reach an age, they declare they are done with work. They want to be done so quickly they cannot bother passing on what they know.”
“The senior Constable Ross didn’t properly train his grandson.”
“The boy could get help from constables in other towns. But no, he must do it all himself.” She moves to straighten a shillelagh. “Embarrassing, it is. Makes us all look like simpletons. Typical village folk who do not know their arse from their elbow. And now look at what he’s done. There’s a fine detective in the house, and Petey ignores him and arrests the master. Themaster.”
“And that is… embarrassing?” I venture.
“No,” she snaps. “It is ridiculous. Mr. Cranston killing Mr. Sinclair over a borrowed coat? Mr. Sinclair took it all the time.” Her lips tighten. “I had half a mind to hide it from him. It’s a fine coat, and he had his own, but all Mr. Cranston would do is grumble because he is not the sort to actually complain about such a thing. Kill him for it? Killanyonefor it?” She snorts. “Preposterous.”
“People have killed for less.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it. But not Mr. Cranston, and clearly not for a borrowed coat.”
“That is what everyone says, which is why Detective McCreadie is investigating.”
She stops fussing with the clubs and nods. “The detective seems a fine man. He will set this right.”
“Has he spoken to you yet?” I say. “He needs to talk to everyone in the house, to establish a timeline.”
“He has not, but I will be ready when he does.”
“About that…” I lower my voice. “He’s going to need to speak to your children, too.”
She tenses so hard the keys on her chatelaine jangle. “My children? They do not live here.”
“Dr. Gray believes they were on the property last night.”Apologies, Duncan.“A deer was killed and partly butchered.”
“And you blame my children?” Her voice rises, but there’s a shrill ring of insincerity in her outrage. “They were inside all night—”
