Page 74 of Death at a Highland Wedding
“I—I would not know. He hardly shares that information.”
“True, but I’m going to bet that you’ve known there were women, in the past, and now there aren’t. Maybe he just can’t find any. It’s too bad he’s so unattractive and ill-tempered.”
She smiles and shakes her head. Then she gestures at the bench. “We have long since arrived at our destination, and I know you need to investigate.”
“Sure, but there’s no rush. We can keep talking. Give me time to mentionthe way Hugh looks at you, the way he finds excuses to touch your hand, the way he jumps when you want something—”
“Investigate,” she says, jabbing a finger at the bench. “Or I will turn the discussion to how you feel about my brother.”
“Why, would you look at that? It’s the bench I need to examine for potential evidence.”
She shakes her head and leaves me to it.
TWENTY-FOUR
So the bench trip is a bust. Or it would be, if not for that conversation with Isla. Is it wrong to say that I’d take her admitting her feelings for Hugh over a piece of murder evidence any day? Bad Detective Mallory. Okay, if it was a piece of evidence that would catch the killer before they struck again, I’d need to go with the clue instead. But if it was something like a footprint in the damp earth that I could trace to the woman Sinclair had been meeting—who likely wasn’t his killer—I’ll stick with Isla’s long-overdue confession.
I actually do find a print in the damp earth. It’s a man’s boot and almost certainly McCreadie’s, which I know because I’ve had to exclude his prints before. I still measure and sketch it.
I find nothing else. No evidence to tell me who the mystery woman was. No evidence to suggest she even made it to this bench. But being here, I can better map out the route she’d have taken and confirm that the woman we’d seen last night definitelycouldhave been heading here. I can also confirm that Sinclair was probably heading here, having circled through the field on the other side of the road to avoid them being seen together.
McCreadie and Isla had chosen this spot because it’s not only pretty but isolated. Or so it seems when you’re sitting here. Gray and I had spotted them from the road, but looking up from here, I wouldn’t see passing coaches or pedestrians… and would reasonably assume they couldn’t see me either.
It’s the perfect spot for a rendezvous.
Now, how is it for witnessing a homicide?
“Alarming how quickly your mind moves from romance to murder,” Isla murmurs when I tell her that. “I know only one other person who could veer so naturally and adroitly. Perhaps I should introduce you to him. No, wait, you are working for him.”
I ignore that. “It’s a perfectly natural change of subject, considering that the romantic rendezvous is connected to the murder, at least in the sense that it explains why Ezra was out last night.”
That gleam in her eye disappears as her face drops. “He came to meet a woman, who might have been Violet Cranston. Her chance at finally finding happiness.”
“We don’t know it was Violet,” I say firmly. “But if the woman I saw last night sat here, I’m wondering whether she could have heard anything. Can you sit while I go up the hill? I want to try shouting from the murder scene.”
“To see whether I can hear you.”
“Right.”
“Do not forget the traps.”
“Oh, I won’t. Duncan and Hugh are going to ask Müller to remove them, in light of what happened and the number of people who need to be tramping through these fields. For now, I’ll just walk carefully.”
“Verycarefully. Please.”
I head directly up the hill to the road. From there, I realize I can’t see Isla. It was the extra height of the coach that gave us the proper vantage. Once on the road, I look around to get my bearings. Then I head almost directly across and into the brush. Within twenty feet I reach the spot where we’d found the abandoned deer kill. I make a quick note of that. Then I veer left and count off the distance in paces.
Seventy-two paces.
That makes it very likely that whoever had been field-dressing the deer had heard something—or someone—related to the murder. They’d definitely have heard a cry. Maybe even the thwack of the club hitting Sinclair’s head.
They’re butchering the deer when they hear someone. Would movement make them bolt, half their catch abandoned? Probably not. They’d have braced and waited. But a cry? The sound of violence? That would make them grab what they could and go.
I look around the spot. I’d like to come back with Gray and McCreadie for another look, now that Ross won’t be running us off his crime scene. For now, I yelp. It’s a normal-volume yelp, as if I’d been caught unawares. Then I say “Hey!” with my voice raised. Finally, I take a deep breath and yell, a soundless cry of pain and surprise. There, three vocalizations to determine which—if any—Isla could hear from her spot at the lake.
I’m making my way back when someone shouts, “You there!,” and I turn to see Müller stomping toward me, hunting rifle under his arm, the barrel pointed at me. My hand slides into my pocket, where I am indeed now carrying my little derringer.
“Lower the rifle,” I call back.
