Page 79 of Death at a Highland Wedding
I have an idea about that, and I add it to the list of things I hope to accomplish at my next stage of the investigation: accompanying Fiona to see Cranston in jail.
TWENTY-SIX
I know a little about jails in this period and region. Jail as in “a temporary holding place” rather than prison as in “a place where sentences are carried out.” Most of my knowledge comes from my childhood interest in the macabre that has persisted well past childhood. One might think jails and prisons wouldn’t qualify as macabre, but having spent a night in an Edinburgh lockup, I can say hell, yeah, that qualifies.
I’ve visited old village lockups in England. They’re basically a closet-sized stone cell in the middle of town. I can just imagine what it’d have been like to be confined there at night. I’m not claustrophobic or afraid of the dark, but something tells me I would be when I came out.
Did Scotland have those? I’m not sure. I know they did have the uniquely Scottish tolbooths—buildings that were originally intended for the collection of tolls and customs, and eventually included jails and law-enforcement bureaucracy. I suspect this village is much too small for such a thing. Maybe Cranston will go to one when he’s transferred to a larger locale. For now, I have no idea where they’ll keep him.
I soon find out.
This village isn’t big enough for a proper jail. But, like some tolbooths, the sole administrative building serves as a combination of everything from police office to town hall. That’s where the cell is—an outdoor makeshift lean-to shored up with iron bars.
Ross allows us entry. Not only does it save him from feeding the prisoner, but Fiona has brought a spread big enough for three, and he takes more than half for his own meal. He also happily accepts the coins she brought “for anything Archie might need.”
I had been concerned that Ross might not let me accompany Fiona. What if McCreadie was trying to sneak Gray’s assistant in to question Cranston for him? Silly question. I am the pretty young woman Dr. Graypretendsis his assistant. Even if they’d given me a list of questions, I probably couldn’t read them.
Oh, Ross remembers me. His stares and flushes make that much clear. But he doesn’t for one second doubt that I’ve only come to accompany Cranston’s fiancée. Nor does he seem to recall that Fiona is also Detective McCreadie’s sister.
Ross takes us out back to the lean-to. “Cranston?” he calls. “You have a visitor.”
“Mr.Cranston,” Fiona says smartly. She looks at him. “When my bridegroom is released, this will go much easier for you if you have treated him with respect.”
Ross blinks, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek. Until now, she has been the perfect model of maidenly decorum, with downcast eyes and a quavering voice. Now that she got what she wanted, she returns to form.
Ross doesn’t seem to know how to respond and opens the door. “You will have to go inside. I cannot leave it open.”
Fiona swans in as if he’s holding the door to a ball. I follow and squint against the interior gloom. The only light is sunshine sneaking through cracks in the rough construction. It’s half the size of a county jail cell. There isn’t even a cot—just a few bales of hay. That’s where Cranston sits, rising quickly as he realizes he has visitors. Even in the dim light, he’s a mess, his shirt dirty and wrinkled, hair standing on end as if he’s been running his hands through it.
“Violet,” he says. Then he stops. “Fiona?” He quickly pats down his hair and pulls his shirt straight, and his voice lowers a little. “What are you doing here?”
“Come to bring you dinner.” She lifts the hamper. “Also clean clothing and a few other amenities. I am sorry if you were expecting Violet. Of course she wanted to come, but I asked whether I might instead.”
“Oh?” He sounds confused, as if unable to comprehend why his fiancée would want to see him.
“I apologize for the disappointment.”
“What? No.” More shirt straightening. “I simply did not expect… This is not the place for you, and I am the one who should apologize. I expected you to be on your way to Edinburgh by now.”
Her brows shoot up. “Fleeing my falsely imprisoned bridegroom? Do you really think me that sort of woman, Archie?”
“I…” He swallows, seeming thrown and almost shy. Then he looks at me and seems to pounce at the distraction. “Miss Mitchell. Dare I hope Hugh sent you and that he is working on freeing me?”
“Indeed,” I say. “That is the real reason Violet could not come. She knew Fiona wanted to and I needed to. Detective McCreadie has questions, and Constable Ross was never going to let him ask them himself. He cannot know we are investigating at all.”
Cranston’s shoulders roll back. “Hughisinvestigating then.”
“Did you think my brother would forsake you?” Fiona’s lips curve. “His soon-to-be brother-in-law?”
A look passes over Cranston’s face, and I try to read it. Shame? Discomfort? He says, softly, “I understand that you may not wish to wed, Fiona. Even if I am freed of the charge, it will stain me.”
“If you are trying to get out of the marriage, say so,” she says tartly.
He blinks, taken aback. “Not at all. But I would understand—”
“We will discuss that later, and if you wish this to serve as an excuse to end the engagement, I trust you will be honest. For now, answer Mallory’s questions.”
His lips twitch, and he looks more like himself. “Yes, my lady.” He turns to me. “Ask away.”
