Page 85 of Death at a Highland Wedding
I creep up the steps in hopes of hearing a noise in one of their rooms. If I do, I can softly knock and let them know I’m awake at this ungodly hour, too. Insomnia loves company.
I pause at the top and listen. The faintest swish of fabric comes. I follow it to my right, across the hall from Gray’s room. Who was sleeping in there? One of the men, I think. Sinclair or Cranston. The women’s rooms are all down farther, with Isla’s.
No, that wouldn’t be Cranston’s chambers. He has the main bedroom, and if I recall correctly, it’s up another set of stairs. These are all guest rooms.
Then I realize whose room that is. I’d stood atop these stairs earlier today as Simon and another groom came up… carrying Sinclair’s body.
Someone is in Ezra Sinclair’s room. Where his dead body is laid out.
I hold my breath as I creep toward the door. I’m careful not to step in front of it, in case my slippered feet shadow any light underneath.
The interior has gone silent. Even when I strain to listen, I pick up nothing.
The obvious reason for someone to be in Sinclair’s room is to retrieve something. Evidence that might indicate Sinclair was the actual intended victim? Planting a clue to divert attention? Or planting a clue to exonerate or convict Cranston?
I wait another minute as I listen, but when no sound comes, I take hold of the doorknob, turn it slowly, and ease the door open a crack.
At first I see nothing. There’s no sound either—no one gasps or scuttles for a hiding spot. Cold air blasts out, from the windows all being opened to delay decomposition. Then I catch a figure seated in a bedside chair.
Is someone paying their respects? If so, I should retreat. That would be the polite thing to do. But I’m no longer just a guest in this house. I’m a detective solving the murder of the man lying on the bed.
I ease the door another inch, until I can see the form better. It’s a woman. A dark-haired, petite woman.
Violet Cranston.
I consider my options, but really, there are no options. Sure, I could back out and leave her to her silent vigil, but if I did, I’d be a decent person and a shitty detective.
“Oh!” I say as I push the door a little further open. “I am so sorry.”
She whirls, sees me, and scrambles to her feet.
I step in and close the door, and then move close enough to speak softly. “My deepest apologies. I was coming downstairs when I thought I heardsomeone in here and I feared it might be…” I trail off as my gaze shifts in discomfort. “I do hate to suggest this, but I feared one of the servants might be taking advantage of Mr. Sinclair’s death to pocket a valuable or two.”
She doesn’t answer. I wonder whether my explanation landed wrong. Then I see her, face drawn, breath held, and I realize she’s barely heard my excuse. She’s waiting for me to ask hers.
Uh, so, what exactly are you doing in here with a dead body, Miss Cranston?
“I am sorry to interrupt your grief,” I say. “Might I bring you tea from the kitchen?”
She visibly relaxes as she realizes I don’t see anything odd about her sitting beside a dead man. Certainly, in my time, finding someone sitting with a sheet-wrapped corpse in the middle of the night would be concerning. But Victorians are much more accustomed to death and more comfortable with the dead. Also, would I really think it odd if someone wanted to sit, alone, with the body of a loved one in a funeral home? No.
But would I have considered Violet close enough to Sinclair to visit his body? While he was her brother’s best friend, I don’t get the sense they were like Isla and McCreadie, growing up together and staying close. Cranston hasn’t lived with his family for years.
Would Violet sneak in here, in the middle of the night, to sit vigil with her brother’s friend?
I remember my thoughts and suspicions from earlier.
According to that maid, Sinclair wrote a note to a woman in the house, asking her to meet him at the lake. The most likely person he’d been meeting, I had decided, was the one now sitting beside his body.
Violet hasn’t answered my question about the tea, so I decide to skip it or she might not be here when I return.
“I am sorry to intrude,” I say again. “However, since I am here, I feel there is something I must warn you about.”
Her brow furrows, as if she’s wondering whether she heard me right. “Warn me?”
“It is about last night,” I say. “I saw something, and it concerns you. I do not believe it signifies, but as Detective McCreadie and Dr. Gray are now on the case, if I were to keep this from them, I could lose my position.”
I lean in and whisper, “I saw you going out. I do not sleep well in strangeplaces, and I have been up every night, wandering as I try to sleep. I was gazing out the window when I saw you hurry past. I became alarmed, knowing of the traps and what they did to that poor wildcat. I pulled on my boots and went out after you. I saw you heading up the hill to the south, on the road, but once I crested the hill, you were gone. I realized then that I might be interrupting a romantic rendezvous and quickly retreated.”
