Page 93 of Death at a Highland Wedding
Mrs. Glass ushers us into a main room that’s small and shabby but also tidy and scrubbed clean. A girl of about fourteen appears to take the baby, and I see yet another child, a toddler who’d probably been the one shrieking.
“You have lovely children,” Fiona says.
Mrs. Glass beams. “Six of them. We’d lost not a single one as a babe. Such fine luck, I always thought.” Her smile falters. “But perhaps it was too much. The Lord saw that we had an unfair bounty and took our Nora to keep us humble.”
It’s an odd sentiment, and an odd way to think of a child’s death, but this is a time when six healthy children—none dying in infancy—wouldhave been a bounty of good fortune. They might indeed see it as the hand of God setting things right.
“I am deeply sorry,” Fiona says as we settle in.
“As am I,” I say.
“Oh! Where are my manners?” Fiona sighs. “I will be a married woman within days, and I behave as if I am still paying social calls with my mother. This is my dear friend, Miss Mallory Mitchell.”
I greet the family, and then make faces at the toddler as his mother prepares tea. That gets Fiona laughing and it draws the other children nearer, pulled in by the sight of a well-dressed young woman making a spectacle of herself to amuse a child. Another girl, this one about seven, edges closer.
As Mrs. Glass and Fiona talk, I pull out my stock trick for children—I make coins disappear. Then I play the cups game, where I put a coin under one of two cups and move them around. In this case, not wanting to ask for cups, I use my hands. If the child gets it right, they keep the penny, which makes this game a real winner with Victorian children.
The game keeps the kids busy, but also wins some credit with their mother. Because when the small talk with Fiona is done, it’s my turn. That, however, doesn’t mean I can take over the conversation. Fiona and I discussed how to do this, and I give her the cue by whispering, loud enough to be heard, “You wished to mention Mr. Müller.”
“Oh, yes.” Fiona clears her throat, as if loath to bring it up. “Mr. Cranston wished me to let you know that Mr. Müller will not be employed with him much longer. He heard what happened with your Nora, and he wished me to convey his sincere apologies for that. There has been some misunderstandingregarding use of the estate grounds, and Mr. Cranston certainly did not expect his gamekeeper to be frightening off children.”
Mrs. Glass’s gaze dips. “That is most kind of you both. We had told Nora to stay away. The previous owner was clear that he did not wish anyone walking through. But Nora grew up using the grounds, and it was her favorite place to walk. We did not intend any insult to Mr. Cranston.”
“None was taken, and he hopes no insult to the village was incurred—he would not wish people to think him an ogre who would drive off children.”
“He truly was aghast to hear of it,” I add. “Am I correct that Mr. Müller ran her off, shouting at her?”
Mrs. Glass’s mouth presses in a firm line. “That he did. Shouting in his own tongue, which Nora could not understand. It greatly perplexed her.”
“And frightened her, I am sure,” I say.
Mrs. Glass’s expression lightens in a fond smile. “No, I would not say it frightened her. Our Nora had the heart of a lioness. Fearless as could be. She knew she was in trouble and ran straight home, but then she had a fine story to tell, how the man chased her, shouting curses in a foreign tongue.” She rolls her eyes. “Curses.She did love a grand story.”
“Did she… think he was cursing her?”
Mrs. Glass laughs. “Nay, lass. She knew better, but I took her aside to be sure. While I do not raise my children with such superstitious nonsense, you can never tell what they hear outside these walls. She said she only added that to make it a better story. She understood the man was simply telling her to leave.”
“Did anyone else believe he had cursed her?” Fiona says. “If that were the case, we would speak to Mr. Müller and see what he said, to ease any concerns.”
“Dear me, no.” Mrs. Glass laughs again. “People here do like their superstitions, but it is mostly a bit of fun. Setting out cream for the fair folk and such. They knew the man did not truly curse anyone. It was a story for the children.” She straightens, looking startled. “You do not think that we believed her cursed, do you? That we blamed Mr. Cranston—or his gamekeeper—for her death?”
“I heard nothing of the sort,” Fiona says.
“I… did,” I say, feigning reluctance, while shooting Fiona a look as if to apologize for not telling her. Of course, we did tell Fiona about thenote, but we wouldn’t want Mrs. Glass thinking this was the real reason for our visit.
I continue, “When Dr. Gray and I were in town yesterday, we received a note that might have suggested some responsibility. We did not wish to tell you, Fiona.” I look at Mrs. Glass. “Apologies, ma’am. We put no stock in it.”
“And you should not. A note you say?”
“Left in our coach.”
She shakes her head. “One of the children, then. I did not consider that they might take Nora’s storytelling for truth. I will be certain to set anyone straight if I hear talk of curses.”
We speak for a few more minutes, with Fiona soliciting advice on how the villagers might respond to a summer picnic at the estate.
Mrs. Glass does not point out that—with Fiona’s fiancé in prison, charged with murder—it might be a little premature to plan picnics. She’s given no indication that she knows about Cranston’s imprisonment. That doesn’t mean she’s necessarily unaware of it—only that she’s too polite to comment if Fiona is proceeding as if nothing has happened.
Before we leave, I take a small wrapped parcel from my pocket. I open it on the table, revealing the ring and embroidered hair ribbon we found in Müller’s cottage. Mrs. Glass only looks at them, as if puzzled.
