“Let’s have a look.”
They walked down to the forge, the smell of smoke burning Ian’s lungs. Luckily they’d put it out before the building next to it had gone up in flames too. That could have been one wicked fire.
“Let’s see.” Ian made his way past both lairds around the stone building, now without a roof. Sure enough, there were footprints everywhere, which made sense. Someone had put out the fire.
“There.”
Ian’s gaze followed Ambrose’s finger. Sure enough, a set of prints as clear as day led into the woods behind the forge.
“What’s west of here?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“Beyond this forge, nothing but woods. And eventually . . .” Ambrose was clearly reluctant to finish the thought.
“Let me guess. Nothing until Kinross.”
Ambrose sighed. “They’ll blame it on them. Already are,” he admitted.
Ian moved toward the footprints. Too perfect. He walked alongside them into the woods and snow. Ambrose followed.
“When did the fire break out?”
Before Ambrose could answer, he continued, “It happened today, I presume. Not overnight?”
“Aye,” he answered, “just before sext.”
“Come here.”
Ambrose leaned over to look at the spot where Ian had pointed.
“Do you see that spiderweb? Just above the prints?”
It was nearly impossible to see with the snow’s glare. Or impossible for someone who hadn’t conducted their Eagle Project on tracking. Specifically, tracking humans. He wasn’t much of a literature buff, butThe Most Dangerous Gamehad always fascinated him. He’d had to fight for the topic: tracking human beings was apparently considered more than a bit strange.
“Nay, I do not . . . oh, aye, I see it now.”
“Spiders weave their webs late in the evening.” At least, they did in modern times, but Ian had no reason to think spiders’ behavior had evolved all that much. “Which means those prints were made yesterday. What’s more, whoever made them was walking, not running. Which would be strange behavior for someone attempting to flee a crime scene.”
Ambrose blinked, unsure what to make of him.
“Incidentally, whoever made those prints favored their right leg. An injured left one, maybe?”
Ambrose’s eyes widened.
“You know who it was?”
Clearly he did. And Ian had a good guess as to whodunnit. “An inside job? Someone wanting to frame Clan Kelbrue maybe?”
“God’s wounds . . .”
They really did need better curses around here.
“Who did it?” Ian was so curious he forgot for a second he was talking to Màiri’s ex. Or sort of ex. Whatever.
“The blacksmith himself.”
“Ha!” He hadn’t meant to shout. “Sorry. It’s just, I told my brother . . . never mind.”
“He came to us nearly two years ago, his left leg injured in an accident.”
