A log popped in the fireplace and hissed as the embers rose up.
“I suppose I would describe him as more of a person of some interest,” Gage hedged. “He wrote to or visited the families of the other victims, asking them about a gold torc.”
Lord Fleming’s face creased in concentration. “Then maybe . . . Is that a type of necklace?”
“Yes,” I said. “It was worn by the Celts.”
“Then yes, I think I have heard from him. I’ll have to ask my secretary to be sure. But I vaguely remember him telling me about some correspondence I received from a man about a gold necklace.” He squinted. “Something about my grandfather having stolen it.”
Gage and I exchanged a glance.
“That would be Mr. Collingwood,” Gage told him, briefly explaining the man’s accusations.
“Do you really think that’s what this is all about?” Lord Fleming’s voice was shaded with doubt. “A gold necklace?”
“Honestly? No,” Gage admitted. “But so far he’s the only person we can connect to all four men, so we have to seriously consider the possibility. People have done far more terrible things for even less noble reasons.”
I shrugged. “Just think of King Henry the Eighth.”
Gage’s lips cracked into a smile, but neither of our hosts seemed amused by my quip. I cleared my throat and took another sip of my tea.
“May I take it that you haven’t yet received a ransom note?” Gage asked them, drawing their eyes away from me.
“No,” Lord Fleming said. “Should we expect one?”
“Yes. And please send word to me at once upon receiving it.” He leaned forward slightly in his chair, his eyes hardening. “I warn you that these men are clever. They will leave nothing to chance. And the longer we have to prepare to intercept them, the better opportunity we have of catching them.”
“And why should we trust that you’ll be able to catch them?” Lady Fleming suddenly demanded, leaning forward to set her teacup down on the table. “You haven’t been able to do so up to this point.”
Lord Fleming appeared just as taken aback by his wife’s sudden display of temper as the rest of us were. He pressed a hand to her arm, speaking her name in chastisement.
“No,” she snapped, turning on her husband. “If it hadn’t been for their incompetence, perhaps the criminals would have been caught by now, and your grandfather would still be able to rest in peace.” She rose to her feet and strode across the room to the door, but before departing, she turned to order her husband, “Don’t you dare let them botch this, or we might never get your grandfather back.”
The door closed behind her with a slam.
For a moment we were all silent, and then Lord Fleming began to apologize for his wife’s outburst. I was only half listening, more interested in why the outburst had happened in the first place.
Was Lady Fleming scared of a scandal? Her extreme dislike of me was a strong indication that she was, but I felt there was something more to it. There had been something in her eyes, something that left a bitter taste in my mouth. And if I wasn’t very much mistaken, it was fear. But of what?
She didn’t strike me as being very religious, so I had trouble believing it had anything to do with the late Lord Fleming and his ability, or inability as it were, to rise again on Judgment Day. And surely she realized that none of the living family members of the victims had yet been harmed. Dodd had been murdered because he interrupted the body snatchers at their work. So what could it be?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Trevor was just rising from the dinner table when we arrived at Blakelaw House. He came out to the hall to greet us, folding me in a tight hug that made me suspect he might have been lonely while we were away. When he discovered we had not yet eaten, he called for two more place settings and ordered the food to be brought back up from the kitchens. I told the butler that some cold meat, cheese, and bread would be perfectly adequate, but the staff ignored me, and soon we were sitting down to a full meal.
Trevor relaxed in his chair and sipped white wine while we relayed the latest discoveries in our investigation between bites of roasted pheasant, neeps and tatties, and apple tart. Our uncle had kept Trevor apprised of the theft of the late Lord Fleming’s bones, as well as another development—the information of which must have been included in a letter that arrived in Edinburgh after our departure.
Trevor leaned back even farther in his seat, evidently happy to have something to contribute to the conversation. “It’s a good thing you recommended Lord Buchan have his uncle’s bones examined by Dr. Carputhers. The crotchety man resisted for a time, angry that he’d been excluded from the investigation at the beginning.” He scowled. “Even though it was his own fault he was inebriated and incapable. That’s why it took so long to discover one of the late Lord Buchan’s bones was missing.”