“St. Mawr, would you mind giving me a hand?”
My stomach dropped as I watched both men—the two closest to me in all the world—awkwardly drop down into the grave. The coffin made a hollow thud as they landed, and I could only hope the wood would hold both their weight.
The rector stepped closer to the grave to watch what they were doing, but I had to turn away.
“Watchin’ ye two lads, I almost wish this story would turn oot like the tale o’ James Goodfellow and the body snatchers,” the rector said, his voice rich with amusement. “Do ye ken it, Lady Darby?”
“Ah, no, I don’t,” I turned to reply, carefully avoiding looking into the grave. I pivoted away again, ostensibly to keep the wind at my back and the hood over my head, but really I wanted to ignore what was happening behind me.
“Well, James Goodfellow was walkin’ home late one night—they say after courtin’ a girl—and he happened to see a light in the churchyard here. Curiosity gettin’ to him, he snuck closer and saw a pony ’n cart hid in the glebe. Well, he gave the pony a skelp on the rump and set it runnin’ off.” The rector chuckled, while below him I could hear Gage and Trevor grunting in some sort of effort. “The thieves were forced to chase after it, and while they were gone, ole’ James crept into the graveyard, hid the body he found in the coffin they’d opened, and climbed inside himself.”
I glanced over my shoulder at him in wide-eyed surprise.
He grinned, clearly enjoying my shock. “The body snatchers returned and hoisted the coffin onto the cart and drove off. ’Twas aboot ten minutes later that one o’ the men leaned against ole James and shouted, ‘Jock, this body’s warm!’ Well, James couldna miss oot on this opportunity, so he sat up and proclaimed, ‘If you’d been where I’ve been, you’d be warm, too!’”
The rector threw his head back and laughed, and I cracked a smile, as much from watching his enjoyment as in appreciation of the story.
“You can imagine how quickly those thieves took off after that. Left the pony ’n cart all to James.”
I turned to look at the late Lord Fleming’s obelisk, curious whether this was one of the stories Lady Fleming had derided. It did sound a bit embellished, but it was certainly entertaining. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was any truth to it.
I studied the obelisk’s inscription—Lord Fleming’s full name and dates. And then something at the top right corner of the surface bearing the engraving caught my eye.
I frowned. It was a tiny red mark—a slash of color barely two inches long.
I moved closer, leaning down to get a better look. It appeared to be very smooth, almost glossy. I reached out with my gloved hand to run a finger over it, but it did not smudge or come away on my fingertip. Tugging the glove off my hand, I ran my fingers over the cold stone again, suddenly realizing what the red substance was.
“It’s sealing wax.” I gasped.
“What?” Gage called up to me in confusion.
“See this red mark,” I demanded in excitement, pointing to the spot in question. “It’s sealing wax.”
Both men stared at me blankly.
“There was a mark just like it on Lord Buchan’s gravestone.”
Gage’s eyes widened and he rose from his crouch, where he’d been examining the inside of the coffin. “Of course! Why didn’t we think of it before? If the men doing the actual grave robbing are these criminals from Edinburgh, as we suspect, then it’s highly unlikely they can read. So how do they know which graves to disturb?”
“The main person responsible must be marking them. Which means . . .” I stood up, turning to look around me “. . . he visited here recently.”
“He visited all the grave sites,” Gage exclaimed, hoisting himself up out of the grave and then reaching down to help Trevor.
Once my brother was on solid ground, Gage turned to address the rector. “Do you recall any visitors to the graveyard recently? Maybe in the last fortnight. Particularly any strangers.”
The rector, who’d been observing our conversation in awed silence, stammered, trying to find his words. “Er, hmm . . . well, let me see. In the last fortnight?” He furrowed his brow in thought. “Well, we’ve had the normal parishioners.” He tapped his finger to his chin. “But no strangers. O’ course, I’m no’ always here. I’m often oot vistin’ those who are too sick and elderly to make it to the church.”
Which meant our quarry had probably visited during one of those times. He’d been exceptionally clever up until now, and there was no reason we shouldn’t expect him to continue to be.
The rector shrugged. “I’m sorry. The only guest I can recall is the young man who came with Lady Fleming’s nephew.”
“Who was that?” Gage asked.
He frowned. “I dinna recall exactly, but he was a Lord something-or-other. They were visitin’ the late Mr. Young’s grave.”