If Lord Fleming chose to exclude us from the payment of the ransom, there was little we could do about it. They were his grandfather’s remains, his money being paid for their return. We could not force him to let us take part, even though it might be our last chance to catch the villains.
We could attempt to visit the house in Coldingham where Mr. Stuart was rumored to stay in hopes of uncovering something, but if there was nothing there, we would be compelled to wait until either we could locate Mr. Stuart and question him or, worse, another body was stolen. The latter seemed unbearable. What if instead of bribing the next graveyard watchman or caretaker they encountered, they simply decided to kill him, like Dodd? What if an innocent bystander unwittingly got in their way?
I did not believe that these men would avoid violence. Nor did I trust that whoever was choosing the graves to rob, be it Mr. Stuart or someone else, would be able to restrain them if they wished. If these Edinburgh criminals found themselves in a tricky position, like they had been with Dodd, they would not hesitate to kill again. And because of that, they needed to be caught now, before anyone else was harmed.
Gage and I briefly considered the possibility that they would never ask for the ransom, but quickly discarded it. They might be aware of our investigation, and even be wary of our getting too close to the truth, but they had already taken tremendous risks. They wouldn’t abandon their plan before receiving their reward, not with a dangerous group of Edinburgh body snatchers to pay. It was far more likely that they were being cautious, reexamining their strategy, and waiting for the right moment to act.
Given our continued thwarted efforts, I couldn’t help but wonder about the effect the first-footing ceremony had on the events of the past few weeks. Perhaps Willie’s arrival had brought ill luck to the investigation. Though, technically, it was the Rutherfords, the owners of Clintmains Hall, whose fortune should be affected. But I had been there. Perhaps the bad omen had attached to me as well.
I felt mildly foolish even considering something so superstitious, but given the circumstances, I couldn’t completely dismiss the thought. Or the wariness I felt as the inquiry progressed.
When not stalking the post or speculating with Gage and Trevor, I tried to distract myself in my studio, thinking that if I could lose myself in my art, I might find clarity in other areas. Perhaps I would have a flash of insight about something we’d underestimated or overlooked. Maybe the key to everything was there waiting for me to find if I would just stop trying so hard to make all the pieces fit. Like a name you know you should recall but simply can’t remember no matter how hard you try, that is, until you cease attempting to recollect it.
And if clarity was not to be found in the investigation, then perhaps I could at least untangle the emotional knots I found myself twisted up in when it came to Gage. Unfortunately, the more I tried to understand what lay between us and what brought us together, the more muddled I became.
The entire situation perplexed me, and I urgently wished I could talk to my sister. As much as her pestering annoyed me, and as much as I’d resisted confiding in her while we were in Edinburgh, I knew that she, better than anyone, would be able to help me make sense of it all. She was far more experienced in the ways of the heart than I was. I knew what it was to suffer loss and to feel bitter disappointment, but when it came to the lighter emotions, I was untried.
I wanted Alana to explain how she had felt when Philip was courting her. Had she always been blissfully happy? Or had the periods of joy alternated with darker moods, moments when apprehension and doubt had pressed down on her chest like a heavy weight? Had she felt certain of his devotion and affection, or had she worried it was only temporary? That whatever he’d felt for her would swiftly shrivel and fade with time?
The trouble was that I didn’t know what it was to love and be loved in this way, so I did not know how to discern that which was real from that which was illusion. Like a portrait in which the subject wishes to be painted not as he really is, but as he wishes to be seen. And I was afraid that the moment I let myself believe, I would be proven a fool.
So I took refuge in my studio, taking comfort in the tangible feel of the brush between my fingertips, the touch of its bristles against the canvas as I created my own reality. Here I solely controlled the truth—the authenticity of the pigments, the accuracy of the representation—and no one could tell me otherwise.