The Earl of Buchan’s staff consisted of the usual assortment of characters—butler, housekeeper, cook, footmen, maids of every stripe, a valet, and even a governess who tutored the earl’s young son. We’d already questioned the stable hands and coachman with no luck, but I had hopes that one of the indoor staff would have something to tell us. Most of the servants present had attended the bonfire and ceilidh at Clintmains Hall, though the butler, valet, and governess had remained behind, the latter to care for her charge, I suspected.
“I did see a light at the abbey when I pulled the window drapes closed in my room,” the governess admitted in some distress. “But I’m afraid I didn’t think much of it. It wasn’t my concern, in any case. The young master was. And he wasn’t very happy to have missed out on the Hogmanay festivities.”
I nodded, understanding the woman had likely had her hands full dealing with the boy. The others might have enjoyed their Hogmanay, be it at the ceilidh or quietly on their own, but if the boy had been sullen or unruly, she may not have.
“What of the rest of you?” I asked, scanning their faces where we stood clustered in the large entry hall. “Did you hear or see anything strange at any time yesterday or even in the days before? Did you see anyone on the roads or near the estate who seemed out of place?”
Their blank faces and shaking heads did not encourage me. At least half of them seemed to be nursing thick heads, including the otherwise stalwart-looking housekeeper, and I wondered if that portion of my audience truly comprehended what I was saying.
Then a petite maid with corkscrew auburn curls inched forward from where she had been cowering near the staircase. She glanced about her anxiously, and I knew she was working up the courage to speak. I smiled at her encouragingly, repressing the excitement that surged in me at the prospect that she might have something worthwhile to tell.
“Is . . . is it true then?” she stammered.
“Is what true?” I asked, curious just what story had been circling the manor about Dodd’s death and the goings-on at the abbey.
She swallowed before replying haltingly. “They say the ole earl rose from the grave. Th-That he’s come back to haunt us.”
“Or drain our blood,” another maid whispered beside her.
I frowned at the two maids and then surveyed the others gathered around them. Some seemed as apprehensive as they were, while others smirked at their na?veté and superstition.
“No. The late earl has not risen from the dead,” I replied.
“But Dodd . . .” the maid persisted.
“Was shot. So unless Lord Buchan was buried with a pistol, then Dodd encountered a very living, breathing human in the abbey cemetery.” I could hear that my aggravation had crept into my voice, and I took a deep breath. Scolding the staff would not convince them to share any information they had with me.
“Maybe it was the Nun of Dryburgh,” the second maid whispered, her eyes wide as she glanced around at her fellow servants.
I barely resisted rolling my eyes at the girl’s mention of the mythical figure Sir Walter Scott had written about in one of his poems. I decided it would be best to switch tactics before anyone else named a creature of fantasy as the murderer.
“What of Dodd? Had he argued with anyone recently? Would anyone have had a reason to wish him dead?”
This question seemed to shock the servants more than anything I’d asked, for they began murmuring to each other with astonished looks on their faces.
The cook, a formidable-looking woman with white hair, harrumphed. “Ole Dodd was cantankerous, teh be sure. But no one ’d want teh harm ’im.”
I had known the query was probably pointless, for it was likely the caretaker had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but it was best not to make assumptions, and so the question had to be asked.
While the staff slowly filed out of the hall, seeming reluctant to go now that the questioning had passed, Trevor and I followed Lord Buchan into his study. The earl told his butler to have tea sent in, and then closed the door on the curious eyes of the lingering servants. He motioned for us to take a seat in the pair of burgundy wingback chairs before his heavy oak desk.
“I wish my staff could have been more helpful,” he replied in regret. His heavy brow was furrowed, and deep grooves etched his forehead between his eyes. His chair creaked as he settled into it. “I’ve been thinking over the matter, and I must say I’m as baffled as ever.”
I glanced out the tall windows at the swiftly flowing current of the River Tweed, feeling the same bafflement. So far I had no suspects, and I desperately wanted some direction on where to look.
“I asked the servants about Dodd,” I told Lord Buchan. “And I apologize, but I also must ask about your uncle.” I paused, not wishing to offend him. “Did he have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted . . . revenge?”