The earl frowned.
“I know it seems an odd question.” In fact, it sounded ridiculous. “But none of this makes sense.”
“No, no. I appreciate you’re simply trying to understand it yourself.” He closed his eyes as if thinking hard, and then shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t think of anyone who would do such a thing. Don’t get me wrong. My uncle was no saint. But he was more likely to annoy you than anger you. He was too vain and self-important to be concerned with others.”
“What of you?” Trevor asked him. “Is there anyone who might try to strike at you by stealing your uncle’s bones?”
I tensed, worried he might be insulted, but he only cradled his chin in his hand as he gave the matter some consideration. I turned to Trevor, thanking him with my eyes for asking the sensitive question. He dipped his head in response.
Lord Buchan’s mouth curled in chagrin. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I deceive myself, but I can think of no one who would wish to harm me in this way.”
A tiny rap on the door signaled the return of the butler, and we fell silent while the tea tray was settled on the edge of the desk nearest to me. Once the door had closed behind the servant, I reached forward to pour the fragrant brew.
“Then maybe we should approach this from a different angle,” I said while I added the cream and sugar the earl had requested to his cup. “Is there any way someone could benefit from the theft of the earl’s body?”
The earl’s brow dipped low again as he accepted his cup. “How would someone benefit from it?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It was simply a thought. If your uncle’s body was targeted specifically, then maybe the motivation was not revenge, but an attempt to gain something?” I finished uncertainly. That was the problem with this entire matter. It didn’t feel like we could be certain of any aspect of it.
I handed Trevor his tea, prepared how I knew he liked it, and both men sat back to think while I poured my cup.
“Were you able to find a list of everything that was buried with your uncle’s body?” my brother asked, reminding me I had failed to question the servants on that matter.
“No, I didn’t. But I will keep looking.” He lifted the edge of a stack of papers on his desk to look under it and then set it back down. “If nothing else, it may be noted in one of the ledgers.”
Trevor nodded, clearly understanding the earl’s line of thinking. “If all else fails, follow the money.”
The earl took another sip of his tea and then his eyes widened. “I’ve just recalled. I did have a gentleman from Edinburgh visit me maybe three, no, four months ago. Perhaps it’s unrelated but . . . he was curious to know whether a certain item had been buried with my uncle.”
I sat forward. “What item?”
“It was a gold torc. Like the type of necklaces the Celts used to wear. Apparently, his family had discovered it on their estate and his aunt donated it to the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland. My uncle was a founding member.”
“And this man thought your uncle had the torc?”
“Yes. He was quite agitated. He claimed the torc was supposed to be part of the society’s collection, but it was missing. He accused my uncle of accepting the donation under false pretenses and then stealing it for himself.”
I glanced at Trevor in surprise. “That’s quite a serious charge.”
“Yes. And completely unfounded,” Lord Buchan replied in indignation. “My uncle would never do such a thing. In any case, I would clearly recall if he’d been buried wearing a torc around his neck.”
I stared down at my cup of cooling tea. “What if he was wearing it under his clothing?”
The earl opened his mouth to hotly deny the possibility, but then he stopped. His mouth slowly closed as he brooded over the thought. “I don’t deny that my uncle was quite eccentric,” he answered carefully. “Or that the idea of being buried in a torc might have appealed to him. They were worn by the Celts as a sign of nobility and royalty, were they not?” He looked to us to confirm. “But I balk at the idea that he would have stolen one to do so.”
“What if this man was mistaken? What if your uncle purchased the torc?”
“Well, I suppose that’s possible,” Lord Buchan admitted. “But as I said, he wasn’t buried in it. You can be certain that if my uncle was buried wearing a torc, he would have wanted it to be seen, not hidden away underneath a shirt and cravat.”
I couldn’t argue with his assessment of the man. I had not known the late earl, but if he was as vain and self-important as he was portrayed, then his nephew’s opinion was undoubtedly correct.
“The man who asked about the torc. What was his name? Do you recall?”
“Lewis Collingwood,” he declared, lifting his chin into the air. “I remember because I went to school with a Collingwood, and a more disagreeable man you will never meet.” He sniffed. “It must run in the family.”