? ? ?
“I wonder if I sent a message to Gage asking him to track down Lewis Collingwood whether he would receive it before he left Edinburgh,” I pondered aloud as our feet crunched down the gravel drive leading toward our carriage.
“Probably not,” Trevor replied.
I tilted my head in thought. “I suppose I could ask Philip to locate Collingwood, but I do hate to bother him with our sister in such a delicate state. I know she’s doing well, and the baby isn’t due for another three months, but she’s not to have any excitement, and I doubt Philip could keep my request from her.” I turned to smile at our brother. “You know how Alana can be.”
“I do.” He looked up, squinting into the sun. “She takes an inordinate amount of interest in everything her younger siblings do.”
“Yes.” But my amusement fled as I began to wonder just what our sister had written to Trevor about me. And Gage. I peered up at my brother out of the corner of my eye. I had seen the letters she had posted to him. They were always folded together with mine, and she never failed to ask after Trevor in her missives to me, and speculate on some aspect of his life, whether it was the estate or his need to find a wife. What information, other than their shared concern over my grief, had she been sharing with him about me?
“It must be killing her that she’s in Edinburgh while we’re both down here at Blakelaw.” A self-satisfied smirk stretched the corners of his lips. “But write to Philip anyway. She’ll discover you’ve got yourself embroiled in another inquiry sooner or later. It may as well be from you.”
“True. And we do need to find out what we can about this Mr. Collingwood. At this point, he’s our most viable suspect.”
“Then, write on, dear sister,” he teased as he opened the carriage door for me. “I’ll enclose it with the letter I have ready to send to Philip. Who knows? Maybe he can convince her it’s filled with nothing more than my boring estate business.”
I arched my brows, letting him know just how successful I thought that would be, and he laughed.
CHAPTER SIX
The church bells rang out crisp and clear in the chilly morning air. So loud, in fact, that I grimaced at the sound of their bright ting as Trevor and I passed through the doors and out onto St. Cuthbert’s front steps. I shielded my eyes against the sudden glare of the sun and rubbed my temples against the headache that had been building all morning.
Upon our return to Blakelaw House late the previous afternoon, I had spent the remainder of the evening searching our library for any mention of uses of human bone, be it superstitious or more practical, but had little luck. I knew that the ground-up remains of Egyptian mummies had been used in some paint pigments as early as the sixteenth century, but I had never heard of more modern human bodies being used in that manner. I didn’t think it was possible. The body composition would not be the same.
In any case, I had not fallen asleep until just before dawn, and when my new maid, Bree, had woken me for church, I had been tempted to remain abed. But then I realized that if I missed Sunday service, the next week would be filled with visits from well-meaning villagers, worried about my health or curious what had kept me from church. After all, we were the highest-ranking family in Elwick, so our comings and goings seemed to naturally concern those around us, whether I wished it to be so or not.
I greeted Vicar Grey, who was a gentle, mild-mannered man, barely older than Trevor and me, and a recent addition to the parish. Trevor spoke highly of him, and said that his energy and eagerness to help had done much good for the tiny community. For my own part, the attribute I appreciated most in the vicar was his temperance. Too many people had rushed to judge me since the scandal over my involvement with my late husband’s work broke in London nearly two years prior, including clergymen. So I did not fail to value those who would not be swayed by the gossip.
He asked whether I had enjoyed my aunt and uncle’s Hogmanay Ball and then turned to speak to Trevor about some local matter. I nodded to Mrs. Heron as I crossed the churchyard toward the cemetery, distancing myself from the building and its parishioners. I was grateful for the warmth of my fur-lined winter cloak, but even so, the bitter wind sliced through me. Somehow it seemed fitting to my mood.