The room was empty save for two men hunkered around a table in the corner with their tankards of ale. They stared at us in curiosity as we crossed the room toward the counter. A tall, burly man hobbled through the door behind it, favoring his left leg.
He wiped his hands on a towel, looking us up and down in our obviously well-made and expensive winter attire. “Will ye be needin’ a room then?”
“No. I’m after information, actually,” Gage said.
The man’s gaze immediately turned suspicious. “Oh?”
“Lord Rutherford hinted you might be a good man to talk to.”
He set down the towel and crossed his arms over his chest. “About?”
I tensed at the man’s belligerent stance, but Gage continued on unaffected. He pulled a coin out of the inside pocket of his coat and placed it on the counter. “Tell us about your run-in with that pair of body snatchers.”
Whether because of the money or Gage’s nonthreatening manner, the innkeeper abandoned his surly demeanor, pocketed the coin, and offered to pour us a drink. Gage asked for ale, but my stomach was too tied up in knots to imbibe anything. Besides, a lady never drank in the public room of a tavern, not if she could help it, and that proved to be a more difficult convention to break than I’d expected.
The innkeeper slid a foaming tankard of ale across the scarred counter to Gage and then leaned against it with his not inconsiderable bulk. “’Twas two summers ago. Mr. Harden ’n I was on our way back from Galashiels Fair when we saw this trap comin’ t’ord us.” He shook his head. “Somethin’ ’twasn’t right aboot it. An’ I said as much to Harden.”
“What wasn’t right?” Gage asked after taking a drink of his ale.
The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed in emphasis. “There was three men in that trap, but the one in the middle looked funny, all slouched o’er and pale. And he seemed familiar.”
I clutched my sketch pad tighter to my chest, suspecting what was coming.
“Weel, I yelled at ’em to stop, and the two on either side leapt oot o’ the trap and ran off into the night. I woulda’ chased ’em, and likely caught ’em. But there was the third one left to deal wi’. And he was sittin’ there motionless. We saw why when we got closer.” The innkeeper leaned in closer. “’Twas ole Peter McCraig, who’d been buried two days past.” He nodded sagely. “Those men were body snatchers.”
I suddenly felt the urge to laugh, inappropriate as it was. But the innkeeper had clearly been called upon to relay this story numerous times, and had calculated its delivery for maximum effect. I lifted a gloved hand to my mouth to cough, smothering my humor. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Gage’s mouth twitched. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one amused.
He cleared his throat. “Yes. Were they ever apprehended?”
The innkeeper shook his head. “Nay. Though the horse was collected by a dealer in Kelso, who said he hired it oot. Last spring there was talk that the trap was claimed, but no one ever came for it.” His eyes hardened, staring off into the distance. “And noo, there ain’t nay more trap for ’em teh claim.”
What that meant, I could only guess.
“Did you get a good look at the men?” Gage asked, distracting him from whatever thought was giving him such spiteful pleasure.
“Aye. I saw ’em weel enough.”
“Would you be able to describe them for us? Perhaps well enough for us to make a sketch?” He dipped his head toward me and the sketch pad and charcoals I’d brought at his suggestion.
“Aye. Sure I could,” the innkeeper declared.
“Do you mind?” Gage asked me, a bit belatedly.
How could I say no? After all, it was one skill set I possessed that he did not, and I did want to be useful. Even if that meant sitting in this sticky taproom for another half hour.
I nodded.
The innkeeper pushed himself up from his slouch. “Does this have somethin’ to do with the goin’ ons o’er at the abbey a few nights past?”
“Something,” Gage answered obscurely.
The three of us settled down at a table near the bar with a rather large gouge in it. One that I thought looked suspiciously like the shape of an axe-head. Just what went on in this pub?
I tried to ignore whatever substance was stuck to the table—figuring the towel the innkeeper had set on the bar was probably not much cleaner—and balanced the sketch pad in my lap. Thankfully the innkeeper seemed to have a distinct memory—that, or he was making it up—for the session moved quickly. Once or twice I looked up to scowl at Gage where he sat rocking on the back legs of his chair, still nursing his tankard of ale. I hoped the glass was cleaner than the rest of this inn, or he was in for an unpleasant surprise. Or perhaps I should have wished the opposite.
In any case, I finished quickly and Gage thanked the innkeeper, passing him another coin for the ale.