“Body snatchers,” I murmured softly, not wanting to alarm the entire assembly, though I knew that more than a few of them must have already had similar thoughts.
Lord Buchan, my aunt and uncle, and cousin Rye all turned to look at me, and I watched as understanding slowly dawned in their eyes, first of the grave robbers’ intentions, and then of my unpleasant history with the product of their trade.
“You mean . . .” Buchan began. I didn’t know if he was that slow to comprehend or just too stunned to make the connection with the abbey cemetery.
“Have you had trouble with them in the past?” Trevor turned to ask our uncle, as he had only returned to the area himself three months prior.
He frowned. “Unfortunately, yes.”
I was surprised to hear this news, as I’d had no idea that the body snatchers were traveling so far afield to find fresh corpses. But then it made sense, as all of the cemeteries nearby the medical schools in Edinburgh and Glasgow had added heavy security measures. They’d had to do something to keep the resurrection men from stealing their recently deceased and selling the bodies to the schools and local anatomists.
“But watchmen have been hired to guard the cemeteries these criminals most often target,” Uncle Andrew added. “So I don’t quite understand how . . .”
“But the graves at Dryburgh Abbey aren’t new,” Lord Buchan protested, finally grasping what the rest of us were saying.
I glanced at him in surprise.
“The newest grave there is my uncle’s. And he died almost twenty months ago.” His already heavy brow lowered farther, and I was surprised when he looked to me for answers. “What could they possibly have wanted from an old grave?”
“I . . . don’t know,” I admitted.
Aunt Sarah cleared her throat and nodded toward the assemblage still gathered in the entrance hall. They were pressing ever closer, trying to hear what we said. “Perhaps I should escort our guests back to the ballroom.” She arched her eyebrows at her husband in silent communication.
“Er, yes,” Uncle Andrew replied, looking at the crowd. His butler gestured toward a door behind him, to the left of the entrance. Uncle Andrew nodded at Willie and then at the circle of men closest to him. “Gentlemen, if you will,” he murmured, indicating they should follow him. “Ah, you, too, Kiera. If you don’t mind?”
I blinked in surprise, not having expected my uncle to include me. He was a good man, but not usually the most tolerant. I had always been aware that he didn’t exactly approve of me or my painting, even if he’d never said a word against me. His disapproval was evident in his stilted conversation and stony expression whenever my art became the topic of discussion. I had also overheard him express his condemnation of my father’s choice of Sir Anthony as my husband—an objection I had ignored at the time as just another indication of my uncle’s stodginess, but later wished I’d listened to more attentively. Though, to be fair, even Uncle Andrew had not predicted the exact cause of my disastrous marriage. I’m not sure anyone could have foreseen that.
In any case, my relationship with my uncle was one of polite distance. We supported each other in that we were family, but beyond that, we were courteous strangers. So to hear him request my presence, especially in regards to a matter that was rather delicate and highly inappropriate for a young lady’s ears, at least in society’s general opinion, certainly astonished me.
I allowed Trevor to guide me through the crowd as we followed in Uncle Andrew’s wake. Aunt Sarah was addressing the gathering behind us, some of whom protested our withdrawal. It appeared everyone wanted to know what the young man had to tell us.
The door through which we disappeared led into a small receiving room lined with slatted walls of gleaming oak. A bench and a few chairs were all the space held, as well as a pair of landscapes depicting the countryside surrounding Clintmains. The fireplace sat dormant, though a log and kindling had been laid, ready to be lit. I shivered, but I couldn’t be certain whether it was because of the drafty room or the topic we were about to discuss.
“Now,” Uncle Andrew declared, once the door was closed, sealing us off from prying eyes. “Tell us what happened,” he told Willie, not ungently.
The young man shuffled from foot to foot, and his shoulders slumped over. He clearly was unnerved by my uncle’s and Trevor’s muscular figures and by his employer, Lord Buchan’s, scowling visage. I sidled a step closer to the lad, hoping to offer him some sense of solidarity. His troubled gaze flicked to mine and I gave him a reassuring smile. Behind the panic, I could see pain in his eyes, and I realized that in our quest for answers, we had forgotten that this Dodd had likely been his mentor, and possibly his friend.