“Nay. They were too far off. But they was dressed like toffs. And they were in a hurry.”
“Which direction did they go?”
“Doon the road.” He paused, looking Gage up and down. “T’ord the abbey.”
His brow furrowed in confusion. “And they were on foot?”
Sim’s Christie nodded. “Aye.”
Gage thanked him and hooked his arm through mine, leading me back toward the river path.
“Who do you think they were?” I asked once we were out of earshot of the stable yard.
“I don’t know.”
I frowned down at the hem of my cloak. “My aunt said that no one could remember anyone leaving or missing from the ball. Is it really possible that no one noticed?”
“Well, the gathering was fairly large. And didn’t you say that many of the guests were already deep in their cups?”
“True.” It wasn’t as if anyone was worried about having to account for their fellow revelers’ whereabouts. Most of the people at the ball likely couldn’t tell me half of the people they danced with, let alone where that person went once their set was done. Most people only noticed what directly affected them.
“But what on earth were they doing walking away from the ball on foot? And why? Were their accomplices picking them up away from Clintmains to avoid suspicion?”
“Possibly,” Gage mused. “Though it seems an odd way to go about it.”
I heaved a sigh. “None of this is making any sense.”
“I know.” His voice was tight with the same frustration I shared. “And it’s about time it did.”
? ? ?
The eleventh Earl of Buchan’s body was not returned to the abbey. It was left in a pew at the back of St. Mary’s Church in St. Boswells. An unhappy present for the parishioners to find as they filed into church that Sunday. The bones were stuffed in a crude canvas sack with no discernible markings or extraneous objects except a note addressed to the current earl with nothing written inside.
There was no way of knowing if the bones truly were those of the eleventh Earl of Buchan and not another departed human being, and given the shrewd and callous behavior of the body snatchers, it was difficult to trust that they were. But we had no choice. The ransom had been paid. The current earl had insisted upon it, in case just such a thing as our losing the horse had happened. He wanted his uncle’s body back, whatever the cost, and given the outcome, I couldn’t blame him.
Regardless, I had recommended that Lord Buchan ask Dr. Carputhers to examine the bones. He should at least be able to tell him if the skeleton was the right size and if the skull was consistent with the late earl’s features. He should also be able to tell if any of the bones were missing, and if they had been damaged in any way since being stolen from the grave.
Gage was furious. He’d felt certain they would return the bones to the abbey, that the men Lord Buchan had posted there would afford him one last chance to catch the culprits. But whether they had noticed the guards or foreseen his ploy, they had not fallen for it.
I was more concerned for young Will, who looked dejected when he realized our last chance of capturing the men who killed Dodd had failed, and angry with myself for disappointing him.
So it was with heavy hearts that we returned to Blakelaw House that Monday evening. I didn’t know where to turn next, and Gage seemed equally stifled. All we had was a bunch of seemingly random facts that led to nowhere. I wanted to ask him what he’d done in the past when he’d found himself in a similar situation, but the forbidding expression on his face told me the question could wait.
It was lucky that Trevor had the solution to our quandary waiting for us in his study. Gage almost dismissed his summons when we entered the hall—I could see it in the tense line of his back—but he followed me into the dark-paneled room that I didn’t believe I would ever be able to enter without thinking of my father. It always made my breath tight for the first few seconds after I crossed its threshold.
“You have a letter,” my brother told Gage, motioning toward the sideboard under a landscape of Knellstone Manor, the St. Mawr family seat down in Sussex, near where my father grew up.
Gage’s shoulders squared. He flipped the missive over. “It’s from Sergeant Maclean.”
Trevor and I watched as he broke the seal and began to swiftly peruse its contents. I assumed this was the friend he’d written to who was a member of the Edinburgh City Police. Maybe the sergeant would have news for us. Something more concrete than a few scattered facts.
I stood straighter against the back of the chair I rested my hands on as Gage’s expression changed from one of intense concentration to that of satisfaction. When at last he looked up, my fingers were digging into the brocade upholstery below me in anticipation.
“There was a third body snatching.”
“What?” I gasped, glancing at my brother, whose wide eyes said he shared my shock.
“Before Sir Colum Casselbeck’s.”