Eight tables were scattered about the little shop, draped in pristine white lace. A cup and saucer sat in front of each chair, and at the center of the table stood a tiny bud vase, holding one brightly colored flower. Amid the gleaming wood and blinding white, the little blooms provided just the right amount of charming whimsy the shop needed.
At the table farthest from the entrance, near the door that must have led into the kitchen, sat a tall, brawny man. So brawny, in fact, that I couldn’t believe he was comfortable perching on the tiny chair below him. His bearing was restrained and awkward, as if he was worried about gesturing too broadly and damaging something, but he laughed easily enough with the woman standing near him.
He rose from his seat as we approached and reached out to shake Gage’s hand. “Mr. Gage, it seems ye’ve been keepin’ yerself busy,” he remarked with a welcoming smile, which also looked awkward on his face, as if his cheeks would only lift so far. Perhaps this was related to the injury to his nose, which from its crooked appearance had clearly been broken sometime in the past, probably on multiple occasions.
“That I have,” Gage replied, and from the ease of his demeanor and the gleam in his eye, I could tell just how much he liked the sergeant. “And yourself?”
“Aye. There’s always someone up to no good.” His eyes shifted to me, and I could see the spark of curiosity, though he did make some effort to hide it.
Gage introduced us. I was sure Sergeant Maclean must know who I was, or at least have heard of my reputation, but he said nothing.
Instead he turned toward the woman still hovering near us. “My sister-in-law, Mrs. Duffy.”
She smiled and nodded. “Welcome. I’ll bring ye some tea shortly. Please make yerselves comfortable.”
This better explained Sergeant Maclean’s decision to meet here rather than the police house. At such an early hour, the likelihood of other patrons entering was slim, especially with us seated near the back of the shop, far from prying eyes. And with his sister-in-law presiding over the establishment, we could be assured of privacy. It was the ideal situation for an officer of the Edinburgh City Police who needed to meet with higher-born citizens loath to enter a police house.
Gage hung our outer garments next to the sergeant’s gray greatcoat on a rack in the corner while the sergeant pulled a chair out for me. I noticed his knuckles were scabbed and scarred, indicating he’d been in a fight fairly recently. Had the altercation been in the course of his duties or something else? Perhaps the sergeant enjoyed boxing. He certainly had the physique for it.
Sergeant Maclean caught me looking at his hands and shifted them self-consciously. “Broke up a fight doon on Cowgate last night. Had to throw a few punches myself.”
“Not that you minded,” Gage remarked with a smirk.
“Aye, well, there are few consolations wi’ this job. But, I admit, bustin’ the jaw o’ longtime brutes is one o’ ’em.” His eyes hardened. “’Specially if they been preyin’ on lassies and bairns.”
Gage settled into his chair, his long legs stretching out beneath the table. Between his big feet and the sergeant’s, there was little room for my own. “Any word on other body snatchings similar to the three we already know about?”
He shook his head. “But I sent queries oot to Glasgow and Dunkeld. If they’re workin’ as far south as the Borders, there’s no tellin’ how far west and north they’ve operated.”
“Do you know anything more about this Tyler family?”
“No’ much.”
The sergeant paused as Mrs. Duffy emerged from the kitchen with a tray of tea and a plate filled with heavenly-smelling scones dotted with sultanas and a towering pile of clotted cream. My mouth began to water. She smiled as she set the dishes down, and then disappeared back into the kitchen. Sergeant Maclean resumed his explanation while I poured.
“The victim, Ian Tyler of Woodslea, died in 1818, and was apparently a well-respected man. Left his fortune and his property to his eldest son, Owen Tyler. Fairly straightforward. No suspicions o’ foul play at his death. And even if there was, twelve years is a long time to wait to dig him back up.”
Gage took a sip of his tea and nodded. “Where is he buried?”
“Glencorse Parish Kirk. Oot past Seafield Moor.”
He nodded, apparently knowing the location. “Have you spoken with the family?”
Sergeant Maclean shook his head as he chewed and swallowed a bite of his scone. “I couldna manage it. ’Tis too far oot for me to travel wi’oot good reason.”
I studied the burly policeman. So he was pursuing this investigation without official approval.
“Asides, I thought that’s where you fit in. Or am I gonna do all the work myself?” he jested.
Gage gave an ironic lift to his eyebrows. “Let’s not forget who brought the matter to your attention in the first place.”
The sergeant chuckled in his deep voice.