Gage shifted forward in his seat. “Can you tell us exactly what happened, from the moment your father’s disturbed grave was discovered to the day his bones were returned to you? I’d just like to hear it all again in your words. No detail is too minor.”
The disturbed grave was found on a Tuesday morning. Initially they’d worried it might have sat open for several days because they’d had guests over the weekend, and so had not visited the graveyard on Sunday as was their custom. But the rector had assured them that he had walked the kirkyard on Monday morning and nothing had been out of place.
Unlike at Dryburgh Abbey, the thieves had taken the time to recover the grave, but from the state of the ground, it was obvious it had been tampered with. Mr. Tyler had ordered the coffin dug up, to ensure that everything was in order. When they opened the wooden coffin, the body of Ian Tyler was gone, while all the rest of his clothing and effects were left behind in a disordered pile.
The family was understandably distraught, but they had no idea who could have done such a thing. It was ghoulish. No one had seen anything strange on Monday evening or the morning after, until the caretaker became suspicious of the loose dirt over Ian Tyler’s grave.
It wasn’t until the ransom note arrived almost two weeks later that they began to suspect that the entire crime had been committed for the money. What other explanation could there be? They had followed the thieves’ instructions, leaving the cash on a hilltop in a more remote part of the Pentland Hills. The next day a bag of bones was left inside the kirk door with a note attached saying they were the remains of Ian Tyler of Woodslea.
“So there’s no one in particular you suspected?” Gage asked. “Maybe someone who had pressured you for money before? Like Mr. Fergusson.”
Mr. Tyler sat taller. “My cousin? Thaddeus?”
“I was told that Mr. Fergusson complained he’d been cheated out of part of his inheritance. And that he has a tendency to play too deep with his cards.”
Mr. Tyler nodded, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Aye. It’s true. But I canna imagine he would ever stoop to something like this. ’Tis well below him.”
In my experience, people who were desperate were often willing to do some pretty unsavory things. If Mr. Fergusson was far enough in debt to the wrong people, he just might stoop to body snatching. But Gage appeared willing to let the matter drop. Perhaps because the Tylers were not likely to give us any assistance in supporting such a theory.
“Did you save the ransom note?” he queried.
Mr. Tyler began to shake his head, but his wife surprised us all by saying, “Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” she told her shocked husband. “I ken you told me to burn it, but . . . I was worried someone might try such a trick again. And if so, I wanted to be sure we could compare the handwriting.”
I couldn’t tell whether he was displeased or grateful his wife had disobeyed him, but when he spoke to her in such a gentle voice, I suspected it was the latter.
“Where is it?”
Mrs. Tyler rose from her seat and crossed over toward the bookcase on the far wall. She reached up on tiptoe and pulled down a book from the second to top shelf. Paper rustled as she thumbed through the pages, and then pulled a folded white sheet from inside. She handed it to Gage, and I leaned closer to get a better look.
I couldn’t be sure without examining them side by side, but the horrible handwriting appeared to be the same as that on the letter Lord Buchan received. The text was also quite similar, as if sections of the later note had been copied from this one.
Gage refolded the note and passed it to Mr. Tyler. “Are you aware of any connections between your father and Lord Buchan and Sir Colum Casselbeck? Were they friends?”
“I dinna ken aboot friends, but they were certainly acquaintances. They had similar interests.”
“Yes. We’re aware they were all members of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, but as of yet, that’s the only direct connection we can find.”
Mr. Tyler sat back deeper into the settee, his brow furrowed in thought. He sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I canna think of anything else.”
Gage tilted his head to the side. “Are either of you acquainted with a Mr. Lewis Collingwood?”
The Tylers looked at each other, but from the confused expressions on their faces, it was clear they were not. “I’m sorry. Should we be?”
I could tell from the dip in Gage’s shoulders that he was disappointed by their answer. “No. He’s simply a man Lord Buchan mentioned to us. He made some accusations about the Society of Antiquaries and a gold torc.”
Mrs. Tyler suddenly sat forward in her seat and gasped to her husband. “He must be that man I told ye aboot!”
Mr. Tyler looked grim.
“What man?” Gage asked.