“Which is why you didn’t tell anyone this until now?”
She gave a sharp nod of her head. It would also explain why she’d been so eager to share it with me. I didn’t for one second believe Irene had followed Donovan down to Banbogle just to get Nelly in trouble. She’d likely been involved with Donovan herself and perhaps was afraid he was dawdling with the other maid. That was what Donovan had threatened to reveal to her employer—loose behavior was a far more serious offense than leaving the manor at night. And from the pain and disillusionment on Lucy’s face, I knew she had also realized it.
In any case, the reasoning didn’t matter. I still believed Irene was telling the truth.
Her story told me that Donovan had been using the grounds of Banbogle, if not the castle itself, for his own purposes. So it wasn’t too far of a leap to think he might store a boat there. I also recalled the remnants of a recent fire I had seen on the beach in front of Banbogle. At the time, I’d thought the ashes were left from a fire lit by Mac to keep Will warm, but now I wasn’t so sure. Donovan could have used the fire as a signaling device to someone out in the firth. It would be easy to see from the water, but hidden from Dalmay House by the large stone block of Banbogle.
The fact that he had threatened Irene to keep her from telling anyone about his meeting with that man said volumes about how desperate he was to keep his clandestine appointment secret. What I wanted to know was just how many of these meetings he’d had over the course of the last nine months of his employment, and just who this man was he was conferring with.
“Thank you,” I told Irene and then turned to retrace my steps back to Donovan’s room, eager to share my discovery with Gage.
“M’lady,” Lucy called. Her feet pattered against the hard floor after me. “I forgot. I put this in my pocket to give to ye. Thought ye’d want to see it straightaway.”
I glanced down at the letter she handed me, seeing Philip’s familiar scrawl. I felt another surge of excitement, hoping he had information for me. But first I thanked Lucy and hurried to find Gage.
He was still in Donovan’s room with Michael, but Lord Keswick was also with them and, judging from the looks on their faces, he had not brought good news.
“The boat?” I gasped.
“Gone,” Gage replied. Angry frustration shone in his eyes.
I pressed my hand to the door frame, feeling like someone had punched me in the gut. I couldn’t believe it. He’d gotten away. To where, I didn’t know. And it didn’t really matter. The fact was, our chances of catching up with him now were slim. And even if he’d gone somewhere close, like to his suspected employer on Inchkeith Island, we would never be able to flush him out of the asylum. Not without building a strong enough case against him to get the authorities involved, and I wasn’t sure we could do that.
I relayed the information Miss Remmington’s maid had given me, adding to the pile of evidence against Donovan, all the while knowing it wasn’t the proof we needed to convince a magistrate of his guilt. Then, while the men discussed the matter, I broke the seal on Philip’s missive. It was brief and to the point, but enough to make me exclaim, “I knew it.”
Michael halted in midsentence as they all turned to look at me.
“This Dr. Thomas Callart, the man who tried to examine Mary Wallace,” I reminded Gage. “It turns out he was an apprentice to one Dr. Alan Sloane, when they worked at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh together.”
Gage’s scowl turned black.
“Well, doesn’t that give us proof that Dr. Sloane was part of this?” Keswick asked.
Gage shook his head. “It’s all circumstantial. It might convince a magistrate to interrogate them, but that doesn’t mean they would tell the truth or admit their part.” He crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance. “No, what we need is irrefutable evidence that Donovan worked for Sloane, that they had nefarious intentions toward Lord Dalmay and Mary Wallace, and that they carried through with them. Right now all we have is the testimony of Craggy Donald saying he saw a boat leave Cramond Island.”
“And head out to sea,” I interjected. “Which is, incidentally, in the direction of Inchkeith Island.”
He arched his eyebrows. “Yes, but he never saw who was in it. We have a tin of valerian root . . .” he nodded toward where it lay on the bed “. . . and the word of a lady’s maid that Donovan secretly met a man down by the beach. Our strongest evidence is that Donovan is missing, and yet we have no definitive proof of wrongdoing.”
“What about the markings we found on Miss Wallace’s body?” I said. “She was clearly bound and beaten and bled. Couldn’t we show her wounds are consistent with the manner in which Dr. Sloane’s patients are treated in the asylum?”