As we dismounted, two stable boys ran around the corner, jostling each other as young boys do, and skidded to a halt at the sight of all of us. I laughed silently at their eagerness to take the reins of Gage’s gelding and Michael’s spirited brute, a stallion named Puck, of all things, clearly named for his disposition and not his size. From the lads’ reactions, it was apparent the Wallaces didn’t have the same taste for fine, expensive horseflesh as the Dalmays.
The footman who answered the door appeared to have been expecting us, for he bowed and led us toward the drawing room, promising to inform Mr. Wallace of our arrival. An assurance that proved unnecessary, as the man in question emerged from another room down the passage just as we arrived at the door to the parlor. He was frowning quite ferociously at whatever the man beside him was saying. When he caught sight of us, his expression transformed into a strange mixture of relief followed swiftly by dismay, and I couldn’t help but wonder why our presence should cause him such a conundrum.
The other man stopped talking and followed his gaze toward us. I suspected he might be the village constable, or whatever title he went by. Small Scottish villages rarely employed anyone specifically for the purpose of keeping law and order, often relying on their citizens to police themselves with the help of retired soldiers. Only the larger cities had anything resembling a police force, because to establish one officially required an Act of Parliament. With Edinburgh so close by, Cramond might have followed the Scottish capital’s example and appointed a constable, but until the man was introduced I couldn’t be certain.
He wore no exterior accoutrements proclaiming his office, but he had the bearing of a man who enjoyed being in charge, and I judged from the way his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of us that he did not take kindly to having that authority questioned.
“Sir, Mr. Dalmay and his guests,” the footman announced to his employer. “I was just escorting ’em to the drawing room.”
The constable appeared delighted by this news, his red mustache fairly quivering with importance. Mr. Wallace, on the other hand, looked less than pleased, and I began to suspect that this was the source of his dismay—having the constable sit in on, and attempt to overrun, our conversation. And, in fact, it was the constable who strode forward quite rudely ahead of Mr. Wallace to introduce himself. I resisted the urge to scowl at the man, who was using his current position of power to overstep the bounds of propriety.
“Mr. Dalmay, ’tis a pleasure to meet ye, sir. M’ name’s Paxton, Cramond’s constable. I woulda visited ye mysel’ if I’d kenned ye had any information for me.”
Michael shook the hand the man had thrust at him. “I’m afraid, as such, we don’t have information for you. We simply wished to express our condolences over Mr. Wallace’s justifiable distress, and offer our assistance in any way we can.” He delivered this last looking over Mr. Paxton’s shoulder at our host.
“Thank ye, Mr. Dalmay,” he replied. “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room? I’m sure the ladies would appreciate a seat.” He smiled kindly at Miss Remmington and me, though the light did not quite reach his eyes.
“O’ course, o’ course,” Mr. Paxton said, preening at the realization that he’d been able to manipulate his way into the drawing room. Policemen were not, as a rule, gentlemen, as from Mr. Paxton’s manner and speech it was evident he was not, and as such, they entered the houses of the nobility and gentry through the servants’ door and were not escorted to the best rooms of the house, such as the drawing room. If offered any kind of refreshment, it was done in the kitchens. Sir Anthony had received much the same treatment as a surgeon, as opposed to a gentleman physician, until he’d been granted his baronetcy, boosting him into the ranks of the nobility.
We filed into the drawing room, ignoring Mr. Paxton’s response, and settled ourselves on the worn but well-cared-for furniture clustered near the center of the room. The chamber was warm from the rays of the sun shining through the west-facing windows. I opted for a Chippendale chair positioned near the empty hearth and Gage claimed its twin.
Mr. Wallace was an elderly man of about sixty with a head full of hair that had managed to remain mostly dark. He sported only a streak of gray at the top, much like the picture I had seen of a polecat from North America, and a dusting of silver at the temples and sideburns. His eyes were dark, though I suspected they were deepest blue rather than brown, and clouded with fear and worry. He was making a valiant attempt to hide his fatigue and anxiety, but it was evident in the slouch of his shoulders, the dark circles around his eyes, and the twitching movements of his hands as he straightened his jacket or snuck a glance at his pocket watch.
Michael began the necessary introductions. I noticed that he failed to mention Gage’s famous father, or his occupation, but from the tightening of Mr. Paxton’s mouth he was not to be fooled.
“Yer father is Captain Lord Gage, is he no’?”
Mr. Wallace’s face drooped with weary resignation. He had clearly hoped Mr. Paxton would miss the connection.