I wondered if he understood how haughty he sounded when he publicly chastised her, and if that might be part of the problem. But it was not my place to intervene in the care of his sister. I could only listen to his story and decide whether it excused Miss Remmington’s appalling behavior. I rather thought it didn’t, but I was more sympathetic to the girl now that I knew her life had not all been a pampered bed of roses.
I finished my breakfast and crossed the yard to the stables, where Gage was waiting for me with Dewdrop and his chestnut gelding. It was another fine day, with high clouds in a robin’s egg–blue sky. The morning air was crisp, but I could tell the temperature would warm considerably by the afternoon, so even though I was shivering in my royal blue and gold riding habit now, I knew I would be comfortable later.
Mr. Wallace received us in his study rather than the drawing room when we arrived at Lambden Cottage. “Come in, come in,” he exclaimed as he rose from his seat behind his desk and moved toward a more intimate arrangement of furniture before the hearth. “I apologize if this seems a bit informal, but I find my study preferable to that stuffy parlor.”
I smiled at his easy manner and offered my hand in greeting. He bowed over it and then looked up into my face, giving me a chance to view the lines of worry and fatigue radiating from the corners of his eyes and mouth and carving grooves into his forehead. He turned to shake Gage’s hand and I used the opportunity to survey the room.
It was a cozy little chamber, though by no means was it truly small. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, packed cheek by jowl with books, mostly leather tomes. Mr. Wallace’s massive oaken desk sat before one of these bays, its surface littered with papers and open texts. The heavy burgundy curtains were pulled open to reveal a view of the back garden. Autumn flowers bloomed drowsily in the sunshine, where an errant bumblebee flitted from petal to petal. The furniture arranged before the oaken fireplace was upholstered in matching burgundy damask, with shots of pale gold and cream brocade. I admired the rich fabric for a moment before allowing my eyes to stray to the true centerpiece of the room—the two portraits hanging above the mantel.
It was clear they had been arranged so that Mr. Wallace might look at them while he worked at his desk. I quickly deduced that the woman on the right must be his late wife. She was a lovely woman, with caramel-brown hair and dark eyes, but I found my attention focused on the second subject—our missing girl. Miss Wallace sported the same coloring as her mother, but her eyes were more almond shaped, more catlike, and her chin was pointed and dainty like the fae, like her father’s.
Mr. Wallace caught me looking up at them and confirmed my suspicions. “My wife and daughter. I like to have my Janet wi’ me. And it only seemed right to hang Mary next to her.” He sighed. “Noo it’s all I have o’ ’em both.”
“Have you come to agree with Mr. Paxton’s theory, then?” Gage asked as we settled into our seats. There was one for each of us. Or one for what had been father, mother, and child.
“Nay,” he told us firmly. “I dinna believe Mary did something so foolish as to cross the land bridge wi’ the tide coming in. No’ unless she was forced to. And I canna think of any reason she would be. The McCrays have a boat. If there were some sorta urgency, she coulda had Connor McCray row her across. Nay. It makes no sense.”
“Then why is Paxton so set on this idea? He strikes me as something of a tyrant, but he doesn’t seem wholly incompetent.”
Mr. Wallace’s expression was sour. “He’s no’ incompetent. He’s just too quick to latch on to the simplest answer, be it proven or no’.”
“It seems a bit shortsighted for him to declare that is what happened when he has several people telling him she would never do such a thing, no witnesses to say she entered the land bridge while the tide was coming in, and no . . . evidence to say otherwise.” By “evidence” I knew Gage meant the girl’s body. “It’s pure speculation. For all we know she could still be somewhere on that island.”
“We’ve searched it from top to bottom.” Mr. Wallace sounded despondent. “It’s only nineteen acres. And we found nothin’.”
Which made it highly unlikely that we, two strangers, would find something the locals had missed.
“Did your daughter have any enemies?”
Mr. Wallace looked up at me in surprise.
“Perhaps ‘enemies’ is too strong a word,” I corrected, before the man could take offense. “I’ve heard of her kindness and that she was generally well liked, but even the best of us have people who dislike us for one reason or another. Did Miss Wallace have any detractors? People who didn’t get along with her, who might wish her harm?”
The furrows in Mr. Wallace’s brow deepened, and he turned to the fireplace, where a low fire still crackled. “There is one thing.”