“We don’t know,” Gage replied cautiously after making a cursory inspection of the business card and tucking it into the inside pocket of his coat. “Can you tell us what he looked like?”
“Short, round, rather like a partridge. No’ particularly attractive.”
“Well, then, let us know if you think of anything else,” Gage told him. “We’ll send word as soon as we have any news.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Do you think Dr. Sloane used an alias?” I asked, having to hurry to keep up with Gage’s long stride down the hall. “Do you think this Dr. Callart could be him?”
“No.”
I was so taken aback by the certainty in his voice that it took me a moment to respond. “What do you mean?”
I had to wait for his answer, as the Wallaces’ butler appeared and handed us our hats and gloves. It took me but a moment to affix my hat atop my head and pin it at its jaunty angle, but Gage was already outside, taking the reins of our horses from the waiting stable boys.
“How can you be so certain?” I persisted.
I allowed Gage to boost me up into my saddle, looking down at him expectantly while he fiddled with my stirrup, the length of which had been perfectly fine on our ride over to Lambden Cottage.
“Because Dr. Sloane is tall and thin,” he finally replied. “There is no way he could be this short, round man who calls himself Dr. Callart.”
Gage mounted his gelding while I digested this bit of information. “You know what Dr. Sloane looks like?”
He cut a look of annoyance in my direction as he directed his horse to walk on. “It isn’t difficult to ask. After all, Michael has seen the man.”
“Yes, but . . .” Everything he was saying was true, but it didn’t explain his restless movements or why he was avoiding looking into my eyes. So I decided to be direct. “Have you ever seen him?”
It took a moment for him to respond—the silence that fell between us broken only by the clopping of the horses’ hooves and the jangling of their harnesses—and when he did it was barely louder than a murmur. “Yes.”
A bolt of alarm ran down my spine and I sat straighter. But before I could voice my next question, he spoke again.
“We can’t discuss it right now.” He turned to look at me, his eyes earnest but also commanding. “I promise you, I will tell you. But not here.” He gestured with his head to the old tower of the kirk and the pale stone buildings that lined the street at the base of the hill just coming into view out of the trees that shaded the road.
I bit back the words forming on my tongue, for I knew he was right. Whatever argument was brewing between us, whatever revelation Gage was about to make, would have to wait until we’d interviewed the villagers about Miss Wallace. We had to present a united front in our inquiries. And though it tied a knot inside me not to know, I did not try to force the words from him. However, I could not stop my mind from conjuring up all manner of possibilities.
We left our horses at the livery stables behind the Cramond Inn and walked through the village on foot. We stepped into the shops and stopped people on the street. The general consensus seemed to be that Miss Wallace was a kind, well-liked lass with a good head on her shoulders. Several people had seen her cross the land bridge to Cramond Island at low tide on Thursday last, but none of them had seen her return, not even Calum MacMath and his cronies. They swore they had been seated in front of the inn from midday through sunset, and that if anyone had seen her return, it would have been them. MacMath also made it a point, as several others did, to tell us that Mary Wallace was no fool to be risking her life crossing when the tide was already coming in, but that Mr. Paxton might just possibly be.
If nothing else, the local constable seemed a bit unpopular, but that was not an uncommon reaction to policemen in small towns, whose people liked to handle such matters in their own ways. I couldn’t see Mr. Paxton exercising compromise or compassion. He enjoyed his power too much.
No one seemed to flinch at the mention of Miss Wallace’s second sight, and the majority, even the reverend at Cramond Kirk, seemed to look on it with favor rather than disapproval. There were a few that frowned and shook their heads or rolled their eyes, but no one voiced a harsh opinion of her or her supposed ability. Even Mr. Munro and Mrs. Ogston seemed contrite over their earlier condemnation of her, though it may have been our positions as investigators into Miss Wallace’s disappearance that kept their tongues civil.