“Maybe he’s down at the beach,” I suggested. “If he rarely goes into town, he must do a lot of fishing.”
And sure enough a man carrying a fishing rod and a rope strung with fresh fish emerged over a rise in the path leading down to the water. He halted at the sight of us, staring at us with blank eyes.
“Craggy Donald?” Gage guessed, taking a single step toward him before he stopped, mindful not to scare the man away. “We just want to ask you a few questions. We’re here on behalf of Mr. Wallace.” When the man still did not move, he added, “I’m not one of Paxton’s men.”
He studied us, not betraying by the twitch of a muscle what he was thinking. As to be expected, his clothes were old and worn, but kept in good repair. I could see three carefully stitched patches on the front of his trousers alone. His grizzled gray hair was kept tied back neatly in a queue and his matching beard was carefully trimmed so that it would not get in the way of eating. But it was his face that was the most remarkable thing about him, and evidently the source of his nickname. Worn and beaten until it was as thick and rugged as leather, with deep furrows grooving his forehead and the corners of his mouth and eyes. It was obvious that he had been a career sailor, be it on a merchant ship or in the Royal Navy. Given his neatness, I suspected it was the latter.
I glanced at Gage to see if he had realized the same thing. Surely, with his captain father, he would know a seaman when he saw one.
Deciding we must be trustworthy, or at least that we weren’t going to toss his abode into disarray, Craggy Donald climbed the path toward us. He stepped around us to hang his catch of fish from a hook protruding from the wall.
“Where did you serve?” Gage asked.
He paused in leaning his rod against the wall by the door, as if surprised by the question. But then he replied in a low, scratchy voice. “HMS Warrior.”
“Whom did you serve under?”
Craggy Donald turned to look at Gage. “Cap’n Phipps.”
He nodded. “I never had the pleasure of meeting him. I’m Sebastian Gage. My father is Captain Lord Gage.”
He eyed him closely. “Golden like an angel, but with the devil in his eyes. Aye, I s’pose ye could be his get.”
Gage smiled tightly.
“Why’re ye here?”
“Visiting a friend who happens to be concerned about Miss Wallace.” He faced the man squarely, speaking to him like an equal, and not some lowly cur to bully, as evidently Mr. Paxton had behaved, from the condition of Craggy Donald’s kicked-in door. “I know you’ve already been asked before, but I need to ask again. Did Miss Wallace come to visit you on Thursday last?”
He answered with calm assurance. “Nay.”
“Did you see her on the island—or anywhere, for that matter—on that day, or any day after?”
“Nay.”
Gage sighed in disappointment and turned his head to look out to sea. I felt the same exasperation, but, then, we’d known it was unlikely that anyone could tell us anything we didn’t already know.
“What about anything suspicious?” He sounded like he was clutching at straws now. “Did anything out of the ordinary happen on that day or the days around it?”
I fully expected Craggy Donald to say no, but something flickered in his eyes, arresting Gage’s attention and mine.
“Well, there was one thing. A boat. A coble, from the looks o’ its size. I didna see it leavin’ the island, but it seemed it mun ha’ came from here.”
“This was on Thursday?” Gage clarified.
“Aye.”
“Where were they headed?”
He pointed. “Oot to sea.”
That meant that if Miss Wallace had been on that boat she could be anywhere by now.
“Why didn’t you report this to Mr. Paxton?” I asked in some frustration.
His eyes turned hard. “He didna ask.”
Just set about destroying his property.
I could hear the words left unsaid. I sighed, unable to blame the man despite my agitation. It was doubtful Mr. Paxton would have even listened to him if he’d tried to tell him about the boat.
“Is there anything else you can tell us? Could you see anyone aboard the coble?” Gage shifted on his feet and I knew he was ready to be off.
Craggy Donald shook his head. “’Twas too far off.”
Gage thanked him and we started back up the path at a speed too quick for me.
“Slow down,” I gasped.
He complied, but without so much as an apology for making me winded. He was too deep in thought.
“How much would you wager that Mary was on that boat?”
“I’m not wagering anything,” I told him, though I did feel a surge of hope that we might be able to clear William after all. But our chances of finding Mary Wallace were looking slimmer and slimmer. “In any case, we need to talk to the ferrymen.”