He washed the bite of stew down with a swig of ale, then rested his fork against the plate.
“You.” The single syllable was spoken in a calm, quiet tone, but might well have been a gunshot for the reverberation it triggered within her.
“I beg your pardon.” She chased her reply with another drink. A gulp, this time.
“You, Miss Templeton.” The flash in Connor’s eyes betrayed he’d taken note of her shocked reaction. “I was sent to London to keep an eye on you.”
“On me?” She forced a lightness to her voice, when in truth, it seemed he’d plowed an elbow into her ribs. “My, what an utter waste of time that must have been for you. Quite ordinary, my life there.”
One of his dark brows arched. “Ordinary? If that was the case, ye wouldnae be sitting here now.”
The door to the kitchen creaked open, and Mrs. Bailey scurried to the table as if offering nourishment to a starving man. She regarded him as one might a long-lost son who’d returned to the family fold.
“Eat up, lad. I can’t have ye wastin’ away.” Mrs. Bailey set a tray with warm bread and a small bowl of butter before them. She shot Johanna a glance. “You, too, lass. Ye need a bit more meat on those bones.”
“Thank ye.” MacMasters broke off a hunk of bread and dipped it in his stew. “We won’t be needing anything else.”
The cook swept her palms over her apron. “If that’s the case, I’ll be heading t’my room. I’ll be up with the cock’s crow, and now, I’ll need t’have another loaf in the oven before yer father sets down t’break his fast.”
“Good night t’ye,” MacMasters said with genuine warmth. He waited until the door closed behind Mrs. Bailey, then shifted his gaze to Johanna. “Ye harbored no suspicion of yer brother-in-law? A sharp lass like ye had to ponder his dealings.”
In truth, she’d had her concerns about her sister’s husband, about the secrecy that clung to him like an ever-present shadow. But she’d never confronted him with her suspicions.
Regret dug into her belly. Not that questioning Mr. Abbott would’ve made any difference. He was Laurel’s father. It had been his right to take her from London.
She glanced at her plate, then forced herself to meet MacMasters’s gaze. “He did not view me as a confidant. Far from it.”
He inclined his head, the smallest of nods, even as his eyes pinned her. Perceptive and sharp. “And yer sister? She knew nothing of his activities?”
“If she did, she did not share her observations with me. Cynthia had been ill for quite a while, well over a year. My focus was on her comfort and Laurel’s well-being. Mr. Abbott was seldom present. And when he was, he seemed a fleeting presence, coming and going with little regard to what was occurring within his home.”
His expression thoughtful, he appeared to consider her remarks. “Ye’ve seen his associates? Perhaps in passing?”
“Never.” Johanna tapped her fork against the rim of the bowl. Drat the nervous habit. Since childhood, she’d made a conscious effort to obliterate the tendency, and she’d succeeded. Until this nightmare with Laurel had shredded her good intentions and resolve.
MacMasters downed more stew and bread, washing it down with ale. “Ye’re sure of that?”
“Yes.” A memory flashed in her thoughts. “No, that’s not quite right. There was one man who visited the flat, a respectable gentleman. One afternoon, not long after his death, his widow arrived unannounced. She was agitated. Quite irrational, really. I had no information she found to be of use, and to be frank, she appeared on the verge of hysteria. Soon after she departed my residence—”
“She was killed,” MacMasters supplied.
Johanna nodded. “Her name was Mrs. MacInnis. Rumor had it her grief was too much to bear.”
“I am well aware of her identity.”
“You knew her?” Johanna studied his features. “You were aware she’d visited my flat?”
“Only after the fact. That bit of intelligence reached me after she was murdered.”
“Murdered?” The word stuck on Johanna’s tongue like over-cooked porridge.
“MacInnis’s widow didnae kill herself. Eleanor MacInnis fell to her death, but that fall was no accident.” MacMasters spoke as easily as if he remarked on the next day’s weather prospects.
“But how…how do you know this?”
He plowed long fingers through his dark hair. “Because I know who murdered her.”
Chapter Seventeen