The Highland Heist, page 14
There was a deep-set passion in Mr. Barclay’s words, a love for his people and land. A very good thing, unless turned in a not-so-good direction. “I can tell the estate means a great deal to you.”
“It does. Generations of my family have lived in Angloss. ‘Tis our family home and worthy of our protection from anyone who would see it harmed. I’ve seen what happens when places like Mosslea fall into the wrong hands. It’s more than a piece of land. It’s a home to those who live and work there—a part of their identity. Your mother understood that, and I believe you will too.” He straightened, his gaze intensifying as he shifted focus from Grace to Lillias. “Which is why I must emphasize the urgency of acting quickly. The will’s stipulations leave little room for delay. If the inheritance isn’t claimed within the month, the estate will go to auction.”
“Auction?” Lillias cried. “For someone else to buy?”
“Aye.” The solicitor folded his hands, leaning forward slightly. “You can be sure the bidders won’t be interested in preserving the castle’s legacy. They’ll see only its potential for profit—mines, timber, grazing land. And I can assure you, the vultures are already circling. Not two weeks after Laird Blair’s passing, I had an offer made for the place.” He shook his head. “It would be a travesty to see it mishandled and unappreciated.”
Had he said castle? Grace blinked a few times, attempting to rework the image of Mosslea in her head from being similar to her dear Havensbrooke to something entirely different. So many mystery-loving clues were flying, Grace wished she’d brought her notepad and pen to the meeting. An unexpected death to the previous owner, a passionate steward desperate to protect his home, possible entrepreneur with a desire to own lucrative property, and a castle?
“A travesty, indeed.” Lillias’ voice pulled Grace from her mental image of fairytales and back to the very real mystery of this entire situation. “But even if we claim the inheritance together, how are we to manage such an estate? Are funds available for its upkeep?”
Oh, that was a very good question. One Grace should have considered.
“There are. More than enough, as Laird Blair’s predecessor had secured monies for Mosslea’s repairs before his death. The surplus, as well as the way you manage the resources of the land, are sure to keep you two in good financial stead for the foreseeable future.”
“Well, we have every intention of claiming what is ours, do we not, Grace?” Lillias raised her chin to battle proportions. “What must we do? When can we leave? And—and how will we procure the expense?”
“Assuming your current situation allows for it, Mrs. Dixon, I’d be happy to leave no later than the first of next week.”
“I am not at fault for my husband’s death, Mr. Barclay, so we should have no difficulty on that score.” The edge in Lillias voice brooked no argument, and Grace hoped the police proved as amenable to her sister’s tone as Mr. Barclay.
“Very well.” He dipped his head. “Your mother set up accounts for each of you in Harrington Bank to provide funds for travel and initial expenses.”
“She thought of everything, didn’t she?” Grace laughed. “How clever and well-planned.”
“Aye.” Mr. Barclay’s gaze softened with his smile. “She was a clever one, ye ken?”
Grace’s grin broadened at his warmth, and he continued. “The accounts have accrued some interest since they were established, so they should amply cover your travel expenses and any other immediate needs you may have.” His gaze landed much-too-pointedly on Lillias, whose eyes gleamed like a child catching sight of presents on Christmas morning. Or at least, Grace imagined that’s how a child’s eyes might gleam. She hoped very much to find out firsthand one day, with Zahra and Elizabeth, and maybe four or five other little ones.
Oh! Christmas at Havensbrooke this year will be magnificent.
“Then let us proceed.” Lillias slipped to the edge of the chair, nearer Mr. Barclay. “Where do we sign?”
Mr. Barclay cleared his throat, his expression turning serious as he leaned forward. “I dinnae bring the official forms with me today.”
“What?” Lillias exclaimed, her brows furrowing. “I thought this was of the utmost urgency?”
“Aye,” He continued, his tone deliberate. “But I needed to secure your intentions and interest before I brought the papers with me. There are only two copies of the will. One remains under lock and key in my possession at the hotel. The other is secured along with other important papers like blueprints, land surveys, and other personal items at Mosslea itself, in a safe location known only to the late Mr. Blair and myself. Now that I’ve met you and know of your intentions, we can secure another meeting for your signatures, and then I will escort you to Mosslea myself to give you a proper introduction.”
It all sounded rather straightforward, if Lillias’ possible charges as a murderess didn’t complicate matters. Grace almost cringed. Certainly, a sentence she’d never imagined thinking. She shook off the thought, focusing on Mr. Barclay’s satchel instead. “So what have you brought with you?”
“Why on earth would his satchel matter, Grace, when we have an inheritance to secure?” Lillias huffed.
“It matters a great deal, Mrs. Dixon.” Mr. Barclay drew the satchel onto his lap and brought out a large envelope. “These are paintings and photographs of Mosslea and Angloss. There are a few of Laird Blair and the surrounding areas, and I located some photos taken of your mother.” He turned his attention fully on Grace. “I feel you’ll appreciate them.”
“Most certainly.” Grace took the offering into her arms as if the package was as fragile as baby Thomas. “Thank you.”
“And when do you wish to meet for us to sign the documents?” Lillias interjected, doing nothing to hide the impatience in her voice.
Mr. Barclay turned toward her and drew his pocket watch from his jacket. “I will prepare everything tonight, so”—he glanced down at the watch—”would noon tomorrow suffice? In my hotel’s private parlor.”
“We will be there.” Lillias stood, answering for the both of them, and Grace hoped she had more foresight into her personal freedom than Grace did.
“And my husband, Lord Astley, will join us as well.”
Mr. Barclay stood, nodding toward Lillias with a courteous smile, before turning to Grace. His smile deepened, something warm and almost mischievous in his gaze. “I look forward to our meeting tomorrow.”
And Grace had to curb the urge to hug him for the third time.
As he reached the door, Mr. Barclay paused, looking back at them with a hint of something unreadable in his expression. “One last note—should either of you have second thoughts or should complications arise, it is imperative you inform me immediately. Time is not on your side, and any delay could jeopardize the inheritance.”
Lillias squared her shoulders. “There won’t be any complications.”
Grace hoped that to be true.
Mr. Barclay’s lips twitched, a subtle expression that could have been approval or skepticism—or perhaps a mix of both. “Good day, ladies.” He swept from the room.
The door had just closed behind him when Grace sent her sister a quick shrug of apology and rushed out of the room after the man. He’d not made it but a few steps down the hallway and turned at her approach.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Barclay, and I’m certain you’ll find this question impertinent, but what happened to Mr. Blair’s wife?”
“His wife?” Mr. Barclay’s brows shot skyward.
“You mentioned his death, but is she still living in Mosslea? Should we be considering her in our decisions?”
Mr. Barclay’s confusion melted into a knowing smile, as if some piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “Ah, I see. I didnae make that clear, did I?” He nodded once, then sobered. “It’s a private matter, but since you’ll be inheriting the rumors along with the estate, you ought to know, I s’pose.” He sighed. “She drowned, along with him.”
Grace’s palm flew to her stomach. “Oh no.”
“Aye, it was a sad discovery, make no mistake.” He shook his head. “They’d gone out in a boat to visit the ruins on an island near the house—’twas a favorite picnic spot for the couple, so the house servants say. And on the return, the boat capsized.”
“How awful,” Grace murmured, struggling to process this new detail. “And they couldn’t swim?”
Mr. Barclay hesitated before answering, his gaze growing distant. “I dinnae know if Lady Blair could swim, but the laird could, or so I’m told. They say he tried to save her, but …” He allowed the rest of the sentence to hang in the air like an unfinished thought.
So the heroic sort of drowning? “And the poor servants are the ones who recovered the bodies, I suspect?”
Mr. Barclay flinched at Grace’s directness, or she supposed that was why, but after a moment, he answered. “Laird Blair’s body was found by the servants, aye.”
A wave of foreboding washed over her. “And his wife’s?”
He sighed deeply, as though the weight of the story had followed him all this time. “They found her scarf and hat, as I recall.” He pulled his hat from his head, adjusting it slowly. “Loch Ness takes its own, and they’re none too easy to find beneath those depths.”
With that, he dipped his head and walked down the hall, leaving Grace frozen in place. Loch Ness?
She’d heard of it. Read about it in a few obscure books in her family library about Scottish history, no doubt left there by her mother. But did Mr. Barclay’s revelation mean that Mosslea was close to the mysterious loch and even more mysterious creature?
Grace looked back at the breakfast room door. She should talk to Lillias about everything, but after only a moment’s hesitation, she dashed toward the stairs. First and foremost, she needed to write down every new clue she’d just uncovered and sort out a plan for the next adventure.
Chapter 12
“Lord Astley, I didn’t take you for a gambling man.”
Frederick had only made it a few steps outside The Lucky Coin before Detective Johnson materialized from the shadowy corner of the establishment. The man’s tilted frown spoke volumes.
Frederick was trespassing in unwanted territory.
Johnson’s dark overcoat and bowler hat silhouetted against the overcast sky gave him the look of a villain in one of Grace’s cherished mystery novels.
“I’m not, sir.” Frederick conceded with a smile. “Only visiting on a hunch.”
“A hunch?” A derisive puff of air, like a snort, emerged from the man. “Taking up your wife’s fictionalized mantle or stepping in your friend Miracle’s footsteps by attempting more amateur sleuthing?”
“Amateur?” Frederick allowed the faintest smile. “I assure you, Detective, I leave the professional work to you. But wouldn’t it be better to have more eyes on the lookout than fewer, especially considering the delicate nature of this situation?”
“Delicate? I’ve seen Mr. Dixon’s wound. It was anything but delicate.” One of Johnson’s brows rose in challenge. “One might even consider it inflicted out of passion.”
Frederick held Johnson’s gaze, unflinching. “Do you genuinely suspect my sister-in-law?”
Johnson hesitated, his expression unreadable, before exhaling. “Less likely she wielded the blade herself. But as for her involvement? That remains to be seen.”
The thought still hovered in Frederick’s mind, but not with the same hold as it had yesterday. There was much more going on surrounding Tony’s death than the disharmony of a marriage. “I have high doubts on that score, and I’m not one to play favorites as far as Mrs. Dixon is concerned.”
Johnson’s lips twitched. “Yes, from Lady Astley’s detailed accounts, I understand why you’re less than enchanted with your sister-in-law.”
And seven months ago, the mere mention of Lillias had fueled his anger. Now it only reinforced his gratitude. Grace was a better match for him in every conceivable way—a divine intervention he had been too blind to see at the time.
“What do you say of moving this conversation inside, Lord Astley.” Johnson waved toward a nearby restaurant with a much more appealing facade than the darker hues of the Lucky Coin.
Frederick inclined his head. As far as detectives went, Johnson was leagues apart from Miracle in demeanor. Where Jack had a knack for camaraderie and wit, Johnson wielded formality like a weapon. And it took very little brain work to deduce that the two men had crossed paths at some point in time.
Once seated in a quiet corner of the café, the scent of fresh bread mingling with the low murmur of patrons, Frederick decided to probe. “What’s the story between you and Jack Miracle?”
A flicker of surprise lit the man’s gaze, before his expression darkened.
Frederick fought back a grin. Perhaps he did gamble more than he admitted—though never with cards or dice. Curiosity was his vice, he supposed. One greatly encouraged by his wife. “Was it about some dueling cases between the two of you?”
Johnson released a heavy breath and took a drink from the glass the attendant just set on the table. The sudden heightening of color in Johnson’s face flared an idea to life in Frederick’s mind.
“A woman?”
Johnson froze, the rim of his glass halfway to his lips. When he finally spoke, his tone was grudging. “I may have underestimated your amateur skills, Lord Astley.”
“A veiled compliment. I’ll take it. But Jack’s never mentioned any other woman,” Frederick added, frowning. “Except his—” He stopped short, heat rising to his face. “His wife.”
“Another sharp observation.” Johnson traced the rim of his glass with his finger, his gaze distant. “We worked a case years ago. Edith was involved. She chose Miracle.”
“And promptly left him for another man,” Frederick finished, watching Johnson’s head snap up in surprise. “Jack told me as much. Took some of his money, ran off, and filed for divorce within a year.”
Johnson exhaled, leaning back in his chair as though the words had knocked the air out of him. “I didn’t know.”
“He’s a good man and a good detective. Perhaps the lady wasn’t the right one for either of you.”
Johnson relented with a shadow of a nod, the topic mercifully left to fade. “So what did you discover from Hargrove?”
Frederick’s lips twitched upward. Finally, back to business. Johnson’s question, while gruffly delivered, was a subtle concession—accepting Frederick’s assistance without outright admitting it. Baby steps. “Tony Dixon had a conflict with a stranger, a Scot it seems, who happened to go by the name of—”
“Let me guess.” Johnson’s brow arched with maddening smugness. “Clark?”
Frederick narrowed his eyes. How much did the man already know? “Indeed. And the altercation occurred two nights before Dixon’s death.”
“Did Hargrove mention anything about Dixon’s regular temperament?”
Frederick took a measured sip from his glass, the burn in his throat barely masking the sting of recalling Tony’s fate. A decent man undone by his own desperation. “By all accounts, he had a good reputation. Generous, even. But he was notoriously unlucky—cards, dice—a win from any form of gambling seemed to elude him.”
“And banking didn’t seem to suit him either,” Johnson added. “Worked at the same firm for a year without a single promotion. Some miscalculated figures cost him his standing.” He paused, looking up from his glass. “Evidently, he went into banking at his family’s insistence. The man wanted to work with his hands.”
“Farming?”
“Or building. A craftsman at heart.”
Tony sacrificed his dreams for Lillias’ ambitions? A banking position would have carried more prestige, after all. And did Lillias know? For some reason, that made the death of the man even worse. Despite the rumors of his and Lillias’ marital conflict, some sort of affection had moved them. Both of them, if Frederick guessed.
“Speaking of strangers from across the pond,” Johnson interrupted his thoughts, fixing him with a pointed gaze, “there’s a Scot staying at the Clarion Hotel. Arrived recently. Keeps to himself. Ring any bells?”
Johnson already knew exactly why Frederick would be acquainted with such a man. Had Mrs. James alerted him of the note Frederick had sent to Mr. Barclay last evening? “Mr. Barclay is here on business concerning my wife and her sister.”
“And what sort of business, may I ask?” Johnson’s right eyebrow raised.
Frederick mirrored the expression. “Barclay is handling an inheritance. Apparently a Scottish estate left by their mother. He should be meeting with Lady Astley and Mrs. Dixon even now to discuss the matter.”
“Oh, he’s already been there. Officer Todd informed me.” Johnson finished off his glass. “Curious timing, wouldn’t you say?”
The thought hadn’t strayed too far from Frederick’s mind, but he kept quiet.
“A Scottish pin found at the murder site. A foreign stranger who had an altercation with the victim before his death. The sudden arrival of a Scot to deliver an inheritance which conveniently resides in Scotland?” He stood and tossed a few bills on the table. “Curious.” He tipped his hat. “I’d keep a very wary eye out, Lord Astley.”
Grace walked to her room, envelope in hand, ready to delve into the photos Mr. Barclay had left, when a small shadowy figure down the hallway stopped her.
Zahra stood by the tall window, her long dark hair falling down the back of her pale pink dress, her body half hidden behind the curtain as she looked out. The same sweetness Grace always felt when she realized the little girl was theirs burgeoned through her, and she walked over the simple carpet toward her.
