The Highland Heist, page 9
A raised voice echoed down the hall, clear and unmistakable. Grace. But angry? He stumbled, wondering if the hit to the head impacted his hearing. His wife rarely raised her voice except, perhaps, in joy. And angry? His body surged into motion. He busted through the door, ready to protect his wife from some villain who’d sneaked into the house, only to find her and her sister in the room.
Grace turned wide eyes on him.
Lillias screamed.
Frederick blinked at the pair of them, focusing on Grace as he waited for the room to stop spinning. “Are you all right?”
“Me?” Grace crossed the space between them in an instant, her gaze scanning his face. “Heavens, Frederick, what happened?” She took him by the arm and drew him toward a chair across the room.
Lillias backed farther away, her palm over her mouth.
“Attacked,” he muttered, easing into the chair with a groan. “In the back garden. Thought he might’ve come inside.”
Two warm palms rested against his cheeks, and he opened his eyes to find Grace examining his face. “Where does it hurt?”
His lips quirked despite the pain. “Back of the head. Knocked me out cold. But”—he hesitated, glancing at Lillias, who now looked like she might faint at any moment—”there were signs of a struggle. I think he came back to search for something he lost in the fight.”
Her brows lifted. “You found something?”
“Yes, but he took it when he fled. Whatever it was, he wanted it badly enough to risk coming back.”
Grace’s gaze shifted toward the door, and Frederick followed it. Zahra hovered in the threshold, her small frame rigid and her face unnaturally pale.
He began to push himself out of the chair, but Grace’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. In his current state, it didn’t take much.
“He is going to be fine, Zahra.” Grace cooed out the phrase as Zahra’s attention switched from Grace back to Frederick. Her lost expression nearly pulled him from the chair. Had she seen similar things in her young life? Worse, probably. “But would you mind fetching Miss Cox? I think we could certainly use her assistance.”
Zahra lingered for a heartbeat, then nodded and dashed from the room.
“Do—do you mean that the man who killed Tony was just outside the house?” Lillias stammered. She clung to the back of the chair as if it might save her from fainting.
“It seems so,” Grace replied, though her attention stayed fixed on Frederick. She lowered herself to her knees beside him, taking his hand in hers. “We only parted less than half an hour ago. You couldn’t have been unconscious long.”
He closed his eyes, hoping to stave off the wave of nausea threatening to crest. “The pin was near the back garden wall.”
“Pin?” Grace’s voice came soft, but there was no denying the interest in it. “What sort of pin?”
He opened his eyes, holding her gaze. “Scottish.”
“Scottish?” Grace breathed the word, and he could see her mind spinning faster than her driving. “Frederick. The inheritance? Do you think it could be a coincidence?”
He attempted a half-smile but felt it falter. “What does Detective Miracle say about coincidences?”
Her fingers squeezed his, and the familiar gleam returned to her eyes, brighter now than he’d seen all day. He’d always admired how quickly she could go from nurturing to razor-sharp sleuth.
“There is no such thing as a coincidence—only clues we haven’t discovered yet.”
Chapter 8
After witnessing her darling husband in such a state and knowing he could have died yet again—this time at the hands of some nefarious fiend—Grace decided it was time to set aside her sisterly frustrations and don her proverbial sleuthing hat. As any good detective knew, there was no time for pettiness when life and death were on the line.
Lillias, naturally, had nearly fainted at the sight of Frederick’s wound, so Grace had sent her to fetch one of the servants in order to call a doctor and the police.
And here they were, an hour later, with Frederick stubbornly insisting on speaking to the police, despite the fact that it was well past midnight and he’d just been knocked unconscious.
The doctor seemed much more concerned about the way in which Frederick was wounded, than the actual injury, which simultaneously impressed and annoyed Grace. Her dear husband could have died.
Though, if Grace were honest, she’d had more than enough practice with the impending sense of Frederick’s demise. Several times throughout their marriage, she’d thought him lost to her—dead or near enough to it—and a few more times, she’d even daydreamed about it, in a dark, maudlin sort of way. But tonight? Tonight felt different.
For some reason, it seemed darker, more dangerous. Perhaps because it was her family involved this time.
And the clearer view of her sister’s mindset brought shadowy talons into the present.
Having been away from Lillias for all these months and having matured herself, Grace found herself reframing previous scenes with Lillias based on her sister’s current actions and words. Other moments of similar condescension and dismissiveness. Other times when Lillias had been secretive or even laughed at Grace and her love of books and mysteries.
At the time, Grace had seen them as simple teasing, but had they been more? A jealousy underneath all along? Or had her feelings taken this turn once Lillias felt the sting of her reduced circumstances since marrying Tony?
And could those feelings have led her to murder?
For the first time, Grace wasn’t too certain she wanted to solve a mystery. Not this one, anyway.
“Are you sure you want this conversation to happen now?” Grace asked, her arm tucked through Frederick’s as they made their way downstairs to the study. It was more to steady him than anything else—he seemed to be holding himself together well enough, but his pallor prevented her from experiencing complete peace of mind.
“There are too many moving parts to delay.” Frederick searched her face, his brow furrowing as he added, “What if you’d been the one out in the garden?”
She slowed them to a stop in front of the study door, where Detective Johnson and Officer Todd waited at Frederick’s request. “We’ve had this discussion several times before, my dear Lord Astley. Only God has the power to protect us fully.”
“But He gave us wits to use as well.” He narrowed his eyes at her in an attempt at mock seriousness. He knew, as well as she did, that they had both teetered on the edge of something awful tonight. The teasing helped her heart stay steady, if only just.
“And we need more help than just ourselves in this situation, Grace,” he added, his voice softer but no less resolute.
Her gaze swept over his face, noting that some pink had returned to his cheeks. “I know.”
The tension around his eyes softened, and he squeezed her hand. “I will be all right.”
She studied him a moment longer, a frown tugging at the corner of her mouth, then nodded before Frederick opened the door and led them into the study.
Detective Johnson stood from the nearby chair and Officer Todd turned at their entry. “Lord Astley, I am glad to see you upright considering your recent attack.”
Frederick nodded to the man and led Grace to a nearby chair, taking the couch next to her for himself. “I am well enough, Detective, thank you.”
“And Mrs. Dixon?” Officer Todd looked toward the doorway, expectantly.
“The doctor gave her something to help her sleep, as she was quite”—Grace tried to figure out which word would be best—”overrun with her nerves.”
Yes. That seemed a perfect descriptor. Her sister appeared on the brink of some sort of breakdown. Hopefully, in a less homicidal direction.
“That doesn’t seem to be your predilection, Lady Astley.” Detective Johnson tipped his head, studying her with the faintest glint of amusement. “Not the swooning sort?”
“Not from dangers, sir,” She shot back, a little pleased at her quick and somewhat subtle retort. She looked over at her husband. She wasn’t a swooning sort of woman, but exceptions to that rule always came because of him, and she wasn’t about to admit that to the detective.
“Clearly.” Johnson turned his attention back to Frederick as Grace helped her husband adjust his position on the nearby couch. “And you felt this meeting necessary tonight, Lord Astley.”
Frederick raised his gaze to the man. “Based on some information we’ve gathered today.”
“Information you’ve gathered?” Officer Todd scoffed, his arms crossed in an unflattering stance. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”
Grace narrowed her eyes at the boorish man. Her husband was exceptionally impressive. Just wait until they saw him cane fighting. Or wielding a pistol. Or deciphering clues. Her cheeks grew hot at the loveliness of the memories. Officer Todd, no doubt, couldn’t look nearly as dashing while embroiled in such villain-fighting moments.
The detective exchanged a look with the officer, and Todd frowned but said no more.
“Though we do have a history as sleuths, Detective, this time our involvement was much less intentional.” Grace clarified. “And the information found us more than we found it.”
The detective raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but settled himself in the chair across from them. “What has happened?”
Frederick took a steadying breath and proceeded to recount their visit to Miss Steen’s house as well as the attack in the back garden, his words as thorough as any detective could hope for. Grace couldn’t help the proud smile that tugged at her lips. Clearly, the knock to the head hadn’t hurt his memory at all. Nothing like what she’d read about in other mysteries. One man even forgot who he was and didn’t remember for seven entire chapters!
How delightful to have a husband whose mind wasn’t easily scrambled.
“Let me get this straight,” Johnson began, his tone measured. “You, Lord and Lady Astley, ventured out to interview Miss Steen without notifying me—”
“As I mentioned before, Detective, our intention wasn’t to interview her at all.” Then Grace frowned at the unintended hint of a lie in her words. Of course, she was always trying to discover more information about a mystery. “Well, not entirely. We did mean to deliver the letter, but if Miss Steen offered us information, we were hardly about to refuse it, especially in the interest of finding Tony’s murderer.”
“But as I mentioned,” Frederick continued, “we never delivered Mrs. Dixon’s letter. Miss Steen, however, thought we were part of the investigation and provided us with information, as well as mentioning a man who had paid her for information—Mr. K.”
“Rather inconspicuous, isn’t it?” Johnson quirked an eyebrow, his tone dry.
“And Lillias’ letter wasn’t the heartfelt plea for reconciliation she’d told us that it was.” Grace continued. “Instead, it was an attempt to coerce Miss Steen into providing a false alibi for Lillias—an entirely fabricated account of her whereabouts this morning.”
The detective’s gaze lingered on her for a long moment. “And you’re certain of this?”
“Miss Steen was quite forthcoming,” Frederick pressed his fingers into his forehead, still suffering from the effects of his attack. “She also mentioned she made contact with several people during her morning walk, all of whom could verify her whereabouts.”
“Yet you still believe Mrs. Dixon is innocent?” Johnson asked, his tone even but probing.
Grace straightened. “Lillias may be hiding something—she is hiding something—but we don’t believe she killed Tony. Or at least, if she was part of it, she didn’t give the death blow.”
Detective Johnson’s brows flew upwards, but Grace couldn’t fathom why. The phrase “death blow” seemed perfectly accurate to her. Wasn’t that the sort of thing detectives were supposed to get excited about?
“Then why lie about her whereabouts?” the detective pressed. “If she wasn’t the main culprit, it’s possible she was a party to it—especially given the unhappy marriage.”
Grace couldn’t help but bite her lip in thought. “I’m sure there are many unhappy marriages that don’t end in murder,” she suggested, but the words hung in the air uncertainly. Of course, in her extensive reading—fictional as it was—there was usually a fair balance. But perhaps, in this case, it was best to err on the side of optimism. One can hope, at least.
“Yet there are some that do.” Detective Johnson’s gaze sharpened.
“Well, yes,” Grace conceded, refusing to relinquish her point in a grasp to save her sister. “But there are also plenty of mysteries where the murderer is someone entirely unexpected.”
“And there is still the quandary of the suspicious man who paraded himself about as Officer Clark.” This from Frederick. “It’s possible he murdered Mr. Dixon, dragged him back into the house for Mrs. Dixon to find, and then waited outside for the discovery—conveniently in time to alert you and your officers. As you said earlier, it was all … very convenient.”
“Convenience,” Johnson mused, stroking his chin, “is the height of suspicion.”
“That’s what Detective Miracle says too.” Grace couldn’t resist the tiny grin that crept across her face. Their friend Jack seemed to have a habit of saying rather memorable things, most of them involving some obscure deduction about society or human nature. Johnson, however, did not seem to share her fondness for Jack’s sayings. The detective’s lips tightened, and a fleeting frown passed across his face.
“And where do you believe Mrs. Dixon was during the time of her husband’s murder?” This from Officer Todd, who’d remained poised against the wall during the entire conversation, his arms crossed in front of him, and eyes at a constant narrow.
Grace opened her mouth, paused, and then lifted her chin. “I don’t know yet. But I fully intend to find out. I only need another conversation with her. Our last one was”—Grace’s face grew hot at the memory of her sister’s barbed words—”Uneventful, well, except for the part where Lord Astley showed up with a head wound. That was quite eventful.”
A flicker of amusement crossed Johnson’s face, though it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “I admire your determination, Lady Astley, but I must caution you—this isn’t some sort of game. Real-life investigations require precision and restraint, not whimsy.”
“Whimsy?” Grace repeated. What a strange word to use as a description for a very thoughtful sleuthing approach. “I assure you, Detective, my approach is entirely methodical, if, at times, accidental. And I wouldn’t be surprised if whimsy didn’t help matters along a little bit too. I’m certain you must use creativity in your cases as well as method.”
Frederick pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose his lips twitching at one corner.
“You know that I could have you both questioned for injecting yourself into this investigation or interfering with—”
“We don’t mean to interfere, Detective.” Grace rushed ahead. No need to have the man thinking the wrong idea when help was quite literally in front of him. “We are assisting. Like the Baker Street Irregulars, only—”
“Only married to a peer and decidedly not a street urchin,” Frederick interrupted dryly.
“And with considerably more … propriety,” Grace added, her smile spread full at her husband.
Frederick shot her a raised-brow look.
Well, swinging on ropes and swimming in rivers likely didn’t meet the mark for propriety.
“In truth, Detective Johnson.” Frederick continued. “We have no desire to interfere. Only assist, where we are able.”
“And this is exactly how all of our other cases started.” Grace added, hoping to help the bewildered-looking detective to understand. “We weren’t looking for them. They just happened.”
“Lady Astley,” Johnson said slowly, his expression unreadable, “I’m not exactly sure why, but I feel as though you have a certain magnetism toward mishap.”
Now, that wasn’t very nice. As if she didn’t have any sense to know her own mind. “That implies I’m drawn against my will, Detective, and I’m afraid to say that’s simply not true.”
A cough from Frederick drew Grace’s attention. The slight twist of his lips revealed one of his covert laughs. But what had she said to amuse him? She shrugged off the curiosity. If laughter was medicine, then let him find it wherever he could. Heaven knew he certainly needed a strong dose after such an attack.
Detective Johnson’s lips twitched, but he quickly smoothed his expression and pressed on. “And you believe the injury your husband sustained in the garden is connected to Miss Steen’s confession?”
“Not directly,” Frederick intervened. “However, it seems Mr. Dixon was dragged in from outside after a scuffle in the garden. The person who attacked him returned later to retrieve a missing pin.”
“Exactly like in The Mystery of Blackwood Hall!“ Grace offered, nodding toward Detective Johnson as if he might know the reference. “Although, in that case, it was the butler who—”
Frederick’s pointed cough cut her off.
Grace clamped her mouth shut. Oh, right. Clearly, Detective Johnson wasn’t the type to indulge in fictional whodunits. He probably read biographies. Or Melville.
“What appears to be of note here, Detective,” Frederick continued, “is that I was attacked while Lady Astley was speaking with her sister, which would suggest Mrs. Dixon is not the one who attacked me.”
“And Lillias faints at the sight of blood,” Grace added helpfully. “It’s rather unlikely she’d kill Tony, let alone stage his body so … theatrically. Could someone have moved him to implicate her?”
“Or,” Johnson interjected, his gaze narrowing, “as you suggested earlier, she has an accomplice.” He paused, studying them as if trying to gauge their trustworthiness. Beside him, Officer Todd lit a cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke with the air of a man deeply unimpressed.
“What can you tell me about Mr. Dixon?” Johnson asked finally, his focus shifting to Grace.
