Page 46 of The Highland Heist
“The town isn’t large, and people were helpful in directing me to the daughters of Henry P. Ferguson.”
Grace kept her shoulders from cringing a little, which was a huge feat in personal growth. If Mr. Barclay had heard anything from the locals, there was a good chance he knew exactly why a police officer guarded the house.
Lillias turned to Mrs. James and waved her away, following the woman to the door and closing it behind her. Then she turned. “What exactly did thelocalshave to say?”
He didn’t answer right away. “A great deal, but I’d prefer to hear your story on things, Mrs. Dixon.”
Lillias withered down into a chair and, after a deep breath, told Mr. Barclay of the events from the day before, including a brief mention of Tony’s gambling difficulties and a jab at the fickleness of servants, before she remarked about the police’s insistence that she not leave the house. “It’s ridiculous to be a captive in my own home,” she finished with an edge. “But there is still some concern for my safety, so I must comply.”
Or concern for other people’s safety from Lillias, but Grace decided that tidbit of information wouldn’t have been very helpful to Mr. Barclay. He was a stocky fellow. He could probably take care of himself.
Mr. Barclay dipped his head, studying Lillias for a moment longer, before turning back to Grace. “Your mother spoke highly of both of you in her correspondence. She was quite pleased to be the mother of two daughters.”
“It’s so good to hear about her,” Grace offered. “I often imagine what she would think of her daughters all grown up and hope she’d still think highly of us.”
Grace met Lillias’ pained expression and replayed her words. Oh dear, she hadn’t meant that as a criticism of her sister. “And I’m certain she would have loved to know she had such a sweet little grandson.”
“Yes, I had heard of your son’s birth.” Mr. Barclay turned to Lillias. “Despite the tragedy of your situation, Mrs. Dixon, I congratulate you on your son’s safe arrival. I hope he will provide some comfort for ye during this difficult time.”
“Thank you.” Lillias said with less warmth than before, as she stood and placed a sandwich on a plate for Mr. Barclay. “I wasn’t very old when she died, but I don’t recall her mentioning your name.”
“But she did mention Mosslea, did she not?” He took the plate with a nod. “In fact, I remember when you visited as a bairn.”
Lillias poured him a cup of tea next, her porcelain brow creasing in thought. “I—I think I have vague memories of the place.”
“Well, I hope you will have a future of many more,” Mr. Barclay continued with a smile, a glint twinkling in his eyes. He turned to include Grace in the conversation. “Mosslea is not just any estate. It’s a piece of your family’s history. Your mother was deeply proud of it.”
“I’m anxious to know more about it.” Grace smiled, happy for the distraction from Lillias’ current situation. “Is it near the mountains? Or a loch? I’ve heard lochs are a plenty in Scotland.”
“As are mountains, my lady. And sheep. And heather and thistles.” He chuckled, and Grace could almost picture wind-tossed hillsides, the sound of bagpipes drifting through the air. “Mosslea has been in your mother’s family for five generations. When the previous owner, Alastair Blair, passed away unexpectedly, your mother became the next blood relative in line. Upon her death, the inheritance defaulted to the two of you. Your mother wished to ensure the estate remained in the family and hoped to provide any needed security, knowing how difficult financial freedom can be for women of the day.”
“Her foresight does her immense credit.” Lillias squeezed her hands together in her lap, but Grace’s mind clung to a certain phrase Mr. Barclay had mentioned.
Unexpected passing?
“May I ask—how did Mr. Blair die?”
Lillias’ humorless laugh interrupted Mr. Barclay’s answer. “Grace, what a question! What does it matter how the former owner died? That isn’t our business.” She turned to Mr. Barclay. “Please forgive my younger sister, she has a tendency to dramatize situations.” She lowered her voice, as if the next words were a confession. “She reads fiction.”
Why on earth would she say that as if it were abadthing?
“I do,” Grace said, leaning forward with a touch of pride, “and I feel it’s prepared me quite well for my life thus far.”
Lillias rolled her eyes, but Mr. Barclay’s lips twitched as though suppressing a smile. “I’m keen on a good piece of fiction now and again.” His expression sobered. “But sadly, Laird Blair drowned in the loch by the castle after an evening picnic with his wife.”
Lillias gasped. “Dear heavens, how horrid.”
Drowned? After an evening picnic? Grace’s whole body perked to attention. Not such a common death for men as more violent demises like being shot or stabbed. She cringed at the memory of Tony’s lifeless blood and almost regretted her earlier quip about the massive number of lochs in Scotland.
Had Mr. Blair’s death been a tragic accident like poor Ophelia’s, or Hardy’s Eustacia Vye? Grace’s mind was suddenly spinning—why did fictional women so often choose drowning as their end? Or had he died a hero in rescuing another, like Dickens’ James Steerforth? Or worse—had he beenforcedinto that loch, his death a darker affair than mere misfortune?
The cool chill of an unanswered mystery swooped through Grace with familiar relish. Not that sherelishedanyone’s death, but she adored the thrilling pursuit of finding answers. And there were a great many unanswered questions piling up right before her.
“Did you know Mr. Blair personally?” Grace asked, choosing a question nearer the one she really wished to ask:Do you have any reason to believe Mr. Blair was murdered?
“Indeed.” Mr. Barclay took another drink of tea. “I oversaw his finances until recently when he transferred oversight to someone else at his wife’s insistence. But the stewardship of the estate has long been in the Barclay family. We’ve always served in its legal matters, ensuring its rightful legacy and proper support for those who live within the village of Angloss. Laird Blair’s tenure at Mosslea was not long, but he left a lucrative and positive legacy, which has benefited Angloss and the surrounding areas.”
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.”
