Page 60 of The Highland Heist
“We’re here to see Mr. Barclay,” Johnson announced, flashing his credentials to the young clerk at the desk.
The clerk blinked, his hand halting mid-flip through the guest ledger. “Is he in trouble, Detective?”
“We hope not.” Johnson answered.
“Do you know if Mr. Barclay has had any visitors this evening?” Grace asked, stepping forward. “Any guests?”
“Not that I’ve seen, ma’am.” The clerk ran a finger down the page. “He’s kept mostly to himself since he arrived. Takes his meals in his room. I just figured …” He trailed off with a shrug. “Well, him being a foreigner and all.”
“The room number?” Johnson pressed.
“Mr. Barclay is in room twelve, just up the stairs.”
“Todd.” Johnson gestured with his chin for the officer to lead the way with him directly behind, and Frederick and Grace pulling up the rear.
Frederick exchanged a glance with Grace. A flicker of concern passed over her features, and if he wasn’t mistaken, her grip on the parasol tightened. He stifled a groan. The very last thing he wanted was to envision his wife battling a murderer again. The fact that she’d successfully done so—more than once—was no consolation. If anything, it was downright terrifying.
Todd approached the door to room twelve cautiously, his pistol drawn as he scanned the hallway. He gave a nod to Johnson, who knocked firmly.
“Mr. Barclay? It’s Detective Johnson.”
Silence.
Johnson knocked again, louder this time. “Mr. Barclay, I’m here with Lord and Lady Astley. They need to see you.”
Nothing.
The sinking feeling in Frederick’s chest plummeted further. Grace’s hold on his arm became almost bruising. He glanced at her. She felt it too—the gnawing dread of the worst possible outcome.
Johnson tested the handle. It turned easily, the door creaking open into a room steeped in shadow. A chill spilled out, heavy with an unnatural stillness.
“Wait.” Johnson’s whisper was sharp, halting Frederick mid-step. “Todd.” Johnson gestured with his chin for the man to enter first.
Officer Todd slipped around the doorframe and within a moment light blinked awake in the room.
Frederick’s chest squeezed at the sight. Grace gasped at his side.
The room was chaos. Papers were scattered like fallen leaves across the rug. A chair lay overturned. The curtains billowed faintly, stirred by a draft from the open window. But it was the figure slumped over the desk that held Frederick’s gaze.
“No,” he murmured, stepping forward.
Grace clung to his arm, her face pale. “Oh, poor Mr. Barclay.” A sudden sheen filled her eyes. “All of this … just because he was connected to our inheritance.”
“It does seem to be the common thread,” Johnson said grimly as he approached the desk. Then he stiffened, leaning closer. “Wait—he’s breathing.”
“What?” Frederick rushed forward with Grace just behind him.
Johnson checked Barclay’s wrist, nodding. “There’s a pulse.”
“Was he attacked?” Frederick leaned in, noticing the swelling at the back of Barclay’s head.
Johnson tilted the man upright, revealing a pale, slack face. “Looks that way.”
“Oh, thank God.” Grace exhaled, some tension melting from her shoulders. “What is it about this case? Everyone’s getting hit on the head and then run off on. It’s becoming a theme.”
Johnson’s lips twitched. “Do you expect assailants to wait politely for apprehension, Lady Astley?”
“It would be considerate, wouldn’t it?” Grace arched a brow, a light flickering in her eyes. “It’s just that there seems to be an awfully lot of head hitting of poor, unsuspecting people who’ve done very little to deserve such attacks.” She sighed. “Though I suppose I’ll settle for not having another funeral on our hands.”
