“We became rather more attached to him when you…ah…disappeared. He was quite worried about you.” Mr. Dalrymple’s smile remained, but his eyes were hard. “I realize you claim not to remember anything about Stacy’s death, but we are prepared to tell the police that you killed him.”
“You’re right. I don’t remember.”
“Nonetheless, we have ascertained that this is what happened. As my wife promised, we have begun an investigation.”
Elliot cast his line into the water again, gently flicking his wrist just right…just right. The fish were nowhere in sight.
“Very civil-minded of ye,” he said to Dalrymple.
“I understand, of course, dear fellow. You weren’t right in the head at the time. There’s speculation you still aren’t, though you seem much better.”
“Thank ye.”
“And all this must be upsetting for your wife, who is from one of Edinburgh’s most respectable families, I hear.”
“She is, aye.”
“I know you would like to spare her undue distress.”
Elliot took his gaze from the gently bobbing line and looked fully at Dalrymple. The man’s pale face was beaded with sweat in the sunshine, his features too perfect and delicate for this climate. If he’d been in India as he claimed, time had erased whatever effects the sunshine there had made on him.
“Be clear about what you’re saying,” Elliot said. “I’m interested.”
Dalrymple smiled. “We’re both men of the world, Mr. McBride. We’ve seen privation, and we’ve seen wealth, the extremes of each, haven’t we?”
“Aye.”
“I know that you…acquired…quite a bit of wealth for yourself. Hence your purchase of an estate in the Highlands.”
“Aye.” Elliot did not like the implication that he’d gained his fortune by anything other than backbreaking work, but he let it go. Not worth the bother.
“If you wish me to be plain, then I will be.” Dalrymple cast a glance across the river at McPherson and McGregor, and lowered his voice. “You are unwell, and your wife is a pretty creature, and quite respectable. I’m certain that for a sum we can agree upon, the investigation into Mr. Stacy’s death can lead nowhere in particular, or be withdrawn altogether.”
Chapter 21
Elliot looked at Dalrymple for a heartbeat, then he drew back his fishing rod and sent the line over the river again.
“No,” he said.
Dalrymple blinked. “Pardon?”
“I said no. You’re not getting a penny.”
Dalrymple blinked a few more times, as though surprised Elliot hadn’t quickly begged the man to take all his money and leave him alone.
Dalrymple wet his thin lips. “Mr. McBride, your position is precarious. You killed a man and fled here to safety. You abducted his daughter and brought her with you. Now, while I agree that Mr. Stacy could be a hard man, and his daughter likely would have starved and died in India alone, I doubt you want this story to come out.”
“She’s not his daughter,” Elliot said calmly. “She’s mine.”
Dalrymple stared. “Is she? Well, good God, man, in that case, I think we had better come to some sort of agreement. If your wife and her family find out about this by-blow, not only will they be shocked and upset, they might bring suit against you, do you not think?”
“I’ve already told my wife about the lass.”
“Have you? Oh.”
Elliot went on fishing. Beside him Dalrymple cleared his throat, started to speak, broke off, and cleared his throat again.
“Let me return to my original purpose,” the man said after a time. “You murdered Mr. Stacy, and if you do not want to go to the gallows for it, you will make an arrangement with me.”
“Stacy isn’t dead.”
“Pardon?” More blinking.
“I said, Archie Stacy isn’t dead. He’s alive and well.”
Dalrymple actually smiled. “Ah, there we must differ. I have the death certificate.”
He pulled a piece of paper out of an inner pocket of his coat, unfolded it, and held it up so that Elliot could see the printing and official seal.
Bang! Birds exploded into flight from the surrounding trees. Warm blood sprayed over Elliot’s shirt, and he looked down in bewilderment at the filmy pattern of scarlet on linen. He felt no pain, and heard Dalrymple scream. The death certificate caught on the wind and fluttered gently into the river.
Elliot observed all this in one startled second, then he threw down his rod, stepped into deep shadow, and brought his rifle around.
Dalrymple remained in place, clutching his right hand and shrieking. McGregor and McPherson had disappeared into the shadows as well, only Dalrymple too far gone in pain to get himself out of the line of fire.
Elliot faded around the trees and moved swiftly and quietly in the direction of the shot. He ran up the hill, damp air forming droplets on his skin.
The scenario was eerily familiar, regardless of the tall Scottish trees that marched around him. He fought off his mind’s urge to take him back to the past, and ran on.
Elliot came out of the trees into a fairly flat clearing with an outcropping of bare rock. From the top of this rock, he had a perfect view of the river, the pool, and the exact spot where Dalrymple still stood.
Elliot pulled his rifle from his back and sighted down its scope. Dalrymple came into clear focus in the sunlight, his mouth moving as he swore in pain. Dalrymple had been facing Elliot, both of them in profile to this angle of the hill.
Stacy hadn’t hit Dalrymple by mistake. The man was a crack shot, one of the best. The wind was strong here, but Stacy would have adjusted for that.
He’d shot at Dalrymple, not Elliot. One shot. A spent cartridge lay shining at the base of the rock.
Elliot picked up the cartridge and dropped it into his sporran as he scanned the hill around him. Nowhere did he see a man running away, or brush and saplings moving to show his passage. The grass around the rock was matted and flat—all of it. Stacy must have trampled it before he’d taken the shot to cover the tracks of his retreat.
Elliot slung his rifle over his back again and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Stacy!”
The word rang from the hills. The men below looked up.
The echoes faded and silence came back to him. If Stacy had been there, he’d vanished into the faint mist creeping down from the highest peaks.
Elliot climbed down from the rock and went in search of him.
Juliana spent the morning busy with preparations for the midsummer fête and making certain that the men worked in the most important areas of the house.
Because Elliot was off fishing with McGregor when the workers arrived, Juliana kept a special eye on Priti. She noticed the instant the little girl rushed out of the house on her own to play with the goat, and hurried out after her, welcoming the morning sun on her face.
Juliana relaxed as soon as she found Priti in the kitchen garden—Priti was talking to the goat tethered out of reach of the runner beans, and feeding it oatcakes.
She enjoyed a moment of watching the child. Priti was sweet-tempered, and yet had the impish determination of her father. She’d taken the upheaval from her home in stride, liked exploring Castle McGregor, and enjoyed following Hamish about, tugging on the lad’s kilt when she wanted his attention.
The tranquil moment was disturbed when a man came out of the bracken at the foot of the garden. He was dressed the same as the workers—in kilt, boots, and shirtsleeves—his face covered with a rather tangled red-gold beard.