“A man can make certain he’s presumed dead,” Ian said, casting his line back into the water. “If he wants everyone to think he is.”
Fellows looked at Ian in surprise. “You have experience of this?”
Ian pulled in his line and cast it out again, the quiet swish the only sound as they waited. Elliot thought Ian wouldn’t answer, but then he said, “A man at the asylum had himself declared insane to get away from an uncle who was trying to kill him. The uncle wanted his inheritance.”
“The uncle got it then,” Fellows said. “If this man was declared mad, the money would be passed to the uncle as soon as he was committed.”
“He didn’t care. He wanted to stay alive.”
“Hell of a way to do it,” Fellows said. “Mr. Stacy could have done a similar thing—taken advantage of the confusion after the earthquake and lain low. If he knew the area and the people and how to blend in, no one might notice him slip away. A report would be filed declaring him officially missing or dead. End of the matter.”
“Though I don’t know why Stacy would want to be thought dead,” Elliot said. He stood his fishing pole on its end and worked out a small tangle of line. “Or why he’d come here to watch me.”
“That I don’t know. Would you like to hear more?”
Fellows sounded patient, but Elliot knew that putting together what information he had gathered had taken the man much time and trouble.
“I would. I thank you for this.”
“It is my job. And your sister can be…very persuasive…when she wants a thing done. A man calling himself Mr. Stacy and fitting his description took rooms in a boarding house in London a few months ago. He never gave the landlady any trouble, she says, and then one day he went out and didn’t return, leaving his things behind. But he’d paid up a few more months in advance, so the landlady didn’t worry.”
“Did anyone see him leaving London? Traveling to Scotland?”
“Of course not. Only in fiction does the detective find the helpful porter who remembers every person who gets on and off every train between here and London.”
“In other words, he’s gone to ground,” Elliot said.
“Waiting for your wife’s fête to end before he hunts you again?” Fellows asked. “Kind of the man.”
“I’m sure he intends to strike at the fête. Strangers roaming the grounds, everyone welcome, perfect opportunity.”
“I suppose your wife cannot be convinced to cancel it.”
Elliot let himself smile. “My wife is very determined.”
From the water, Ian laughed. It was a warm laugh, though he didn’t look up from his line. “My Beth is like that.” The fondness in his voice could not be clearer.
Elliot and Fellows watched Ian until he turned away, his kilt moving in the breeze, to find another fishing spot a little way down the bank.
“He’s a different man,” Fellows said in a low voice. “Since he married.”
Elliot could say the same about himself. In the scany fortnight he’d had a wife, the tightness in his body had begun to unwind. The nightmares still came, but he woke from them to Juliana’s soothing hand, her voice, her kiss…
Fellows snapped fingers in front of Elliot’s face. “You still with me, McBride?”
Elliot drew a breath, and forced himself not to slam the man’s hand out of the way like an irritated tiger. “Thinking of wives.”
“Hmm.” Fellows’s brows lifted and he looked away, as though he were thinking of someone too. “Do you want to know about this Dalrymple?”
“Yes. What did you find out?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I found no evidence that a George Dalrymple, married to an Emily Dalrymple, exists.”
“Then who the devil is he?”
“Who knows? If he tried to blackmail you then he’s a crook or a confidence trickster, and such people often take false names.”
“Dalrymple somehow got himself a copy of the death certificate declaring Stacy dead, but Stacy shot him before he could give it to me.” Elliot wondered whether Stacy had not wanted Elliot to see the paper or whether Stacy had just been annoyed at Dalrymple. He’d aimed for Dalrymple’s hand, nothing more. “The Dalrymples have been keeping themselves to themselves since the event, I’ve noticed.”
“I’ll have a look at him, though,” Fellows said. “I might recognize him. I have a good memory.”
Ian laughed again from down the bank, this one short, and possibly ironic.
“Anything else?” Elliot asked.
“That is all I’ve discovered so far.”
“That’s a hell of a lot.” Elliot started winding up his line. “I thank you.”
Fellows watched him in surprise. “You are returning to the house? What about the jumble sale?”
“I’ve only been married a short while,” Elliot said. “But I’ve learned the importance of keeping the lady happy.”
Fellows nodded, brows rising, and Ian’s laughter floated back at them once again.
Fellows fell into step with Elliot as he shouldered his pole and sought the path to the house, but Ian remained, fishing in silence, paying no attention to the others’ departure.
The grounds were full of people when Elliot and the inspector returned. Hamish, out of hiding now that the storms were over, was busy walking about and glaring at everyone. Elliot had emphasized to Hamish that if he saw anyone at the fête he didn’t recognize, he was to run and find Elliot.
“No one out of the ordinary,” Hamish said as Elliot approached him. “No one I’ve never seen before.”
“Good lad. Keep watching.”
“Aye, sir. Mrs. McBride is looking for ye though. She’s a bit upset.”
Elliot handed Hamish his fishing pole and followed the lad’s pointing finger to Juliana. She did look harried, tendrils of her hair sliding from her coiffure, her skirts whirling as she turned this way and that to direct, point, explain, argue.
Elliot watched her a moment, enjoying the sight of her flushed cheeks and excited eyes. Hamish might say she was worried, but Elliot saw a woman doing what she loved best.
“There you are, Elliot.” Juliana swung to him as he approached. “I need you to man the jumble sale table. Mrs. Rossmoran is feeling ill.”
“Is she all right?” Elliot asked, concerned, then twitched his brows together. “You asked Mrs. Rossmoran to run the jumble sale table?”
Juliana’s look said that Elliot was a hopeless simpleton. “No, I was to look after it. But Fiona now must stay home and take care of her grandmother. Ill, my foot. Mrs. Rossmoran doesn’t like fêtes and didn’t want to be left on her own while Fiona came. Anyway, Fiona was to be the fortune-teller, and now I will have to do it, but I need someone to watch the table. Don’t worry. The jumble sale is very simple. Stand behind the table, put the money in the tin, and don’t let anyone walk off with the things.” Juliana started for the house, and threw over her shoulder, “And do try to sell things. The money is for the church roof. You are charming. Charm them.” And she was gone.
Chapter 23
Standing at the jumble sale table gave Elliot a fine view of the grounds and all the people on them. Juliana and her recruits had transformed the flat space below the house to a fair of booths, awnings, tables, ponies, children, men, women, dogs, and one goat.
The table had been placed on a little rise at one end of the grounds, and from there, Elliot could keep watch over every person who strolled about, played games, bought tea and real Scottish scones, or darted into shadows between tents. He saw Hamish in one of these shadows, but the lad was pointing out things to Nandita, his voice loud, words slow while he explained the fête to her.