A Grave Matter (Lady Darby Mystery #3)

ISBN-13: 9780425253694

Media Type: Paperback

Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

Publication Date: 07-01-2014

Pages: 432

Product Dimensions: 5.10(w) x 7.90(h) x 1.00(d)

Age Range: 18 Years

Series: Lady Darby Mystery #3

Anna Lee Huber is the RITA and Daphne award–nominated author of the Lady Darby Mysteries, including As Death Draws Near, A Study in Death, A Grave Matter, Mortal Arts, and The Anatomist’s Wife. She is a summa cum laude graduate of Lipscomb University in Nashville, Tennessee, where she majored in music and minored in psychology. She currently resides in Indiana with her family and is hard at work on the next Lady Darby novel.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

Remember, friends, as you pass by,
—EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY GRAVE EPITAPH

CLINTMAINS HALL BORDER REGION OF ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND

DECEMBER 31, 1830

The flames leaped high into the starry sky. Revelers clapped and reeled about each other in the golden flickering light, there and then gone, swallowed by the darkness and the whirling mass of their fellow merrymakers. As the orchestra behind me paused between songs, I could just make out the feverish pitches of a fiddle and the low thump of a drum playing a Scottish jig. It floated on the crisp night air through the open French doors. What the players lacked in skill, they certainly made up for in exuberance.

The professional musicians playing in the ballroom behind me had also gotten into the festive spirit. Our hosts, my aunt and uncle, the Lord and Lady Rutherford, never would have stood for anything less. Most of the assemblage of local nobility and gentry were dancing, just like their servants and the villagers outside, and those who were not were either too old or too infirm to join in.

Or perhaps they’d simply wished for a quiet moment to themselves.

Unfortunately my brother, who’d been hovering about me all night, failed to understand this.

“Kiera, stop sulking,” Trevor chastised, appearing at my side.

“I’m not,” I protested.

He arched an eyebrow in skepticism. “Then why are you off in this corner by yourself?”

I nodded toward the scene outside. “I’m watching the antics of the servants at the bonfire. It’s quite diverting.” Once or twice I thought I saw the silhouette of one of our servants from Blakelaw House dance across the light, but they were too far away to be certain.

“That may be, but you’re supposed to be diverted by our antics in here,” he teased. Though his tone was light, I didn’t miss the glint of annoyance in his bright blue eyes.

We had argued over my coming to the Hogmanay Ball. I had not wanted to attend, while Trevor had insisted I must. Ultimately he had his way only because he had pointed out that many of our loyal servants would feel they couldn’t attend the accompanying bonfire if I remained behind, no matter how strongly I protested otherwise. But even my reluctant attendance still wasn’t enough for him. He had to linger about me all evening to ensure I was enjoying myself, which was irritating in the extreme, even as it was also endearing.

“Come.”

He gripped my elbow below the fashionably puffed sleeve of my midnight blue gown and tugged me toward the dance floor, where the orchestra played the first strains of a waltz. He pulled me effortlessly into the swirl of couples circling the gleaming wooden floor. The women were dressed in bright full-skirted gowns and the men in austere black coats and colorful tartan kilts.

I considered arguing with Trevor about his high-handedness, but then decided it would be silly. I did want to dance, and my brother was as skilled a partner as any. When he swung me into a tight turn, surprising a smile out of me, I suddenly realized how long it had been since we faced each other so. Certainly, I had danced with Trevor far more than any other gentleman of my acquaintance, for he had been forced to partner me by our childhood dancing master. We had stepped on each other’s toes and smacked one another in the face with an errant hand too many times to count. Once I had even bloodied his nose.

But that had been a long time ago. Sometimes it even seemed to me that it had been in another life. One I had lived before my disastrous marriage to Sir Anthony. Before his death and the resulting scandal from the charges brought against me because of my involvement with his gruesome work.

I shook away the troubling memories and tried to concentrate on the room before me. Trevor and I glided expertly across the floor to the Schubert waltz, proving that neither of us had forgotten how, though I suspected it had been far longer since I had done so than my brother. Trevor had always been a popular dance partner, and I doubted that had changed in the years since I had attended a ball in his company. Though even at my most awkward, he always had time for a dance or two with his little sister. That may have only been a small matter to him, but it had meant a great deal to me.

“Where have your thoughts gone?” His voice was flippant, but he couldn’t hide the concern I saw reflected in his eyes. “From the way you’re frowning, I expect my toes to be strategically crushed at any moment.”

I tilted my head. “As if my feet in these dainty slippers could cause you much discomfort.”

“You think not, but I seem to remember that the bone in your heel has always been remarkably sharp.”

I smiled sweetly. “Only when I’m grinding it into your instep.”

On the next dance step, he shifted his foot back as if to avoid my encroaching foot, and I laughed.

He grinned at my amusement and spun me in a faster circle, making the skirts of my gown bell out.

My cheeks flushed as the heat of the ballroom and the exertion of the dance began to warm me. I suspected Trevor and the other gentlemen might be sweating beneath their snowy white cravats, but he gave no indication of unease. Aunt Sarah had confided in me earlier that she worried the large ballroom would not hold the heat generated by the fireplaces on each end on this cold winter’s eve, but her concern proved unnecessary. Even though the gathering was not as large as I’d expected, being mostly extended family of my mother’s brother, Lord Rutherford, and his wife, and nobles and gentry from the nearby Border villages, the four score of people present still warmed the space quickly.

The Rutherford Hogmanay Ball and the accompanying bonfire and ceilidh dance for their tenants, the local tradesmen, and the servants of all who attended were an annual tradition. It had been many years since I last took part, but I had not forgotten the festive air, or the spirited ratafia punch so heavily brandied it burned the back of your throat. Great bowls of it stood on tables at one end of the ballroom next to bottles of whiskey, brandy, champagne, and a lavish spread of food—all within easy reach so that fewer servants were needed to attend to the guests of the ball, allowing them to enjoy their own gathering.

As a child, I remembered watching my mother ready herself for the Hogmanay Ball. Though I had been less fascinated than my older sister, Alana, who couldn’t wait to grow old enough to attend, I was nonetheless still enchanted by the sight of my parents together, descending the curving stair at Blakelaw House, dressed in full evening apparel. My father and mother certainly made a handsome couple, but it was the eager gleam I saw in each of their eyes, the joy and anticipation that arced between them that intrigued me. They kissed each of us children good night at the top of the stairs, and by the time they reached the bottom, it was as if they’d forgotten us entirely, so lost were they in each other and whatever mischief they anticipated that night.

I wished I could say that some of that enchantment remained. Perhaps had my father chosen differently, selecting a husband more like himself for me, someone steady and honorable, and without nefarious intentions kept hidden from us all until after the vows were spoken. Perhaps then I would feel more excitement at attending the Hogmanay Ball.

An image of Sebastian Gage swam to the forefront of my mind, as it inevitably did whenever I contemplated such matters. It had been almost two months since I had seen the golden-haired gentleman inquiry agent I had partnered with during two previous investigations, and somehow entangled myself with romantically, but the memory of his face, his voice, his lips pressed against mine had not lessened. The manner in which we had left things after I departed Edinburgh had not been satisfactory, but neither of us had been ready to discuss the tangled web of emotions that stretched between us. I had been raw with grief over my friend’s death during our most recent investigation, and he still had secrets he hadn’t reconciled with sharing.

As Trevor spun me through another set of turns, I couldn’t help wondering if Gage was still in Edinburgh. Was he attending another Hogmanay Ball, much like this one? Was he dancing with a lovely young lady?

“Stop.”

I glanced up at my brother. “What?”

“Stop contemplating whatever it is you’re thinking about,” he clarified and then shook his head. “It’s not making you happy. And I refuse to allow you to have any more gloomy thoughts. Not this night.” He leaned closer toward me, a twinkle in his eyes. “If need be, I shall force you to drink two, no three glasses of that vile ratafia punch, and then proceed to push you into every available male’s arms one after the other and order them to dance with you.”

“You wouldn’t,” I replied, feeling less confident than I sounded.

He narrowed his eyes. “Try me.”

I searched his face for any sign of weakness. “You know you would be risking your coach’s leather seats. I cannot always handle such strong spirits.”

“Oh, I know,” he chuckled ruefully. “Remember Dottie Pringle’s card party? You vomited down the front of my jacket.”

Our cousin Jock laughed loudly at Trevor’s words, clearly having overheard at least part of our conversation from where he danced with a pretty brunette next to us.

I turned to scowl at him as a blush burned its way up into my cheeks. “I didn’t know their wassail was mostly spirits,” I replied defensively.

Trevor’s stern expression cracked at that. “Well, regardless, I’m willing to risk my coach seats to keep that stark expression from returning to your eyes.”

“How do you know the punch won’t make me maudlin?”

He arched an eyebrow. “I’ve seen you foxed, Kiera.”

“Wish I had,” Jock called out from over my shoulder.

I turned to glare at my annoying cousin, but his wide unrepentant grin had me smiling instead. “Fine,” I declared with a melodramatic sigh. “I shall endeavor to be joyful.”

“That’s my Kiera,” Trevor declared, swinging me around so sharply that my legs were lifted momentarily from the ground.

At a normal gathering, such behavior would be highly inappropriate, but at the Rutherford Hogmanay Ball it was a matter of course. I estimated that half the assemblage was already well on its way to being sotted, if the giggles and raucous laughter were anything to go by. Mr. Trumble and his dance partner were barely able to stay on their feet as they twirled drunkenly through the assembly, narrowly missing the other couples. It was impossible not to join in the good cheer.

As the waltz entered its last stanza, a cry went up from across the room. Trevor and I turned toward the sound, but were distracted as Uncle Andrew leaped up in front of the orchestra, where they were positioned on a dais in the corner of the room. The strains of the waltz slowly died away, and a murmur of excitement swept over the crowd.

“It’s nearly midnight,” he declared, lifting a small glass of whiskey. “Let’s toast the Old Year, and welcome the New Year in.”

Everyone scrambled to find their own glasses of the preferred Scots toasting beverage. Trevor reached out to grab two glasses from the tray of a passing servant and handed one to me. Jock and his dance partner joined us, along with our cousin Andy—Uncle Andrew’s oldest son and heir—and his fiancée, the aptly named Miss Witherington.

“What are you still doing here?” Andy asked our tall, dark-haired cousin. “Aren’t you our first-footer?”

“Nay. Not this year. Yer mam asked Rye,” Jock informed us in his Scots brogue, naming one of our other cousins, who had recently been widowed. Though educated as a gentleman, Jock refused to soften his accent. A fact that none of the rest of us had ever minded, but that aggravated his mother and older sister. “She thought he could use the good luck it might bring to him.”

We all nodded in agreement.

“First-footer?” the very English Miss Witherington asked in confusion.

“Aye. It’s an old Scottish tradition,” Andy explained. “The first person to cross the threshold of a home after the stroke of midnight on Hogmanay is the first-footer, and they can either bring good or ill fortune to the house. The luckiest are tall, dark-haired men bearing gifts.”

Her brow furrowed. “And the unluckiest?”

“Well, women, fair-haired men, and redheads are all regarded to be unlucky in varying degrees.” Andy grinned. “So it’s best to simply plan who your first-footer will be ahead of time to avoid any unhappy surprises.”

Miss Witherington scrunched her nose in a manner which I suspected she thought was endearing. “But isn’t that . . . well . . . silly?”

The rest of us shared the look of the long-suffering Scot faced with English ignorance.

“Nay,” Jock protested. “Ole Mrs. Heron in the village tells of the year she fell ill with the ague, her home flooded, and she lost two of her sons, all because she had an unlucky first-footer.”

Miss Witherington’s eyes narrowed skeptically.

“In any case, it’s a tradition,” Andy told her with a pacifying smile. “Much like your mistletoe and greenery, and the Yule log at Christmas. There’s no harm in following it.”

“I suppose not,” she hedged, returning his smile with one that didn’t reach all the way to her eyes. I suspected she was merely placating him. I wondered how much these Hogmanay gatherings would change once she was mistress of Clintmains Hall.

“Ten seconds to midnight,” Uncle Andrew announced, and then began to count us down as we all joined in. “Eight, seven . . .”

I couldn’t help but smile, feeling an unbidden surge of hope and anticipation in my chest that this new year would be better than the last. After all, last year I had celebrated Hogmanay quietly with my sister and her husband in their Highland castle, afraid to face the world following the scandal. And now I was welcoming in 1831 at a ball of all places, surrounded by family who loved me, despite my quirks, and facing down those acquaintances who still eyed me with suspicion. I found myself wondering where I would be a year from now.

“. . . three, two, one!”

A shout went up as everyone raised their glass and wished one another a Good New Year. I downed my tot of whiskey, feeling the warm, smoky liquid burn its way down my throat and into my stomach.

Trevor leaned over to kiss me on both cheeks. “Good New Year, sis.” His eyes shone with the force of his affection, and I returned the sentiment, blinking back a sudden wash of tears that stung my eyes.

Jock reached out to wrap an arm around my waist, and I laughed as he pulled me into a hug. Then the whole party broke into song, as was the tradition, singing Robert Burns’s folk tune, “Auld Lang Syne.” Miss Witherington, of course, did not know the words, and she looked around at us in bewilderment, likely having difficulty understanding as we all sang it in the heavy Scots dialect as it was intended. I smiled at her in commiseration, but she either didn’t want my sympathy or, more likely, simply wanted another chance to demonstrate her dislike of me, for she shot me one of her withering glares.

When the song finished, everyone hurried out into the large two-story entry hall, crowding down the steps, and peering over the railing to see below. The front door was opened with great ceremony by the Rutherford butler, letting the old year out, and welcoming in the new. This was swiftly followed by the arrival of our cousin Rye, standing before the door with gifts tucked under his arms. A cheer went up at the sight of him, and he smiled rather shyly, unused to the attention. It was a nice change, as their usual first-footer, Jock, was quite the braggart, playing up the part for all it was worth.

Uncle Andrew and Aunt Sarah stepped forward to invite Rye into their home, but as they did so, another figure appeared beyond Rye’s shoulder. A hush fell over the assembly as the figure stepped forward into the light, showing us his bright red hair and coarse clothing splattered in mud and a dark red substance I knew from experience must be blood. It was a young man, and his eyes were wide and very white in his grubby face.

He moved forward, forcing Rye to shift to the side. Several people gasped as the redhead crossed the threshold of Clintmains Hall at the same time or just a little before Rye’s foot touched the marble floor of the entry.

The hall began to buzz with murmurs of shock and dismay. A harmless tradition first-footing might be, but most Scots were superstitious enough that they had no wish to test its validity. At least, not if they were given a choice. But it was too late. What was done was done. The suspicion was laid. Perhaps Rye’s foot had crossed the threshold first, but perhaps it had not.

“But what if they crossed at the same exact time?” the woman behind me wondered. “What happens then?”

No one seemed to have an answer for her, but from the tense atmosphere that had suddenly spread over the hall, I knew no one believed the outcome could be good.

“I mun’ speak wi’ Lord Buchan,” the young man gasped to Uncle Andrew. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to catch his breath. He was less than twenty years of age, his body still awkward and coltish, and extremely self-conscious. When he glanced up and realized the entrance hall was filled with people staring down at him, he flushed a fiery red that almost matched the hair on his head and the blood splashed across his linen shirt.

Worried the lad needed serious medical attention, I pushed past several of the people standing in front of me on the stairs still flustered by the man’s appearance. But as I got closer, I could see that most of the blood was dried, and from the quantity it was clearly not his own, or else he would not still be standing.

Just as I was about to say something, Lord Buchan appeared out of the crowd to the left of the front door. “Willie, what is the meaning of this?” His eyes flicked up and down the young man’s form. “What has happened?”

The young manservant’s name startled me for a moment, for I couldn’t help but think of another Will—a friend who had died so recently, and so horrifically. But this Willie’s words swiftly recalled me to the present.

“It’s Dodd,” he replied with wide haunted eyes. “He’s dead.”

CHAPTER TWO

Someone behind us gasped in horror, and the agitated murmuring began again.

The Earl of Buchan’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Dead? What do you mean? How?”

“He’s been shot. Oot by the ole abbey. But that no’ be all.” Willie shook his head, still breathing heavily. “The graves. One o’ ’em was dug up.”

One lady actually shrieked at this pronouncement, and the people in the back of the room and on the balcony above who couldn’t hear young Willie demanded to know what he was saying.

“Dodd, the ole caretaker at Dryburgh House, has been shot,” one man in the crowd hollered. “And a grave at the abbey’s been disturbed.”

More voices were raised in dismayed shock, and I turned to look at Trevor, who moved forward to stand beside me, a sick feeling entering my stomach. He met my eyes with the same knowing look of dread.

“Dug up?” Buchan spluttered, clearly having trouble grasping the implication.

“Body snatchers,” I murmured softly, not wanting to alarm the entire assembly, though I knew that more than a few of them must have already had similar thoughts.

Lord Buchan, my aunt and uncle, and cousin Rye all turned to look at me, and I watched as understanding slowly dawned in their eyes, first of the grave robbers’ intentions, and then of my unpleasant history with the product of their trade.

“You mean . . .” Buchan began. I didn’t know if he was that slow to comprehend or just too stunned to make the connection with the abbey cemetery.

“Have you had trouble with them in the past?” Trevor turned to ask our uncle, as he had only returned to the area himself three months prior.

He frowned. “Unfortunately, yes.”

I was surprised to hear this news, as I’d had no idea that the body snatchers were traveling so far afield to find fresh corpses. But then it made sense, as all of the cemeteries nearby the medical schools in Edinburgh and Glasgow had added heavy security measures. They’d had to do something to keep the resurrection men from stealing their recently deceased and selling the bodies to the schools and local anatomists.

“But watchmen have been hired to guard the cemeteries these criminals most often target,” Uncle Andrew added. “So I don’t quite understand how . . .”

“But the graves at Dryburgh Abbey aren’t new,” Lord Buchan protested, finally grasping what the rest of us were saying.

I glanced at him in surprise.

“The newest grave there is my uncle’s. And he died almost twenty months ago.” His already heavy brow lowered farther, and I was surprised when he looked to me for answers. “What could they possibly have wanted from an old grave?”

“I . . . don’t know,” I admitted.

Aunt Sarah cleared her throat and nodded toward the assemblage still gathered in the entrance hall. They were pressing ever closer, trying to hear what we said. “Perhaps I should escort our guests back to the ballroom.” She arched her eyebrows at her husband in silent communication.

“Er, yes,” Uncle Andrew replied, looking at the crowd. His butler gestured toward a door behind him, to the left of the entrance. Uncle Andrew nodded at Willie and then at the circle of men closest to him. “Gentlemen, if you will,” he murmured, indicating they should follow him. “Ah, you, too, Kiera. If you don’t mind?”

I blinked in surprise, not having expected my uncle to include me. He was a good man, but not usually the most tolerant. I had always been aware that he didn’t exactly approve of me or my painting, even if he’d never said a word against me. His disapproval was evident in his stilted conversation and stony expression whenever my art became the topic of discussion. I had also overheard him express his condemnation of my father’s choice of Sir Anthony as my husband—an objection I had ignored at the time as just another indication of my uncle’s stodginess, but later wished I’d listened to more attentively. Though, to be fair, even Uncle Andrew had not predicted the exact cause of my disastrous marriage. I’m not sure anyone could have foreseen that.

In any case, my relationship with my uncle was one of polite distance. We supported each other in that we were family, but beyond that, we were courteous strangers. So to hear him request my presence, especially in regards to a matter that was rather delicate and highly inappropriate for a young lady’s ears, at least in society’s general opinion, certainly astonished me.

I allowed Trevor to guide me through the crowd as we followed in Uncle Andrew’s wake. Aunt Sarah was addressing the gathering behind us, some of whom protested our withdrawal. It appeared everyone wanted to know what the young man had to tell us.

The door through which we disappeared led into a small receiving room lined with slatted walls of gleaming oak. A bench and a few chairs were all the space held, as well as a pair of landscapes depicting the countryside surrounding Clintmains. The fireplace sat dormant, though a log and kindling had been laid, ready to be lit. I shivered, but I couldn’t be certain whether it was because of the drafty room or the topic we were about to discuss.

“Now,” Uncle Andrew declared, once the door was closed, sealing us off from prying eyes. “Tell us what happened,” he told Willie, not ungently.

The young man shuffled from foot to foot, and his shoulders slumped over. He clearly was unnerved by my uncle’s and Trevor’s muscular figures and by his employer, Lord Buchan’s, scowling visage. I sidled a step closer to the lad, hoping to offer him some sense of solidarity. His troubled gaze flicked to mine and I gave him a reassuring smile. Behind the panic, I could see pain in his eyes, and I realized that in our quest for answers, we had forgotten that this Dodd had likely been his mentor, and possibly his friend.

“It’s all right,” I said. “We just want to find out what happened to Dodd.” When he still didn’t answer, I prompted him. “Did the men who were digging in the grave shoot Dodd? Did he catch them in the act?”

“I dinna ken, m’lady,” he finally replied, lowering his head in shame. “Dodd said he saw lights o’er at the abbey and wanted to find oot what they were. But I told ’im he was seein’ things. Or else a group o’ merrymakers were out scarin’ themselves on Hogmanay. But he went to look anyway. An’ I let ’im go alone.” He scuffed his boot against the floor. “I was angry at ’im for makin’ me stay behind when everyone else was goin’ to the bonfire.”

“You heard the gunshot?” I guessed.

He nodded. “I . . . I was puttin’ our tools up—we’d been fixin’ a bit o’ fence doon by the river—when I heard it. ’Tweren’t very loud. Mare like a cracker. I went to see what it was, but by the time I found ole Dodd by the west door o’ the abbey, they was gone, whoever done it. And . . . and ole Dodd were hardly breathin’.” The boy swallowed loudly and swiped a grimy finger across his nose. “He pointed t’ward the graveyard—that’s how I ken to look there—and . . . and then he jus’ died.”

I offered him my handkerchief, but he shook his head, and lifted the hem of his already filthy shirt and wiped his nose.

I glanced at the others, who all listened with silent frowns. Lord Buchan, in particular, looked distressed, and I wondered how close he had been to his old caretaker.

“Willie,” the earl said, his voice rougher than it had been before, “run round to the bonfire and fetch Paxton. Tell him to ready the carriage.”

Willie nodded, holding his head a little higher, and bowed swiftly before dashing out the door.

Uncle Andrew moved to the door, catching it before it closed behind Willie, and beckoned his butler into the room. “Send one of the footmen to get Dr. Carputhers from the ceilidh at the bonfire,” I heard him murmur, and my heart sank. Evidently Uncle Andrew’s sensible nature had returned, and I could not argue. It should be a surgeon who examined Dodd’s body, not an anatomist’s widow with three years enforced instruction. The possibility should never have even entered my mind. The fact it had, and I hadn’t been as horrified by the possibility as I should have been, was somewhat surprising.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll join you,” Uncle Andrew told Lord Buchan as the butler left to do his bidding. “If there’s been foul play, as the lad suggested, then I’ll need to examine the evidence anyway.” As one of the county’s magistrates, Uncle Andrew ruled on many of the crimes in the region, though they were usually minor disputes between neighbors or petty thefts—nothing so serious as murder.

I turned to stare unseeing at one of the landscapes. I reached up to finger the amethyst pendant given to me by my mother that I almost always wore around my neck and wondered at my strange eagerness to assist. The past two investigations in which I had helped, I’d been compelled to take part only because my sister’s family and an old friend had been involved. They had needed and asked for my aid. Otherwise I never would have presumed, or even wished, to have anything to do with the inquiries. But I had discovered something in myself that apparently I wasn’t eager to dismiss, or have others dismiss for me.

I bit my lip, knowing in this instance there was nothing I could say. With family, I should have felt able to offer my help, but I knew Uncle Andrew. He would only flash me his disapproving frown and ignore my suggestion.

And after all, who was to say he wasn’t right? I wasn’t an inquiry agent, not like Mr. Gage or his father, Captain Lord Gage. Just because I had aided in two murder investigations didn’t mean I was qualified to conduct one alone. In any case, I was supposed to be distancing myself from things like murder and corpses. They would only remind people of my scandalous past and make my return to society more difficult.

It would be best for all if I was not involved.

Which was why I was so surprised when Uncle Andrew did address me. “Kiera,” he said, and then hesitated when I turned to look at him. I folded my hands demurely before me and waited, silently hoping he wouldn’t think better of whatever he was about to ask me.

And amazingly he didn’t.

He cleared his throat, clasping his hands behind his back. “What do you think of all of this?”

“About Dodd and the disturbed grave?” I asked in clarification, lest I had missed something the gentlemen had discussed while my attention was focused elsewhere.

“Er, yes,” he replied, and rocked forward on his heels. “I only ask because . . . well . . . you . . .”

“Have some experience with this sort of thing,” I finished for him, sparing him the embarrassment of having to say it.

He cleared his throat again. “Quite.”

“Well . . .” I glanced at Trevor but, upon seeing his stony expression, decided it would be best to avoid his gaze. “If one of the graves at Dryburgh Abbey has been disturbed, then someone must have been digging there. And doing so at night on the grounds of a deserted abbey, with only the light of a lantern to guide them, certainly suggests a desire for secrecy.”

My uncle nodded, following my train of thought.

I turned to pace the small space in front of the door. “If Dodd surprised them and they wished to remain undiscovered, they might have shot him. That seems a logical enough explanation to me. At least, the most logical we have so far.” I frowned. “But why