A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(105)

“Yes, but how did you learn about them?”

A vee formed between her brow. “One summer when I was eight, my mam decided it was time I got to ken my other relatives. Or at least, that’s what she claimed,” she sneered. “She really wanted me oot from beneath her feet while she hosted a house party. One my father couldna afford.” She exhaled irritably. “But I digress. She sent me here to stay wi’ Uncle Kennan and Mairi. At Lord Alisdair’s cottage.”

I straightened. “So, you witnessed firsthand what he was doing?”

“Aye, though I didna truly understand until much later that what he was doin’ was wrong, or why my uncle was so insistent we no’ talk aboot it.”

Gage’s gaze met mine, as shocked as I was to discover we had a firsthand witness. Albeit an unreliable one, at best, given her age at the time and her current predicament.

“Did Lord Alisdair have many guests?”

“A few.” She eyed us more evenly now that she was resigned to talking. “I suppose ye already ken aboot Signor Pellegrini.”

I indicated we did. “Did he assist Lord Alisdair?”

“Oh, aye. He was in the thick o’ it. And there were a few others who visited Lord Alisdair from time to time. An elderly gentleman and a lady.” Her expression turned guarded. “She seemed to be verra familiar wi’ him. She always came and went in a cloak.”

A lover, perhaps? One intent on hiding her identity. Miss Ferguson seemed to think so.

“Did you notice whether any of them ever left with paintings?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Nay. But . . . I’m no’ sure they woulda done so while we were watchin’, even if we were just bairns.”

She had a good point. Not every nobleman was ignorant of the watchful eyes of the servants that surrounded them, especially if they were doing something they wished to hide.

I crossed slowly toward the door to the bedchamber. “Then when I mentioned a painting hung in your uncle’s bedchamber, you assumed it must be one of Lord Alisdair’s forgeries.”

“Or worse, one o’ the originals he’d stolen.” She lofted her chin haughtily. “I spoke the truth. I dinna want anythin’ to do wi’ it. And I imagine it rightly belongs to Lord Barbreck anyway.”

I moved into the bedchamber, relieved to find that the stench was gone, aided no doubt by the window that was left partially open. I allowed my gaze to trail over the contents. A paler rectangle than the surrounding wall was now evident above the bed where the painting had once hung. Anderley had brought the suspected Rembrandt back to the manor, where it sat in the marquess’s study. The objects littering the remaining surfaces were spare—a comb, a bit of string, a razor.

By far the most surprising discovery in the room was the closet which had been hidden behind the carved paneling along one wall. When I’d peered into the room the day before, I’d had no suspicion there was a cupboard concealed behind it. I moved closer to investigate.

“Anderley said they found it yesterday when they were searching the cottage.”

However, I didn’t hear anything else he said, as my eyes had fastened on something inside. Reaching up, I removed the garment from the peg and turned to show the others the azurite blue cloak.

Gage’s pupils dilated, immediately grasping the implication, and as one we turned to Miss Ferguson.

She still hovered in the doorway, eyeing the cloak with disinterest. Or a fair approximation of it. At the sight of our faces, she stiffened, her eyes widening in uncertainty. “What?”

Henry’s expression behind her also registered confusion.

Gage swiveled to loom over her. “Did you attempt to coax my wife over a cliff this morning?” His voice cracked like a whip, making even me start.

Miss Ferguson cowered backward, only to be brought up short by Henry. “Nay! I-I would ne’er . . .” she stammered.

Gage’s eyes bored into hers, and she was shrewd enough not to look away. “Where were you around eleven?”

“Wi’ the bairns in the schoolroom. I’ve been wi’ them all day. Ye can ask the nursemaids. They saw me. And heard me. The walls in the nursery are verra thin.”

She was right. If she’d disappeared for long enough to lead me on such a merry chase, someone would have noticed. We would need to speak with the nursemaids, to be sure, but I didn’t expect to discover she’d lied.

I pressed a hand to Gage’s back, hoping to calm him. I’d rarely seen him so furious.

He slowly backed away from the governess. “We’ll be verifying that.”

She nodded, still watching him warily.

I draped the cloak over my arm, trying to decide whether it had been hung here to deliberately cast blame on Miss Ferguson or simply because it was a convenient hiding location. Smoothing my hand over the woolen fabric, I found a hair. Holding it up to the light, it appeared to be either pale blond or gray. But had it come from the wearer or been picked up elsewhere—like the inside of the closet?

My gaze lifted again to the cupboard. Had the cloak always been stored there, or had the culprit just decided to rid themselves of such an incriminating piece of evidence? I tilted my head, scrutinizing the panels on the outside and the manner of construction that had allowed it to remain concealed. I could have sworn I’d seen something similarly constructed, and recently. Clearly Mr. MacCowan had crafted it himself. I’d already noted what a talented carpenter he was.