A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(37)

I shook my head at this turn of events. What a night for all the gentlemen to be cup-shot.

But perhaps that had been intentional.

I frowned at the possibility. If the maid had been murdered, and it had been intentionally done here, then I supposed the killer might have taken advantage of the gentlemen’s plans. That would also indicate premeditation. But I was getting ahead of myself.

Turning my head, I surveyed my surroundings, trying to understand what had brought the maid here. It had almost certainly been dark, as it was now. Her body was still quite warm, suggesting she’d died but a short time ago.

My gaze lifted to the wall above us, and I realized with a jolt that she was lying underneath the forged Van Dyck. A sickening swirl began in my stomach, for I knew that could not be a coincidence. Had she come to view the painting, or perhaps she’d been lured here and then killed? I knew from Bree and Anderley’s reports that the servants were aware of the forgeries—and aghast at the news. It seemed a natural curiosity that they should wish to see the objects that had caused such a stir among the guests. Or had she been moved here?

Either way, I couldn’t help but wonder if the maid’s death was somehow connected to the forgeries. Whether it was a warning to those of us who might attempt to probe deeper.

I shivered at the thought, wishing Gage would return soon. How far would he have to venture to find a brace of candles?

I studied the woman’s face again, her unseeing eyes. Though it would stain my fingers with her blood, I decided to reach out and close them. Perhaps the gallery would seem less unnerving without her flat stare. Perhaps it would banish the sensation that I was being watched, though from where, I couldn’t have said. There was no way to sneak up on someone here, nowhere to hide except in the shadows at the ends of the room, and if I couldn’t see them, then they couldn’t see me.

Tugging my handkerchief from my tufted sleeve, I wiped my fingers and then tilted my head. Something about the maid seemed familiar, though I couldn’t say why. Maybe it was nothing but a family resemblance. After all, in rural and remote areas, many times parents and children, brothers and sisters, and even cousins served in the same grand household, generation after generation. Half the staff of my brother-in-law’s estate at Gairloch Castle were kin, related to each other in one way or another.

The gallery was quiet—too quiet—with naught but the sound of my breathing and the rustle of my garments. Even the wind appeared to be calm that night. I found my ears straining at the hint of any noise. Was that a door closing farther along the corridor? A child crying? A dog barking? Were those footsteps?

I stilled, my muscles tense until I was certain that I was, indeed, hearing footsteps. Multiple pairs of them. A faint light appeared at the end of the gallery, growing ever brighter, and then Gage and Wheaton, Barbreck’s butler, appeared, followed by at least one other servant. They each held a brace of candles, making me blink at the sudden brightness as they approached.

Something of my unease must have communicated itself to the men, for Gage’s eyes anxiously scoured my face. “Is something amiss?”

I shook my head, not wishing to dwell on my own fevered imaginings. “Bring those candles closer.”

The bleeding from the maid’s orifices was even more ghastly in the light. The red blood mottled her features and stained her dark hairline. However, I was still able to recall now where I had seen her.

“This is one of the Campbells’ maids,” I exclaimed. “From Poltalloch.”

I looked up at the men for confirmation, and Wheaton and the darker-haired footman both leaned closer.

“You’re correct, m’lady,” Wheaton declared, sorrow settling over his features. “That’s Mairi MacCowan. Her father is an old retainer o’ Lord Barbreck. Lives in a cottage no’ far from here,” he added in his gentle burr. “Just up the river.”

“Is?” I repeated. “Then he’s still alive?”

“Aye. He’ll take the news hard, I imagine.”

I frowned at the maid, puzzled by another of the butler’s comments. “Her father served Lord Barbreck, but she chose to work for the Campbells?”

“Aye, my lady. The people here need the work. And they’ll take a position wherever they’re offered one.”

I studied his sturdy features. At no more than two score years of age, he was one of the youngest butlers I’d met and couldn’t have been in his position long. However, he spoke confidently about the locals, making me suspect he was one of them, perhaps having worked his way up the ranks here to his current position.

I recalled what Jack had said at dinner—about the lack of land and employment. Those who hadn’t been driven off by the clearances—moving to Glasgow or Edinburgh to find work or immigrating to America—must take employment where they could. After all, what good was clan loyalty when your stomach went empty?

All the same, the dubious nature of a Campbell maid being found dead here, under the forged Van Dyck painting of all places, by pure chance could not be ignored. And the fact that her father had been a loyal retainer of Lord Barbreck set off even more alarm bells.

“Do you know how she came to be here?” Gage asked, swaying slightly. “Did she have friends among the staff?”

“I would have to ask,” Wheaton replied. “But I imagine so.”