A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(43)
“Does he, now?” Anderley drawled warningly, leaning forward in his chair.
“Enough.” Gage cast a quelling look at both of them. “Miss McEvoy, because you are already on friendly terms with Callum, you will speak with him.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Anderley’s hands tighten on the arms of his chair before releasing. This may have been done chiefly in frustration at not getting his way, but I suspected the rather smug tilt to Bree’s lips provoked some of it. However, Gage wasn’t finished speaking.
“But you should know, Miss McEvoy,” he added soberly, repeating her name in order to reclaim her full attention. “That Callum was the first to point out Liam’s connection to Miss MacCowan and his absence. And I couldn’t help but notice that Wheaton was not impressed with the young man.”
The smirk faded from her lips, and her gaze slid toward me, perhaps seeking confirmation of these assessments.
“Bear that in mind as you weigh what he has to tell you,” Gage warned.
She nodded, and the conversation moved on to my and Gage’s intentions for the day. Some of which should have been abundantly clear, as we had both dressed in riding attire. Mr. MacCowan lived just a short distance from the manor, and we would need to leave soon if we were to return in time for Emma’s midmorning feeding. Then we could depart on the lengthier trip to see the Campbells.
“Bree, I would like you to be ready to ride with us to Poltalloch,” I told her. “We need someone belowstairs to assess the reactions of the staff members to the news of Mairi MacCowan’s death, and as a fellow Scotswoman, I’m hopeful they’ll be inclined to speak with you.”
“I suppose that means I’m to remain here,” Anderley remarked in a voice that was carefully indifferent. Too carefully, to my mind.
Before Gage or I could reply, reminding him of the mistrust many Highlanders held of outsiders, Bree spoke up. “Oh, I dinna ken. I suspect ye could still prove useful.” A glint of devilry lit her eyes. “Puttin’ that legendary charm o’ yours to work on the maids. Even a Highland lass falls for such allure from time to time.”
Anderley stilled, seeming uncertain how to react at first, and I couldn’t blame him. One of Bree’s chief complaints during the months they’d courted was about how Anderley couldn’t seem to resist beguiling and flirting with other females, especially during the course of our investigations when he needed to gain information from them. To hear her jest about it now was surprising. We could be excused for searching her words and tone for hidden barbs and meanings. When she flashed him a brilliant smile, however, I joined in her amusement, realizing she was poking fun at herself as much as him.
Anderley, for his part, seemed equally as startled by her dazzling smile as her teasing. I couldn’t help but wonder if this time around, he was the one being beguiled.
Gage dipped his head. “Then, Anderley, be prepared to join us, too.”
The matter being settled, we scattered to our various tasks, but not before I noticed Bree observing Anderley surreptitiously beneath her lashes. I had known better than to believe that whatever had been between them was entirely over, and I could only hope that whatever happened next was less fraught than what had come before.
Chapter 13
Mairi MacCowan’s father lived in a small cottage about a mile to the east, along the banks of the River Barbreck. Tucked into a bend of the river near a slight elevation increase, it was perfectly situated to catch the musical cascade of water over rocks. Upon first glance it appeared like many crofter cottages—a spare rectangle built from weathered stone topped by a steeply pitched thatch roof—but the closer we drew, the better able I was to pick out the finer details. Wooden trim had been fitted around the windows and carved with vines and flowers, and before the door had been built a porch of about the size, shape, and construction of a lychgate.
From these hints alone, it was clear Kennan MacCowan not only took pride in his home but also was a skilled carpenter. In fact, I began to suspect that was the position he’d held at the estate before he was pensioned off, and when we were ushered inside by a lean, stoop-shouldered man with nothing but wisps of gray hair clinging to his head, this was all but confirmed. The stone floor was crude though neatly swept, and all but bare except for the finely crafted furnishings. They were simple and unassuming, but fashioned and smoothed, and stained with such mastery that they had to be the work of a true artist.
So much so that my husband was momentarily distracted from the reason for our visit. Being an amateur carpenter himself, taught by his grandfather, he possessed a genuine appreciation for such craftsmanship. One that was evident in the number of questions he peppered Mr. MacCowan with if not the avid gleam of admiration in his eyes.
For a minute or two, I was content to allow their talk of planes, marquetry, and dovetail joints to wash over me, but the longer their conversation dragged on, the more uncomfortable I became. I wandered nearer to the hearth where he was scrutinizing the mantle, ostensibly to examine the single picture hanging on the whitewashed walls—an embroidered verse from the Gospel of Matthew, part of the Beatitudes—though I kept darting looks at Gage, hoping to catch his eye. When that didn’t work, I cleared my throat once and then twice, finally drawing both men’s notice. I widened my eyes briefly at Gage, trying to nudge his memory, but it was Mr. MacCowan who spoke first.