A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(75)
“I admit, the thought did cross my mind.”
And yet she’d not raised the possibility herself when we visited to speak with her about the discovery of the Van Dyck as a fake. I tilted my head, wondering whether her reticence was long born of habit or something else.
“Did you ever wonder if it could be Lord Alisdair himself?” I pressed.
She’d felt no qualms about speaking ill of Barbreck’s brother before. That is, until her sister reminded her it wasn’t fair to tar the man with the same brush as his brother. But I was curious to hear what she would say now that Miss Margaret wasn’t here to chide her.
“Aye. But then, it seemed more likely the forgeries were created elsewhere and Alisdair was duped into purchasin’ them.” Her eyes narrowed. “Are ye tellin’ me ye believe differently?”
“I don’t know exactly what to believe yet,” I hedged. “But the fact that both of those men were painters, even if they weren’t exactly masters, intrigues me.”
She seemed to understand what I was trying to say. “All I can add to your evidence is more suspicions, I’m afraid.” Her gaze dipped to the back of one of the chairs as she trailed her hand over the chintz fabric. “But I can tell ye, I’ve always struggled wi’ the idea that Alisdair is behind it all. No’ from any sense o’ loyalty or affection, but rather because I’m no’ certain he woulda been clever enough to come up wi’ such a ploy.” She glanced up with a wry frown before dropping her eyes again. “He was always easily led, usually by one o’ his brothers. But perhaps this Signor Pellegrini was the one leadin’ him, no’ the other way aroond.”
That was an interesting point to consider. I’d assumed Lord Alisdair had dragged his Italian friend into the scheme, but perhaps Miss Campbell was right. Perhaps Signor Pellegrini was the instigator.
There was a creaking sound outside the doorway and then the shuffle of footsteps slowly climbing the stairs.
“That must be my sister,” Miss Campbell exclaimed, hurrying out.
When I followed her a moment later, Miss Margaret was already halfway up the steps. I paused to watch as Miss Campbell solicitously offered her arm, but while her sister took it, it seemed to me she didn’t need the assistance quite as greatly as Miss Campbell assumed. I’d witnessed such a thing many times before, when loved ones smothered those who were ill, infirm, or simply old. The recipient usually either accepted the help so as not to cause an argument or was forever fighting against it. Miss Margaret seemed to have settled on the former.
I felt another vague stirring in my gut and frowned, turning back toward the library doorway. The creak and shuffle on the steps seemed to have indicated someone had passed by the library a much shorter time ago than Miss Margaret’s position on the stairs would seem to suggest. Had someone followed her and stopped to listen? The butler or a maid, perhaps? I glanced about the hall. But then where had they gone? Down the servants’ stair, undoubtedly.
I shook my head. If someone had been listening, all they’d heard was a lot of speculations about the motivation of the forgeries. Dismissing the suspicion from my mind, I carried the books Miss Campbell had loaned me into the drawing room.
“Any luck?” I murmured as I joined Gage where he stood gazing out the window at the countryside beyond.
“None.” His eyes cut toward me before returning to the expanse of land, sea, and sky. “She knew what I was about and proved to be far more interested in talking about me.”
My shoulders slumped.
“She’s a canny one. Isn’t that how the Scots would say it?”
I offered him a weak smile in answer to his jest and leaned my head against his shoulder as he shifted his arm to wrap it around me.
“She did reveal one thing to me, whether consciously or not.”
I turned to study his profile questioningly.
“Miss Campbell is more distressed by all of this than she cares to reveal. Having her past—and the pain it’s caused her—dredged up over and over again is eroding her composure.”
I could relate to that. To feel that the grief and turmoil of one’s past has been buried and laid to rest, only to be forced to confront it and all of its anguish, not once but multiple times in succession. Such a thing would prey on anyone.
That realization wedged a sharp fissure in my suspicions about Miss Campbell. For why would she do such a thing to herself, even in the pursuit of revenge? I simply couldn’t see the pragmatical mistress of Poltalloch choosing such a course of action.
Chapter 21
The fine mist which had hung over the loch and clung to the winding glens early that morning had dissipated by the time we departed Poltalloch, leaving behind calm winds and clear blue skies. Even so, I found myself distracted as we picked our way down the trail, my eyes scanning the trees on either side of us for anything out of the ordinary. Such as a woman in a blue cloak.
I knew it was only my discussion with Miss Campbell about my mother that had conjured such a fanciful notion, but try as I might, I couldn’t seem to dismiss it. I had learned more about my mother in the past two days than I had in all the years since her death. She felt more real to me now than she had in eighteen long years, and I couldn’t halt the sensation that I was chasing something. Something I’d longed for as long as I could remember—perhaps all my life—and it somehow involved my mother.