A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(77)

Gage’s body swayed easily with the gait of his horse. “I assume this revelation was at least partially inspired by Mr. MacCowan’s connection to both Mairi and Lord Alisdair, so I suppose that means we should find out how Lord Alisdair died. Barbreck said that Signor Pellegrini was killed in a boating accident, but I don’t recall him mentioning the reason for his brother’s passing.”

“I’ll ask Aunt Cait. I need to speak with her about another matter anyway,” I told him, thinking of the miniature I’d found on my pillow the previous night. My eyes narrowed on the path before us. “Then I think it’s high time we examined the interior of Alisdair’s cabin.”



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*

After seeing to Emma, I went in search of my aunt and found her in the rose parlor with most of the other ladies. I felt a pulse of guilt at not being able to join them but then firmly squashed it. What Charlotte and Rye needed most right now was a resolution to Mairi’s murder and the worries plaguing the household associated with that. Allowing myself to feel a guilt that neither of them wished me to would merely hinder the investigation.

Even so, I concealed myself at the edge of the doorway and beckoned to Aunt Cait the moment I caught her eye. Lady Bearsden was the only other person to see me, and she simply smiled in what seemed to be commiseration.

Having discreetly excused herself, Aunt Cait spoke in a low voice as she met me in the corridor, ushering me toward the morning room. “We can talk in here.” The chamber’s wide windows overlooked the azalea terrace of the manicured gardens. Bright blossoms in a kaleidoscope of shades bordered the path which slanted toward the massive fountain at the heart of the garden. Bees buzzed between the flowers, and a yellow butterfly fluttered around the stone urn at the border of the walk.

I paused to stare out at the lovely vista, suddenly wishing I had nothing more pressing on my mind than which color of azalea I preferred.

“You have questions?” my aunt prompted.

“Yes,” I replied, forcing my gaze back to her face. “First . . .” I held out my hand. “Have you ever seen this miniature?”

She blinked, taking it from my fingers. “Why, yes. It’s your mother.” Her gaze darted between my face and the portrait. “She gave it to me many years ago. Before she married your father. I looked for it yesterday after you came to speak with me, but it wasn’t in the place I usually kept it.” She searched my face. “Where did you find it?”

“It was left on my pillow sometime yesterday evening.”

She straightened in surprise.

“I found it there last night when I retired.”

Furrows formed in her brow. “Perhaps one of the maids found it and assumed it belonged to you,” she suggested, though her tone of voice said she was no more convinced of this than I was. If a maid had found it outside Aunt Cait’s chambers, she would have shown it to the housekeeper, who in turn would have asked the mistress of the house—my aunt—who the object belonged to. It was possible that the housekeeper might have realized I was the daughter of the woman whose name was inscribed on the back, but then she would have also known Aunt Cait was that woman’s sister and would still have enlisted her assistance in ascertaining the correct owner.

“I’ll ask our housekeeper about it,” she said, offering to do exactly as I’d hoped. “Was that all?”

“No, two more things actually. The mural in the music room. Can you tell me, was that painted by Lord Alisdair’s friend—Signor Pellegrini?”

“Oh, I’d forgotten about that. Why, yes. Yes, it was.”

“I suspected as much. It gives us a sampling of his work, his technique and brushstrokes,” I elaborated.

“And you can then compare that to the forgeries.”

“Precisely.”

Her eyes brightened with interest. “And have you?”

I knew what she was truly asking and decided there was no harm in informing her of what we’d found. Everyone would know soon enough anyway. “I haven’t yet had time to study them in depth, but there are indicators of his handiwork in at least some of the forgeries.”

Her mouth turned down at the corners, and she shook her head. “I feel like I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.” She turned to gaze out the window, her hand lifting to the locket dangling around her neck, much like I clutched my amethyst pendant when I was anxious. “Does this mean his lordship’s brother is also involved?”

“More than likely.”

She heaved a sigh of grave disappointment. “Oh, Alisdair.”

“You knew him.” It was a statement rather than a question, for the answer was obvious, but I hoped it would convince her to elaborate.

“I did. He was urbane and amusing, if a bit vain and supercilious. Truth be told, he was always a bit of a mystery—forever traveling and preferring his cottage to the manor. He liked to keep to himself.”

“How did he die?”

“A sudden illness. Though he was seventy-four years old. He’d lived a good, long life.”

My face must have registered my uncertainty.

“I’m afraid I was never privy to all the details, but if you want to know more about it, I can write to the local physician. Or you can speak to Mr. MacCowan. He was with him until the end.”