A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(88)

Gage slowed Titus as we passed through the stable yard and then pulled him up even further as we veered onto the trail which led past the gardens and into the woods that paralleled the north shore of the river. Though no longer galloping, the horse maintained a steady trot, and we soon found ourselves entering the clearing where the MacCowan Cottage stood. The glade was quiet except for the rushing of the river. Anderley stood guard outside the door, beneath the porch that had been carved to look like a lychgate. His expression was grave and his pallor rather a greenish hue.

Gage helped me to dismount and then led me toward the cottage, only to pause on the threshold. “I warn you, the smell . . .” His face was pained. “It’s somewhat foul.”

“Not somewhat,” Anderley muttered.

I nodded. I’d faced the smell of decomposition many times, and while never pleasant, I was prepared. However, with the current temperatures, it was rather early for the body to have reached that stage. After all, we had seen Mr. MacCowan alive a little over forty-eight hours earlier. He could not be that far gone. But before I could point this out, Gage opened the door, and I discovered the scent he had been alluding to was not from decay.

I nearly gagged as the foul stench of feces and vomit filled my nostrils. Digging in the sleeve of my dress, I extracted my handkerchief and pressed it to my nose and mouth. It did not block the vapors completely, but it was better than nothing. The space immediately inside the door was as neat as before and the stone floor swept clean. But in the doorway between the main living area and what must have been the bedchamber lay Mr. MacCowan.

“We found him lying on his side with his arms outstretched like that, but we rolled him over to check for signs of life,” he explained, pressing his own handkerchief to the lower half of his face. “He was cold to the touch.”

I could tell immediately that rigor mortis had set in, for his body had stiffened in the position in which it had been found. The scent was stronger near the body, making me suspect it emanated from the bedroom. Forcing myself to ignore the impulse to flee, I knelt beside the body and reached for his fingers, attempting to manipulate them, but they remained unpliant. “He’s been dead for some time.”

Lying as he was in the doorway, I had to examine him upside down, but I had no desire to move any closer to that stench than I had to, so I leaned awkwardly over the body to better view his features. Tracks of dried blood led from his nose and eyes and had dripped on the floor where he lay. I pushed down on his chin, cringing at the sight of the ulcers and his rotting teeth. From the bluish-purple tinge of the skin on the left side of his face, I could tell that was the side on which he’d lain. I pressed my fingers there, and the skin did not turn white but remained bluish-purple. “At least twelve hours,” I declared. “Probably more like eighteen.”

“Then he died the evening after we visited him. Only a day after his daughter.”

“That’s what it looks like,” I replied as Gage helped me to my feet.

“Killed by the same poison?”

“It certainly seems like it.” The fact that we hadn’t seen any signs of Mairi’s stomach distress didn’t mean it hadn’t occurred. After all, she’d traveled some distance between Poltalloch and her father’s cottage, and then on to Barbreck Manor. She could easily have become sick in the woods between either destination, but I suspected it had most likely occurred between the cottage and Barbreck. She’d declined any food, and Bree had said she’d looked pale and nervous, all of which could be symptoms of recent nauseas and purging.

“Have you searched the pantry for any food he might have eaten?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

I turned to help him do so, eager to escape the terrible smell, only to be brought up short by the sight of the painting hanging over Mr. MacCowan’s bed. I could see just a sliver of it, but it raised the fine hairs along the back of my neck.

“Kiera?” Gage murmured in confusion as I began carefully picking my way around the body, bracing myself for the full onslaught of the noxious odor, but I had to see what this painting was. My artistic sensibilities could already tell that it was masterful, and logic told me that it almost certainly had bearing on our investigations.

As the painting came more fully into view, I nearly gasped aloud. It depicted a furious seascape of crashing white-tip waves and roiling gray and orange-tinged clouds, as if to reveal the angry sun behind. At the center was a storm-lashed boat tipping precariously to the right as it rode the foaming tip of an enormous wave, threatening to toss all of its terrified occupants from its confines. No, they weren’t all frightened. One figure on the right was calm and peaceful, as if he’d just woken from slumber. This, I suspected, was supposed to be Jesus, and the other brightly attired figures in the ship were his disciples.

I had seen the same painting hanging in the home of Thomas Hope in London. Or nearly the same. Christ’s robe in this painting was a lighter blue, and there were a few other minor alterations. Hope’s painting had been by Rembrandt, and this painting bore all the same hallmarks—the vibrant colors, the movement of light, the emotions conveyed by the characters and how they seemed to waver from one to another flawlessly. Whether it was by Rembrandt himself or one of his pupils, it was certainly a masterpiece. And worth far more than a man of Mr. MacCowan’s position could afford.

The most feasible explanation for how he’d acquired it was that Lord Alisdair had given it to him. Perhaps it had been a gift, but if so, it was an extravagant one. For this was no forgery, but the real thing.