A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(89)

Gage called my name again, recalling me to where I was, and the stench I’d been able to momentarily forget while so absorbed in my study of the painting. Now it slapped me in the face. I gagged and turned away, studiously avoiding looking near the corner where I suspected the chamber pots sat.

Hurrying from the room, I exited the cottage and moved a dozen steps into the clearing, gulping great gasps of fresh air as I wrestled with my breakfast as it was threatening to reemerge. When the worst had passed, I turned back to face the men. I realized we couldn’t just leave Mr. MacCowan like that.

“Someone is going to have to . . .”

“Yes, but not you,” Gage replied sternly, easily following the direction of my thoughts.

I nodded, grateful such a task would not be mine and slightly ashamed that meant someone else would have to endure it.

“Now, what did you see in the bedchamber that was so interesting?” Gage demanded, moving aside his coat so that he could prop one hand on his hip.

“The painting on the wall. It was by Rembrandt. Or at the very least, one of his pupils.”

His and Anderley’s eyebrows both arched skyward.

“How could a man of MacCowan’s means afford a Rembrandt?” Anderley asked the obvious question.

“He couldn’t. Lord Alisdair must have given it to him.”

“Or he stole it,” the valet suggested.

I considered this but then shook my head. “No. I don’t think so. Everything we’ve learned about Mr. MacCowan thus far has told us he’s a scrupulous fellow.” I paused. “Though, he was undoubtedly anxious for us not to see it during our last visit. Remember how he glanced nervously toward the closed bedroom door,” I said to my husband. “Regardless of how he acquired it, he must have known it would arouse questions and suspicions.”

We all fell silent for a moment, our gazes sliding back toward the cottage.

“Something is not adding up here,” Gage declared.

“No, it’s not,” I agreed.

His voice was taut with bewilderment. “Why would Lord Alisdair gift his manservant a priceless painting?”

“Maybe it was to keep him quiet. To guarantee his silence,” Anderley suggested.

“About the forgeries,” I concluded, and he nodded. My eyes narrowed in thought. “If Lord Alisdair and his friend, Signor Pellegrini, were creating forgeries, then Mr. MacCowan must have known about them. And if he’d known about them, then it’s entirely feasible his daughter Mairi knew also.”

Gage shifted his stance, planting both hands on his hips. “Is that what this is all about, then? Punishing those who were involved in or knew about the forgeries.”

But who was doing the punishing? Lord Barbreck? I couldn’t see it. Though there was another possibility.

“Or if not punishing them, then perhaps silencing them instead,” I postulated.

Both men turned to look at me.

“But Lord Alisdair and Signor Pellegrini are both dead,” Gage said. “So that would mean there’s another person involved.”

“Someone determined to keep their involvement secret,” I elaborated.

“Yes, but who?”

I didn’t have a ready answer for him.

“There is the former butler,” Anderley suggested. “After all, we suspect he was the one who aided Lord Alisdair in switching out the paintings.”

“Yes, but you told me Wheaton had said he’d moved to Elgin. Why would he come all the way back here to silence two fellow servants who might or might not have been about to reveal his part in the scheme? How would he have even known?”

“A letter?” He frowned. “I admit, it doesn’t sound very promising.”

“What of the person who purchased the originals from Lord Alisdair after he made the switches?” He dipped his head in emphasis. “Now that’s someone with a great deal to lose if the scheme is revealed.”

He was right. We hadn’t yet been able to locate the legitimate paintings, which meant they’d more than likely been sold. When and to whom, we didn’t know, but the works of art had to be somewhere.

“Perhaps Henry will have some idea who that might be after he finishes going through the records,” I said, feeling even more grateful now for Gage’s half brother’s thoroughness.

But in the meantime, there were other things to see to. “We didn’t search the pantry,” I reminded them.

“We’ll do it when we return,” Gage assured me. “But I didn’t see anything on the tables. So, however Mr. MacCowan ingested the poison, it’s probably already been cleared away. Likely by Mr. MacCowan himself.”

I pressed a hand to my mouth, pacing away a few steps in bewilderment before returning.

“What is it?”

“We’re fairly certain Mairi was poisoned before she arrived here. The two of them shared a meal together, including the bilberries she’d brought with her, and then she died a few hours later. While her father seemed unaffected a full twelve or fourteen hours later. Which tells me he wasn’t poisoned from the same thing Mairi was. So . . .” I flung my hands out in exasperation. “How was he poisoned?”

“Maybe the poisoner brought it to him later,” Anderley said.

“But wouldn’t he have been on guard?”