A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(91)

Deciding to switch tactics, I tried to elicit her help instead, to see what she might unwittingly offer up. “How did your uncle seem when you left him two days past?”

“He’d just lost his daughter! How do you think . . . ?” She broke off, biting her lip as she turned her head to the side.

We waited, giving her a moment to compose herself.

“Sad. Tired,” she murmured in a more subdued voice, lifting the handkerchief to dab at her cheeks as a few more tears trickled from the corners of her eyes.

“Was he showing any signs of illness?”

She looked up at me uncertainly, perhaps thinking I meant to trick her, and then shook her head. “Nay.”

I nodded, my mouth flattening as I considered what she’d said. “What of the pantry? Did he take anything out of it to eat?”

She shook her head again. “Nay, and I offered to get him something. Told him he had to keep up his strength. He’d only let me fetch him a glass o’ water.” Her eyes hardened. “And I didna put poison in it.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you did,” I replied evenly. “Most poisons are bitter and difficult to conceal the taste or appearance of. You wouldn’t slip it into water.”

The way she glared back at me told me she had something she wanted to say—something highly uncomplimentary—but she was wise enough to keep it to herself. It was while she was staring at me with such palpable loathing that I realized she had a far more cold-blooded motive than keeping her relationship to the MacCowans secret. One we had not yet addressed.

“What did you think of your uncle’s painting?”

Her brow pinched. “What painting? My uncle was a carpenter.”

“The one hanging in his bedroom.”

Her gaze flitted toward the cottage, some of her antagonism fading. “I never went into his bedroom.” Her eyes returned to me, rapidly scrutinizing my features. “Is it . . . ?” Her hands tightened around the handkerchief she clutched in her lap. “What kind of painting is it?”

I traced the dagged edge of my pelerine fabric, making her wait for my answer, curious what she might reveal. But I saw only eagerness—the type of an avaricious nature. Arching my chin, I decided on a vague tactic, not daring to look at either of the men, lest they give me away.

“It’s unclear. It will have to be examined more closely to determine its value. But given the recent discovery of forgeries in Lord Barbreck’s collection—all of which were acquired by his brother, whom your uncle worked for—his possession of such a painting raises a number of delicate questions.”

Some of her enthusiasm faded, as if she didn’t know how to respond.

I tilted my head in scrutiny. “Who stands to inherit your uncle’s property? You?”

“I suppose,” she replied hesitantly. “Or my aunt.”

I turned to stare at the structure before us. “But the cottage belongs to the estate, does it not? As well as some of its contents? It was part of his pension.”

She swallowed. “Yes, I believe so.”

I lifted my gaze to meet Gage’s. “Delicate questions, indeed.”

Of certain, the ownership of that Rembrandt was in question. If there was no documentation stating that Lord Alisdair had signed over the painting to Mr. MacCowan, then it could be argued that it had been granted for his use solely during his lifetime or as furnishings in the cottage. In that instance, Lord Barbreck was almost certain to claim ownership—and win. Unless there was no documentation Lord Alisdair or the Barbreck estate had ever owned such a painting in the first place. Then it could be argued that Mr. MacCowan had somehow acquired it on his own. Though, in that instance, it was also likely that Barbreck—with his far greater resources, power, and influence—would still ultimately win. Miss Ferguson’s and her aunt’s only hope of claiming the painting was if Mr. MacCowan had held clear documentation of ownership, and from Miss Ferguson’s deflated countenance, it didn’t appear as if she expected such a thing.

Unless this was all an act. After all, that painting provided a credible motive for her wanting her cousin and her uncle dead. Miss Ferguson was far from stupid. If she had murdered them to gain possession of it, she would have already thought through and researched all of the ramifications.

Before I could ask any further questions, we were joined in the clearing by several other members of Barbreck’s staff, as well as Uncle Dunstan. Miss Ferguson seemed to recognize that their presence had granted her a reprieve, for she exhaled in relief, her shoulders dropping.

Gage crossed to speak to my uncle while the two footmen and two maids stood hesitantly to the side. I cringed, aware of how unpleasant the task before them would be. Then I noted Liam’s presence and his wary posture and pallid skin. I rose from the rock to go to him, pausing only long enough to tell Anderley to keep an eye on Miss Ferguson. Though where I expected her to run, I didn’t know.

“Should you be here?” I asked him gently, ushering him to the side, for it was evident he felt some affection for Mr. MacCowan.

He shuffled his feet, staring at the ground. “I need to be here,” he ground out. “For Mairi.”

My heart squeezed at the pain written in every line of his body, even his vocal cords.

When his eyes dared to lift to mine, I nodded, letting him know I understood. “He spoke highly of you, you know.” I offered him a look of commiseration. “Said you were honorable and trustworthy.”