In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams (38 page)

Maybe she was wrong and he had murdered the Confederate captain. Perhaps he would do anything to achieve victory for the Union.

Why on the deck of the
Raven
? Why that particular Sunday afternoon? Had Gavin encountered Baumann in the act of sabotage? If so, why had the arson happened another day? Had he fled from the scene after killing Gavin?

Baumann wouldn’t have fled from the scene.

She glanced back at Lennox, wishing he were awake. Wishing, too, she could confide in him. Would he think she was trying to spare Baumann? Or excuse him somehow?

Perhaps she should talk to the stablemaster herself before mentioning her suspicions.

Lennox moved in his sleep, throwing an arm over her pillow. His fingers spread as if trying to find her.

She stepped to the bed, tossing her wrapper to a chair, grabbing his hand and kissing it.

“I’m here, love,” she said, sliding close to him.

“D
o you still have the umbrella, Mr. McElwee? The one you asked me about?”

The stablemaster frowned at Glynis, lowering his brows until they formed one long bushy mass across his forehead. His bulbous nose wrinkled at the effort, and twin lines appeared on either side of his mouth to accentuate his displeasure.

He smelled of garlic and leather, a curious pairing and one making her grateful to have skipped lunch.

“Have you found who it belongs to then, Mrs. Cameron?”

“I’m not sure, Mr. McElwee. Would it be possible to see it?”

He led her to a bay where found items were stored. Standing in the doorway, she scanned the contents. A woman’s shoe—how did someone lose one shoe, and an expensive looking one at that? A collection of handkerchiefs, half of them unadorned while the others were trimmed in lace. An apron, not the sort worn by the servants at Hillshead. A lady’s tortoiseshell comb, a man’s hat, a belt, and a box looking as if it held cigarillos.

“There it is,” she said, going to the corner and picking up the umbrella. “Do you know where it was found, Mr. McElwee?”

He shook his head.

“Would it be possible to ask the drivers?”

“Mr. Cameron’s driver is gone, ma’am, but Thomas and Daniel are here. Thomas is polishing one of the carriages. Daniel’s mending tack.”

She followed him out of the bay and down the wide corridor with its packed earth floor.

The stable, constructed of the same red brick as Hillshead, was tucked far enough away that the odors of the horses didn’t carry to the house. Bays lined both sides of one corridor while the second held the carriages, pony cart, and Hillshead’s two wagons.

A warm breeze blew through the building, bringing with it the scent of hay. The jingle of harness and the soft nicker of the horses accompanied the laughter of the stable boys as they mucked out the bays.

Thomas was a tall, gangly man with a long face and hair the color of the brown paste he was concocting in a pail near the carriage.

She held up the umbrella for him, her eyes watering.

“Have you seen this before, Thomas? I’m looking for its owner.”

He shook his head, evidently inhaling the strong odor of turpentine and saddle soap without difficulty.

She could barely breathe.

“No ma’am. Never seen it.”

She thanked him and turned away, grateful to leave the area.

Daniel was sitting outside on a wooden bench pushed up against the stable wall. The driver was young, his sandy hair standing on end on the top and left long in the back. His face was pocked with scars and it looked as if he’d tried to hide the worst of them with a scraggly looking beard.

He stood when she approached, but she waved him back down again.

Once more holding up the umbrella, she asked, “Have you seen this before, Daniel?”

“Aye, I have at that,” he said, nodding. “Found it in the carriage one day.”

“Do you remember when?” she asked.

“I don’t recall the day, Mrs. Cameron. But it was right around the time poor Mr. Whittaker was murdered.” He stared down at the tack. “If I’d known the man was going to be murdered, I wouldn’t have taken him to the yard.”

She sank onto the bench beside him.

His hands were those of an older man, scarred with crisscrossed lines and darkened by exposure to the elements. The leather he held was lighter in color than his skin and probably softer.

“You took Mr. Whittaker to the yard?”

Had he been driving the carriage she’d seen when she arrived at Cameron and Company?

“Aye, I did, Mrs. Cameron. Took them both. Lucky, the missus was. If she’d stayed, she might’ve been murdered, too. Said the motion of the ship made her sick. So I brought her back to Hillshead.”

She blinked at him. “You took Mrs. Whittaker to the
Raven
with her husband?”

He nodded.

She hadn’t seen Lucy since her husband’s death. Had she admitted to being aboard the
Raven
with her husband? Had she told Lennox or her mother? Had they thought to ask?

“But you returned to the yard for Mr. Whittaker,” she said.

He nodded again.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone she was with Mr. Whittaker on the
Raven,
Daniel?”

He shrugged, went on clamping the pincers on the metal fastenings. “Not my place, Mrs. Cameron. I thought it were a tragedy. She was lucky not to be murdered herself.”

She stared at the umbrella in her hands, wishing Lennox or her mother were there. She would have asked them to recount the night they took the news to Lucy that her husband had been killed. Had she been surprised?

Had she seen what happened to her husband? Had she witnessed the murder? If Baumann had murdered Gavin, had he somehow convinced Lucy not to say anything? What inducement had he used? Either fear or money might succeed in silencing the woman, and Baumann wouldn’t hesitate to use either.

She tried to put herself in Lucy’s situation and realized she couldn’t. If Baumann had harmed Lennox, she would have screamed to the heavens for justice to be done. She’d probably still be screaming. Nothing would have stopped her from ensuring Baumann was hanged.

Although she didn’t like the woman, she knew how it felt to be trapped in a situation. Maybe she needed to tell Lucy her story. If she did, could she convince the woman to come forward and tell what she knew?

Baumann shouldn’t be allowed to manipulate another woman again.

She thanked Daniel and made her way back to the stablemaster’s office. Once there, she arranged for a carriage to drive her into the city.

L
ENNOX STILL
appreciated the view of Hillshead with the afternoon sun glinting in the windows. He liked that the house sat on a hill, an oasis of serenity, disturbed by neither the smells nor the noise of Glasgow. He was proud of a heritage he would pass down to his children.

This afternoon, though, he wanted to be home because Glynis was there.

Glynis, who completed his life, filling the yawning
void that had been there ever since she left for London. Glynis, who made his heart ache to think of her fear and abandonment in Washington.

He didn’t know how, but he was determined to make her see she’d been a weapon ably wielded by Baumann. She needed to forgive herself. If nothing else, she needed to understand she’d been used by a master manipulator.

Maybe it was a good thing he’d been stymied in finding the man.

He barely waited for the carriage to pull into the drive. After jumping from the vehicle, he signaled his driver to go on to the stables then strode into the house intent on finding his wife.

His wife.
He grinned at the words.

She wasn’t in their suite, but he hadn’t really expected her to be meekly waiting for him.

But she wasn’t at Hillshead.

“All I know, sir, is she left an hour or so ago,” Mrs. Hurst said.

The day was advanced, the promise of night not too distant. He didn’t want her waiting for him at the yard, especially when Baumann was missing. He didn’t think the man still remained in Glasgow but he wasn’t taking any chances with Glynis’s safety.

He walked to the stables, addressed his driver. “I’m afraid I need to go back to the yard.”

“Aye, sir,” Tim said, buckling the harness he’d just removed from one of the horses.

“We must have passed my wife.”

“No, sir,” the stablemaster said from behind him.

He turned to face Mr. McElwee.

“Mrs. Cameron had Daniel take her to the Lafayette Hotel.”

“The Lafayette Hotel?”

“I think it has to do with the umbrella, sir. Mrs. Cameron thinks it belongs to Mrs. Whittaker.”

“And she’s gone to return it?”

He was trying to make sense of the stablemaster’s words. The less Glynis saw of Lucy Whittaker, the better. Why would she be returning her umbrella? Why not simply send a driver or a maid to do the errand?

“She seemed concerned about the actual day Mrs. Whittaker misplaced it.”

Another mystery to join the first. He opened the carriage door, then turned back to the stablemaster.

“When did Mrs. Whittaker lose it?”

The man frowned, the vertical lines between his eyebrows deepening.

“The day of the captain’s death, sir.”

“Take me to the Lafayette Hotel, Tim.”

Worry clawed into his mind. He couldn’t put his thoughts into words, but something didn’t feel right, and it was enough to add a request to his driver.

“Get there as fast as you can.”

A
fter introducing herself at the front desk, Glynis was led up the broad marble steps and showed to the second floor by a solicitous porter.

She would have to recommend the Lafayette Hotel to other visitors. The lobby was impressive, with its soaring ceiling and arched doorways. The beautiful stained-glass windows of the cupola tossed blue, yellow, and crimson light onto the marble floor, showering the well-dressed patrons in a rainbow.

Off the lobby was the fabled Tea Room about which she’d heard so much. The glass doors revealed tables filled with women.

At the landing they turned and entered a long hall. A tall window at the end illuminated the crimson runner, ivory wallpaper, and dark wainscoting.

At a door numbered 206, the porter stopped, bowed, and asked, “Shall I bring tea, Mrs. Cameron?”

“I won’t be staying that long,” she said. “But thank you.”

He bowed, glancing at her curiously.

She thanked him again, waiting until he left before knocking.

A moment later Lucy opened the door and just as quickly moved to slam it shut again, but Glynis thrust the umbrella between the door and the jamb.

“I need to talk to you,” she said, shouldering her way into the room.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Lucy finally released the door, stepping back and scowling at her. “You Scots are devoid of manners.”

Glynis ignored the comment and closed the door behind her.

The room was good-sized. In addition to a reading chair and table, it contained a large comfortable-looking bed, an armoire, and a piece of furniture that looked like it might do dual duty as a desk or a vanity. A pitcher and bowl sat atop a small bureau to her left. The rest of the facilities would be at the end of the hall, common enough in most hotels, at least the ones she’d visited in Washington or New York.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone you were on board the
Raven
when your husband was killed?”

“Does it matter whether or not I was there?” Lucy said.

“It matters a great deal. You might’ve seen something.” She tapped the end of the umbrella on the floor as if it were a cane. “You left this behind.”

“Yes, thank you,” Lucy said, turning and reaching for the umbrella.

“Why did you leave it behind?” Glynis asked, pulling it away. “Were you in that much of a hurry? Did you see anyone aboard the
Raven
?”

Lucy shook her head.

“No one at all? Matthew Baumann wasn’t there? Did he kill your husband, Lucy, and pay you to keep silent?”

“Who is Matthew Baumann?”

Was it possible Lucy had never met the man? Or was she just a superb liar?

“You don’t have to be afraid of him.”

“I’m not afraid of anyone and I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Glynis blew out a breath, feeling foolish. She’d been so certain Lucy had been convinced to remain silent.

She walked to the door, opened it, and turned.

“You didn’t see anything? You’ve no idea who killed your husband?”

Lucy shook her head.

She realized she still held the umbrella. She was extending it to Lucy, but the other woman didn’t wait and jerked it out of her hand. Glynis’s fingers slid on the handle, accidentally releasing the opening mechanism.