Chapter 15 #2
Mr. Gordon suddenly came to life again. “I don’t believe in that nonsense.
I never have. The vicar is from an old and wealthy family.
He owns a great deal of property in his own right.
” He jutted his chin forward and tugged on his sleeves.
“I found myself in need of money after an investment I made some years ago turned sour.” He shot a glare at Mr. Kinloch.
“I asked the vicar for a loan, and he agreed as long as I helped him cleanse the city of witches. It was all his idea, the kidnappings, the ridiculous straw effigies as a warning that we were coming for the rest of the witches… I simply did as he bade me to secure the loan.”
“You kidnapped your own niece!” Mrs. Buchanan cried. “What would you have done if she admitted to being a witch in front of the vicar? Would you have killed her if she confessed?”
Mr. Gordon flinched as if he’d been slapped, but that was the only sign he gave of having heard her. “I couldn’t control the vicar. He’s a madman. He blackmailed me into helping him. I’m a victim, too.”
Mrs. Buchanan stepped forward and did slap him, right across the cheek. Going by the sound and the mark left behind, it had been hard. “You’re pathetic,” she growled at him. “Take responsibility for your actions instead of blaming others.”
Mr. Gordon bristled and opened his mouth to protest, but he didn’t get the opportunity to speak.
Redmayne stepped up and punched Mr. Gordon in the stomach. The gentleman doubled over, coughing and clutching his middle. We all stared at Redmayne.
He glared at Mr. Gordon, who was struggling to regain the breath that had been knocked out of him. “It was you! You kidnapped and murdered my Dorothy.”
Good lord, he was right. It had to have been Mr. Gordon.
His wife was friends with Mrs. Carter, the former employer of Redmayne and his lover.
Mrs. Carter must have told Mrs. Gordon that her maid was boasting about being a cotton magician, and Mrs. Gordon went home and told her husband.
He kidnapped her, extracting a confession from her.
Then he killed her to cleanse the city of a witch, as he’d called it.
Indeed, it was the motive he’d assigned to the vicar.
But the vicar wasn’t behind that particular abduction. He couldn’t have been. He wasn’t yet working in the local parish. According to Mrs. Gordon, he’d been in Glasgow at the time of that abduction.
She realized, too. Her face paled. The hand she raised to cover her mouth shook.
I had one more question to ask. “Mary, Miss Buchanan, when did you last see or hear the woman during your ordeal?”
“She came this morning to give us breakfast.” Juliette’s gaze flicked to her aunt and back to me. “I don’t think it was her.”
“She was with me all morning,” Mrs. Buchanan said. “From the moment I got out of bed she’s been comforting me.” Her gaze softened a little, but she didn’t go to her sister-in-law. I wondered if she’d ever be ready to renew the family bond that connected them.
Mrs. Gordon gave no indication that she realized we were talking about her. She’d reverted to a state of stupor, her gaze distant and somewhat vacant. Her fingers clasped the cross brooch at her throat so tightly that she might rip it off the collar.
“I’ll find the woman,” the detective assured us.
“If Gordon doesn’t confess, I can easily find out the name of the former vicar who owns that building, and I’ve got ways of getting people to give up their associates.
” One of his constables cracked his knuckles, earning an audible gulp from Mr. Gordon.
Two constables manhandled Mr. Gordon out of the room. His hair was in disarray, and he was still bent forward in pain from the punch. He didn’t utter a word in his defense. He must have realized it was hopeless.
Mary took a moment to thank Juliette again for being strong throughout the ordeal, and for stopping her confessing to their captors.
Staying silent saved her life. Agnes circled an arm around Mary then steered her from the room.
For all her previous spitefulness over Mary’s flirting, she was being kind to her now.
Jack also limped out, taking his coat with him.
He seemed eager to go. I couldn’t blame him.
It occurred to me that Mr. Gordon had written those love letters to his own niece.
It was possible the vicar or the woman had written them, I supposed.
Whoever did, poor Jack the footman had been unwittingly dragged into the plot.
A part of me felt compelled to go after him to offer words of comfort, but I hesitated so long that the opportunity vanished.
Redmayne and Blackburn followed him out. Mr. Kinloch lingered to speak to us.
“If you haven’t already guessed, Gordon invested in my company,” he said. “My wool mill is failing, which is why I’m selling my art collection, among other things. I am partly to blame for his actions. I feel awful.”
Several voices disagreed with his harsh opinion of himself, but Mrs. Buchanan’s was loudest. “You are not to blame. Not in the least.”
“My company makes textiles, and magicians of the same discipline as Juliette and Mary are the reason behind its failure. Well, that and the fact I haven’t given the business the attention it needs. I’ve been too busy with my distillery. Whiskey is my passion, you see, not wool.”
“What if someone else managed it for you?” Miss Wheeler asked with a sly smile. “Someone who may lack business skills but is clever enough to pick it up and also has a knack for wool?” Her gaze slid to Juliette.
Juliette looked to her mother. “Can I?”
Mrs. Buchanan laughed. “Don’t ask me, ask Mr. Kinloch.”
Mr. Kinloch paused then thrust out his hand. “I think we can work something out. We’ll discuss the particulars when you’re feeling up to it. By the way, do you think Mary would be interested, too? Wool-cotton blends are the way of the future.”
“I’ll ask her.” Juliette darted off toward the door.
Mrs. Buchanan smiled at Mr. Kinloch. “Thank you. This will be good for her. The idle life of a lady isn’t for her.”
Mr. Kinloch gave a shallow bow of acknowledgment. “Perhaps seeing their cheerful faces every day at the office is just the thing to get me interested in that business again. Their faces, and yours, dear lady, if I may be so bold.”
Mrs. Buchanan smiled softly. “We’ll see.” Her smile vanished as she caught sight of her sister-in-law, still seated on the sofa. “I’ll remain in Edinburgh for some time, so we’ll certainly be seeing more of each other, Mr. Kinloch.”
He bowed again. “I look forward to some neighborly interactions.”
We walked from the room with him, and Anderson saw us out.
The journalist we’d seen lounging against the garden fence earlier was back.
He scribbled furiously in his notebook as Blackburn spoke to him.
Mr. Kinloch didn’t seem to mind that his coachman was going to earn a little extra on the side by talking to the press.
At his front steps, he turned to us and shook each of our hands in turn. “I was glad to sell A Treatise on the Laws of Witchcraft and Maleficium in Scotland to you Professor. I knew you would be worthy. Now I’m doubly glad. Triply! Thank you for bringing those women back safely. All of you.”
A hollow pit opened in my gut. I felt guilty for not telling him it had been stolen. I felt even more guilty that I still considered him a suspect for the theft. But I didn’t want to accuse him now. It didn’t feel right. If he needed the money so desperately, he should keep the book and resell it.
We said our goodbyes and continued on. Mr. Kinloch was right. We’d done a wonderful thing today. It was growing late and I was hungry and exhausted. I’d probably fall asleep in my room again, but this time I wouldn’t leave anything valuable out for anyone to steal.
“Miss Wheeler, will you join us in the hotel’s private dining room this evening to celebrate?” Oscar asked.
“Mr. Defoe wouldn’t like that,” she said.
“Forget Defoe then.” From the enthusiastic way he looked at her, I wondered if he’d say to forget me next. Oscar was quite smitten.
She laughed lightly. “I can’t. Besides, he’ll probably want to leave as soon as I return.”
“Is there a London train this evening?”
“We’re not going to London.”
Oscar sighed. “Pity. I was looking forward to spending several hours with you.”
“We wouldn’t have sat together, Mr. Barratt. Mr. Defoe wouldn’t like that. He’s very bitter about losing the Mackenzie book to you and will be for a long time.”
“Speaking of which,” Oscar said mildly, “may we have it back?”