Chapter 21
“Foolish lass!”
Those were Mrs. McClintock’s first words to us after we explained what Matilda had already admitted. She tipped her head back to look at the ceiling, as if seeking divine intervention, and then shook it. So tightly was her iron gray hair secured that not even a tendril moved.
“I believe she was afraid you would be blamed,” I explained.
She turned away, muttering to herself.
While still tidy, the butler’s sitting room was far more austere.
A single worn and faded armchair sat in the corner with a blanket draped over its back.
Next to it stood a lamp and a table holding a book of military history.
The floor was covered in an old rug which had likely graced the floor of one of the bedchambers abovestairs before being replaced.
We had instructed McClintock to sit, leaving myself, Gage, and Bree standing over her. Not that she seemed in the least intimidated. Sunlight filtered into the room from just a single small window high on the wall, so we’d turned the lamp on, casting almost a halo around her head.
“Can you confirm Matilda’s story? Did she ask you to dispose of the bottle of vitriol?” Gage pressed.
“Aye,” she grumbled with a sigh. “Smuggled it in her portmanteau, the numpty eejit. She’s lucky it didna burn a hole through her garments, the bag, and the carriage.”
“Did she tell you why she’d brought it?” I asked, curious what she might say.
“Nay,” she said slowly, clearly trying to guess whether Matilda had told us herself. “She kept that tae herself. Especially after I scolded her.”
Gage spread his legs and crossed his arms, settling into a more comfortable position as he coaxed her for more information. “And what did you do with the bottle?”
“Ye canna just toss acid oot or dump it in the rubbish bin. So I tucked it away on the shelf in the laundry room until I could think o’ what tae do wi’ it.
” Her voice turned wry. “I s’pose that’s when someone saw me wi’ it.
” She sank deeper in her chair, her head tilted in thought.
“And I s’pose that’s hoo the killer kenned where tae find it. ”
Gage’s brow lowered in displeasure. “You knew the killer used that bottle of vitriol?”
She shrugged. “I guessed they did, for ’twasn’t there when I went tae look for it the next day.”
“And yet you didn’t say anything?”
McClintock stared defiantly back at Gage as if she found this to be a stupid question. “I ken what you’d think.”
His eyes glinted angrily. “I think your remaining silent only makes you and the Birnams appear more guilty.”
She scoffed. “They’ve naught tae do wi’ it other than Miss Birnam’s daft decision tae bring it.”
“Then you didn’t inform Mrs. Birnam what her daughter had done?” I inquired.
“And cause the lass more grief?” She frowned. “Nay.”
“What about the other staff? Mr. Paget and Mr. Simpkins?”
“Paget’s got his hands full wi’ Mr. Birnam.
As for the other…bah! He’s useless.” She tilted her head.
“Though he was in the laundry, was he no’?
” It was clear from her narrowed eyes that she was wondering if he was the one who’d tattled on her.
“So maybe he already kenned. But no’ because I told him. ”
I joined Gage in his skeptical scrutiny of the maid, trying to decide if I believed her.
She seemed to be telling us the truth, but she was also unequivocally loyal to the Birnams. Had Matilda not confessed, McClintock would never have betrayed her confidence, perhaps even to the grave.
Because of this, I doubted she would tell us anything that reflected poorly on any of the Birnams. Jemmy’s valet seemed to be the exception, but I sensed he was a relatively new addition to the household, and the fact that McClintock seemed to think he exposed her first might have accounted for her attitude.
“We ken ye didna like Miss Whitlock,” Bree spoke up, stepping forward. “What we dinna ken is why.”
McClintock’s pinched lips communicated that she didn’t like being questioned by a member of the staff, and a younger one, at that.
However, when neither Gage nor I objected, she condescended to answer.
“Because she thought she was better than she was. Struttin’ aboot like a crow in the gutter.
She nettled my mistress somethin’ fierce. ”
In other words, because she upset Mrs. Birnam, she upset her.
“How long have you worked for Mrs. Birnam?” I asked.
She arched her neck proudly. “Nearly twenty years.”
“Then you were there when Miss Whitlock came to live with them the first time.”
Her scowl returned. “Aye. I’ll admit, she was sweet tae begin wi’. But she forgot her place.”
“Is that why she was sent away?”
But she was too canny. “I’m sure I dinna ken.”
I turned to Gage, signaling I was finished. We were going to get nothing from her that the Birnams wouldn’t want her to say.
“What about the other guests and their staff?” Gage queried, attempting a different tack. “Have you noticed anything suspicious or out of the ordinary? Have any of them indicated they were previously acquainted with Miss Whitlock?”
McClintock tipped her head back as if the answer was written on the ceiling and then lowered it to shake her head.
“Nay.” She suddenly leaned forward. “But if you’re askin’ me, she must’ve arranged an assignation wi’ the wrong man and got no better than she deserved.
Why else would she be in that part o’ the house at such an hour? ”
Clearly, McClintock did not know the person Miss Whitlock had arranged to meet was me. Her self-righteous condemnation left a bitter taste in my mouth.
“You may go,” Gage dismissed her, not bothering to hide his contempt for her and her closing remarks.
She sniffed, wrapping her wounded dignity around her like a cloak as she strode toward the door.
Once she was out of earshot, he softly urged Bree, “Follow her.”
She nodded, understanding the assignment. He wanted to know where McClintock went and who she spoke to. If she knew anything, human inclination would be for her to warn anyone else involved.
“I take it you trust her as much as I do,” I said as Bree departed.
“Which is to say, not at all.” Gage glowered at the door they’d passed through. “Except…it’s so nonsensical…”
“It might be true?”
He heaved a sigh, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“We know from multiple sources that she put a bottle on the shelf in the laundry, and that it was almost certainly filled with oil of vitriol. What we don’t know or cannot prove is who then retrieved the bottle.
It could have been McClintock. It could have been one of the servants who saw her put the bottle on the shelf.
Or it could have been someone else. Someone who found it, though this seems doubtful.
Or someone that McClintock or one of the witnesses told. ”
“Yet only two witnesses admitted to seeing her with the bottle, and they and McClintock denied telling anyone,” I pointed out, joining him in his frustration.
“Except Lord Milngavie. Remember Mr. Armstrong told us that it was his employer who exhorted him to tell us what he’d seen.”
“True. But I was under the impression that Mr. Armstrong had only recently informed him. And Milngavie’s reaction doesn’t seem like that of a man who is guilty of anything.”
“No, it doesn’t.” He reached out to turn down the lamp. “It seems far more likely that one of the others lied. After all, it would be in their self-interest to do so.”
“But how are we going to figure out who?” I fretted, tired of the lies and evasions we so often encountered.
“I don’t know.” Gage pulled me toward him, resting his hands on either side of my waist. “But we will. We always do.”
I was glad at least one of us felt confident.
A chime sounded from the clock hanging on the wall. “Oh, goodness! Is that what time it is? I need to change Mr. Birnam’s dressings.”
“I’ll come with you.” Gage’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve a few questions I’d like to put to Mr. Birnam.”
“But if you’re going to rile him,” I warned, “please wait until I’m finished rewrapping his hands.”
He agreed, escorting me up two flights of stairs to Mr. Birnam’s bedchamber.
It was Birnam himself who called out for us to enter, Paget being nowhere to be seen.
This was surprising given the valet had been hovering near his employer’s side ever since the archery attack the day before.
Birnam was seated and waiting for us, and judging from his pugnacious scowl he was already aware of some of the afternoon’s revelations.
“I expect ye tae release Mrs. McClintock at once,” he ordered. “It is utter nonsense tae think she or my wife had anythin’ tae do wi’ Miss Whitlock’s death. Whoever claimed he saw her wi’ vitriol must o’ been lyin’.”
I gathered the supplies Dr. Clarke had left while he finished this diatribe, directing Gage toward a chair across the room with a nod. “She’s already admitted to it,” I informed Mr. Birnam evenly once he’d fallen silent.
His head reared backward in shock. “Then ye must have…”
“But it was your daughter who brought the vitriol to Bevington Park,” I continued, placidly interrupting him as I arranged the dressings, scissors, and ointment on the table between us. “Mrs. McClintock was merely obeying her request to dispose of it.”
He made a sound as if he’d swallowed his own tongue. Perhaps I was disobeying my own admonition to my husband not to rile the man, but really, he’d started it with his tirade. And it wasn’t as if his accusations could go unanswered. He would never have stood for it.
“I’m sure Mrs. McClintock is already attending Mrs. Birnam,” I finished, reaching for his left hand to begin unwinding the dressing.”
“Matilda…? !” He seemed at a loss for words, so I tried to supply the answer I thought he sought.
“I’m not sure where she is. We finished speaking with her perhaps half an hour ago.”
“She said she brought the vitriol?” He seemed stunned.
“Yes.” I watched his face carefully as I continued to unwind the dressing. “That surprises you.”
He blinked as if waking from a trance, anger snapping in his eyes. “O’ course it does!”
I focused on my task, waiting to see what he would say next.
“Did…did she say why she brought it?”
I looked up to meet his eyes, noting the pain and remorse and uncertainty swimming in their hazel depths. The gold ring at the center was all but swallowed by his pupils. My movements slowed as I felt a pulse of recognition. Miss Whitlock’s eyes had been very similar.
But many people had hazel eyes. Matilda did, I recalled. Perhaps I was confusing hers with my memory of Miss Whitlock’s appearance.
It was clear Mr. Birnam was asking me more than his daughter’s reason for bringing the oil of vitriol, and I wasn’t about to answer him. Not when that would rile him. Instead, I opted for a deflection. “You’ll have to speak with your daughter about that.”
He fell silent, watching me as I worked.
If his hands ached, he didn’t show it. But then, he was already aggrieved by the disclosure about Matilda.
More than I would have expected, to be honest. I would have thought he would come to her fiery defense.
At least, more so than he had for his wife’s maid.
I wanted to ask Gage what he thought of this, but I couldn’t do so without alerting Mr. Birnam.
“Matilda also told us you directly received some threats on your life?” I prompted, opting to change subjects until I’d finished with his hands. Technically, Matilda had informed Trevor, who had informed us, but the result was the same.
“Aye.” He seemed unconcerned by this.
“Why didn’t you make that clear to us?”
“Because threats are just part o’ the business. I get ’em all the time.” A deep furrow formed between his brows. “I told her no’ to worry.”
I’d finished unwrapping his hands and now they were both laid out before me, flushed an angry red, particularly where the outer layer of skin had sloughed off.
“I need to examine them before I reapply the ointment,” I explained, steeling my stomach for the task. “I’ll try not to hurt you any more than necessary.”
He gave a short nod.
Carefully grasping his hands, I turned them this way and that to get a better look, and pressed them in a few areas as I’d seen Dr. Clarke do, testing the blood flow, particularly to the tips of his fingers.
His hands were stiff from pain and the days of trying to hold them immobile.
However, after a few seconds I realized this stiffness wasn’t only caused by the recent injury.
Some of his fingers appeared to lack the uppermost joint, as if the distal and middle phalanx were fused.
I straightened in shock as the realization that I’d also seen this before struck me. The blood drained from my face and extremities.
“What?” Mr. Birnam demanded, looking from me to his hands as I abruptly released them. “Is there something wrong? Is the tissue dyin’?”
“Do we need to send for Dr. Clarke?” Gage asked from across the room behind me.
“She was your daughter,” I accused, finding my voice.