“Aye, lad. Tell her the right time is nigh. Tell her I’m done with waiting.”
After relaying the message to Mrs. McTavish and then changing into clean clothes, Lachlan decided to search Boyd’s office. He had no idea what he was looking for, but his instincts told him something was amiss.
The pile of papers strewn on top of the desk revealed nothing of interest. The battered oak desk was locked, and so he ran his hand along the underside of the top drawer hoping to find a key dangling from a hook. Nothing. He scanned the row of books lining the shelves in the tall case. Again, nothing captured his interest.
Opening the leather-bound ledger, he examined the household expenditure for the last four weeks. He flicked back one month, then two. One entry caught his attention. The extortionate sum of six pounds and two shillings had been paid to a Mr. Stanthorpe for services rendered. Upon further inspection, Lachlan noted that the charge was made against replacing the rotten eaves in the stable block.
It posed a problem on two counts. Firstly, the price of such a project would undoubtedly cost less than two pounds
. Secondly, Lachlan had recently conducted his own tour of the estate and noted the poor condition of the woodwork in the stables.
There were other anomalies, too: other repairs charged to the estate, bills to labourers, excessive visits to the farrier. Together they totalled almost a hundred pounds, all spent in the last six months. If he searched other ledgers would he find similar entries?
Locating the accounts for the last three years, covering the length of time he had spent in Edinburgh, Lachlan carried the pile of books to his room. He hid them between two mattresses, replaced the sheets and coverlet, locked the door and tucked the key inside the concealed pocket of his coat.
He had one more call to make before he returned to Castle Craig.
The ride to Comrie took thirty minutes. After being granted access to the parish records, he scanned the relevant page. The date of Isla’s marriage to Nikolai was seared into his brain. There could be no mistake. Finding no record of the marriage, he spoke at length to the minister. Confident with the minster’s reply, Lachlan began the journey back to Castle Craig feeling optimistic. Indeed, anyone passing him on the road would have wondered why his grin stretched from ear to ear.
As he passed the lane leading down to the village, he stopped. Whilst the need to see Isla burned in his chest, he knew she would be resting. It occurred to him that Boyd really was an elusive fellow. He had no family, never spoke about himself. Their conversations often took place after more than one glass of whisky. Consequently, serious subjects gave way to jovial stories and village gossip.
Boyd would not be back from Crieff until supper, which would give Lachlan time to pry into the steward’s affairs. As the landlord of the alehouse, Hendry knew more than enough about the private business of his patrons and so Lachlan decided to ride to the village and ask a few probing questions.
Hendry’s main income came from renting rooms to travellers journeying down to the town. At night, the alehouse proved to be a warm, lively place where those who wanted to save on the cost of coal and candles could sit for hours sipping their ale slowly to make it last.
Lachlan tethered his horse and strode into Hendry’s house.
There were two people seated at a table, their faces unfamiliar. When Hendry glanced up from behind the oak counter, his eyes grew wide; his bottom lip quivered.
“I dinnae want any trouble, Lachlan,” he whispered. “I’ve already given ye an apology for what I said earlier.”
“I’ve come for a drink, Hendry, nothing more.” It was only a small lie.
Hendry raised his chin, filled a tankard from a barrel behind him and slid it across the
counter. “There’s no charge,” he said wiping his hands on the skirt of his apron.
“Nonsense.” Lachlan pushed the coin across the counter. “You’ve a living to make. You’ll not feed your children on charity.”
Hendry pocketed the coin without protest. He was silent for a moment, but eventually said, “There’s talk you plan on returning to Edinburgh.”
Lachlan studied the man over the rim of his tankard. “That had been my intention.” He placed the vessel on the wooden bar. “But Isla has just received news that her husband is dead, and so my plans have changed.”
He had no problem divulging the information. It would soon be common knowledge, and Hendry would appreciate a fresh piece of gossip.
“Yer father will be pleased about that.”
“He’s overjoyed. Besides, it means I can oversee the repairs to Carrick House, make sure he’ll be warm and dry come winter.” Lachlan took another sip of his ale. “Talking of the repairs, I’m told there's a man called Stanthorpe who replaced the eaves on the stable block. Do you know where I might find him?”
If the entry in the ledger proved fraudulent, then there was every possibility Boyd had used a false name.
“Stanthorpe?” Hendry shook his head. “Most men in the village do their own repairs, but John Dunn is the man to speak to for yer more skilled jobs.”
Lachlan knew Dunn. He was of his father’s generation and well respected in these parts.
“The only fellow I know by the name Stanthorpe lives out near Comrie.” Hendry shuffled closer to the oak counter and bent his head. “I hear he’s fond of whisky. Makes his own in some secret location.”
Boyd boasted that his whisky was distilled locally. But surely the steward wouldn’t pay six pounds for the pleasure.