James laid his quill down. Behind him, a low peat fire burned in the parlor fireplace, providing the room a comfortable warmth. Outside, a steady light rain pattered on the ground and against the inn windows. Downstairs in the main pub, voices and laughter rose and fell, punctuated with an occasional hearty hail across the large room.
He reread the letter he’d just written to Mr. Boyd Ratcliffe. He’d worked hard to make it nonjudgemental. He’d strived to present himself as merely a man sent to gather information for Mrs. Montgomery with no opinion as to the rightness or veracity of the information provided. That restraint had proved hard to do when every fiber of his being knew Soothcoor had been framed by Ratcliffe. What was the man’s motive? Was he involved with Mr. Montgomery’s death? There was so much he didn’t know.
He folded the letter and put Mr. Ratcliffe’s direction on the front. Hopefully Mr. Price had an ostler anxious to earn an extra coin who would take the letter to Mr. Ratcliffe and bring back his response. James stood up, stretching to relieve the kinks from sitting so long at the table. He decided to go downstairs to the pub to seek out Mr. Price instead of sending a servant for him.
Mr. Price knew just the man for James’s task and promised the letter would be delivered. James thanked him and, as he walked into the pub, he heard a Scottish accent. He followed the sound of the voice to see a tall, well-dressed, lanky gentleman ordering a meal from the barmaid. James walked in his direction.
“Might I join you?” James asked.
The man looked up and smiled broadly. “Aye, yer might, at that, and weelcum, too,” said the man. “Cameron Ramsay,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Sir James Branstoke,” James said, accepting the man’s handshake. He pulled out the chair and sat down. “And I think you are just the man I wish to talk to.”
The man sat straighter in his chair, his expression changing to suspicion. “And why be that?” he asked.
“Because you knew Malcolm Montgomery.”
The man’s shoulders slumped. “I did, aye. Known ’im nigh on fifteen years.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” James asked.
“Ten days ago.” He shook his head. “Ah told ’im he’d coom ta regret his mad decision ta fake his death, mor’n two year ago, and he had. He sent me a letter, that being why ah coom ta see ’im. Ratcliffe—the rat that he be—came to visit ’im to say his wife was lookin’ to marry Soothcoor—which ah already knew as ah’ve been in London watchin’ effter her fer Malcolm.”
James laughed. “Soothcoor’s nephew said you were always fluttering about her and that made them suspicious of you.”
“Ah liked the people in her society. Ah got too comfortable. We had a plan if the missus wanted to marry. Ah would get divorce paperwork signed by Malcolm and take it to Scotland ta file. But ta my lastin’ regret, I delayed doin’ this as ah knew the earl and Mrs. Montgomery wanted ta wait until after the lass, Miss Aileen Montgomery, was properly wed before theydeclared themselves, so I didn’t put the plan ta action when it should have happened.”
He shook his head. “I thought there was plenty of time fer me ta talk ta them first. But somethin’ happened ta make them change their minds and declare themselves. And then it were like a canon fired.”
James nodded. “What happened was Mrs. Montgomery became pregnant,” he softly told him, “and Mrs. Montgomery wrote to Mr. Ratcliffe, announcing her intentions to marry Soothcoor.”
Mr. Ramsay slumped back in his chair. “Then this is all my fault. Everythin’. Malcolm would be alive today if ah’d confided in them instead of that surprise announcement coomin’ froom Ratcliffe first. Ah came here ta see Malcolm as soon as ah could ta have him sign the papers and then ah set ooff ta Scotland ta file the papers fer divorce.”
“Why not file the papers in England?” James asked.
“Easier and faster ta get approved in Scotland since they are both Scottish and married in Scotland.”
“I don’t understand Mr. Ratcliffe’s role in everything. I know from the magistrate he was quick to place blame on Soothcoor. What does he gain from Mr. Montgomery’s death and the earl accused of the murder? It’s not like he wanted Mrs. Montgomery for himself as he is now married to Mr. Montgomery’s mother. And there is an heir to the Montgomery properties. Was he embezzling?”
“Not that I have been able ta determine.”
James shook his head. “I have requested a meeting with Mr. Ratcliffe tomorrow morning as Mrs. Montgomery’s emissary. I am awaiting his response.”
“I’d like ta go with you, if I might, as Mr. Montgomery’s solicitor.”
James frowned at first, then relented. “I’ll admit I should like to hear any conversation you have with him, so the reverse is only fair.”
“Excuse me, Sir James, this just come to you from Camden Hall.”
“It’s from my wife, I recognize her hand. She wouldn’t write unless it were important.” He opened the letter.
“E’gad! It’s the honey,it’s the bloody damn honey!” James exclaimed. “Excuse me,” he said to Mr. Ramsay. I shall be back shortly.” He spun out of his chair. “Price!” he called out. He spotted the barmaid. “Where’s Mr. Price?”
“In the kitchen, sar, as Mrs. Price be sick.”
“Where is it? Through there?” James asked, pointing to a hall off the bar.
“Yes, sar,” said the maid, frightened by Sir James’s manner.
