“It is.”
“She didn’t give any to anyone else, did she?”
“She says not. This is really the source of the sickness?” he asked as he handed the jar to James.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever have honey again,” the innkeeper said.
James laughed. “You need to know your sources.”
“Aye.”
Mr. Ramsay watched from his position in the pub.
James carried the jars with him as he returned to the table. He briefly told Mr. Ramsay about the note from Cecilia.
“Ah wonder if Mr. Ratcliffe likes honey,” Mr. Ramsay said.
James laughed. Then he sobered and looked at Mr. Ramsay intently. “My wife’s note told me something else interesting. She said you were at Camden House a year ago to draw up another will for Mr. Montgomery.”
He nodded. “Mr. Montgomery Senior had recently died and made Mr. Ratcliffe the estate guardian, given the supposed death of Malcolm, and Hugh’s young age. It left him as executor of the estate and in control of all of Mrs. Montgomery’s funds. Malcolm dinnae like that. And though he weren’t ready ta coome out as alive because Ratcliffe was doin’ a decent job with the estate—or had been under his father, he dinnae want him ta be the estate guardian and executor should or when he really died. He wanted a separate will that took those rights away from Mr. Ratcliffe. He dinnae trust Ratcliffe not ta do somethin’ ta the detriment of his family when he ultimately passed on.”
“Did Mr. Ratcliffe know about this will?”
“Ah advised against tellin’ Mr. Ratcliffe of its existence; however, ah believe Malcolm told Ratcliffe as a way ta ensure hiscontinued good health.—And Ratcliffe’s good behavior toward his family.”
He paused for a moment and looked uncomfortable. Around them, the pub filled with locals here for the evening. “Can we go ta yer private parlor ta talk?” he asked.
James raised a brow but nodded. “Of course.”
On the way to the stairs, James requested Scottish whisky for them from the barmaid.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Ramsay with a wry half smile. “We may both need it.”
James and Mr. Ramsay settled into armchairs set before the fireplace. The peat fire had been renewed, warming the room. The peat burned with an odd, attractive smell of sweet earth. Outside it continued to rain. The men did not bother with candles or lamps, so they could only see each other in the glow from the hearth before them. They didn’t need to see better.
James held up his whisky glass, swirling the contents and watching the play of light on the rich golden-brown liquor. He seldom drank whisky, yet enjoyed the aroma and its strong, fortifying taste on this rainy night. It seemed to go with the smell of the burning peat.
Mr. Ramsay set his glass on the table between them and steepled his fingertips. “Malcolm was not born with his affliction,” he said.
“I didn’t think so.”
“From what Gregory told me?—”
“One of his ‘others’?” James clarified.
“Aye. Malcolm split into these…these…” He shook his head.
“In speaking to Mrs. Montgomery, we determined to call them ‘others.’ My wife thought it a better term than anything else that might have a negative connotation.”
“Others, aye, ah like that as well. Malcolm split into these ‘others’ when he were about a five years old wean.”
“He told Soothcoor he felt like a split log.”
“Aye. That be an appropriate description, ah suppose. It was his escape, a way ta rune away.”
“What was he running away from?”
