That last part was oddly specific and quite unrelated to the disappearances. Why did he feel the need to mention it?
“We heard his mill is failing,” Oscar said. “Apparently, it’s doing poorly thanks to cotton and wool magicians, the same magical disciplines as the missing women.”
“The mill is not failing, Mr. Barratt. I suggest you don’t listen to nasty gossip.”
“Then why has Kinloch sold off the paintings that once hung in the house?”
Redmayne suddenly stopped and rounded on Oscar. His nostrils flared and a muscle in his cheek twitched. He was trying to control his temper. If I were Oscar, I’d have stepped back, worried that one of those large fists would strike me. But Oscar merely waited, quite at ease. “He hasn’t sold anything, sir. Those paintings were sent to London for appraisal.”
I didn’t believe him, but I kept my mouth shut.
Oscar did not. “Wouldn’t it be easier to pay for an appraiser to come here? Indeed, I’m surprised there isn’t one in Edinburgh.” When Redmayne set off again, Oscar fell into step alongside him. “How does one even pack up a number of large and valuable paintings?”
“There is a freight company that specializes in packing them and organizing for them to be transported by rail. It all happened a month ago.” Redmayne stopped outside a tailor shop. “I have to go in here. Goodbye.” He pushed open the door, and slammed it shut behind him.
Oscar shrugged. “I’d finished my questions anyway. It seems they loosened his tongue a little.”
Miss Wheeler barked a laugh. “Your questions? I’d say it was Professor Nash’s question that loosened Redmayne’s tongue.”
“Not much, though,” I chimed in.
Miss Wheeler opened her umbrella over her head as it began to lightly rain. “Professor, would you care to join me under here?”
“That’s very kind of you.” I offered her my arm as I slipped under the shelter with her.
“What about me?” Oscar asked.
“Didn’t you come prepared for the rain?” she said. “This is Scotland, you know.”
He scowled and flipped up his collar. He cast another look through the window at Redmayne chatting to the tailor before we headed off. “What do you think of his unprompted opinion of Kinloch’s character? Important or not?”
Oscar and Miss Wheeler discussed the butler’s responses on the way to Moray Place, but I wasn’t really listening. I couldn’t set aside the notion that something was amiss. We’d set out on this investigation thinking the abductions were related to the theft of the Mackenzie book, but now it seemed as though there was no link after all. The effigy that had been left in my hotel room didn’t resemble the ones left at the scenes of the crime.
Should we even continue with our own investigation into the abductions if it was nothing to do with us?
I watched Oscar and Miss Wheeler out of the corner of my eye, as they discussed theories. They showed no sign of even considering backing away from the investigation now. With two against one, I didn’t bother to suggest it. Besides, I wanted to find the missing women. If it meant our distraction allowed the book thief to escape the city, so be it.
What I didn’t consider until later was that someone had left us that effigy for a reason, either to taunt us or lure us into a trap.
Chapter 9
I’d become used to seeing angry mobs protesting outside government buildings and the factories and workshops owned by magicians, but seeing one on the steps of a townhouse in a genteel street like Moray Place was far more disconcerting. Shouting accusations at a man’s home, where he and his household should feel safe, was deeply personal. I wondered how Mr. Kinloch fared. Was he rigid with fear that they’d take it upon themselves to break down the door and storm inside? I certainly would be.
I spotted the journalist who’d written the article connecting him to the witchfinder of centuries past. He stood to one side of the small but vocal crowd, madly scribbling on a notepad. A photographer stood alongside him, fiddling with the lens of a camera on a tripod, a bag opened at his feet.
We decided to head directly to the mews. We had no need to speak to Mr. Kinloch. Yet.
We passed the house where the first victim, Mary, had worked as a maid. All was quiet. The curtains were closed, which was unusual for a household that employed servants whose duty it was to open them of a morning. Perhaps not so unusual, considering the to-do on their neighbor’s doorstep.
The house next to that one didn’t have the same air of abandonment. A man and woman watched us from a first-floor window. They stepped back in unison when they realized I’d seen them. It was the house where Juliette had been staying when she was abducted from the garden square opposite, so perhaps they were her aunt and uncle.
More police arrived as we rounded the corner, whistles blaring. We did not see the outcome of their efforts. The whistles and shouts could still be heard from the mews, but were comfortingly distant. Aside from the tapping of a hammer against a horse’s shoe, the lane was relatively quiet. We found Blackburn polishing the carriage door while the groom mucked out the adjoining stables that belonged to Mr. Kinloch.
Blackburn took one look at us and returned to his polishing. “Kinloch’s inside.”
“We want to speak to you about the morning Juliette was abducted,” Oscar said.
Blackburn paused, heaved a sigh, and continued with slow circular motions of his polishing cloth on the already gleaming carriage door.
