“Given the two women were living next door to each other, and Miss Buchanan hasn’t been here long, its likely to be someone nearby who has heard about their magic. The male servants from Mary’s household all have alibis. Anyway, I don’t believe there’s any need to widen our search, especially since I now know who did it.”
“Because of the wool? But you didn’t find it in any pockets.”
“The wool is one clue, but there’s another that I’ve just discovered. Or perhaps that should be rediscovered.”
“Please, Professor,” Mrs. Buchanan urged. “Just tell us.” She sat next to her daughter on the sofa, her hand clasping Juliette’s. On her other side, Mrs. Gordon sat quite close, a look of utter dismay on her face.
She knew.
Her reaction meant I was right, and knowing that spurred me on. Indeed, I felt invigorated, gripped with a kind of fever similar to the thrill I’d felt when I first read Mr. Kinloch’s letter to Lord Coyle regarding George Mackenzie’s book. With everyone looking at me, I laid out the evidence.
“The reason we didn’t find the wool was because it was removed and thrown away. Not on purpose. The person who removed it didn’t know its significance and merely thought it a scrap. He consigned it to the wastebasket.”
“‘He?’” Oscar echoed.
I nodded at the Gordons’ butler.
Anderson’s eyes widened. “It wasn’t me!”
“I know you’re not one of the kidnappers,” I assured him. “But you emptied the pocket of a person who is.”
“Butlers don’t empty coat pockets,” Redmayne pointed out with all the snooty aloofness I’d come to expect from him. “That’s the job for a valet. Or the maid, serving the ladies of the house.”
“In wealthy households that’s true. But in financial difficulty, sometimes housekeepers act as lady’s maids, and butlers perform the duties of a footman and valet.” I indicated the ordinary, mismatched furniture, the lack of heirlooms and knickknacks found in most houses of quality.
“We are not poor,” Mrs. Gordon blurted out. “We choose to live simply, as God intended.”
“Your butler informed me before he went to fetch your coats that he has been acting as Mr. Gordon’s valet.” I turned to Anderson. The poor man looked like a fish caught on the end of a hook. Despite my sympathy for his predicament, I couldn’t soften my questions now. “You found a thread of wool in a coat pocket on the day Juliette was abducted, didn’t you? Would you mind telling us whose coat you found it in?”
Mrs. Gordon shot to her feet. “No! Don’t answer that.”
Anderson’s mouth opened and shut without uttering a word.
“Never mind,” I said. “You may want to confide in D.I. Smith after I tell you what the second piece of evidence is.” I crossed the room to the fireplace and rested a hand on the white marble mantelpiece. “Juliette and Mary were kept in a hidden room that was accessed by pressing a carved escutcheon on the mantelpiece. It was larger than my hand and positioned in a row of similar images.” I held out my hand as I strolled past some of the standing suspects. It was a piece of theater but I was pleased to see them all study the size of my hand. “At the time, I thought the stonemason had carved the original owner’s clan crest into the stone, and didn’t think it relevant. But I now know it is relevant. Perhaps the stag head used to represent a particular clan. Now, however, it represents a secret society. A dangerous one.” I stopped in front of Mr. Gordon and pointed at the gold pin on his lapel. “It’s the same as that.”
Mr. Gordon scoffed as he rocked back on his heels. “Stags are common representations here in Scotland. This pin represents my club.”
“What sort of club?” I asked.
Mr. Gordon sniffed. “I’m not answering you.”
I felt Oscar move up behind me. His presence gave me strength to continue. “It’s not a gentleman’s club, is it? There’s at least one female member. It’s probably more accurate to describe it as a secret sect. Tell me, is the sect led by a practicing vicar? Or did he leave the church and start his own, more secretive, sinister faith when his fire-and-brimstone preaching became too much for his parishioners?”
It was a leap, but one I suspected would get a response. Just as I’d hoped, Mrs. Gordon shot to her feet again.
“It’s not a sect! Tell them, my dear. Tell them he’s wrong. He must be!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “He must be wrong. Juliette is our niece.”
Mr. Gordon met my gaze with a defiant one of his own. “This is absurd. It’s all nonsense. So I have a pin that looks similar to a carving in a mantelpiece in an old building. It means nothing.”
Instead of replying, I turned to Anderson. “You’ve been acting as valet to Mr. Gordon. The task involves taking care of his clothing. When you brushed down his winter coat, you checked the pockets as a matter of course. On the day Juliette went missing, you probably thought it odd that he’d been out in summer wearing a winter coat, but then you dismissed it from your mind. While cleaning Mr. Gordon’s coat, you removed a piece of wool from his pocket. What color was it?” I’d not yet told them the color of the wool. Few in that room knew it came from the head of Juliette’s favorite doll as a child.
The butler swallowed heavily and glanced at Mr. Gordon. Mr. Gordon glared back at him. It was full of threatening malice.
D.I. Smith pointed out a rather obvious fact to Anderson. “If you don’t tell the truth, you’ll be charged with aiding the kidnappers.”
“It was pale yellow,” Anderson said on a rush of breath.
Mrs. Buchanan gathered her daughter in her arms and squeezed her eyes shut. Tears slipped from beneath her lashes and down her cheeks. Juliette, meanwhile, glared daggers at her uncle.
