He did not look her way. “This is vindictive, nasty and demonstrably false. You’ll be dismissed over this, Detective.”
“It can be verified,” Oscar said. “He fired a gun at us outside the building where Juliette and Mary were held prisoner. The bullet lodged in the wall will match the type of gun in his possession. He would have returned to the house not long ago.”
Everyone looked to Anderson. The butler nodded grimly.
D.I. Smith sent two of his men off to search the house for the gun. “Do you know the address of the building where the women were held?”
Mary gave it to him. “We reckon the vicar who owns it is the one who did all the talking. Real madman, he was, always going on about us being abominations, saying if we admitted we were witches we could repent and be clean again to receive God’s love in Heaven. Miss Buchanan reckoned he was going tae kill us if we admitted it.” The maid folded her arms over her chest, hugging herself.
Juliette rose and drew Mary into an embrace. “It’s all over now, Mary. We’re safe.”
Mrs. Buchanan stood too, but not to be with her daughter. She wanted to get away from her sister-in-law, still seated on the sofa. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“I didn’t know,” Mrs. Gordon whispered.
“You must have known. Is the vicar from your kirk?”
Mrs. Gordon gave a slight nod. “He was originally from Edinburgh, but served in Glasgow for over a decade. The bishop moved him on in January after complaints from some parishioners. His new parish here in Edinburgh didn’t work out either, so he resigned. He called on some of his former parishioners, saying he wanted to continue his brand of faith with a few like-minded devotees. I declined to join, but…” Her gaze lifted to her husband, standing still as a statue in the middle of the room. “But my husband followed him.”
Mr. Gordon suddenly came to life again. “I don’t believe in that nonsense. I never have. The vicar is from an old and wealthy family. He owns a great deal of property in his own right.” He jutted his chin forward and tugged on his sleeves. “I found myself in need of money after an investment I made some years ago turned sour.” He shot a glare at Mr. Kinloch. “I asked the vicar for a loan, and he agreed as long as I helped him cleanse the city of witches. It was all his idea, the kidnappings, the ridiculous straw effigies as a warning that we were coming for the rest of the witches… I simply did as he bade me to secure the loan.”
“You kidnapped your own niece!” Mrs. Buchanan cried. “What would you have done if she admitted to being a witch in front of the vicar? Would you have killed her if she confessed?”
Mr. Gordon flinched as if he’d been slapped, but that was the only sign he gave of having heard her. “I couldn’t control the vicar. He’s a madman. He blackmailed me into helping him. I’m a victim, too.”
Mrs. Buchanan stepped forward and did slap him, right across the cheek. Going by the sound and the mark left behind, it had been hard. “You’re pathetic,” she growled at him. “Take responsibility for your actions instead of blaming others.”
Mr. Gordon bristled and opened his mouth to protest, but he didn’t get the opportunity to speak.
Redmayne stepped up and punched Mr. Gordon in the stomach. The gentleman doubled over, coughing and clutching his middle. We all stared at Redmayne.
He glared at Mr. Gordon, who was struggling to regain the breath that had been knocked out of him. “It was you! You kidnapped and murdered my Dorothy.”
Good lord, he was right. It had to have been Mr. Gordon. His wife was friends with Mrs. Carter, the former employer of Redmayne and his lover. Mrs. Carter must have told Mrs. Gordon that her maid was boasting about being a cotton magician, and Mrs. Gordon went home and told her husband. He kidnapped her, extracting a confession from her. Then he killed her to cleanse the city of a witch, as he’d called it. Indeed, it was the motive he’d assigned to the vicar.
But the vicar wasn’t behind that particular abduction. He couldn’t have been. He wasn’t yet working in the local parish. According to Mrs. Gordon, he’d been in Glasgow at the time of that abduction.
She realized, too. Her face paled. The hand she raised to cover her mouth shook.
I had one more question to ask. “Mary, Miss Buchanan, when did you last see or hear the woman during your ordeal?”
“She came this morning to give us breakfast.” Juliette’s gaze flicked to her aunt and back to me. “I don’t think it was her.”
“She was with me all morning,” Mrs. Buchanan said. “From the moment I got out of bed she’s been comforting me.” Her gaze softened a little, but she didn’t go to her sister-in-law. I wondered if she’d ever be ready to renew the family bond that connected them.
Mrs. Gordon gave no indication that she realized we were talking about her. She’d reverted to a state of stupor, her gaze distant and somewhat vacant. Her fingers clasped the cross brooch at her throat so tightly that she might rip it off the collar.
“I’ll find the woman,” the detective assured us. “If Gordon doesn’t confess, I can easily find out the name of the former vicar who owns that building, and I’ve got ways of getting people to give up their associates.” One of his constables cracked his knuckles, earning an audible gulp from Mr. Gordon.
Two constables manhandled Mr. Gordon out of the room. His hair was in disarray, and he was still bent forward in pain from the punch. He didn’t utter a word in his defense. He must have realized it was hopeless.
Mary took a moment to thank Juliette again for being strong throughout the ordeal, and for stopping her confessing to their captors. Staying silent saved her life. Agnes circled an arm around Mary then steered her from the room. For all her previous spitefulness over Mary’s flirting, she was being kind to her now.
Jack also limped out, taking his coat with him. He seemed eager to go. I couldn’t blame him. It occurred to me that Mr. Gordon had written those love letters to his own niece. It was possible the vicar or the woman had written them, I supposed. Whoever did, poor Jack the footman had been unwittingly dragged into the plot. A part of me felt compelled to go after him to offer words of comfort, but I hesitated so long that the opportunity vanished.
Redmayne and Blackburn followed him out. Mr. Kinloch lingered to speak to us.
“If you haven’t already guessed, Gordon invested in my company,” he said. “My wool mill is failing, which is why I’m selling my art collection, among other things. I am partly to blame for his actions. I feel awful.”
