“Of course not. I mean he quit.”
“Dare I ask what you did to him?”
“I asked him to assist. That is what I hired him for, after all. Now he has left, and Catriona is temporarily aiding me instead.” He waves for me to hurry, as if I’m a dawdling child. “I will dictate, and you shall take notes.”
“Duncan?” Isla calls after us. “I hate to interfere, but I must point out that Catriona cannot write. Not yet, although I have hopes of teaching her.”
“She can. She does. Her handwriting is wretched. If you wish to teach her something, please make it penmanship.”
“Catriona?” She stares at me, one glove still half off. “You know your letters?”
I bow in what I hope is a proper curtsy. “I do, ma’am. I must apologize for keeping it from you, but I feared you might think I had airs above my station.”
“Airs above your…?” She arches a brow at Duncan. “ThisisCatriona, is it not?”
“I fear I am somewhat changed, ma’am,” I say. “Due to the concussion I received during my incident.”
“Concussion?”
“Er, my head was… concussed. I believe that is the word, though I have been doing some odd things with language lately, ma’am. Putting together the wrong words and coming up with new ones altogether.”
“All right,” Isla says slowly. “This started after you fell and struck your head?”
“I am not certain I fell. It is possible that I was struck in the head with a blunt object before I was strangled. The blow was hard enough to cause prolonged lack of consciousness.”
Her gaze shoots to her brother. “Is there something you wish to tell me, Duncan?”
“I sent you a telegram. Or I thought—” He pauses, frowns. Then he nods abruptly. “No, I recall writing it and giving it to Mrs. Wallace.”
“I will speak to Mrs. Wallace,” Isla says. “I understand she wanted me to have a relaxing holiday, but I do hope she didn’t withhold that message.”
The look that passes between them says Mrs. Wallace most certainly did withhold it. The lady of the house was on vacation, and the housekeeper wasn’t about to disturb her with news that might bring her home. Not when it was about a maid who didn’t deserve such consideration.
I clear my throat. “If you did not receive the telegram, ma’am, I am glad of it. I recovered, and your holiday was not disturbed. I only mention it to explain the lingering effects on my vocabulary and, apparently, my personality.”
“I see. Well, then, I am glad to hear Duncan has found a—”
“Duncan?” The front door opens, McCreadie popping his head in. He sees Isla, blinks, and hurries inside, striding to greet her with an embrace that I suspect, in this period, suggests a long-standing and close acquaintance.
“Isla, when did you arrive?” he says.
She lifts her still-half-gloved hand. “Just now. I haven’t even had time to take these off, and I’ve already discovered that my poor maid was strangled and has experienced a brain injury.”
“Ah, yes. Catriona. She seems fine enough.” McCreadie picks up a small suitcase in each hand. “I’ll run these upstairs for you.”
“Did you not just come to fetch my brother?” she says. “On the urgent matter in the funerary parlor?”
“Er, yes. Of course. Duncan, you need to show me what you found before they remove the body.”
“Body?” Isla perks up. “Is it a murder?”
“Yes, but—”
“Come, Catriona,” Isla says. “There is a murder victim to tend to. This is terribly exciting. It’s been months since we had one. No wonder Duncan is so distracted.” She beams at him. “Is it an interesting case? Please tell me it is interesting.”
McCreadie steps into her path. “No, Isla. Duncan has Catriona to assist him. You are not seeing this one.”
Her brows arch. “I beg your pardon? It sounds as if you said Iam notto see him, when you meant that Iought notto.”