A Stroke of Malice (Lady Darby Mystery #8) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,63

back to the wind as best I could, I turned to survey the site before me.

Kirkbryde Abbey was but a stony skeleton of its former self. Soaring walls of Gothic arches surrounded a grassy field where Premonstratensian canons once gathered to worship. Here and there sat large chunks of toppled stone, and another random wall or two jutted outward from the main outline, but the remainder of the rubble had been carted away to be utilized elsewhere, probably even in the expansion of Sunlaws Castle.

I had visited my fair share of abbey ruins, for the Borders region was littered with them, and while similar, they had each left me with some unique, but indelible impression. Melrose Abbey possessed a stateliness, a pomposity that seemed to cling to the past like some grand old duchess who refused to give way. Dryburgh Abbey stood draped in ivy and secrecy, a woodland sprite whispering in a language too delicate and ancient for our ears to comprehend. Kelso Abbey, near my childhood home, was stark and stolid, as if a giant had once planted his foot there and left his boot behind.

They were fanciful notions I knew, but I couldn’t help the feelings they inspired. Just as I couldn’t ignore the sense of forlornness overtaking me as I gazed up at the remnants of Kirkbryde. There was a sadness, a loneliness clinging to these stones, as if the gusts whipping through the arches were not merely wind, but the very sighs of the foundations themselves. Stepping closer to the outer wall, I reached up to press a hand to the chiseled limestone, offering it my comfort, my consolation. I’m not sure what I expected, if I expected anything, for all I felt through my glove was cold, solid rock, but it seemed the right thing to do all the same.

Gage stood to the side of where the opening gaped, conferring with Lord Edward about something regarding the entrance to the crypt. From this vantage, gazing at their backs, the hems of their greatcoats whipping about their legs, I would never have realized there were stairs leading anywhere. They had been recessed into the stone, and unless one looked closely, they could be missed. All the same, they were there, and someone could find them, particularly if they’d been instructed to their location.

My husband turned his head to say something to the other men, who were standing a short distance away, but the wind snatched up his words so that I couldn’t hear them. Deciding they weren’t meant for me, I turned to wander further along the grassy former nave, my eyes drawn toward the bleak expanse of the moor that stretched to the south. I imagined in the spring and summer it was a sight to behold with its blanket of purple heather and yellow gorse, but now it was faded to dull greens and browns, dusted with snow. To the west rose the braes I had seen from my bedchamber window, and at the base of the southern hill gathered that icy pool of water.

Had I been in possession of certain stolen items, items I had taken from a corpse to prevent it from being identified, that would be an ideal location to discard them. Those and any bloodstained clothing. In my current condition, across open country, it would be a tiring walk. But a hearty man would have no trouble making the journey there and back in the matter of an hour, probably less, even with naught but the moon to guide him.

My gaze continued sweeping northward, and I moved a few steps to the right, blinking into the swirling snow, to get a better glimpse of the round building several hundred yards away. It resembled a Romanesque folly, but even from such a distance I could tell that it was of relatively recent construction, distressed to look older.

“The mausoleum,” Lord Edward explained, coming forward to stand beside me. His cheeks were pink with cold as he huddled into the collar of his greatcoat. None of the men had brought hats, and so their hair was dusted with snow, the tips of their ears turning red. “Grandfather built it in honor of his mother. And then he joined her soon after. Hasn’t been opened since.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Well, except for George.”

I glanced at him in question, though he never moved his eyes from the building in the distance.

“He was born between Richard and me. Lived only three weeks.” He flicked