The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [377]
“Is this the woman that you and Bree found in the garden?” Roger turned to Jamie, inquiring.
“Aye.” Jamie nodded, his eyes still fixed on me. “She was insensible wi’ the drink then. And when ye saw her later, Sassenach—were there signs of it, then?”
I shook my head.
“The glass might have been working then—but she was out cold. One thing—Fentiman did say she woke in the middle of the night, complaining of griping in her guts. So she was certainly affected by that time. But I can’t say for sure whether she’d been given the ground glass before you and Bree found her, or whether perhaps she roused from her stupor in the early evening, and someone gave it to her then.”
“Griping in the guts,” Roger murmured. He shook his head, mouth grim at the thought. “Christ, what a way to go.”
“Aye, it’s black wickedness,” Jamie agreed, nodding. “But why? Who should wish the woman’s death?”
“A good question,” Wylie said shortly. “However, I can assure you that it wasn’t I.”
Jamie gave him a long stare of assessment.
“Aye, maybe,” he said. “If not, though—how came ye to the shed last night? What business might ye have there, save perhaps to look upon the face of your victim?”
“My victim!” Wylie jerked bolt upright, stiff with renewed outrage. “It was not I in that shed, red to the elbow with the woman’s gore and snatching bits of bone and offal!” He snapped his head to the side, glaring up at me.
“My victim, indeed! It is a capital crime to defile a body, Mrs. Fraser. And I have heard things—oh, yes, I have heard things about you! I put it to you that it is you who did the woman to death, for the purpose of obtaining—”
His words ended in a gurgle, as Jamie’s hand jerked his shirtfront tight and twisted it hard about his neck. He punched Wylie in the stomach, hard, and the young man doubled up, coughed, and spewed coffee, bile, and a few more disagreeable substances all over the floor, his knees, and Jamie.
I sighed wearily. The briefly warming effects of the discussion had faded, and I was feeling cold and mildly disoriented again. The stench didn’t help.
“That’s not really helpful, you know,” I said reprovingly to Jamie, who had released Wylie and was now hastily removing his own outer garments. “Not that I don’t appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“Oh, aye,” he said, voice muffled in the shirt as he pulled it over his head. He popped out, glaring at me, and dropped the shirt on the floor with a splat. “D’ye think I’m going to sit idle and let this popinjay insult ye?”
“I don’t suppose he’ll do it again,” Roger said. He stood and bent over Wylie, who was still doubled up on his stool, rather green in the face. Roger glanced back over his shoulder at Jamie.
“Is he right, though? About it being a capital crime to tamper with a body?”
“I dinna ken,” Jamie said, rather shortly. Stripped to the waist, stained with blood and vomit, and with his red hair wild in the lantern light, he looked a far cry from the polished gentleman who had gone off to play whist.
“It scarcely matters,” he added, “as he isna going to tell anyone about it. Because if he does, I shall cut him like a stirk and feed both his ballocks and his lying tongue to the pigs.” He touched the hilt of his dirk, as though assuring himself that it was handy if wanted.
“But I am sure ye dinna mean to make any such unfounded accusations regarding my wife, do ye . . . sir?” he said to Wylie, with excessive politeness.
I was not surprised to see Phillip Wylie shake his head, evidently still incapable of speech. Jamie made a noise of grim satisfaction and stooped to pick up the cloak he had dropped earlier.
Feeling rather weak-kneed after this latest exhibition of the male sense of honor, I sat down on the bucket.
“All right,” I said, and pushed back a strand of hair. “Fine. If