Page 88 of A Scot in the Storm
The magistrate’s gaze lingered briefly on the scaffold.
The coach had arrived nearly two hours earlier than the letter had promised. That, more than anything else, told Rory exactly what sort of man had stepped onto the headland.
Cathcart preferred people unprepared.
“Bloody hell,” Ewan muttered softly beside him. “He looks cheerful.”
“The undertaker likely refused him for lowering morale.”
Ewan barked a laugh into his beard.
Rory set down the caliper and headed downstairs before the magistrate could knock.
The fog had dampened every surface on the headland until the scaffold timbers gleamed dark with moisture.
“Captain Sinclair.”
“Magistrate.”
The pale eyes flicked once toward Rory’s shoulder brace beneath his coat.
Rory led the way upstairs where Mrs. Gable had laid tea in the study along with oatcakes.
Cathcart removed his gloves finger by finger and set the leather case neatly upon the desk.
“Shall we begin?”
No pleasantries beyond necessity.
Rory took the chair opposite while the magistrate opened the ledger, dipped his quill, and looked up.
“I’m not here to arrest the woman.”
The words loosened something low between Rory’s shoulders before he could stop himself.
“I’m here,” the magistrate continued evenly, “to discharge an obligation to the Commissioners regarding the cutter wreck of the nineteenth and the unidentified person presently residing on Crown property.”
The quill scratched softly across paper.
“Let us begin there.”
The next hour unfolded in the plain language of official inquiry spread carefully over disaster.
Weather.
Tide.
Departure time.
Witnesses.
Names of the men aboard.
No embellishment. No evasion.
Cathcart asked his questions quietly enough that Rory found himself answering before he entirely realized he had done so.
“Aboard?” the magistrate asked.
