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the door. Closing it quietly behind him, he paused, puzzled by the changes and wondering again just what was going on, then he shook aside the distraction and went down the stairs.
    After collecting his greatcoat from Ferguson, who confirmed that they still hadn’t located Faith Burns, Thomas strode out of the house and back into the stable yard.
    Mitch had Phantom waiting in the aisle of the stable. “Thought he may as well stand in the warm.”
    Thomas smiled his thanks.
    As he mounted, Mitch added, “Sean’s off to the Wattses to see if they know anything of Faith. Odd, that—she’s no giddy girl to go waltzing off anywhere, and, really, whereabouts around here is there anywhere to go?”
    Thomas grimaced and nodded; it was a pertinent point. But how did a maid simply disappear? “If anyone needs to know, I’m off to the Bradshaws’—with the laird’s blessing.”
    Mitch nodded. “Good thing, too. Hope Joy’s got them well again. We’ll be waiting to hear.”
    Thomas walked Phantom out into the yard. The sun had dipped behind the Rhinns of Kells, and the light was already waning. “I doubt I’ll be back before full dark.”
    “Aye, but we’ll keep an eye out, any case.”
    Thomas tipped his head, then tapped his heels to Phantom’s sleek sides. The big gray shifted smoothly into a trot, then into a canter. Once out of the stable yard, Thomas turned the gelding to the north and eased the reins.

    * * *

    The Bradshaws’ farmhouse lay along the northern boundaries of the Carrick estate, where the country was less hilly and the fields more open. As he rode in that direction, Thomas noted that many fields lay fallow; some were partially tilled, but none bore the neater regimentation of planted rows. The estate primarily ran sheep, with a small herd of cattle and two small goat herds; only a handful of farmers had fields useful for grain, most of which went to supplying the clan’s needs through the rest of the year.
    With the fields not yet planted, the concern of the farmers over not having a sufficient crop—of having only a single crop that year instead of their usual two—appeared, to Thomas, to be justified; as far as he recalled, year to year, the clan used most of the grain produced on the estate.
    The shadows were lengthening when he rode up the slight rise to the front of the Bradshaws’ long stone farmhouse. As the temperature had also started to fall, he was surprised to see the front door left ajar.
    A glance confirmed that no hint of smoke was wafting from the chimneys—which seemed decidedly odd. It was late April, and while winter had lost its grip, warmer days, let alone evenings, were some way off.
    He dismounted and tied Phantom’s reins to one of the rings set in a post to one side of the door, then walked to the doorway and looked in. The light from the open door reached only so far, and the windows were fully curtained and no lamp had been lit; he couldn’t see deeper into the shadows wreathing the long room, but regardless, he saw no one, and no one stirred. He couldn’t hear anyone, either; silence, undisturbed, enveloped the house.
    He raised a hand and rapped on the wooden door frame. “Hello? Bradshaw?”
    The eerie silence stretched, but then a creak followed by a weak shout came from deeper in the house.
    Thomas stepped across the threshold. Leaving the door open, he strode through the main room, beneath an archway, and into a long corridor; the shout had come from that direction.
    The first door he came to stood ajar. He pushed it open and found himself looking into the Bradshaws’ bedroom. Mrs. Bradshaw lay curled and slumped in an armchair by the cold fireplace. She looked dreadful, her face a ghastly hue, her graying hair bedraggled and coming loose. She was fully dressed but didn’t stir at Thomas’s arrival; she was breathing through her mouth, and her breath came in shallow, barely there pants. A pool of half-dried vomit lay beside the armchair.
    Thomas’s gaze