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“Until recently, it was a combination of petty thefts and vandalism. Clothing stolen from a drying line or a small item or two from local shops, and a few windows broken overnight at the distillery.” He twirled a hand. “You know.”
“Not much different from some of the things we got up to when we were lads,” Grant said.
“That’s what I thought at first—just a few cheeky lads out for a lark. I figured I’d track them down and put a proper scare into them, but no such luck.”
“What else is happening?”
“In the last three weeks, the crimes have become more serious. Two of the local crofters had livestock stolen. And two houses in the village were broken into last week. Money was taken, along with some rather good pieces of silver.”
“Definitely not cheeky lads, then.”
Graeme shook his head. “Neither of us would have had a clue how to get rid of stolen cattle, back in the day.”
“Are there any towns around here big enough to merit a pawnbroker who traffics in stolen goods?”
“Only one, and I paid a visit there last week. But nothing.”
“Nothing, as in no contact, or nothing as in not willing to speak to a local magistrate?”
Graeme scoffed. “The proprietor was unimpressed with my credentials and had no problem informing me of such.”
“How shocking. He must have been deranged.”
“Or thinking that he was innocent,” Graeme dryly replied. “The terms cakedoodle, nincompoop, and totty-headed noddy were applied to me rather liberally.”
Grant had to laugh. “Are you sure you weren’t talking to Angus?”
“He was worse than Angus. And I might be a cakedoodle, but I’m a cakedoodle who also happens to be a magistrate. Anyway, I’m convinced the man was telling the truth. He was also certain that none of the local nibblers were involved in this, either.”
Grant propped his foot against the other firedog. “Why Dunlaggan? It’s hardly rich pickings for your average thief.”
“Aye. It makes no bloody sense.”
“How are the locals taking it?”
“They were annoyed by the pilfering, but now they’re genuinely worked up. Understandably so.”
“Which means Sabrina is worked up.”
Graeme sighed. “She actually lost her temper with me the other day. Called meSir Graemeand told me to do my blasted job or else she’d do it for me.”
“That must have been a terrible blow to the great spy’s pride.”
Graeme reached over and punched him in the arm. “I’m not a spy anymore, ye silly prat.”
“Still, no fun having the wife of one’s bosom ringing a peal over one’s head.”
“The poor girl doesn’t get much sleep these days, what with the wee laddie being so tetchy. I’ve hired two bloody nursemaids, but Sabrina still insists on sitting up with Gus half the bloody night.”
“I’m thinking it’s not the nursemaids who sit up with the bairn the rest of the night. Am I right?”
Graeme scowled at him. “Look, they have to take care of Gus during the day. Besides, when I try to put him down, he cries. Can’t let him cry now, can I?”
Grant repressed a smile. “So, Sabrina is sitting up one half of the night, and you’re sitting up the other half. Which means neither of you is—”
His brother jabbed him again. “I thought I was the one with the mind in the gutter.”
“As I was going to say, neither of you is obviously getting enough sleep.”
