Mortsafe

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  Jean wasn’t the only one who’d been expecting a completely different statement. Alasdair’s head went down as his brows went up. Gordon sat with his pen poised over a page. Knox actually emitted a dry cackle. “I beg your pardon, Miss MacLaren?”

  “You’re hearing me quite well. I’m the cause of it all. My decision first to help Sara with her mad scheme, then to conceal her accidental death, led all these years on to Des going about attacking folk. I’m sorry, Mr. Cameron. If I’d known he was taking matters into his own hands I’d have been jerking his choke-chain right smart.”

  “Anything,” said Alasdair, “as long as you’re by way of being in charge, is that it?”

  Nicola didn’t blink, but one corner of her red mouth tucked itself in affirmatively.

  Knox ordered, “Let’s be hearing the long and the short of it, then.”

  Nicola started at the beginning, taking them from Stornoway to Edinburgh University and the meeting with Sara Herries in one of Robin Davis’s classes. “Most folk were still calling me Chrissie then, but I was wanting to be changing it, starting with Davis himself. Chrissie’s a childish, girlish name, not the name of someone with connections. And a name implying an allegiance to an outdated system of religion and superstition.”

  “Did you find Davis,” Jean asked, “or did he find you?”

  “Both. Not that I was ever intending to throw over my practical studies in favor of his airy-fairy theories. But psychology and anthropology are part of marketing. I was seeing an advantage to forming an alliance with him. Besides,” Nicola added, “he needed taking in hand. That revue of his, ‘Ghosts for Fun and Profit’, was beneath his dignity. Commerce and Credibility now, we’re aiming that at a much more sophisticated audience.”

  “Do you have a sexual relationship with him?” asked Knox.

  Nicola laughed. “Oh, please. Hardly.”

  “What of your relationship with Sara?”

  “She was playing about. Although, given the chance and another choice of fathers, she might have eventually come out of the closet. Then—well, I was telling her never to mind with Allsort, but she was thinking she needed a boyfriend, to be covering for the girlfriend. He was doing her no good, was Allsort. Tristan Ryan, I’m hearing now. He went telling what happened that night in the vault, did he?”

  “It’s time you were telling us what happened,” said Knox.

  “Sara was after using the real bones in Davis’s juvenile revue. Big mistake, I was telling her. There’s a saying, there’s no such thing as bad publicity, but at the university, there is.”

  Tell me about it, Jean thought, and caught Alasdair’s sidelong glance.

  Knox cocked her head to the side, but apparently decided whether or not Nicola had been urging Sara on was a secondary issue right now.

  “We’d been drinking. Another mistake, I’m realizing that now. We had a row. She came for me. I pushed her away just as Allsort went grabbing at her and …” Nicola’s eyes looked beyond the room, beyond the night, into the past. “She fell against the corner of the mortsafe.”

  Gordon stated, “She died.”

  “We tried CPR. No good. Out like a light. Gone.”

  Jean remembered the lights going out in the vault, closed her eyes, and opened them again on the brightly lit, classically decorated room.

  “We tried CPR,” Nicola repeated. “We broke her necklace and the skull went flying. My skull. We’d traded, hers for mine, sisters, she was saying. Lovers.” Again her eyes went distant.

  “You covered up her death,” said Knox, “hoping to save what you were expecting to be a brilliant career.”

  Nicola nodded. The shiny red fingernails of her right hand dug into the palm of her left, leaving red crescents in the fair skin. “Then there was Des Bewley, my version of Allsort in a way, but a nastier piece of work, a bit of a yob, something I was foolish enough to find exciting. Like Davis, I was taking him in hand, if in a different sort of way. I had him brick up the door to the cave. I left Sara lying there in the dark.”

  After a moment of silence, Jean said, “Bewley was a reclamation project. You wanted to reform him.” And she had once thought Alasdair was a reclamation project.

  “I’ve failed at that, haven’t I? Who’s been helping whom? Who’s been using whom?”

  “Was it Bewley who told you P.C. Ross’s name?” Alasdair asked.

  “Yes. Does it matter?”

  Knox answered. “Ross told us he saw you ticking Bewley off. For unblocking the door in the cellar of the Playfair Building?”

  “I was afraid it led into the same vault where Sara—where Sara’s been all these years. I was right. I knew the skull with my initials was still lying there. I was right about that. It was my original decision that’s gone so badly wrong.” Having circled back to where she came in, Nicola sat up straight, laid her hand flat on her black-clad knees, and looked Knox in the eye. “Are you planning on charging me, Inspector? With what? Covering up a death? Surely there’s a statute of limitations.”

  “Let’s get you to the office for a formal statement,” Knox replied. “Then we’ll be discussing possible charges.”

  “All right. I’ve left instructions, the rest of the dinner should be getting on without my supervising.” But her glance over her shoulder at the doors to the dining room belied her words. Surely no one could put food on their plates without her oversight.

  “Come along then.” Gordon stood up and the two constables stepped forward.

  Nicola rose onto her shoes, perfectly balanced. She looked over at Jean and Alasdair. “Any time you’re feeling like shopping at Pippa’s, Miss Fairbairn, I’d be happy to arrange a discount. Good night.”

  Gordon offered Jean and Alasdair both a quick salute, retrieved Nicola’s coat, and disappeared into the lobby. As the front door shut, Grizel fell from the staircase. Yes, there had been a lot of emotion spilled here tonight. No wonder the ghost was restless. Not happy, in Ryan’s words.

  Alasdair and Jean managed to lever each other up out of their chairs. Oh good, her blood was circulating. Alasdair’s kilt was swinging. If all wasn’t right with the world, at least it was all right enough to be going on with.

  Alasdair said to Knox, “Ryan’s by way of being a wild card, Bewley’s a loose cannon, and Nicola, well, you might not be finding anything to go charging her with.”

  “Not for lack of trying,” replied Knox.

  “It’s not fair,” Jean said, “that Davis is getting off scot-free—sorry—but then, so did Burke and Hare’s Dr. Knox. Although he was a lot more culpable. He knew what was going on.”

  “My ancestor might have known what was going on …” Knox raised her hand. Don’t go there. “… but I’m not so sure Robin Davis did do. No matter. He’ll be having a few conversations with me before we’re quite finished. Me, I’m thinking he deserves Nicola.”

  Jean nodded. “I’m thinking that, too.”

  Alasdair rotated his shoulders. The bandage on his neck pulled, and he winced. “Ironic, that the cave likely was coming within inches of being discovered during the clean-up from the 2002 fire. And the other end of the tunnel as well, during the renovations here at Lady Niddry’s.”

  “A shame it wasn’t,” Knox said, turning toward the door. “Might have been someone else’s case. If you’ll be excusing me then, I’m away. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Cameron. If you’d not forced the issue, I’m not sure we’d have worked all this out.”

  “Jean forced the issue,” Alasdair told her. “But you’re welcome, in any event.”

  Jean felt her tongue loosening, never mind she’d had almost nothing to drink. “Just one more thing, Inspector Knox. What’s up with you and Gordon, anyway? Amy heard someone say something about a sexual harassment complaint.”

  Knox stopped. Her back stiffened. She couldn’t see Alasdair covering his face with his hand and shaking his head. Jean, for the love of …

  She blundered on. “As if I hadn’t already had way too many lessons
on setting priorities and so forth. I got two more today. We got two more today. Don’t let the situation go unresolved. Demand an apology. Transfer him somewhere else. Go ahead and file the complaint.”

  Knox spun completely around, her eyes bulging in what Jean hoped was astonishment rather than resentment. Her voice was crisp as a winter day. “There’s talk of a complaint, yes. Against me. I made him an offer, suggested a colleagues-with-benefits arrangement. He refused. Said he wasn’t mingling work with recreation.”

  Mentally Jean hit her forehead with her palm. Duhhh … “Okay. Yeah. Amy jumped to conclusions. So did I. That’s my favorite sport, jumping to conclusions.”

  In her peripheral vision, she saw Alasdair emerge from behind his hand, features set soberly but a suspicious twitch gathering at the corners of his mouth.

  She saw Gordon step into the lobby door, brows approaching his hairline.

  Knox, now, Knox hadn’t yet blinked.

  In for a lamb, Jean told herself, in for a sheep. “Has it occurred to you that he’s threatening to file a complaint not because of your, ah, offer, but because of the way you’ve been acting over his refusal? Picking on him? Either way, you’re letting personal issues interfere with your work.”

  Knox’s lashes rose and fell. Her lips thinned and loosened.

  “Take my advice, Wendy,” Jean concluded. “Get over yourself and deal with it. Letting something like this fester, it’s not worth it.”

  Knox’s astonishment cracked into rueful laughter. She gazed down at Jean as though wanting to pat her on the head. Instead she said, “If the man’s wanting a transfer, he’s got it. If the man’s filing a complaint, so be it. He’s a fine sergeant, but I’ve driven him away, haven’t I?”

  From the doorway Gordon said, “That’s all depending, isn’t it now?”

  Knox spun around. They exchanged a long look that passed so far above Jean’s head they might as well have been signals between transmission towers.

  Knox said over her shoulder, “There are times you seize the day, there are times you let it go, eh? Time you were letting this one go, Jean. Good night.” She marched through the lobby, Gordon at her side, past Grizel falling from the staircase and out into the night.

  Jean felt the last burst of energy draining from her limbs. “Sorry.”

  But Alasdair was grinning. “Some things need saying. Some things need doing.” He started off toward the staircase, moving as slowly as if through deep water. Deep cold water.

  Placing one foot in front of the other, she followed Alasdair across the icy black-and-white tiles, beneath the glow of the chandelier. He jockeyed first right, then left beneath the landing.

  There she was, on the brink, hands folded in prayer. Eyes downcast in certainty.

  She fell.

  With a grunt of effort, Alasdair caught her.

  For one split second, the ephemeral shape nestled in the living arms, soft gray-white against tartan. For one split second Grizel’s eyes saw eternity, and the peace that passed all understanding.

  Then she was gone, into air that thinned instantly from viscous cold to cool and scented with food. She—it—was no more than memory, one of the many memories thronging this ancient city.

  Alasdair straightened. After a long, silent moment he turned to Jean. “Right.”

  “Right,” she replied. “So if the anonymous waiter with the ghost allergy ever comes back, will he wonder where she went? Or will he be relieved she’s gone on to wherever she wanted to go …” Jean’s voice died away. From downstairs came Hugh’s mellow tenor singing, “Caledonia’s been everything I’ve ever had.”

  She took Alasdair’s arm. He pressed his cheek into the top of her head. “I’ve never asked how you enjoyed your visit to Pippa’s, up the stairs. Expanded your horizons, did it?”

  “No. There’s really no place like home.”

  “Then it’s time that’s where we were going.”

  Close together, side by side, they turned toward the door, and didn’t look back.

  *

  For a map of the part of Edinburgh where The Mortsafe takes place, and a diagram of the South Bridge Vaults, please visit Lillian’s website.

  The Mortsafe is the sixth novel in the Jean Fairbairn/Alasdair Cameron mystery series, and is half the length of the first five: The Secret Portrait, The Murder Hole, The Burning Glass, The Charm Stone, and The Blue Hackle.

  About the Author

  After starting out in science fiction and fantasy, Lillian Stewart Carl is now writing contemporary novels blending mystery, romance, and fantasy, along with short mystery and fantasy stories. Her work often includes paranormal themes. It always features plots based on history and archaeology. While she doesn’t write comedy, she believes in characters with a sense of humor. Her novels have been compared to those of Daphne du Maurier, Mary Renault, Mary Stewart (no relation), Barbara Michaels/Elizabeth Peters, and J.R.R. Tolkien’s colleague Charles Williams.

  Her fantasies are set in a mythological, alternate-history Mediterranean and India. Her contemporary novels are set in Texas, in Ohio, in Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia, and in England and Scotland.

  Of her Lucifer’s Crown, Library Journal says: “Blending historical mystery with a touch of the supernatural, the author creates an intriguing exploration of faith and redemption in a world that is at once both modern and timeless.

  Of her Shadows in Scarlet, Publishers Weekly says, “Presenting a delicious mix of romance and supernatural suspense, Carl (Ashes to Ashes) delivers yet another immensely readable tale. She has created an engaging cast and a very entertaining plot, spicing the mix with some interesting twists on the ghostly romantic suspense novel.”

  Among many other novels, Lillian is the author of the Jean Fairbairn/Alasdair Cameron cross-genre mystery series: America’s exile and Scotland’s finest on the trail of all-too-living legends. Of The Secret Portrait, Kirkus says: “Mystery, history and sexual tension blend with a taste of the wild beauty of the Highlands”. Of The Burning Glass, Publishers Weekly says: “Authentic dialect, detailed descriptions of the castle and environs, and vivid characters recreate an area rich in history and legend. The tightly woven plot is certain to delight history fans with its dramatic collision of past and present.”

  With John Helfers, Lillian co-edited The Vorkosigan Companion, a retrospective on Lois McMaster Bujold’s science fiction work, which was nominated for a Hugo award.

  Her first story collection, Along the Rim of Time, was published in 2000, and her second, The Muse and Other Stories of History, Mystery, and Myth, in 2008, including three stories that were reprinted in Year’s Best mystery anthologies.

  Her books are available in both print and electronic editions. Here is her website. Here is her Facebook Group Page Here is a listing of other Smashwords books.