The Witch's Stone

by Dawn Brown

  Joan pursed her lips and held out a tray of cookies. “Aye, well Bristol has more faith in the man than I do.”

  Hillary shook her head in refusal to the sweets. She was so full from dinner she couldn’t possibly eat anything else. “Why do you say that?”

  “James Douglas is a hard man, pretentious and self righteous. He tried to have Agie declared senile.”

  “Really?” Hillary’s stomach slid to her feet.

  Joan nodded. “Aye, about five years ago. He had her investigated so she’d be forced into an old age home.”

  “Why?” Please let it be out of concern for his poor, aging aunt.

  “For Glendon House. After his father died, James felt the house should have been turned over to him. But David was very different than his son. A mild sort, kind and unpretentious. I suspect David was afraid James would toss Agnes out and leave the poor woman destitute. His fear wasnae unwarranted.”

  The tiny ember of hope Bristol had sparked fizzled. “Obviously, his plan failed.”

  Joan chuckled. “In the end the investigators found Agie as eccentric as ever, but of sound mind. That was it for James, though. She swore he would never be allowed into her home again."

  James Douglas sounded like a real piece of work.

  “And poor Caid,” Joan continued. “It’s a wonder he’s turned out as well as he has with that man for a father. Especially, after the trouble he’d fallen into.”

  “Oh?” Hillary did not want to care, but her interest perked in spite of herself.

  “Caid was a troubled lad and lived a wild life. Drinking, drugs, and running with a very rough crowd. He nearly killed himself in a car accident a few years back, broke his leg badly and wound up in a clinic to get off the drink. I’m pleased to see him doing so well for himself."

  Hillary nodded and sipped her tea. She didn’t want to hear any more about Caid. She might have overreacted earlier, letting her fears connected to Randall influence her behavior. And the more she thought about it, the lousier she felt. Still, she wasn’t wholly in the wrong. He could have just apologized and left, instead of acting like a complete jerk.

  "I've read both his books,” Joan continued. “They're quite good. Page turners. I'm looking forward to his third. Caid tells me it will be out in the autumn."

  Hillary gritted her teeth and forced herself to pretend interest. "He writes suspense novels?"

  "Aye. Tends to focus on the darker side of human nature. Riveting reading, though. Have you seen anything by him in Canada?"

  "No." Hillary shrugged. "But I don't read a lot of fiction."

  "I’m sure I've both his books here." Joan stood and went to the bookshelf behind her, bending to read the cracked spines of the paperbacks crammed tightly together. "I keep everything I’ve read. Good to have for guests on a rainy afternoon."

  "You don't need to go to any trouble on my account." Hillary didn't have the heart to tell Joan that she'd rather have spikes hammered into her eyes than read anything Caid had written.

  "It's no trouble. Ah, here it is." Joan slipped the book out. "This was his first."

  Hillary smiled tightly as Joan handed her the novel. She pretended to scan the back before setting it on the table next to her. "Thank you."

  "My pleasure. When you finish it, you must let me know what you think.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  "You and Caid might have a great deal in common."

  What was that supposed to mean? "How so?"

  "Well, you both write books."

  "I write non-fiction for academic circles, he writes paperback novels." Damn, that sounded snotty.

  "Aye, I suppose there is a difference." Joan's tone cooled considerably.

  "I mean he's a story teller. What I do requires little creativity. The writing is quite dry and of almost no interest to anyone who didn't have an interest in the subject matter to begin with." Did that sound better?

  "I'm sure you dinnae give yerself enough credit. I would think writing about the European Witch trials would be terribly interesting." Some of the warmth returned to Joan’s voice.

  Hillary saw an opportunity to change the subject and jumped at it. “I think I found the tree where Anne was executed. I met a woman this afternoon who pointed it out to me.”

  Joan frowned. “What woman?”

  “Sarah Miller.”

  Joan pursed her lips. “I know her gran.”

  "There was someone else in the woods while I was out walking," Hillary said. Though why she would bring up the creepy people with the flashlights she wasn’t sure. Perhaps she hoped Joan could offer a comforting explanation.

  “Really? Who?”

  "I’m not sure, all I saw was their flashlights. And when I called out, no one answered "

  "May have been the Witchlights."

  Annoyance mingled with apprehension. "Witchlights?"

  "Aye. Glendon Woods is a haunted place."

  Hillary chuckled. "I don't believe in ghosts."

  "That's entirely yer prerogative, but you likely saw one or two just the same. The lights have been seen in those woods for hundreds of years. Long before there were torches."

  "Sounds like a great story for the tourists." Hillary offered a small smile.

  "Dinnae be so quick to dismiss the notion. Legend has it, that if you look into the lights you'll go mad."

  Hillary bit her lip to keep from smiling all out. "Very spooky, but like I said I don't believe in ghosts. Anyway, I should get to bed, what with the funeral tomorrow."

  "Aye, of course," Joan agreed.

  But there was no humor in her face. Instead, her expression had turned dour.

  Chapter Four

  Agnes’s funeral drew a fairly large crowd, a fact that surprised Caid. His memories of her were few, but they all shared a common element; a misery of an old woman who’d alternated between ranting and suspicious. Still, it was a shame when a life was cut short by something as meaningless as a tumble down the stairs.

  Caid shifted his weight from the leg he’d broken in the accident. The damp made it ache. How much longer would the minister drone on, keeping Agnes’s mourners standing in the drizzle staring at an open grave? He shifted again, earning a hard glance from his father&--the closest the man had come to acknowledging him all day.

  Reuniting with his parents had gone as expected. They ignored him and he them. Alex had foolishly tried to fill the awkward silence with inane small talk, until the monosyllabic replies from all parties had forced him to give up.

  Caid looked away from the grave, his gaze settling on Hillary. She stood between Joan and Bristol, of all people. The last time Caid had seen the Inspector, Bristol had been a green constable, catching an eight-year-old Caid throwing stones at passing cars on the motorway. Aside from putting on about ten stone, Bristol had hardly aged in the last twenty years.

  Hillary met Caid’s stare, her eyes narrowing. He jammed his hands in his pockets and looked away. There was no resemblance to the drowned rat he’d met last night. Today, Hillary wore her hair pulled into a twist at the back of her head. A few wayward strands framed her delicately-featured face. Snug black pants molded to the slight swell of her hips. Her black jacket and smoke gray blouse hugged her slender waist.

  He remembered her in those silky, white underthings. Was she wearing something similar today? An equal combination of practical, yet feminine. Or maybe something in black.

  He shifted again.

  A shame, really, that she should be such a man-hating cow. Imagine, implying that he was some sort of pervert.

  He’d truly believed she’d come to his room to seduce him. It had happened before. A simple misunderstanding. He’d hardly deserved to have her go off on him the way she had. Though, if she knew about his preoccupation with her underwear just now, she might be inclined to disagree. But she didn’t, so what harm could a wee fantasy about Hillary in her bra and panties hurt?

  Of course, in his fantasy she was mute.

  At last the serv
ices came to an end and the crowd began to break up. His parents moved away from him, nodding politely as Agnes’s acquaintances expressed their condolences. A wasted effort on behalf of the mourners, if he’d ever seen one.

  “Well, that’s done,” Alex said, coming to stand beside him. “Will you be returning to the house, then?”

  The thought of the next two hours spent with his parents in another awkward silence filled Caid with a strangling claustrophobia. “No, thank you, Alex. I’ll ask Joan for a lift back to the inn.”

  “The solicitor will arrive at Glendon House at four-thirty. Will Joan bring you, or should I fetch you?”

  “I should have driven myself, then I’d have my own car at my disposal.”

  “In the state you were in yesterday? I dinnae think so.”

  “I could have driven up today, on my own.”

  “You could have, but you wouldnae have.”

  Caid smirked. “Aye, maybe.”

  As the crowd slowly dispersed from the cemetery, Bristol approached his parents with Hillary in tow. Caid edged closer to hear them better.

  “I’m sorry for poor Agnes,” Bristol said. “Terrible way for her to go.”

  As if they cared how the old bird went, so long as she was gone.

  Did his parents recognize Bristol? Did they remember the blotchy-faced constable dragging their youngest up the drive by the scruff of his neck? Did they remember a younger, thinner Bristol telling them their child needed ‘to be dealt with to prevent the boy’s criminal nature from developing further’?

  “Thank you Inspector,” his mother replied, her tone cool, but then Caid rarely heard her use another.

  “This is Hillary Bennett,” Bristol said. “She found Agnes and--”

  James turned his full attention to her and puffed out his chest. “I know who she is. I’ve read some of her work. Feminist drivel.”

  Bristol’s face reddened, his previously jovial expression hardening.

  Hillary snorted. “That’s one opinion, I suppose.”

  “The only opinion.” James stepped toward her, and, to her credit, she didn’t move back. “When I learnt you had an interest in my Grandfather, I read a wee bit of what you’d written. You’d have people believing that woman-hating was the sole cause of the witch hunts.”

  A slow fury pumped through Caid. His father, the quintessential intellectual bully. James’s opinions were never wrong. And never to be questioned.

  A tall man, over six feet, with a wide athletic build, he hovered over Hillary as if to intimidate her with his mere presence. Caid jammed his hands in his pockets and moved away from Alex toward the group.

  “Clearly you misunderstood my theories,” Hillary said, standing her ground. “I believe a combination of several events brought about the European Witch Hunts, but a leading factor was society’s need for a scapegoat. This, added to a strong sense of misogyny in a primarily patriarchal society, made women an easy target.”

  “Dress it up as you like, but you’ll no’ ruin my grandfather’s good name by dragging him through yer fantasy-based scenarios.”

  “My work is well documented.”

  “And that you attempted to trick my aunt into allowing you to malign her own father is truly despicable,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken, folding his arms over his chest, smug and sanctimonious. “You ought to be ashamed of yerself, miss.”

  “Tell me,” Caid interrupted. “Is it as despicable as accusing an old woman of senility in attempt to force her from her home so you could claim it for yerself?” As despicable as messing about with your students? Caid wanted to speak the words aloud, but they lodged in his throat.

  Bristol snickered, and his mother, who had appeared bored by the whole conversation, tensed and rested her hand on his father’s arm. Both his father and Hillary whirled on him, fixing him with dark, hard glares.

  Hillary turned away first. “Mr. Douglas--”

  “Doctor,” his father corrected.

  “Agnes didn’t share the same illusions about your grandfather’s sterling reputation.”

  “Anne Black was a murderess and more than one family suffered at her hands. No one in Culcraig would dare say differently.”

  “Would they actually claim she was a witch?”

  His father didn’t reply. He glanced at Caid, then took his wife’s arm and started away from the grave.

  Hillary rounded on Caid. “I’m quite capable of arguing a point myself. I don’t need you to butt in.”

  Before Caid could respond, she turned on her heel and stormed away.

  Bristol slapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, lad, I thought yer timing was spot on.” Then he too went the way Hillary had gone.

  Alex came to stand next to him. “It would seem yer damsel didnae appreciate being rescued from the fire-breathing dragon.”

  “So it would.”

  “She’s quite pretty.”

  Caid frowned, his leg hurting. He wanted to get indoors so the pain would ease. “She’s a cow. Let’s just get this business with the will done so I can get away from here.”

  “Pay that old blowhard no mind,” Bristol said, setting a tall, dark beer down before Hillary and another in front of himself. “Are you sure you’ll no’ have something to eat?”

  She shook her head, too angry to eat. Douglas gave new meaning to the words pretentious jackass. Though, in all honesty she wasn’t sure if she meant the father or the son.

  Douglas Senior’s remarks, while uncalled for, were not wholly unexpected. Joan had painted a rather unflattering picture of him the night before. But who did Caid think he was, opening his big mouth? Did he think she was incapable of defending work that she not only believed in, but took a certain pride in, as well?

  She’d been writing and lecturing on the subject for years. She didn’t need him, or anyone else, to run interference for her. She was fine on her own.

  “Ye’re brooding,” Bristol said.

  “I’m sorry. I’m probably lousy company right now.”

  “Nonsense. Right, here we are, then.”

  A waitress arrived and set a basket of fish and chips down before him. Hillary glanced around the smoky pub. A half dozen men sat at the bar, laughing and ribbing the pub’s owner. Two women, one in her mid to late fifties, the other who looked not far from her own age, sat in a booth across from them.

  Hillary returned her attention to Bristol. His eyes glowed as they fell on the deep fried food before him. She plucked a fry from the paper-lined basket and popped it into her mouth.

  “If ye’re hungry, order something,” he said, frowning in mild irritation.

  “I’m not, really.”

  “Then hands to yerself, Miss.” After dousing the food with a sickening amount of vinegar, he dug in. “So without Roddy’s journals, where does that leave you?” he asked between mouthfuls.

  “Exactly nowhere.” Truer words had never been spoken. No journals, no book. No book, no way to salvage her career.

  “Surely, things cannae be that bad.”

  Oh, but they could. She didn’t teach anymore, and with her divorce finalized and her house sold, what did she have to go back to?

  She could move home with her parents. Live in their basement. A spectacular future of sitting around all day in her jammies, watching game shows and soap operas awaited her. She could spend some time in internet chat rooms for human companionship, theorizing about government conspiracies and wowing her fellow chatters with obscure historical references.

  God, she was depressed.

  “Damn it,” Bristol muttered, pushing back from the table and lifting his stomach to see the cell phone clipped to the waistband of his pants. “Will you excuse me?”

  Hillary nodded and watched Bristol maneuver his large body through the narrow space between the dark wooden tables. He moved with a grace she would never have attributed to a man of his size.

  Almost as soon as Bristol slipped out the door, the conversation at the bar ceased. The hair on the b
ack of her neck prickled, as if an icy wind had swept into the room. She turned slowly to the group of seven men, their hard glares on her.

  There was a vibe here, and it wasn’t good.

  Her insides tangled into knots, and she gripped her right hand with her left, rubbing the scar on her sweaty palm with her thumb. Her heart thudded against her ribs as the owner came out from behind the bar and started toward her. The dim light reflected off his shiny, bald head. He stroked his grisly goatee with his hand as if in deep thought. A tiny silver skull and cross bones earring dangled from his ear, swinging back and forth as he moved.

  The other men watched, but none left their seats.

  Hillary tensed. She should get up and leave, go after Bristol, but she couldn’t move. The panic rising within her held her frozen in place.

  “Ye’re the writer?” The man asked when he reached her table, putting himself between her and the door.

  Sick fear slicked over her, and she fought to keep herself from trembling. She hated the weakness in her almost as much as the man making her feel that way.

  Where was Bristol?

  “I’m a history professor.” The words were hoarse, but at least her voice hadn’t warbled.

  “But ye’re thinking of writing about Anne Black?”

  She nodded.

  “I hear that you plan on blaming us, Culcraig, for what happened.”

  She didn’t bother to point out that no one in the room had been alive the year Anne had been murdered. That all the men who had dragged Anne from her home were now long dead. “It’s not a matter of blame,” she said instead, pleased to hear some of the strength return to her voice. “I planned--”

  The man leaned forward, slapping his palms hard on the wood table, the crack resonating through the now silent pub. Hillary jumped. Someone tittered at the bar.

  “Anne Black was a cold-hearted killer and the bitch got what she asked for.”

  The two women sitting in the booth opposite Hillary watched with a sort of dispassionate curiosity, but neither came to her defense. Maybe they agreed with him.