Call of the Clan

by Patti Wiggington

  There had to be another way to figure out what I was looking for. This was like trying to do a jigsaw puzzle without looking at the picture on the box.

  I closed my eyes and nibbled on my pencil. If I was looking for something, but didn't know what it was, how would I know it when I found it?

  I must have drifted off. My eyes popped open, suddenly aware that I was not alone in the library.

  "Hello?” I whispered. The light was fading, and shadows filled the room. There was movement in the doorway.

  It was Catharine, a lovely vision in blue brocade. She came up the stairs into the room, one hand on her swollen belly. I held my breath. As she glided past me, a cold chill coursed through my body, but I did not take my eyes from her. She glided over to the bookshelves on the far wall, appeared to study the contents, and then vanished.

  My heart pounded in my chest. This was twice since the séance that I had seen Catharine. I felt my forehead and wondered if I was getting sick. I was pretty sure that no one else at Kilgraeme was seeing pregnant ghosts in the halls.

  Shaking, I gnawed harder on my pencil. My gaze turned to the shelves where Catharine had been standing. A book fell to the floor with a thunk.

  The same one that had fallen the last two times Catherine came to visit.

  I picked it up cautiously, and opened the cover. The pages within were brown around the edges, but still light enough to be readable.

  Kilgraeme Council, read the face page, in Tom Spalding's neat copperplate. Records of 1758—1760, Kilgraeme, Argyllshire, Scotland.

  The year Catharine Murray had died—1758. I turned on one of the desk lamps, and began to read.

  * * * *

  Some time later, I looked up. It was dusk outside. I gazed out the windows towards the stables. There was no sign of Evan, and a wave of panic washed over me.

  I raced into my room, pulled on my hiking boots and my heavy coat, and ran down the stairs.

  "Where are you off to?” asked a startled Mack Piper, who was sitting in the parlor canoodling with Mrs. Much. “It's a great blizzard it is out there, missus!"

  "I know. Mack, do you have a flashlight?” I asked.

  Mrs. Much frowned at me. “What is it, lass?” she asked gently.

  I rummaged frantically on the hall table, looking for the keys to Evan's Saab. “Call Michael Kerr,” I said, my voice shaking. “Tell him he needs to get out here, fast. It's about Trish's murder."

  "By the saints,” she whispered, crossing herself and moving quickly to the phone.

  From the entries in Tom Spalding's chronicle, and the papers ordered by Amelia Gillies, I had figured it out, and I was terrified.

  I knew exactly why Trish MacGregor had been killed.

  * * * *

  Will Spalding was trapped in a nightmare from which there was no waking. He heard a man's voice screaming, vaguely recognizing it as his own, as he stared horrified at the flagstones forty feet below, at the bloody and broken heap that had only moments ago been his wife and unborn child.

  There was a strange noise behind him, another man crying out, sounding a bit like him but not completely. Somewhere in the room with him, people were fighting. There was a loud crack and something hard slammed against Will's back, like he had been punched, knocking the breath out of him.

  Oddly, after the impact, he felt inexplicably calm, as though everything would soon be well again, even though his beloved Catharine lay dead below him.

  He felt a rush of cool air on his chest, and glanced downward. There was a hole in the front of his shirt, and blood was rapidly soaking through the linen. He leaned forward, grasping the window ledge, hearing the shrieks of Maggie Murray and the other women outside as they ran to Catharine.

  Will wondered absently about Dugald. After all, if anything were to happen to Will himself, Dugald would need someone to look after him. Perhaps Malcolm.

  He heard his Da calling his name, and for a moment, he was up in a tree, a boy again, looking down through the leaves at a pretty chestnut-haired girl.

  My Da is calling me, he mouthed silently. I must go back to him.

  Catharine looked up at him, green eyes sparkling. Wouldn't you rather come with me, Will Spalding?

  What a foolish question, he thought. Of course I would.

  He closed his eyes then, and saw her, only now she was not a girl, she was a woman, and wearing her best blue gown, her hand resting lightly on the mound of her stomach. Off in the distance, he heard Maggie weeping as she cursed all men in general for the dreadful thing that had happened, cursing them for valuing the lives of women so little....

  Come, Will, Catharine said. ‘Twill be the three of us, aye? We'll be together."

  And although his father was begging him not to go, without any doubts at all, he went to her.

  It was where he belonged.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Excerpts From Kilgraeme Council Records

  Vol. IX, 1758—1760

  Compiled by Thos. Spalding, Seneschal

  Kilgraeme, Argyllshire, Scotland

  April 3, 1758

  Let it be known to All Men that a Special Council was held this morning, in which no Regular Business was dispensed. I, Thomas Alasdair Spalding, do hereby verify the Accuracy of the events recorded here to the best of my Knowledge.

  Let it also be known that as of today, this Third day of April, in the Year of Our Lord Seventeen Hundred and Fifty Eight, Colin Murray, the Murray of Kilgraeme, has declared that Lachlan Murray shall no longer be his Son or Heir. Lachlan Murray is hereby banished from the lands of Kilgraeme, and from Argyllshire itself. Colin has made it known that any who offer quarter to Lachlan shall incur the Great Displeasure of the Murray. Lachlan has been advised by Myself, speaking on behalf of his father, that perhaps it would be in his Best Interests to leave Scotland altogether.

  In light of the banishment of Lachlan Murray from Kilgraeme, Dugald Murray is hereby appointed the sole heir to Colin Murray. Upon Colin's demise, Kilgraeme shall pass to Dugald and subsequently to his son Archibald Ludlow Murray.

  Note: I have suggested to Colin that it would be advisable, in light of present circumstances, to make Susannah herself Colin's heir by way of a deed of sasine, rather than Dugald, at least on paper. In this fashion, Lachlan would not be able to contest the Legality of such a bequest, and could not at a Later Date attempt to remove Kilgraeme from Dugald or Archie, should he become so inclined.

  And so it is now recorded, that Kilgraeme shall pass through the descendants of Colin Murray via his Grandson Archibald Ludlow Murray.

  * * * *

  April 8, 1758

  More tragedy has befallen us. Colin has suffered from an Apoplexy and is unable to move. We have summoned a Beaton from Mackintosh land to tend Colin. He is Most Knowledgeable, and has advised Maggie that he does not believe Colin shall ever fully recover. Colin has no speech at all, and the left side of his body is suffering from a Paralysis.

  Although I am factor and he is master, Colin is my Dearest Friend, my Brother in Arms, and it Pains me to no end to see him this way.

  * * * *

  September 13, 1758

  Some intelligence has come to light regarding the most horrible events of over last spring (ref. entries April 1758). We have had a most unexpected visit from Dugald's old friend William Wycombe. Wycombe was passing through Argyllshire on his way to Inverary and came to call.

  A most interesting conversation took place between Wycombe and Malcolm, who of course has taken Will's place at Dugald's right hand. It seems that on Wycombe's recent journey north, he formed an acquaintance with a Gentleman of the nobility named Edmund Cavendish, a lesser Earl from Northumbria, and proceeded to relieve him of a good deal of his gold during a game of cards.

  This Cavendish, who was according to Wycombe well into the claret, mentioned that his only daughter, Lady Elspeth, had just been married to a Scotsman who hailed from near Arrochar. It would seem the young lady rather made the choice of husband on her ow
n, without consulting her father, and with much great Shame indicated that it was Necessary that she marry the fellow as soon as possible-at least within the next few months, as it were. As her father, Cavendish could certainly not allow her to fall into Disgrace, and thus the marriage was permitted and hastily arranged with special dispensation.

  Upon mention of Arrochar, of course, Wycombe asked the name of the gentleman in question, and who should it be but Lachlan Murray! Wycombe did not feel compelled to say anything charitable about Lachlan, even though the gentleman's daughter is now married to our exile.

  While I am pleased for Colin's sake that his son is alive and well enough, now married to an Earl's daughter, I cannot help but feel Anger that Lachlan is alive while my own Will lies in his grave, beside poor Catharine and her child.

  Malcolm and I have said nothing to Dugald of this, although I have told Colin. He still has not regained his Faculties of Speech and needs care night and day. Maggie is tiring, but still she stands by him and makes certain he is bathed and comfortable; she will allow no one else to take care of him.

  I miss him Terribly.

  * * * *

  I fired up the engine of the little car and flicked on the headlights. The snow was falling harder, fat wet flakes whirling in front of my windshield as the wipers slapped back and forth. Popping the car into reverse, I pulled hastily away from the barn, and headed along the edge of Loch Lomond. I had no idea where exactly Evan was, but when he left on horseback that afternoon he had been traveling south. It seemed as good a direction as any to begin with, and now it appeared that a life was at stake.

  Frantically, I turned the wipers up another notch. It was still early enough that, had I not been in the middle of a snowstorm, there would have been decent visibility.

  As it was, I could barely make out the road ahead of me.

  It seemed like I was driving forever. Finally, I reached the turnoff to Loch Failte. I had come too far. There had been no sign of Evan, or of Cayden Spalding.

  My mind raced as I wheeled the car around, trying to avoid a large rocky ditch. Evan had said Cayden had been at the cemetery the day before, at my father's grave. Suddenly it hit me.

  May those who come after me follow my eternal gaze.

  Cayden Spalding had borrowed surveying equipment from an acquaintance of Michael Kerr's. What if the cryptic message on Jamie Murray's headstone was more than just a mysterious jumble of words?

  I jerked the steering wheel hard as a large rabbit bounded across the road in front of me. Amazed that I had even seen him, I shook my head and drove towards the cemetery as fast as I could safely go, traveling back along the side of Beinn a'Choinn.

  Jamie's grave. While the other stones were all parallel to one another, his was set at a slightly offset angle. Not enough to be outlandish, but enough that I had noticed it wasn't quite lined up the way the others were.

  If I stood at my father's headstone and looked out, as far as I could, what would I see? What had Cayden Spalding discovered?

  I thought about the torque in the Museum From Hell. Perhaps it was, indeed, part of a great treasure. And hadn't Caitriona said that my father had really believed old Colin Murray had hidden his loot somewhere?

  I blinked. Somewhere nearby was the turn in the road that would take me to the Spalding croft at the western base of Beinn a'Choinn. From there, it was just a quick drive up the steep mountainside to the cemetery. I hoped the little sports car was up to the task. Thankfully, the frozen ground provided a solid enough surface for driving.

  There were no lights on in the croft as I zipped past it up the hillside. The snow had abated somewhat by this point, and I could make out the copse of trees at the crest of Beinn a'Choinn. Beneath the trees lay the final resting place of two and a half centuries of Murrays, and Spaldings.

  I left the headlights on, and hopped out, Mack Piper's large flashlight in my hand. Sweeping the beam across the weathered stones, I saw no one.

  "Evan?” I called loudly. It would be hard for him to hear me with the wind as loud as it was, but I was hopeful. I listened for the faintest noise, but didn't hear a thing. “Evan? Are you here?"

  I stumbled, then, whacking my knee on a tombstone, and let loose with a colorful string of naughty Gaelic words I had picked up from Mrs. Much. With a grunt, I turned the flashlight on the culprit, and saw that it my own father's grave which had stopped me so neatly in my tracks.

  "Jamie, you sneaky son of a bitch,” I whispered, brushing snow from the rounded top of the headstone. “Your eternal gaze, huh?” I struggled to my feet, the right knee throbbing painfully, and peered over the rim of the granite marker. “Just what the hell were you gazing at, anyway?"

  I squinted into the snow. The flakes had gone from fat and wet to light and fluffy, and I couldn't see very far at all. If it were daytime, I would be looking out over Loch Lomond, of course.

  There was a flicker of light in my peripheral vision, and I paused, trying to determine if it was real or just my active imagination working overtime in a cemetery in the middle of the night.

  I saw it again and realized, as I dropped my line of sight a little, that the flash had come from Broch Caidil, which lay directly below me.

  In the line of Jamie Murray's eternal gaze.

  I limped back to the car and sped back down the rocky hillside. As I reached the bottom, I squinted, trying to see the path ahead of me. Apparently I wasn't squinting hard enough, because with a sickening crunch, I plowed the Saab right into something solid, thumping my chin on the steering wheel in the process.

  I cursed vehemently, checked for loosened teeth, and climbed out of the car, flashlight in hand. Peering underneath, I saw that I had run right smack into an enormous rock. The front of the car rested atop the stone and it was obvious, even to the automotively challenged like myself, that the axle was bent into a completely unusable angle.

  Focusing once more on the mission at hand, I aimed the flashlight towards the broch, some hundred yards away, and began making my way over the uneven terrain. I saw the glimmer of light once more, off in the distance.

  "Evan!” I called. They had to be there. If they weren't, then I had no idea where to look next. Carefully, I approached the crumbly old tower. “Are you in there? Evan?"

  Nobody answered. Stepping around the far side of the broch, I could see a fire blazing within, the source of the light I had seen.

  "Evan?"

  A shape materialized in the doorway in front of me, blocking the fire from my view. “Brynne? You shouldn't be here,” Cayden said. “It's too dangerous. Go home, aye?"

  I shook my head. “No. I know.... “I tried to keep my voice from shaking. What exactly did I want to say? “I know it's dangerous. After all, there's a killer on the loose, right?"

  He laughed hollowly. “It would appear so, aye?” He stared at me a moment longer. “Will you come in, then?"

  I took a deep breath. “Have you seen Evan today?"

  He snorted, and I followed him cautiously into the warmth of the tower. “Aye, I've seen the wee fellow all over hell and creation the past few days. Does he think he's bein’ stealthy, following me about on the moors?"

  "I don't know.” I watched as he made his way to the brazier and picked up his hammer and tongs, beginning to work. “What are you making?” I asked, stalling for time, thinking that Evan would be arriving any moment, particularly once he saw his Saab lodged in a snowdrift.

  He cocked one red eyebrow at me. “Is that what you came here in a storm to ask me about? ‘Tis a crest, for a family I know over in Inverary. However,” he added conversationally, “I don't think this is a social call, now, is it?"

  "No,” I said softly. “It's not.” I watched him hammering on the iron crest, perspiring even though it was the middle of winter. “I know why Trish was killed, and I'm fairly sure I know why Sandie was killed."

  He paused. “Do you, then?"

  "Yeah. I couldn't figure it out, because I thought their deaths were connected,�
�� I admitted, “and that didn't make any sense, really."

  Cayden laid the crest down and stared at me, eyes narrowed. “And you think now they were killed for two entirely different purposes, then?"

  I nodded. “Sandie was killed because ten months ago, she saw something she shouldn't have, and decided it was time to make a little bit of extortion money."

  His eyes widened. “And what exactly did she see, then?” he asked, his voice so low I could barely hear it.

  "She saw someone tampering with my father's sailboat. It was the day my father and your wife went out on the loch and drowned,” I said slowly. “The rumors were true. Jamie and Melissa were murdered."

  He eyed me warily. “Go on."

  "You said you thought she was having an affair with someone. She was,” I finished, noticing that he was beginning to circle, ever so slowly, towards me around the forge.

  "Well,” he murmured, eyes on me the entire time. “Who was it, then? You know who it was, do you?"

  I nodded, watching him carefully, and wondering. He moved like a cat preparing to pounce. I suddenly understood how it felt for a mouse, cornered between a rock and a hard place.

  "I know who it was,” I agreed. I stared into his eyes, then, and saw it, that momentary flicker past my shoulder, the look of sudden recognition. Ever so slowly, I turned around to face the door behind me.

  Evan Muncaster's eyes flashed in the reflection of the fire. I blinked at him, and wondered how long he had been standing there. Long enough to hear what he needed to hear, I assumed.

  "It was the same person who killed Sandie and Trish,” I said firmly. “Wasn't it, Evan?"

  Evan's mouth fell open in surprise, and in a flash, he leaped at me, shoving me backwards toward the brazier. I landed, instead, on Cayden Spalding, who pushed me aside most unceremoniously and scooped up the crest. Swinging it over his head like some blazing shield of Valhalla, Cayden brought the crest down. I closed my eyes, unable to look, and heard a thud, followed by a string of profanity.

  When I opened my eyes, Cayden and Evan were squaring off with each other. Cayden still held the crest in front of him, and I watched as Evan yanked a heavy iron rod from the wall, wielding it like a baseball bat.