I went back to the fireplace and reached inside, feeling around the stones on the inside of the hearth. The sidewalls were smooth to the touch and black with soot. I grabbed a flashlight and shone it up the chimney, looking for anything that looked out of line. About a foot above the opening of the hearth there was a narrow opening. It certainly wasn’t large enough to hide anything, but it was the only anomaly I’d seen so far. I called Hunter in again.
“Come take a look at this.”
“Aye, that could be what ye’re after. Hang on a tick.” He went to retrieve his toolbox and dug out a narrow chisel. Placing the chisel into the crack, Hunter tapped around until we heard the ring of metal on metal. He pressed hard on the spot and a satisfying grating sound echoed through the front hall as one of the stones in the fireplace shifted slowly forward. The block was wedged in about shoulder height. It fit perfectly from the front, but as it slid forward there was room to grab the edges and pull the stone away from its mates.
Hunter grasped the slab and rocked it out of its slot, staggering slightly before dropping it as gently as possible on the floor at our feet. The space left behind was no more than ten inches square, hardly big enough to hold a bottle of whisky. The thought of what could be crawling around in that hole gave me pause, but I took a deep breath and gingerly felt around inside my fingers. In the back corner my hand closed around a small cloth-wrapped package.
“What is it?” Hunter asked, watching me unwrap a leather-bound book.
I turned the yellowed pages with great care. “It looks like a journal. Must have belonged to the original owner.”
“That’d be Daniel Fletcher,” Hunter said, peering over my shoulder with a frown. “He was Angus and Brodie’s father. But Daniel died in 1790.”
The date on the first page was January 1816. “Then this isn’t Daniel’s. It must be one of his sons.” I scanned the rough script. It was in English, of a sort, but it was a strain to decipher. “…a fierce night. Winnocks rattling, snawy deep-lairing drift. Mony a beast lost tonight I ken.”
“With those dates it’d probably be Brodie, even though this was Angus’s place,” Hunter said. “Brodie was known hereabouts as the teller of tales. Most of what we know about the time after Culloden came from the stories he left behind, ’long with my great-great-grandda’s writings.”
I knew better than to make cracks about the lingering Scottish resentment over their devastating defeat at Culloden, the last ill-fated battle fought by the Jacobites to reinstate the Scottish bloodline on the throne of England. “Was there a lot of Jacobite support in Balfour?” I asked.
“Aye, the whole village. Daniel Fletcher was no exception, but he was a practical man. He knew we dinnae have the manpower to stand against the British on a traditional field of battle. He wanted a guerrilla war. We knew our land, you ken. In stealth attacks we had the advantage. He thought we should take advantage of our strengths, not play to theirs.”
“Sounds like a reasonable plan,” I said, thinking of the rough terrain that surrounded the Glen. “Did it work?”
“For a while. Daniel led a band of men in countless skirmishes agin’ the British troops. I loved to hear my da tell tales of Daniel’s tricks when I was a lad. He loosed horses, stole provisions, and generally made a bloody nuisance of himself.”
“And English never caught him?”
“Oh, they had their suspicions, a’right. But Daniel and his lads moved through the glens like ghosts. It was said they could disappear like mist before a sea breeze. They made eerie noises in the dark and spread rumors of spirits an’ strange rituals.” Hunter wiggled his fingers in the air with a devilish grin. “British couldn’t clear out fast enough.”
“It’s fascinating stuff,” I said, carefully flipping through the journal. “This might even tell us something about what happened to Angus, but I’m struggling to catch the drift of most of it. The language is pretty archaic.”
“You need Fiona for that.”
“Fiona?”
“Aye, our librarian, Fiona Harper. She studied all those old languages at uni. You talk to her, she’ll fix you up.”
—
I knew I had to be back no later than five to get cleaned up in time to make it to Grant’s for dinner at six. I wanted to make a better impression than I had at our last meeting, especially since I’d finally convinced Rory to let Summer come. I had to resort to hinting that Grant might be interested in selling some art through the gallery before Rory finally agreed. I looked at my watch. It was just gone three. That should give me time to run into Balfour with Liam to find Fiona Harper.
Liam and I strolled along the High Street, stopping to buy fresh strawberries and black currants from the greengrocer’s. The bins on the sidewalk were overflowing with the last of the summer fruits, and the fragrance made me think of cream teas and currant tarts. The bookstore had a display of travel guides to lure in the bank holiday travelers. Glossy books on Vancouver, New York, and Paris sharing space with orienteering maps of local hiking trails and brochures on regional flower festivals. It was a nice reprieve from thoughts of murder and revenge.
At the far end of the street the library stood in its own grounds. A two-story converted Victorian that must have once been the finest house in town. Four large matching bay windows looked out on the street, two from the ground floor and two from the floor above. Each of them appeared to be piled high with cushions and lap rugs, convenient for curling up and reading on a rainy day.
A mail flap in the double front door had been expanded to create a large after-hours book return, and it rattled as I opened the heavy oak door. I hung my jacket on the antique coatrack in the vestibule next to an old whisky barrel used for stashing wet umbrellas. The reception desk was unattended, but I could hear voices on the second floor.
I took a quick peek into the rooms on either side of the entryway. The walls were lined with well-stocked bookshelves. The space to the left had an old wooden dining table and chairs running down the middle, while the room on the other side had a collection of armchairs surrounding a gas fire inserted into a carved and painted period hearth. I ventured up the thickly carpeted stairway to the second floor. A large part of the upper level had been turned into a children’s area. The bookshelves and woodwork were painted white, with large bright-colored cushions strewn on the floor, perfect for flopping on. A young woman in a lavender sweater was sitting in the window seat reading to a wide-eyed youngster clutching an oversized Paddington Bear.
I smiled and retreated across the hall to the local history section to wait my turn. I looked through at least a half-dozen books on the Lowland region and found several references to the Fletcher boys and their smuggling operations as well as their role as the eventual founders of Balfour’s first legal distillery, but the details of their personal lives and families were limited.
I heard the sound of little feet running down the stairs, and Fiona Harper popped her head around the door. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said with a shy smile. Her eyes were very nearly the color of her lavender cardigan, and a mass of auburn hair was twisted behind her head in a loose knot pierced through with a pencil. She couldn’t have been more than five foot two, but I could tell she was full of boundless energy and enthusiasm. Wholesome, clever, and alert.
I showed her the book Hunter and I had found and watched as she paged through it reverentially.
“Sure, I’d be thrilled to translate it into something more manageable for you,” she said softly. “It’ll be fascinating.” She shook her head slowly, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “Brodie Fletcher’s journal. What an incredible find. It’ll tell us a great deal about the daily life in the village. I’m sorely tempted to drop everything and start on it now, but I have a couple of projects on for the school. I’ll look at this tonight and send you sections as I get them done. Will that be okay?”
“That’d be great. I’m really hoping to find something about what happened to Brodie’s brother, A
ngus. In the meantime, what would you recommend for brushing up on local history?”
Fiona pulled down a slim red volume. Balfour: Legacy and Lore by Eldon Mann. “Try this.”
“If he’s any relation to Hunter Mann, he should know his stuff.”
“True enough,” Fiona agreed. “The Manns are a force to be reckoned with. This covers the Jacobite rebellions and the aftermath. Should give you a decent picture of what led up to the period of your journals.”
“There were a lot of Jacobites in these parts, according to Hunter, but what about the MacEwens?” I knew that many of the wealthier Southern families supported the British Crown, but I was curious about Grant’s ancestors.
“The MacEwens were loyalists in the early days,” Fiona replied. “But their allegiance changed in the bloody aftermath of the ’45 Rebellion. Sadly, they paid dearly for standing up to the troops and defending their neighbors. Lost the rights to more than half their land.”
“Really?”
“Aye. The British confiscated lands and money from Jacobite landowners and gave them to their supporters to punish those who opposed them. They were determined not just to defeat the Scottish, but to obliterate our very culture. That was too much for the likes of the MacEwens who considered themselves Scottish first and foremost.”
“My dim memory from school was that the British outlawed wearing tartans.”
“Not only that, they forced the Highlanders to give up their weapons and their allegiance to the clans. Anything they perceived as giving us a national identity. On top of that, they were taxing legal whisky stills to the hilt to fund wars with the Spanish and the French. The price shot well beyond anything regular folks could afford. Deny a Scot his daily dram and he’ll find a way to get around it, come hell or high water.”
“And that’s when the Fletcher boys started making illicit whisky?”
“That’s when it turned into a big business for them. Daniel’s father had been a gifted distiller and an even more gifted smuggler all his life.”
“Then Daniel and his sons were keeping the family tradition alive.”
Fiona smiled softly. “They were rebels with a cause. Robbing the king’s treasury of its due and exercising their God-given right to make whisky from the grain of their land.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall and realized I was running late. It was time to get back to work for my own Rebel.
Chapter 11
Patrick and I arrived at Grant’s just moments ahead of Summer, and we waited on the steps like the humble staff welcoming a princess as Rory’s security guard helped her from the car. I groaned internally, sucking in my stomach and smoothing my windblown curls. Of course she was stunning. Mickey Dawson was linked to a staggering number of beauties in his day. No doubt Bonnie was one of them. Summer had his eyes, but the delicate features, the golden red hair, and the long willowy limbs no doubt belonged to her mother.
I would kill for hair like that. Not a garish red, but a delicate rose gold that accented her skin. Pale and translucent, with an inner fire that gave a natural flush to her cheeks. She was wearing a pale blue wool dress that wrapped itself around her slim twentysomething physique like a glove. Any effort on my part to erase Grant’s earlier image of me covered in mud from the construction site was wasted. I’d be lucky if he even managed to glance my way.
“Thanks for the invitation,” Summer said as she climbed the front steps. Her voice was husky yet melodious, and her accent displayed no trace of her mother’s humble roots. “This is quite a place,” she said, looking up at the Larches’ facade with a trained eye. The house was a classic example of early-nineteenth-century baronial architecture, complete with circular towers on each corner, and an assortment of smaller turrets across the intervening roofline. From the outside it had a dark and brooding quality that made it seem faintly unwelcoming, but Summer seemed undeterred.
“It’s lovely, but a bit of a money pit,” I said, still trying to justify my impromptu invitation. “As I told your father, I believe the owner might be amenable to letting go of some of the family art collection if you’re interested.”
Patrick gave me a raised eyebrow behind Summer’s back, but whatever he’d been about to contribute was cut short when Grant answered the door. He’d dispensed with the usual evening kilt and was dressed in a pale gray linen shirt and a pair of dark slacks. I made the introductions and watched as Summer’s attention was immediately diverted. Patrick and I might as well have evaporated into thin air.
Grant led us all across the chilly foyer and into the sitting room, where a fire was roaring in the grate. Summer linked her arm through his and steered him over to the drinks tray before insisting on a guided tour of every painting in the room. Patrick and I were left to fend for ourselves. From our vantage point by the fireplace I could see that Summer was standing unnecessarily close, resting a hand on Grant’s arm and gazing up intently into his eyes as she talked animatedly about the portrait they were viewing. He seemed dazed by the onslaught, but I noticed he wasn’t retreating.
“What’s this business about wanting to sell off the family treasures?” Patrick murmured.
“I had to have some excuse for inviting her tonight. Otherwise it would have just looked odd.” I frowned as Summer’s throaty laugh echoed from the far side of the room.
“You look wonderful, by the way,” Patrick said. “Red suits you.”
“Not as much as it suits her,” I muttered. I smoothed down the dark red sweater with the deep v-neck that I’d paired with a black leather skirt, feeling self-conscious and more than a little angry at myself for being so vain.
“Jealous?” Patrick murmured in my ear.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped. “Grant’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Patrick said with a chuckle. “He looks a bit out of his depth. Did you tell him he might be interested in selling off some of the family jewels?”
“Of course not. He’d be furious.”
“You have to admit it’s funny,” Patrick said. “Grant looks like a fox that’s been run to ground.”
In the abstract it was comical, but for reasons I’d rather not dwell on I felt stupid. Stupid for bringing her here, and stupid for thinking I could compete with her. Not that I was competing, of course. Grant was my business partner, period. Anything else would be reckless and impractical. The inevitable breakup would be a disaster, both from a business standpoint and in terms of my being left to feel uncomfortable in the only home I’d really known since I was a child. It wasn’t worth it, I kept insisting to myself. Not that it mattered. Whatever my own desires might be, I was rapidly being outpaced by the glamorous young art dealer.
Louisa entered at that point with a tray of appetizers, and I went over to give her a hug. She and her young son Luke were an integral part of the lifeblood of the MacEwen estate. As head of the household, she was responsible for keeping Grant and the Larches in line, and that was no mean feat. Louisa was an attractive brunette in her late thirties, amply endowed and full of contagious enthusiasm. Next to Summer’s anorexic proportions she looked slightly plump, but I knew it wouldn’t bother her in the slightest. She was confident and unpretentious. Things at the Larches were generally casual, and I caught Summer appraising Louisa’s jeans and jumper with a critical eye. However, one taste of the marinated scallops and she was converted.
I saw that Grant had hung a series of prints I’d done for him showing the sky over the valley during the spring storms. Patrick and I went to look at them more closely, and when Grant had to excuse himself to take a call from Cam, Summer joined us at the wall.
“Ever thought of having an exhibit of your more recent works?” she asked. “I mean, I know you’ve done a number of shows of your iconic images from the Middle East and such, but this newer stuff is softer, more introspective. It would sell well.”
“These are more personal,” I said. “It’s been my way of getting to know my ne
w home, and I don’t think I’m ready to share them just yet.”
Summer pulled a business card from her pocket. “Let me know if you change your mind. We could do something special with these.”
“How long have you had the gallery?”
“This is our fourth year.”
“Is your stepfather involved in the business?”
“Not at all. John Carmichael walked out on my mum as soon as she was diagnosed with cancer. I cut him out of my life at that moment and never looked back. I go by Summer Lindley now. My mom’s maiden name.”
“But you used his name on the gallery?”
“John was a famous music video producer for MTV, and Carmichael is a well-recognized name in London. It was a boost for my business in the beginning. God knows he didn’t do much else for me down the years. Letting me appropriate his name was the least he could do.”
“How long before the gallery reopens?” Patrick asked.
“God knows. The insurance folks have been crawling all over the place. I had a show scheduled for this week that I’ve had to postpone. And another in a fortnight that looks iffy. I’m losing money hand over fist.” Summer tapped a long polished nail impatiently against the side of her glass. “And now, thanks to Rory, I’m practically under house arrest up here.”
“He’s concerned for your safety,” I pointed out.
“He’s concerned for his own reputation, you mean.”
Summer wasn’t naïve. Rory might be in for a surprise. “Were the paintings you lost very valuable?” I asked.
Summer sighed. “Of course. They took the three most valuable pieces I had. Must have known what they were looking for. Then he left a calling card scrawled across the wall in spray paint.”
“He?” I queried. “Did you get surveillance video?”
“No, the cameras were being repaired, so we had no footage. I just presumed it was a him. You do, don’t you. Here.” Summer pulled out her phone and showed a picture of a bare blue wall with the lyrics scrawled across the surface in red paint. It looked the same as the paint job from Rory’s dressing room, but was our killer also an expert on contemporary art? I hoped we were looking for the same person, but I couldn’t be sure.
Death Distilled Page 10
