“You don’t owe me anything. Especially since I nearly got it wrong. I shudder to think what would have happened if Grant hadn’t found a way to the roof in time.”
“But you did get there, and you did save her. There must be some way to thank you?”
“How about a donation to the Bennett Logan Memorial Trust? We could set up an AIDS fund in Ian’s name.” I’d spoken to Patty earlier in the day. At least it looked like it wouldn’t be a memorial fund. Ian finally showed some signs of responding, and the doctors were cautiously optimistic.
Chapter 27
With the Rebel mystery solved I was now two for three, and journals had provided vital clues for both, but not for the story of Angus Fletcher. Brodie’s writings painted a clear picture of the history of Balfour and the Fletcher family. A history of passion and generosity, pain and redemption, but no answer to the question of Angus’s fate.
The family knew, the village knew. How could it not have been recorded somewhere? I’d read through all of Mann’s history of Balfour and there was nothing.
But the Manns had to know. They were the Fletchers’ closest friends and allies. I decided to corner my Mann one last time to see if he could explain why Brodie would take the blame for his brother’s death, and why the village would support him in such a horrendous lie.
Hunter had been amused by my adoption of the flock, and yet I noticed that, like me, he found their presence soothing. I often found him sitting on the garden wall, smoking his pipe and watching them graze. Today was no exception. I climbed up the stone wall as gracefully as I could, considering I was still forced to wear loose dresses while the cuts on my body continued to heal. I sat next to Hunter, my feet dangling into the enclosure. Liam wriggled through the fence slats and went straight to Oscar, playfully nipping at his heels. Fitz and Beatrix pushed forward for a treat and Hunter shook his head in mock despair.
“You’ll nae make a farmer if ye spoil ’em like that, lass.”
“Fortunately, I have no desire to be a farmer. But I do have a question for you.”
“Aye? After more tunnels, are you?”
“No. I’m still looking for answers. I read your great-grandfather’s history of the village, and Fiona and Rev. Craig have been through all of Brodie’s journals. There is still no trace of the story of Angus’s death. I think you know the story, and I’m hoping you’ll consider sharing it.”
Hunter sat staring out at the hills, chewing on the end of his pipe. “You’ve been giv’n’ me more’n my share of things to worry ’bout lately. Runnin’ around with the wild boys and getting yerself mixed up with another killer. I’m too old for this lark, you know.”
“That’s sweet, but you don’t have to worry about me.”
“Aye, donnae have to, but I do. Ben was like family to me, and now you are and all. It’s not easy watching out for you.”
Hunter had a melancholy look in his usually laughing eyes, and it made me sad to think that it was because of me. I reached over and grabbed his callused hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. Not long ago I would have been annoyed by the thought of someone watching out for me, but now it seemed natural and right.
We heard the crunch of footsteps on the drive, and I turned to see Grant approaching. He joined us at the wall. “What’s going on?”
“I’m trying to convince Hunter to tell me the story of Angus Fletcher,” I said.
“Good luck. I’ve been trying to pull that out of him since I was a kid.”
Hunter looked at us both. “In spite of being known all me life as the source of all the village news that’s worth hearing, I’ve kept one secret my whole life, just like my father did and his father and grandfather before him did.”
“The story of Angus and Brodie.” Grant looked intrigued and scrambled up to join us on the wall. “Why now?”
“I’m not getting any younger, and me and the missus donnae have any bairn to keep the tale no more,” Hunter said simply.
“You have us,” I said.
“That I do,” Hunter started softly, but his voice grew stronger as he spoke. “At the time of Angus’s death the village had to make up a story to cover for the Fletcher boys and their nighttime raids. A story that hinted of brother killin’ brother, but with nae a shred of real proof. They all committed it to memory, a story that’s repeated almost word for word to this day. Over time the lie they told became a part of the village lore, and most forgot it wasnae the truth. Only the Mann family kept the real story alive, passing it from father to son like a heirloom.”
“And no one else knows?” I said.
Hunter frowned. “Hush now, you’ll mess up the tellin’. You’ve found the Vault below the stones in the Haven. For many a year the Vault had been a source of comfort and recompense for the families of Glenmorrow, and the Fletcher boys made sure that there was always a trinket or two to help folks stay fed and warm. In the months before Angus died, the boys were working a stone job at an estate nearby. A few weeks after they were done they went back as they usually did to relieve the householders of a few bits and pieces. They’d almost made it back to Balfour with the silver when they were ambushed by Red Russell and his men, who were out on the drove road lookin’ for smugglers. Shots were fired, but the boys escaped through one of the hill tunnels and made it back to the village.
“They’d escaped so many times before, but this time it weren’t as easy. Angus took a bullet in the back. The doctor tended to him, but it was no use. He died from his wounds, with Rose and Brodie beside him. Dawn came, and Brodie knew that Russell would arrive in the village soon, asking questions about the night of the ambush. Russell was wicked, but clever, and once the theft was reported he would likely put two and two together and link it to the Fletcher boys.
“Now Brodie was in a real bind. If Russell found out Angus died from a bullet wound he’d a used the evidence to make sure that Brodie’d be tried and hung as a thief. If someone else claimed to have shot Angus, they would be taken to jail and hung. Brodie realized that somehow Angus had to disappear without a trace.
“To honor Angus and Brodie and all they had done for the village, the locals to a man were willing to swear that Angus and Brodie were in town that night. They told the story of a fight in the pub over the recent fire at Brodie’s barn. There were many eyewitnesses to swear that they were drunk and brawling on the village green at the time of the ambush. Arguing bitterly over who was responsible for the blaze. All swore Angus was alive when he ran off into the hills, but he never returned. Perhaps the Beast of Balfour had struck again, they said. No body, no crime they could pin on Brodie or anyone else. The story was nonsense, but the villagers wouldn’t budge. They owed the Fletchers too much. Russell was bitter, but times were changing, soon the gaugers’ power would wane. In t’end he had no choice but to accept the village story, though he dogged Brodie’s heels for many a year after.”
“And in the meantime, Angus was buried in the room off the chancel in the church and his grave was sealed up to keep the secret safe,” I said. “What a tale of loyalty and friendship. Don’t you think it’s time it was told?”
“Aye, I reckon it’s about time. No one left to be hurt by it now.” Hunter slid down from the wall. “Best be headin’ home,” he said, his voice husky from the emotion of his tale.
Grant and I watched him walk off down the road toward the Glen.
“Just when you think you’ve heard everything,” Grant said.
“This place is full of surprises,” I said, resting my legs on Hemingway’s back as he nibbled the grass at our feet.
Grant put an arm around my shoulder. “You feeling better?”
“A little, but it’s still pretty sore,” I admitted ruefully.
“What’s next on your agenda?”
“Getting the trust up and running on its own two feet.”
“I thought you were planning to run it?”
“Sometimes, but I won’t be here all the time.”
“Then you’re h
eading out again?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
Grant looked at me searchingly, his eyes a deep shade of forest green. “Can I ask why?”
“I have to. I’m lousy at the whole relationship thing.”
“If this is your usual response, I can’t really argue with you. I think you’d do better if you tried to stay in one place for more than a few weeks at a time.”
“I can’t.” I pulled away slightly, and Grant’s arm dropped from my shoulder.
“You have a lot of excuses why this won’t work,” he said, turning to face me head-on. “Ever considered that it might?”
“I know me. I’m stubborn and opinionated, sharp tongued, prickly, independent.”
A slight smile played at the edge of Grant’s lips. “You are indeed.”
“I don’t do long term well. I take off. Feelings get hurt, attentions wander, then comes the pain and the recriminations.” I pulled my knees up under my chin and wrapped my arms around my legs, unconsciously retreating further into myself physically and emotionally. “I don’t want that here. Please try to understand, this is the only place that’s felt like home to me since I was a kid. I don’t want to lose that.”
“So home is more important than heart.”
I couldn’t look at Grant. “Right now…yes. I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
I felt that I had momentarily glimpsed the real Grant but now it was as if a door had slammed shut. It was my fault, but once again there was a palpable distance between the two of us. It was as if the wall that had come down the night of Gerry’s death had been reconstructed here in the cold light of day with amazing speed. I’d hurt Grant even as I’d tried to forestall later grief for myself.
I felt guilty, but all I could do now was watch the chasm grow.
Chapter 28
It had been only two weeks since that day on the wall, but already the first chill eddies of fall were blowing down from the hills. It was late in the afternoon and we were cruising along in Hope, the convertible top firmly attached and Liam relegated to the back. I had just picked up Furgie for a promised jaunt to the Stag, and she sat in the front seat resplendent in a rainbow-hued argyle sweater and a blue and green tartan skirt. A crimson beret sat perched atop her curly white hair, and she grinned like a child being ferried south for a day at the seaside.
“Haven’t been for a good knees-up at the pub in months,” she said.
At gone ninety it was amazing to me that she had nights out at all, but Furgie wasn’t like other ninety-year-olds. “Do you still indulge in a wee dram?” I asked curiously.
“Don’t be silly, lass, I indulge in a large dram. At my age I wear what I like and drink what I want. I’m much too old to die young, after all.”
I pulled into the parking lot at the Stag, hoping that I would last as long as Furgie and still be having as much fun as she did. We paused for a moment on the way in to check out Siobhán’s addition. The outer walls were up and the roof had been shingled. It was now down to the plumbing and electrical. Fortunately none of that impacted service at the bar.
Furgie and I blew in the door to a warm welcome. Patrick waved from the bar, and I saw Rev. Craig and Fiona with their heads together over by the fire. It was nice to see Fiona looking relaxed in a pale pink sweater, her long hair loose around her face. The vicar was clearly entranced, but pulled himself away long enough to round up an armchair for Furgie before running off to organize our drinks.
“Looks like things are going well between you and Rev. Craig,” I whispered, settling on a bench next to the hearth.
Fiona looked embarrassed, but Furgie quickly jumped in. “He’s a fine young man. Kind, honorable, intelligent, and very fit.” Furgie gave a mischievous wink. “Very fit indeed. I wouldn’t dillydally, missy, you should make a play for that one if you haven’t already. He’s what I think you kids call a ‘keeper.’ ”
Fiona’s face was now four shades darker than her sweater, but she looked pleased nonetheless. She turned to me shyly. “And you think he’s interested in me?”
“Absolutely no doubt,” I said with a smile.
“No doubt what?” Patrick asked as he and Rev. Craig returned with our drinks.
“No doubt we should publish Brodie’s stories,” I said quickly. “Fiona did a fabulous job with the translations. I was just telling her how much I appreciate all her hard work.” I lifted my glass to Fiona.
“Indeed,” said Rev. Craig. “A toast to Brodie and Angus, and to all of the rebels that called Balfour home.”
“To the rebels,” I said, “past and present.”
The door opened, and Grant and Cam arrived shaking off the chill. Grant raised a hand in greeting but settled with Cam at a table on the periphery of our group. Siobhán brought them both a large whisky and then came to join our group, perching on the arm of Patrick’s chair. I noticed that she’d taken to keeping a special eye on him. I wasn’t sure if it was a mother’s instinct for boys that are trouble or whether Patrick was in some small way filling the gaping hole left in her life by the loss of her son. Either way, the two of them had developed a strong friendship and seemed to be working well together in their innkeeping venture.
Which reminded me: “Siobhán, I have something for you,” I said, digging in my oversized bag. “A little early housewarming present for the new inn.”
I handed her a square parcel wrapped in brown paper. She opened it carefully and read the inscription.
“It’s a plaque describing the history of Brodie’s distillery that once stood on the site of the Stag,” she said, handing the plaque around for the rest of the gathering to admire. “It’s lovely, thank you.”
“Maybe we can get a historic designation,” Patrick said eagerly. “You get tax breaks for that, don’t you?”
“It’s enough that we found out more about Balfour’s days as a smuggling center,” I insisted. “Leave the tax breaks out of it.”
“Speaking of history,” Patrick said. “Fiona and I have been doing some research for you on the Fletcher family’s more recent history. We were hoping to find out if there is anyone that has a claim on the silver you found in Brodie’s vault.”
“There’s not much to claim,” I said. “Rev. Craig sent photos to a friend of his in London who deals in antiques. The Quaich was quite distinctive, and apparently it once belonged to a man named Cyrus MacNamara. A longtime supporter of British rule with a small estate near present-day Dunfermline. The piece went missing around 1800 and hasn’t surfaced since. It’s possible that there may be someone with a claim on that piece. The rest of the items were too inconsequential to have any surviving records.”
“Still, I think you’ll be interested in what we dug up,” Patrick said, nodding to Fiona.
“I picked up the trail with Cooper Fletcher,” Fiona began. “As you probably know, by 1825 Cooper established Fletcher’s as a legal distillery that operated out of the croft that is now the Haven. He eventually married at nearly forty years old and had one child, a boy named Robert. Robert in turn had three sons, but lost two of them in WWI. With the loss of his sons Robert struggled with the distilling business, and in 1912 he sold Fletcher’s to Central Spirits, leaving them to run the business.”
I nodded, enjoying the warm glow spreading through me from the whisky and the fire. So far the story was familiar to me from my research on the Glen.
Fiona continued. “Robert’s one surviving son married and had a daughter called Caroline.”
“Sweet lass, she was,” Furgie piped up, extending her whisky glass to Patrick for a refill. “Double this time, lad,” she insisted.
Patrick gave me a wide-eyed look behind her back before heading to the bar to do as he was bid.
“Sadly Caroline was the last of the Fletcher line,” Furgie said.
“You knew her?” Fiona and I said in unison.
“Of course, my dears. She was about ten years younger than our Martin. A spring baby, as I recall. Mus
t have been around 1940. She grew up in Balfour. Went to the local school, but after the war there was no work here for bright young things like her. She went on to Glasgow to do some sort of secretarial course. Met an Irishman named Kelley and got married. They moved off to Dublin and we didn’t hear nowt from her after that.”
“That’s where I lost track of her too,” Fiona said, “but I remembered Abi saying what a whiz Patrick was at finding people, so I put him on the trail.”
We all turned to Patrick expectantly. He gave a mock bow, handed Furgie her drink, and picked up the story where Fiona left off. “I found Caroline Kelley fairly easily,” he confessed.
“Where is she?” Rev. Craig asked.
“Dead now, I’m afraid. As Furgie said, she married a chap named Kelley and moved to Dublin. He got himself into some financial trouble and took off, leaving Caroline to fend for herself. She moved to England and found a job as a secretary in Manchester. From there she kind of fell off the grid. Mind she was still technically married to Kelley so I was searching for a Caroline Kelley. There was no trace of her for fifteen years, until she turned up marrying one Luke Hendricks.”
I leaned forward. “Hendricks?”
“Once I had the name I checked backward into her history and found that she’d been calling herself Caroline Hendricks for a good twelve years before they legally married. In fact, she used the name Caroline Hendricks on the birth certificate of their son, Rory Hendricks.”
I was stunned. “You mean Rory is a Fletcher?”
“That’s right,” Patrick said, looking smug. “It explains why his family came here to vacation when Rory was a kid. Caroline wanted to come back to her home to visit, but she didn’t want to identify herself to the locals or she’d be stuck explaining that she and Hendricks weren’t married.”
“Then technically Rory has the right to Brodie’s artifacts.” He may have come here to hide from the world, but in the end he’d reclaimed his daughter and found family. I wondered if he would choose to settle here.
Death Distilled Page 25
