The Murder Hole
Page 37
At a low wall overlooking the loch, Jean and Alasdair stopped and stood at ease. Below them the water rippled and frothed and heaved with mighty secrets. At last Alasdair said, voice rasping, “My jumping on him, it might could have made Roger drop the lad. They could be looking out his body in the loch. They could be looking out yours.”
So that was it. He was doubting his vocation. Again. And she’d thought he might be doubting the relationship that left them hostages to fortune. “Roger would have dropped him anyway. You did what you had to do. And you tried to save Roger.”
“All the way down to the water, he was shouting, sorry, sorry, sorry. Not so much to me, I’m thinking, as to everyone. To the Ducketts’ son-in-law, and Jonathan, and Tracy. I reckon he never intended to survive. Suicide by loch.”
Jean shuddered. “He never intended to kill anyone. Tracy never intended to kill anyone. One thing led to another and to another, and there they were.”
“You’re not blaming yourself, are you now?” Alasdair asked, with a sideways glance sharp as a scalpel.
“Everything I was afraid of happening, happened. And yet, here we are, you and me. Maybe it’s one of those strong in the broken places things. Maybe it’s just selfish.”
“Maybe it is that, aye.” He looked out over the water, his profile slicing the distant mountains.
She’d go back home and have nightmares and second and triple-guess herself, Jean thought. She’d continue to jump at every noise. But she did feel stronger. Or resigned to her fate, which might be the same thing. Alasdair, though, had a strong shell to begin with. How many wedges were now prying apart its fissures?
From the tower of the castle came the skreel of the pipes. Not the twee tourist standards but something livelier, an age-old war cry or a modern rant in the ancient tradition, in-your-face, up-your-spine. The music flowed across the loch, its echo off the opposite bank a ghostly undertone. Far below, a tourist boat presented its stern to the castle so the passengers could take photos. Jean waved.
She turned to Alasdair with a determined smile. “It was an unexpected treat seeing you in a kilt again.”
“I’m owing Hamish for a new one, I reckon.” And he, too, chose to smile.
“Maybe you can bring your own to Edinburgh. There’s a restaurant called The Witchery just up from my flat. It’s not cheap, but then, a posh dinner would do us good.” Jean didn’t ask herself just what she had in mind for afters.
Alasdair’s brows registered but passed on the same question. “It’s my shout, then. You saved my life.”
“We made a deal. I wasn’t going to let you get out of it that easily.” And she had to ask the deal-breaking question, “You’re not upset, are you, that you were rescued by a girl?”
“Don’t go any dafter than you are already,” he retorted, and then, miraculously, he laughed. The frown lines in his face eased and his eyes glinted like the sky peeking through storm clouds. “You’re away to Edinburgh just now?”
“I’m all packed and ready to go. I can stop off in Inverness, though . . .”
Alasdair’s phone rang. With an apologetic shrug, he answered it. “Cameron. Oh. Yes, sir.”
Sir? The next rung of command was calling to congratulate Alasdair on another case well-solved.
His lips tightened, freezing out their smile. Every line in his face deepened. Frost crept down from his hairline. “Yes, sir. I’ll be there directly.”
“What is it?” asked Jean, her heart sinking.
“Andy Sawyer was transcribing Gunn’s notes, and found the ones you made. Gunn admitted you were sitting in on the interviews—and so he should have done, it’s no secret. But now Sawyer’s filed a report with the Chief Constable saying I’ve violated procedures.” Alasdair thrust his phone into his pocket so sharply Jean was surprised it didn’t rip right through the cloth. “I’d not have solved the case without you. And it was my decision to let you in, in any event.”
“So the Chief Constable’s called you on the carpet?”
“It’s not as bad as all that. I’ll sort it. And I’ll sort Andy while I’m at it. But that means going, now.” He lunged away from the wall and down the sidewalk, Jean hurrying along behind.
In the darkness of the entrance passage, below the vaulted roof no longer hidden by a ceiling pierced by murder holes, he stopped and spun around. Jean changed course so quickly she stumbled. Alasdair caught her and pulled her close. “Here I am rushing off again, without properly taking my leave.”
“I’m out of practice with this relationship stuff, too,” she returned, wrapping her arms around his chest so snugly she felt the phone in his pocket pressing into her breast. And she heard herself say, as she had once before, “Have you ever considered quitting the police force?”
“What should I do with myself, then?” This time the question was less a challenge than a plea.
“Miranda was saying something the other day—I don’t remember—she’ll find you something.”
“Right.”
Light gleamed behind them, and light before them, but for just this moment they were alone in the shadows. Their lips met, gently, firmly, and they touched foreheads, drinking in each others’ breaths, each others’ electricity. He murmured something, something she swore was Bonny Jean, but he had already released her and walked away. “I’ll be phoning you,” he called over his shoulder.
Jean stood where the long-vanished portcullis had once closed off the castle, watching him stride up the walk and into the doorway of the Visitor Center. The sound of the pipes mimicked the thrumming of the blood in her veins.
“Right!” she called after Alasdair, and began her own trek home.
* * * * *
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 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.”
Of 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.”
Among many other novels, Lillian is the author of the five-volume 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 pr
int and electronic editions. Here is her website. Here is her Facebook Group Page. Here is a listing of more Smashwords books.