The Christmas Puzzle (Pitkirtly Mysteries Book 8)

by Cecilia Peartree

  ‘Doesn’t Jan sell buttons?’ said Amaryllis, not really wanting to get involved in his trip down memory lane, but having the urge to promote a friend’s business.

  ‘Jan? Oh, the wool shop. No, the wife won’t go in there – she had a difference of opinion with the owner a little while ago, and she vowed never to set foot in the place again.’

  Damn! Why wouldn’t he just walk up to the other bus stop and get out of the way? What did he have to go to Dunfermline on the last bus for? Why couldn’t he have waited and set off in the morning? Not only was he now definitely the last person she wanted to see, but he was putting the whole mission in jeopardy. Not a mission, she corrected herself, absolutely not a mission. It was a task. A trap for someone they all hoped wouldn’t suspect anything. Any resemblance between it and the kind of mission she used to carry out as a spy was purely coincidental.

  ‘I’ve called a halt to all our projects for a bit,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Projects?’

  ‘FOOP and so on. Having a break from it.’ He looked at her expectantly, as if he thought she might ask him why, but after a pause he told her anyway. ‘Jason’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘He’s gone back home. To London. He said something about other commitments.’

  Amaryllis allowed herself a small smile of triumph. She already knew this from Christopher but there was no harm in wallowing in it. Jason hadn’t liked the fact that he had been discovered attempting to forge a set of Roman ruins. She hoped he wouldn’t be back for a long time.

  ‘It isn’t a good time of year for digging, anyway,’ said Bruce. ‘He might come back in the spring. I think that’s what Tamara’s hoping for. She hasn’t given up on some sort of Celtic symbol stone, or evidence of a ritual site, and she always thought he’d be the one to track it down.’

  A bus appeared in the distance. Amaryllis couldn’t make out where it was heading for. Did she need to go for an eye test? All the buses in and out of Pitkirtly came past this stop eventually, so there were at least two possibilities. She hoped it would be the one Bruce wanted so that she could get rid of him. Christopher must be nearly here by now. It wasn’t far from the Petrellis’ to the Queen of Scots.

  It was the right bus. With one last wave, Bruce climbed on board. She was afraid of being too friendly in case he changed his mind at the last minute, but the driver must have been in a hurry, because he didn’t even wait until Bruce had found a seat before he pulled away and headed up to the main road as if the ghost of Hamlet’s father were after him.

  Amaryllis retreated to the minimal shelter of the Queen of Scots, and took out her phone. Unlike most people, she kept it charged up and ready for such occasions.

  She had the number saved, so it was just a case of pressing a couple of buttons.

  ‘Pitkirtly police liaison here,’ she said in her official voice, after establishing that she had the right number. ‘We’ve located your father and the dog.’

  There was a surprised exclamation at the other end of the line, as if she hadn’t known her father was missing, as indeed he wasn’t.

  ‘They’ve gone off to Pitkirtly Island and managed to get themselves trapped by the incoming tide.... Yes, we’re sure it’s them. Can you come at once? The officers will meet you just before you get to the old army huts.’

  She pressed the final button. It was done.

  She turned to leave the spot and collided with Charlie Smith in the doorway of the pub.

  ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ he enquired, pushing the dog gently back inside.

  ‘I just wanted to loiter here unobtrusively for a moment,’ she said.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Up to no good again? Do you want me to look the other way?’

  ‘Probably best for you if you do. And don’t walk the dog for the next hour or two either, if you don’t want to get involved.’

  ‘Involved? Not me. I’m enjoying the quiet life these days.’

  Amaryllis slipped out of the Queen of Scots doorway and lurked nearby, keeping close to the harbour wall behind the tram. Of course the woman only had to glance over this way and she would spot Amaryllis, and the game would be up, but Christopher probably had things well in hand.

  ‘I’ll go in for now,’ said Charlie, ‘but I’m coming back out in ten minutes. You’d better be gone by then.’

  ‘Don’t go too far away,’ said Amaryllis. ‘We may need a dog handler.’

  He gave her a look, and disappeared into the pub.

  A woman came round the corner, glanced over at the tram and walked on, in front of the Queen of Scots and along the road that led to the old station and beyond.

  Seven minutes later Christopher walked briskly after her. Amaryllis had instructed him to look as if he knew where he was going, and not to acknowledge he was following the woman even if she turned and stared at him. He had agreed to speak to her in the restaurant only if she spoke to him first, and had promised faithfully not to do anything to draw attention to himself. They all knew where she was going, of course, so he didn’t have to stick too close to her.

  After making one more phone call to double-check on Jock and Tricia, Amaryllis slid out of her dark place and followed him. She wanted to see how this worked out. She had been in two minds about whether to stay near the Queen of Scots and make sure their prey was heading for the trap, or to go out to the Island and lie in wait there.

  It was extremely dark once the street lights ran out. There was an occasional flash of light up ahead. The woman must have a torch in her pocket. How well-prepared of her. But then, they already knew she sometimes walked this way in the dark.

  Something rattled and clicked. The latch on the gate by the railway line.

  She saw a flash of light from Christopher’s torch, which she had provided, even checking the batteries for him in case he didn’t think of it. She caught up with him silently. There was no longer any need for them to do this separately. They walked quietly side by side, not even looking at each other.

  Once they got over the railway line, nobody’s footsteps made a sound any more, and the darkness was broken up slightly by the glow in the sky at the other side of the river above Grangemouth, and the street lights of the other little towns along the coast.

  The torch beam ahead of them flickered a little. Don’t go out, Amaryllis told it, trying to focus all her will-power on it.

  They walked down the path they knew would lead them to the old army huts. There was a small splash from the water at the other side of the bank. Amaryllis hoped Zak wasn’t doing anything silly with the boat. But he had Harriet there to keep an eye on him, after all.

  Amaryllis paused, brought cupped hands to her mouth and made her best owl sound.

  The wailing and moaning started so suddenly that Christopher dropped his torch.

  ‘Damn!’ He bent down to try and find it, but the light had gone out and he had to feel for it.

  ‘Just leave it,’ hissed Amaryllis. ‘There’s going to be enough light in a minute.’

  ‘But it’s...’

  ‘Sssh!’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re shushing me. I can’t hear myself think with all that wailing,’ complained Christopher. ‘Do they have to be so loud?’

  They progressed along the path in the direction of the din and almost collided with someone who was standing as if transfixed, staring into the darkness. She had both hands up to her face, and as she still held the torch in one, the light shone unevenly on her features, unflatteringly emphasising her nose and eyebrows but casting her chin into shadow.

  ‘Ancient voices,’ she murmured. Her voice rose in terror. ‘Ancient voices.... Go away, you awful old woman! Get out of my life! I thought I’d got rid of you... What will it take to make you disappear for good?’

  Now she was moaning in hideous harmony with the other voices.

  ‘They’re overdoing it a bit, aren’t they?’ Christopher whispered to Amaryllis.

  ‘You can’t overdo this kind
of thing,’ she whispered back.

  The wailing stopped, started again and seemed to come closer.

  ‘No! Go away! Leave me alone you silly wee girl! It wasn’t my fault! I didn’t trip you up.’

  The woman in front of them started to move forward.

  The wailing and moaning diminished slightly before changing to sobs. Gradually they morphed into a recognisable word. ‘Elizabeth! Elizabeth!’

  An unearthly shape appeared, dressed all in white.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ sobbed the voices again.

  As it vanished, presumably round the corner of the hut, there was a click and the whole area was flooded with light.

  ‘No!’ yelled Elizabeth. ‘I don’t have time for those silly games. I’ve got to go and see what’s happening with my father...’

  She glanced behind her, saw Amaryllis and stopped talking instantly, freezing in position at the same time as if they were playing at musical statues. She must have read something in Amaryllis’s expression, for she turned on her heel and floundered towards the closest of the huts.

  From somewhere behind them all there was a yapping noise. The old man came into view, or at least his dog did, making a pale shape in the blackness. Amaryllis saw the blur of faces behind him. Jock and Tricia. The man paused for a moment when he saw Elizabeth, and then came forward cautiously. Ignoring everyone else, he stood still and held out one hand.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ he said. He didn’t speak loudly or sternly, but Elizabeth French, who had now lowered herself to the ground almost in the pose of a supplicant, came to an inelegant stop, hands on the ground and legs stretched out behind her, almost as if she were doing press-ups. She turned her head, peering over her shoulder to look at him.

  ‘They said you were in trouble,’ she said, her voice almost breaking in a sob. ‘I came out here to look for you, and you’re on their side. I was only looking after Mother, you know. The girl was going to desecrate her grave.’

  ‘Elizabeth,’ he said again. ‘Come here.’

  Amaryllis and Christopher waited and watched.

  Elizabeth French slowly began to move again. She pulled her legs towards her body, and pushed herself up to a kneeling position, and then she curled herself into a ball and started to cry.

  She did it quite quietly at first, with the tears being the only outward sign of distress, but then she got noisier and noisier. Tricia Laidlaw, looking embarrassed, was the first to rush forward and offer comfort, patting her on the shoulder, but Elizabeth raised an arm and batted the helping hand away so hard that the other woman lost her footing and tumbled to the ground as well.

  Mr Greig handed the dog’s lead to Amaryllis without a word as he started to walk towards Elizabeth. By the time the three police officers came up at a run from the direction of the railway line to try and restore order, a circle of people had formed around the two of them.

  Maisie Sue pulled the poncho over her head and flung it on the ground.

  ‘My, it was clammy in there,’ she said.

  Chapter 28 Confused, of Pitkirtly

  Not for the first time in living memory, Christopher’s front room was crowded with people. Christmas and New Year had come and gone with the usual amount of pointless fuss, and it was round about Twelfth Night. Jock was just pleased not to have to go back to work for the new school term the following day as he used to during his working life.

  Jock had been there beforehand to help with refreshments and to start drinking some of them. Interestingly, or so he thought, Amaryllis was already there when he arrived. She hadn’t blushed or guiltily sprung away from Christopher as he walked in, but there was something in the glance they exchanged... Or maybe he, Jock, had become hypersensitive to that kind of thing now that he was hovering on the brink of going for a proper date with Tricia. He had even bought new socks on the expectation of being able to bring himself to ask her out soon.

  Christopher insisted they shouldn’t talk about what had happened until everybody was there. Charlie Smith and the dog were the last. Charlie seemed to be on edge about leaving the Queen of Scots in the hands of the attractive new barmaid – and of Giancarlo, who had turned up as he was leaving.

  ‘He should have been here, really,’ said Amaryllis crossly.

  ‘Too late, Amaryllis,’ said Charlie. ‘He’s got his eye on that barmaid of mine now. You’ve had your chance with him.’

  ‘It was only a bit of fun,’ she muttered. ‘Giancarlo knew that all along.’

  ‘I think I understand everything except the bit about wee Jackie Whitmore,’ announced Jemima loudly, more or less calling the meeting to order.

  ‘Will I start from the beginning?’ said Amaryllis. ‘Or can we assume everyone knows about that part?’

  ‘Don’t assume I know anything,’ said Tricia. ‘I’m Confused, of Pitkirtly.’

  ‘Where did it all start?’ said Charlie. ‘I think I’ve missed a bit.’

  His dog heaved a great sigh and lay down at his feet with a resigned air.

  The wee white dog, who was temporarily lodging with Tricia, glared at the other dog. He seemed to have adopted Christopher’s front room as an extension of his own territory. But then, Jock reflected, he was probably feeling a bit lost at the moment, unsure of where he fitted into the scheme of things. It must be an unsettling time for him altogether. Although he was probably better off away from Mr Greig anyway.

  ‘It started with Mrs Greig disappearing,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Twenty years ago, when Elizabeth French was in her late teens, her mother walked out of her house and was never seen again. The police looked into it at the time, but they didn’t solve the case, and through a series of recording errors, all the information about it was lost.’

  ‘Before my time,’ said Charlie Smith defensively.

  ‘Of course it was,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Then Jackie Whitmore came along all these years later and stumbled across the burial site.’

  ‘It’s a wonder nobody had found it before that,’ said Jemima, shaking her head. ‘That was a heathen thing to do though, mind. Burying somebody out in the middle of nowhere. It was asking for trouble.’

  ‘Unfortunately for Jackie,’ Amaryllis continued, ‘she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Mr Whitmore says she was fascinated by the Island and the army huts. Perhaps when she was younger the cool kids used to hang out there or something. Elizabeth French took her father’s dog out for its late night walk that night – wearing the Niagara Falls poncho, and causing Tamara to think she was a Druid - and saw Jackie just as she had discovered the remains, and they had an argument which turned into a fight.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ said Charlie Smith. ‘Did she confess to you? Or has Keith Burnet been indiscreet again?’

  ‘Amaryllis worked most of it out, and the woman started ranting when we caught her,’ said Jock, frowning. He hadn’t enjoyed the scene as Elizabeth French fell apart in front of them all, with her father attempting to soothe her. ‘Who’d have thought that woman had such a temper on her? She was always telling me to calm down, too.’

  ‘She told us most of the rest,’ said Amaryllis. ‘She and Jackie struggled. Jackie fell into the hole. We think Elizabeth either hit her with something heavy or threw it at her – there was definitely a head injury. I was quite close to her at one point. But I didn’t see any sign of a weapon, though it could have got buried in the landslide, of course.’

  Jock glanced at Christopher and saw that he had gone grey in the face as if remembering his frantic dash to the scene and the almost miraculous rescue of Amaryllis from being buried alive.

  ‘Let’s forget that part,’ said Christopher.

  ‘The police will find the weapon eventually,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Now that they’ve got suspects in custody they’ll want to make sure of a conviction.’

  ‘Or more than one conviction?’ said Charlie. ‘What about old Mr Greig? Was he the one who killed his wife in the first place?’

  Amaryllis shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. He
’s a bit grumpy, but Elizabeth’s the one who seems to be really unstable. Apparently she had a history of fights with her mother, but he said to the police he thought it was all normal for a teenage girl. But he must have known she had done it. Or at least suspected.’

  ‘And yet he did nothing about it,’ said Tricia.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ said Dave, shaking his head.

  Jock couldn’t remember when he had seen so much head-shaking in one room. It seemed to be everybody’s gesture of choice this evening.

  ‘It isn’t really,’ said Amaryllis. ‘It isn’t unbelievable, I mean. He’d already lost his wife – he probably couldn’t cope with losing his daughter too. They probably just didn’t talk about it.’

  A murmur of disapproval moved like a wave round the room. Jock didn’t join in with it. He could understand not talking about something. Not that anything this bad had ever happened in his family, no matter what his ex-wife chose to believe, but they had never talked about anything important. In a way he liked that. Talking for the sake of it was highly overrated, in his opinion, although he had to admit to himself that he had enjoyed some of his chats with Tricia over tea and scones in the little café in the High Street. But they weren’t trying to impress each other or to make a point or anything. They were just pleasantly and calmly discussing local events and people.

  ‘So you’re saying Elizabeth killed her own mother and then killed wee Jackie Whitmore because she found out about it?’ said Jemima, who liked things to be spelled out.

  ‘Yes, that’s the idea,’ said Amaryllis cheerfully.

  ‘Would anybody like more toast, by the way?’ said Christopher.

  ‘I wouldn’t say no,’ said Charlie Smith.

  After Christopher had brought the toast in, Jock spotted Charlie feeding half his slice to the dog.

  ‘I’ll make him some of his own, if you like,’ offered Christopher, who must have seen this too.