In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams

by Karen Ranney

  The moments ticked by in silence. Now was the time to tell him what she’d come to the yard to explain. The whole horrible story could have tumbled from her lips for him to accept or reject.

  The door opened and the moment was lost.

  “Mr. Cameron?”

  One of the men came forward, introduced himself and his companion as members of the Glasgow police.

  The two looked like yard workers, both broad of shoulder and chest, each walking in the curious rolling gait of a man used to the rhythm of the ocean. Had they once been sailors and changed their vocation?

  The younger man had a full beard and mustache, while the older man with touches of silver on his temples only wore a mustache.

  Lennox led them to the desk in the corner. She sat on the straight-back chair, grateful she didn’t have to perch on one of the tall stools. Lennox sat in the large chair behind the desk while one of the policemen sat in front of him. The older man stood beside the window and addressed Lennox.

  “Who is the dead man, Mr. Cameron?”

  “Gavin Whittaker,” Lennox said. “His employer is Fraser Trenholm & Company out of Liverpool, but he represents the Confederate government. I turned the Raven over to him yesterday and expected him to set sail in two days.”

  One of the men nodded, while the other said, “An American again.”

  “And you found him, miss?” one of the men asked her.

  “It’s Missus,” Lennox corrected. “Mrs. Smythe. Mrs. Smythe is the widow of the attaché of the British Legation in Washington.”

  “America, Mrs. Smythe?”

  A flush of embarrassment traveled up her spine to settle at the back of her neck. It was never a good idea to be the focus of attention, and right at the moment three sets of male eyes were watching her.

  She nodded. “However, I’m a Glaswegian and I’ve recently come home.”

  “What were you doing here, Mrs. Smythe, on a Sunday?”

  I’d come to confess. I wanted to tell Lennox everything in a way he would understand and possibly forgive.

  “I came to see the Raven,” she said, facing them down. “I knew the ship would be leaving soon and I wanted a glimpse of it.”

  Almost any situation could be endured with enough pride. She tilted her chin up and refused to look away. Let them believe her or not. She couldn’t do anything about their thoughts, but she could alter their impressions in the way she answered their questions.

  The policeman glanced at Lennox. “Did you know Mrs. Smythe would be here, sir?”

  “I often work on Sunday,” he said, deflecting their question. “I would appreciate if you wouldn’t tell my minister that.”

  Both men smiled.

  “Was Mr. Whittaker dead when you found him, Mrs. Smythe?”

  “Yes,” she said, giving stern instructions to her stomach to remain calm. She would somehow have to find a way to block out the memory of all that blood.

  “Did you see anyone else aboard the ship?”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “Nor did I hear anything.”

  The younger man asked, “The weapon was a wicked looking knife. Had you seen it before, Mrs. Smythe?”

  “Anyone Gavin met would have,” Lennox interjected. “He had a great fondness for demonstrating it. It was part of the walking stick he carried with him everywhere.”

  She gripped her hands together to still their trembling.

  The discussion moved to the guards on the Raven. As she listened, she realized how shrewd was Lennox’s manipulation of the conversation. He told the men that, in view of the recent arson attacks on the Clyde, three guards had been assigned to the Raven. The men must have been dismissed by Gavin, who had the authority to do so.

  Glynis had just been unfortunate enough to stumble onto Mr. Whittaker’s body. She’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “If that will be all,” he said, “I’d like to take Mrs. Smythe home. As you can imagine, the discovery of a murder was a shocking event.”

  The older policeman moved in front of the desk.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cameron,” he said, nodding to Lennox. “And you, Mrs. Smythe.”

  She nodded, replicating a regal expression she’d once seen Mrs. Lincoln use. She remained seated as Lennox escorted the policemen to the door, their conversation continuing.

  What did he tell them? What did they ask? Was Baumann’s name mentioned?

  The hem of her blood-spotted skirt dragged on the floor. She looked away, nausea making her clammy. The rain had seeped into all her garments, even her corset cover. Her skin pebbled and she shivered uncontrollably. She noted her reaction in an absent way and dismissed it.

  A man was dead. Her momentary discomfort didn’t matter.

  “I DON’T require an escort, Lennox,” she said, sounding tired.

  “Pity.” He locked his office door and followed her down the steps. “If you had brought one—say your maid, for example—she might be an alibi for you.”

  She frowned at him, but he only smiled.

  “They almost bowed to you,” she said. “Yes, Mr. Cameron. Of course, Mr. Cameron. Why were the police so toadying?”

  “Perhaps because they don’t think I killed the man?”

  “Even if you had, I doubt they would have arrested you. After all, you’re Lennox Cameron of Cameron and Company.”

  “They were as solicitous of you, Glynis.”

  “That’s because of you.”

  He didn’t argue with her reasoning. He’d do anything in his power to protect her.

  The police were in the process of taking the body now, which meant one last duty had to be completed.

  He stopped to talk to Daniel, the driver who’d brought Gavin to the yard, informing him of what had happened and sending him back to Hillshead. At Glynis’s vehicle, he gave instructions for Thomas to follow them, then cupped her elbow and led Glynis to his carriage on the other side of the police van.

  “You don’t need to escort me home, Lennox. I traveled across the ocean by myself. Surely I can make it a short distance.”

  “Were you that independent in Washington?”

  She smiled, the expression oddly sad. “My life in Washington bears no resemblance to my life here.”

  “Why not?”

  She glanced at him, then away. “I was on stage all the time. My personality changed according to the situation. If I needed to be self-reliant, I was. If it was better for me to appear helpless, I could manage that, too.”

  “And here?” he asked. “Are you as great an actress?”

  She gave him a narrow-eyed look, reminding him of the old Glynis.

  “Here I’m just myself.”

  “Which version of you?” he found himself asking. “The girl I knew or the woman with secrets?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He’d never seen her so miserable. He wanted to put his arms around her, find a blanket and warm her, and wipe clean her memories of the past few hours.

  She held herself so stiffly she appeared brittle. Her face, perfectly composed, betrayed none of her feelings. Only her eyes were wild, darting back and forth, unable to settle.

  “How did your husband die? Not aboard ship by any chance?”

  She sent him a quick look then glanced away. “No,” she said.

  “I forgot. He died in some sort of accident, didn’t he?”

  There, she settled on a focal point—him.

  “Yes,” she said. “Do you really think I killed Gavin, Lennox?”

  He knew she hadn’t. No one could change that much, but he also suspected Glynis was hiding something.

  “You never told me why you were talking to Matthew Baumann,” he said, deciding to address the niggling feeling he had.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, looked out the carriage window and spoke to it rather than him.

  “He came to my house. I told him to go away. I’m not responsible for him being ill mannered. I have no desire to see the man ever again.”
/>   “You have no idea why?”

  “To get my assignment to kill Gavin Whittaker, of course.”

  She smiled, but the expression held curiously little humor.

  “Do you think it’s appropriate to jest about this?”

  She stared through the window again. “I’ve found humor is sometimes the only way to tolerate certain situations.”

  What situations were those? Would she tell him if he asked?

  “I can assure you I don’t need you escorting me to the door,” she said, once they reached her home.

  “No, you probably don’t. But I need your mother. If I have to tell Mrs. Whittaker about her husband,” he said. “I’d prefer to have your mother with me while I do so.”

  She only nodded, opened the carriage door, and nearly jumped out. He stared after her, annoyed and more than a little worried.

  Chapter 21

  “Thank you for doing this,” he said to Eleanor MacIain.

  She smiled and patted him on the arm, in much the same way she had when he was a boy.

  Lennox always wished he had a mother like Eleanor. Despite whatever trouble and mischief Duncan got into, no one doubted she loved her son.

  “The worst thing,” Duncan said once, “is disappointing her. She gets a look in her eyes and you feel lower than a worm knowing you’ve hurt her somehow.”

  He was twelve when his own mother left. For years she’d written him one letter around his birthday, but after a while even those stopped. He didn’t know whether she was dead or disinterested.

  “The poor thing,” Eleanor said now. “To be so newly widowed.”

  “Yes,” he said, not mentioning he suspected Lucy Whittaker probably wouldn’t mourn her husband all that much. Had Gavin been aware of his own wife’s apathy?

  “How horrible for Glynis to have seen such a thing. Whatever was she doing there, Lennox?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t suspect my Glynis, do you?”

  He glanced at her. “Not of murder, Mrs. MacIain. But she knows something and she won’t speak of it.”

  He’d seen her with Baumann. Their meeting troubled him, but not as much as the feeling that Glynis was hiding something. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and comfort her and, at the same time, demand she reveal whatever was making her afraid.

  His own emotions were too volatile at the moment. Anger, first of all, that someone had killed Gavin. He put the blame for that squarely on the shoulders of Matthew Baumann, and he’d conveyed that suspicion to the policemen in his office. Sorrow, that a man he was growing to consider a friend had been unjustly killed. Irritation, that Glynis wouldn’t be honest with him. She’d been terrified today and it wasn’t just because of Gavin’s murder.

  “She’s changed,” Mrs. MacIain said, as if privy to his thoughts. “She’s not the same. But then, neither are the rest of us, are we?”

  “Have you changed much in seven years, Mrs. MacIain?”

  She pondered the thought and finally smiled somewhat sadly.

  “I think I have, yes. Ever since my dear Hamish died. You go on thinking tomorrow will be easier. First thing in the morning you wake up and you think what a glorious day. Then, it all comes sweeping back to you. He’s gone and today will be another day without him.”

  Her hand clasped his, and he was startled to discover her trembling. Mrs. MacIain never looked discomfited or upset in any way. Now he wished he hadn’t asked her to come with him, but the situation was a delicate one, requiring the tact of a mature woman.

  “She was married to a terrible man,” she said, and it took him a moment to realize she was still talking about Glynis and not Lucy Whittaker. “I’ve only recently learned how terrible he was. My poor darling girl should never have married such a ghastly person.”

  When he didn’t know what to say, he found refuge in silence.

  “I always wished she’d had a child. Children bring such joy in life. But now I’m grateful that Richard Smythe had no progeny.”

  He wanted to ask what she knew, but it was better if he didn’t comment about Glynis’s marriage. Or even think about her being married.

  “You think she’s going to take it badly, don’t you?”

  Now she was talking about Lucy.

  “I do,” he said. “And although it may seem unkind of me, I think the best thing would be for her to go to a hotel.”

  “Nonsense,” Eleanor said. “She’ll do no such thing. We’ll take her home and she can have one of the guest rooms. My house is nowhere near the size of Hillshead, Lennox, but it’s big enough for one guest.”

  He glanced at her. “Are you certain?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re very kind,” he said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” he added as the carriage came to a stop before his house.

  “I’ve always considered you a second son, Lennox. Why wouldn’t I help you in any way I could?”

  Thunder roared around them, sounding the news that the storm hadn’t finished with them.

  He left the carriage and turned to help Eleanor. Her smile looked a little forced and he wanted to apologize for asking for her assistance.

  “Let us go and do this terrible thing,” she said.

  THE SUITE Lennox had given his guests was the equal of her own at home. Perhaps the rooms were a bit nicer. She didn’t have a bathing chamber adjacent to her bedroom, a good thing as it turned out after the pipe break last winter. Nor did she have such an expansive view, this one of the gardens of Hillshead visible through the watery curtain of rain.

  The settee and two chairs were upholstered in a pale blue and coral pattern, the padded valance at the top of the windows the same fabric. The curtains were also blue, and touches of coral were visible in the pillows, footstools, and carpet.

  Eleanor could only wonder who had decorated the rooms, since the colors had almost a feminine feel.

  When they’d knocked on the sitting room door, Lucy had answered, staring first at Lennox, then at her. She remained silent as Eleanor gently took her by the hand and led her to the settee.

  After sitting beside the younger woman, she said, “I’m afraid we have bad news. Mr. Whittaker has passed.”

  Lucy blinked at her, staring at Eleanor as if she’d suddenly grown feathers.

  “What do you mean he’s passed?” Lucy asked, looking at Lennox.

  “He’s dead,” he said. A rather blunt response, but a direct one.

  “Of course he isn’t dead.”

  This was not going well at all. How wise of Lennox to ask her to accompany him, especially since the newly widowed Lucy Whittaker was refusing to accept the reality of the situation.

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” she said.

  “Of course it isn’t.” Lucy turned and frowned at Lennox. “Gavin’s at the yard, isn’t he? Or he’s in your library. He’s certainly not dead.”

  Perhaps they needed to take the poor thing to see her husband’s body before she truly understood. Sometimes Death swooped down, picked up a loved one like a hungry hawk, and nothing but gazing on the departed would make the dying real. Her own dear husband had been taken at work, in his office at the mill. At least he hadn’t been alone. Duncan had been with him, and brought his father home to her.

  Gavin hadn’t been alone, either. His murderer had been with him. The thought made her shiver.

  Had someone followed him from America? Or had the poor man been robbed?

  The authorities would discover soon enough. She didn’t need to trouble herself with such things, not when she could help in another way.

  “Tomorrow I’m sure you can go and see him, my dear.”

  Lucy stared at her, evidently not comprehending. Shock took a body like that, sometimes.

  “We need to get you settled and comfortable. I have the most delicious bramble tea at home. Once you’re all tucked up, I’ll bring you a pot, plus some of Mabel’s scones. They’re the best ones in all of Glasgow.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t understand. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Mary and her father aren’t here, my dear. It’s a bachelor establishment. People are bound to speculate about the situation otherwise. Unfortunately, gossip travels fast in Glasgow. We need to consider your reputation.”

  “I’ve just been made a widow and you want me to pack my belongings and leave? Tonight?”

  Lucy’s voice was so shrill Eleanor felt like a crab crawled up her spine, its pincers nipping at her skin.

  Gavin Whittaker looked poorly mourned, even now.

  “We would be most happy to have you as our guest,” Eleanor continued. “We’re not as spacious as Hillshead but we’ve a lovely guest room. It would be best, all things considered.”

  “You’re concerned about my reputation?”

  She nodded, grateful Lucy grasped the situation. Newly made widow or not, Lennox was a very well known man in Glasgow, one of its most prosperous citizens. People would not hesitate to gossip about any facet of his life.

  Lucy stared dry-eyed at Eleanor, then at Lennox, her mouth pinched, her eyes narrowed, and twin spots of color on her cheeks.

  “We want the best for you, my dear,” she said.

  “If you care so much about reputation, Mrs. MacIain, what do you think people would say about your daughter kissing Lennox passionately in the garden? She didn’t seem to care about her reputation.”

  For a space of seconds, perhaps minutes, Eleanor couldn’t think of a response. Warmth traveled from her heels to her nose.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  There, at least she’d said something.

  “Your daughter was in the garden with Lennox. I wouldn’t be surprised if they copulated behind the hedges, Mrs. MacIain. What do you think the whole of Glasgow will say to that?”

  The inference being she would share every bit of information she had with anyone who cared to listen.

  Eleanor rarely found herself cowed, although Lucy managed to cause her heart to beat fiercely. In the most ghastly situations she maintained a determined cheerfulness. Now she forced a smile to her face and prayed for the right words to answer the woman.

  Lennox stood still at her side, but she didn’t look at him. The last time she’d done so, he’d been staring at Lucy as if he’d like to immolate her with his gaze.