“I have many talents,” I said calmly. “All modesty aside, I’m aware of that fact.”
The hint of a crooked smile crossed Lane’s lips.
“One talent I do not happen to possess,” I continued less calmly, “is photography. I’m not exaggerating when I say I might be one of the world’s worst photographers. Why do you think I stuck the bracelet in my friend’s hand before I took a picture of it? Otherwise you’d have probably thought it was a grapefruit.”
“A grapefruit?”
“You know what I mean,” I said, tossing the bed sheet aside and standing up. I was glad to see I had remembered to sleep in something sensible.
“The point is,” I said, “what are we doing? I know, I know. I’m the one who led you here in the first place. But now I’m pretending to be a photographer on top of everything else? Coercing information from suspects isn’t nearly as easy as it looks.”
“Is anything?”
“Some things are.”
We stood close in the small quarters. A hint of a smile popped onto Lane’s face again. He cleared his throat, erasing all signs of it.
“And some things,” I added, “aren’t.”
“Hurry up,” Lane said. “We’re going to be late. Breakfast is from seven to seven thirty, before everyone heads off for the dig.”
“Tell them I have a hangover.”
“You drink too much.”
“And you smoke too much, but that’s not what I meant. I want to fake a hangover so I can meet up with you all later. When everyone’s gone, I’m going to try to search their rooms. Have you looked at these ancient locks?”
“Ah,” Lane said, sitting down on the bed. “A girl after my own heart. You’re not as bad at this as you think. I was wondering if you’d think of that, too.”
“Then you could have made better use of your time last night and done it yourself,” I snapped.
“I couldn’t very well do it with everyone here,” he said seriously. “People could have come up to their rooms at any time.”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking or if he would really have done it.
“I like your plan,” he said. “These locks don’t look like they’d stand up to much. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”
The idea hadn’t seemed real until Lane began talking about it as if we were having a casual conversation about the weather.
“Be careful,” he added. “You’re not going to have much time.”
“Why? I’m small, they’ll believe I was feeling poorly for a while.”
Lane looked at me thoughtfully for a moment before speaking.
“At least now I know that breaking and entering isn’t how you provide for that enormous appetite of yours,” he said. “You don’t have much time because as soon as Mrs. Black finishes washing up after breakfast, she’ll come upstairs to clean the two shared bathrooms. And by the time she’s done, members of the dig will start returning intermittently to use the facilities. I thought it would be a good idea to have a talk with Mrs. Black to find out the schedule of the place.”
“That’s what you were doing last night?”
He stood up, bumping his head on the sloped ceiling. “We’ll leave within twenty minutes,” he said, “so you should wait a few more minutes and then go for it. Mr. or Mrs. Black can give you directions to the dig when you come down. You’ll probably have over half an hour, but move quickly.”
He took two steps and was at the door. He reached for the handle and then hesitated and turned back. He pulled a small object out of his pocket.
“This seems to work in the movies,” he said, tossing me a Swiss army knife.
After Lane left, I threw on some clothes and my thick-soled platform boots. They’d be better than pointy heels for snooping without clacking on the floor, and afterward for walking through what I presumed might be a muddy dig. After donning the boots, I noticed something I hadn’t spotted earlier. A tripod and camera had appeared on the small bureau.
The old-fashioned lock I stood in front of twenty minutes later didn’t appear to need a Swiss army knife. At first glance I was sure my own key would fit into the lock. For a second I thought I almost had it. The key turned. But the door didn’t open. It couldn’t hurt to try the Swiss army knife. One of the gadgets was such a perfect size that seemed to be made for this. Well, what do you know…. That did it.
I stepped into the room closest to the stairway and closed the door gently. I could immediately tell this was Dr. Alpin’s room. A fedora similar to the one he had been wearing the previous day hung over the bedpost.
As the organizer of the legitimate dig, he was my least likely suspect. But thinking back on the classic mysteries of my youth, the fact that he was the least likely suspect actually made him the most likely suspect.
I decided to stop thinking so much.
Malcolm Alpin was an average fellow. Socks on the floor. Old-fashioned shaving kit on the dresser. He had several academic books with him, which I leafed through in case he had hidden anything suspicious between the pages. He hadn’t. I flipped over the pictures on the wall, felt along the floor boards, and looked inside the lighting fixture. I don’t know what I was hoping to find, but whatever it was wasn’t in this room.
In spite of my newfound ability to pick antiquated locks, I did not appear to be vastly improving my skills as a detective. I let myself out and moved on to the next room.
I found my groove on the second lock, twisting and pulling the key in a upward motion until the ruts fit firmly into the lock, then pushing on the pick until I heard a click.
Pull… twist… click….
The next room was much smaller, though not quite as small as the room Lane and I shared. It was immaculate. A journal sat upon the small bureau next to the bed, which confirmed my suspicion that this was Derwin’s room. The journal was a scholarly record rather than a personal one, duplicating whatever he found most important from the dig log. A bureau drawer contained two blank notebooks and a volume of the Journal of Scottish Antiquaries. Neatly placed next to the notebooks and journal were two pencils, a case for binoculars, and a Swiss army knife. The knife wasn’t as fully endowed of tools as the one Lane had given me. One of the tools was bent and didn’t fit properly back into its slot. I picked it up suspiciously, seeing if I could spot traces of brake fluid on it. No luck. There were only traces of dirt and wood, as you’d expect on an archaeologist’s Swiss army knife. The search of his room revealed nothing of interest either, except that Derwin kept his socks and underwear in separate little plastic baggies. I shuddered and left the room.
Pull… twist… click….
Knox’s room. Men’s clothing was strewn over most of the furniture. The only neat part of the room was the stack of photos of the dig placed on the windowsill. I flipped through the photos and got a sense of what I’d be headed toward later that morning. The photos were mostly close-ups of rocky land along the coast. He also had at least a dozen books in his room, more than the professor. The subjects included missing artifacts from Egyptian tombs, fraudulent illuminated manuscripts, and sunken ships rumored to contain treasures. A pamphlet stuck out of the edge of one of the books. The Gregor Estate.
In my excitement at finding the first concrete piece of evidence, I dropped the book. The pamphlet fell out and the book landed with a thud at an awkward angle. I scooped them both up, but the damage was done. I didn’t know where the pamphlet had been placed, and several pages of the book were now crumpled.
I left the books and articles as close as I could to how I’d found them and departed.
Pull… twist… click….
A peculiar sensation came over me as I entered Fiona’s room. The faded scent of perfume lingered in the air, mixed with the scent of cigarettes. A worn photo of her with Knox was wedged into a crack in the wood of the small dresser. A dried, flattened rose had been affixed to the side of the wall-hung mirror, and a light silk scarf was draped over the other top edge.
A loud creak ech
oed through the room. I froze. Someone was right outside the door.
Chapter 27
Another sound followed from the hallway. Someone was definitely right outside the room. I must have taken longer than I meant to. Time flies when breaking and entering.
I scanned the room for a place to hide. In these small rooms, the only place remotely big enough was under the bed. A quick look told me the area was filthy enough that I would have needed a tetanus shot after hiding there. Although that presumably meant Mrs. Black wouldn’t be cleaning under the bed, I didn’t have the desire to give myself tetanus.
I looked under the bed one last time before it occurred to me that I was looking at this all wrong. Mrs. Black wouldn’t be looking at Fiona’s door as she cleaned the bathroom. I could simply step out into the hallway. I only had to act as if I was coming out of my own room.
I slipped out quickly and closed the door loudly. I waited a few seconds, then walked down the hall.
“Good morning dear,” Mrs. Black said cheerily as I walked by. “Let me make you some breakfast.”
In spite of my protests, she insisted on stopping her work and bringing me down to the kitchen. She wanted to give me a full breakfast, but I insisted that eggs and toast would be fine. She put a hot cup of tea in my hands. I took a sip, and the liquid nearly came out my nose.
“What the—?”
“It’s thistle,” Mrs. Black said. “It’s good for the body.”
“This is what you regularly serve since you’re the Fog & Thistle Inn?” I looked into the cup. Sure enough, it was a real thistle, not a flower-infused tea bag.
“Oh, no.” She laughed. “I’ve got a box of Tetley’s. Thistle rejuvenates the body. Your gent said you were feeling unwell.”
I put my nose over the steaming cup and breathed in. It smelled more potent than black tea. Never one to turn down anything potent, I tried another sip. It wasn’t half bad when you were expecting it. Maybe this was what kept her and her husband young. Like her husband, Mrs. Black didn’t look nearly as old as she must have been. Her round shape made her hobble slightly when she walked, but her face was youthful. Deep, dark blue eyes similar to Angus’ dominated her face.
“This stuff is really good,” I said after taking another sip. It was bitter and sweet and sour and salty all at the same time. This was my kind of drink.
“I know, dear. Drink up.”
Mrs. Black placed a plate of runny fried eggs and a rack of toast in front of me and sat down on the chair across from mine.
“That’s a nice gent you’ve got there,” she said, as I scooped up some eggs. “I’m not sure about the others.”
I stopped in mid-scoop.
“This group,” Mrs. Black said. “They’re not like guests we’ve had before.”
“Have some of them been doing something disturbing? Something secretive?”
“I didnae mean to speak ill of the lot of them,” Mrs. Black said, straightening her skirt even though it was already perfectly straight.
“It’s all right. We’re not close.”
“Well….”
“Yes?”
“You’ll not be knowin’ about the local parts, but…” She paused and looked around, poking her head out of the kitchen before continuing. “My husband Dougie is none too pleased when I think there’s something to the history o’ these parts. ‘Round the bend, right off the path to where those archaeologists are working, you’ll be passing a fairy mound.”
She looked at me expectantly.
“Dunnae ye see? That could explain the lot of it! The strange behavior. The creaking during the night.”
“You saw a crew member sneaking around at night?” I asked. “Who—”
“The lot of ‘em. They all went by the mound. It’s close to Lammastide, when the fayrie power is strongest. It can drive ye mad.”
“Something happened?”
“I’ll tell ye,” she said, her dark eyes boring into mine, “somethin’ isnae right. Ach! Yer eggs’ll get cold if you don’t eat up.”
“But you were saying—”
“Aye. I was sayin’ ye’ll want to take the long way round to the stones. Ye dunnae want to be settin’ foot on a fairy mound.”
Chapter 28
I couldn’t see the ocean as I set out on the path, but I could smell it. It was different from the smell of the Pacific Ocean in San Francisco, with the thick salty sensation blowing by with the fog, or the Arabian Sea along the coast of Goa, with its fruity scents wafting by in the warm breeze. Here along these remote cliffs was the crisp scent of untouched northern wind.
I wasn’t sure exactly what I had expected—rolling fields of heather, dramatic Celtic crosses atop each hill, sheep running up to greet me—but none of those movie-studio realities came to pass. The winding dirt path led through a plain grassy field that was adjoined by numerous other grassy fields like the ones I passed on the train. Up close, the field had more mud and weeds than the far-off green fields the speeding train had suggested. I came upon a fence in the midst of the path, which had steps to assist people climbing over the barrier meant to keep animals in their place. A solitary sheep wandered along beside the fence, methodically chewing some weeds and looking singularly uninterested in my presence.
Past the sheep, the grassy land rose into a small hill. The fairy mound Mrs. Black had mentioned.
I walked around the sheep toward the mound. Enough people had warned me against it. What else could I do?
As I walked closer to the small hill, the sheep started baa-ing loudly. The sound was much louder than I expected. It stopped me in my tracks.
I took another step and the bleating grew louder again. Surely it was a coincidence. Or perhaps the sheep was domesticated and wanted some company. I turned and looked at it. The sheep stared back at me, calmly chewing some grass. I continued walking. The sheep’s bleats began again. I didn’t look back, but the sound followed me up the gentle incline.
I circled the mound more quickly than I might otherwise have done. It was a small, grassy hill. Nothing much distinctive about it.
Nothing except for a lone thorn tree at the top.
Back on the path, a burst of wind from the sea hit me as I reached the edge of the land. I stood high above the water, watching the frothy waves crash. The coastline below ran straight for a ways before curving outwards a mile or so to the north. I took out the camera and looked through its zoom lens. Small buildings in the distance came into focus. The landmass poking out into the sea held the ruins of Dunnottar castle. In the opposite direction, the inn was already out of sight, obscured by a slight slope in the land beyond a fence I had passed.
The path continued north toward the castle, but I turned south, following my directions. The wind was strong. If not for the fact that the current of air came from the sea rather than toward it, this coastal hike would have been a much more dangerous endeavor. With the natural curves and drops in the land it was necessary to pay close attention or risk spraining an ankle. Mr. Black’s warning wasn’t for naught.
Though the walkable grassy land ended abruptly, the drop-off to the sea wasn’t sheer at all points. I passed a steep path heading down to a small alcove, next to some rocks stretching back up to high ground. Mixed with the sound of crashing waves, I heard faint voices. Following the voices, I spotted the top of another lone tree in the barren landscape. As its gnarled trunk came into view, so did the dig and crew.
Lane was facing me, his sleeves rolled up and a trowel nestled confidently in his hand, but it was Malcolm who spotted me first. He set down a brush and walked up to me while Lane and Fiona spoke together over a pile of dirt.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said.
“I trust you’re feeling better?”
“Much. Mrs. Black gave me a wonderfully restorative tea.”
Malcolm burst into a broad smile.
“Scottish drink takes a bit of getting used to, I’m afraid,” he said.
I smiled meekly. At least I hoped my smile
resembled meekness.
“You’ve brought your camera with you. Brilliant. You might want to borrow a hat as well. The chill is from the wind, but the sun will still do damage.”
I don’t usually sunburn, but I knew about the strength of the northern sun, so I accepted his offer. Malcolm led me over to the solitary tree, under which sat a large backpack with rain slickers sticking out of the open top. Clipped to the side of the pack was a fedora that matched the one Malcolm was wearing.
With my new hat, we proceeded to the pit where Lane and Fiona were working. Fiona drew broad strokes in a sketch pad while Lane cleared away debris. They were speaking quietly to each other but stopped as we approached.
“Nice hat, Dr. Jones,” Lane said.
Fiona paused to glare at me, then went back to drawing.
“Here she is,” Malcolm said.
It took me a moment to realize that “she” didn’t mean Fiona. She was a rock. A two-foot-wide slab of gray stone, the edges rough but not quite jagged. Circling the rock, I could see that only about a foot of the rock poked out of the earth thus far. It looked solid, and I imagined it continued quite a bit further down into the ground.
“Well?” Malcolm said to me.
“Shall I get started taking photographs?”
“I can be out of the way in a few more minutes, Malcolm,” Fiona said without looking up from her sketch.
“I think the light will be better for photos a little later anyway,” I said. “Once the sun has passed overhead.”
Malcolm nodded happily. At least I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. That’s me, Jaya Jones. Undercover sleuth and bogus photographer. I hoped this whole thing would be settled before they had a chance to study my photographs.
I stepped back and took a better look at the rock, trying to guess what made it a Pictish stone. I noticed a few faint scratches, but they looked more like marks made by the trowel than deliberate writing.
As I examined the rock further, Knox and Derwin came into view, appearing out of thin air from behind the tree. They must have come up from a steep path down to the shore like the one I had passed earlier. Derwin carried a bag of equipment over his shoulder and a notebook in his breast pocket. A few steps behind Derwin, Knox was empty-handed but wheezing.
Artifact (A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery) Page 14
