Chapter Nineteen
Jean floundered upwards from the deep dark pool of her dreams, a place where monsters glided, their silent tentacles brushing her ankles. Where did that outboard motor come from? She pried open an eye to see Dougie crouched at her shoulder, directing his purrs into her ear. Beyond him the window curtains glowed faintly. Either it was very early or it was very cloudy.
She rolled over, noting dispassionately that she ached in every muscle, and peered past the mound of Alasdair’s shoulder at the clock. Seven a.m., less than an hour past dawn. They’d only slept for . . . No. Refusing to recognize how short the night had been would keep it from taking its toll.
Alasdair was asleep, lips parted on a slow breath that was almost a snore. His face in repose was so smooth, as though air-brushed of its creases and knots, that she wanted only one thing more than to kiss its every angle, and that was for him to rest. She eased herself from the warm nest of the bed, tiptoed first to the bathroom, and then to the kitchen.
Dougie was waiting. Automatically, Jean fed him, then turned back toward the bed just as first one vehicle and then another drove into the courtyard. Doors slammed and gravel crunched in time with Dougie’s kibble-chomping. From the bedroom came the sound of bare feet hitting the floor.
So much for a good lie-in, then. Tying the sash of her robe, Jean checked out the caffeine situation. There was Minty’s coffee, but Alasdair’s Scottish taste buds would prefer tea for breakfast. She filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and leaned blearily on the cabinet.
The inscription. Minty. Ciara. Angus. Alasdair, morning and evening, fire and ice, austere in public and in private—well, there hadn’t been any candlelight and roses in last night’s encounter, just a desperate urgency to seize the moment and each other, no preliminaries, no elaborations, and no supernatural harp music, either, despite the clump of the bedposts against the wall. Jean stretched, wincing. But physical healing was easy.
The unwatched kettle began to boil with a shriek that made her jerk to attention. She was staring at the remaining eggs—soft-boiling required split-second timing, frying required a delicate touch, poaching was messy, scrambling, she could handle scrambling—when Alasdair appeared from the hallway, walked straight to the window, and swept the curtain aside.
“Good morning,” Jean said.
He looked around. His face seemed out of focus. Wrinkling her nose established that she really was wearing her glasses—it was him, not her. Even as she looked, though, his features firmed and steadied. It wasn’t seeing each other in the nude that was revealing. It was seeing each other at moments like this.
“Good morning.” He raised an arm, giving her just enough room to tuck herself against his side, and held her close.
She looked out the window into a hazy, smeary, colorless morning. A constable was drooping at the top of the path, a second one rendering aid and comfort in the shape of a thermos flask and a package wrapped in waxed paper. Past them walked a couple of coveralled technicians, hauling boxes and bags down to the chapel.
“They’re starting in again now that it’s daylight,” said Alasdair.
“Yeah.” Jean turned her head so she had a view of his unshaven cheek. Some whiskers were golden-red, some were silver.
“I’d better get to clearing away the lumber room,” he said.
“Then I’d better get some food on the table.”
Easing away from his arm—maybe they would learn how to fit together, after all—Jean poured two mugs of tea and set a skillet on the stove. Simultaneously they put together a breakfast, its shortcomings concealed by marmalade and butter, and outlined the situation, from the apparition of Isabel hotfooting it for the castle—relevant, Jean thought, but Alasdair abstained—to the curious incident of the car speeding away in the nighttime.
By the time they scooted back from the table, another vehicle was arriving in the courtyard. Alasdair ascertained that it did not contain either Inspector Delaney or Sergeant Kallinikos. Still, he left Jean to wash the dishes while he washed himself and dressed in his caretaker’s uniform, khakis and sweater. He was out the door, keys in hand, before she’d dried the last plate.
Now it was her turn to stand and look out the window. Alasdair dragooned a constable and started him removing things from the lumber room while he unlocked the front door of the castle. Either Delaney had left instructions that Alasdair was to be obeyed, or Alasdair’s habit of command swept the young man along. Not that that particular constable was the officious one from Hawick who’d given Alasdair such a hard time the night before.
Jean showered, then returned to the bedroom, where she arranged the covers around Dougie’s peacefully sleeping form—must be nice—and dressed, gingerly, in jeans and a sweatshirt, the better to carry boxes, search for secret passages, or do whatever else sprang from Alasdair’s agile mind before it was time to head into Stanelaw.
She had every intention of dragging him to the Granite Cross with her this afternoon, interview with Ciara or no interview with Ciara. Not only were beer and music good restoratives, he could do some interviewing of his own, depending on how many of the cast of characters showed up. As for making statements, presumably at Logan’s office, well, she and Alasdair would await Delaney’s pleasure—although interviewing Logan himself was definitely on the agenda.
Jean pulled back the curtains from the east-facing windows, admitting daylight but no sunshine. Opening the one to the left of the fireplace, she leaned out and looked toward the chapel. A human figure swathed in a protective bunny suit was inspecting the terrace, now wrapped in blue and white police tape. Would they pick up any traces of the criminal who chipped out the inscription? Or were they even looking for clues for that crime, eclipsed as it had been by a worse one?
She closed the window against the chill and proceeded to search the bedroom. No, nothing else was missing, not even the dirty laundry. The bit of inscription, her laptop, and the heavy tome of the Ancient Monuments report all lay in the bottom of the wardrobe beneath an extra pillow. It was probably overkill hiding the book—there had to be other copies of that, even though, with its academic slant, not many. Still, Jean told herself, she should sit down and read it from cover to cover. What if Wallace had picked out a coded message with pinpricks or invisible ink?
Right. Wallace had a lot to answer for, certainly, but there was no need to get carried away.
Now that sunlight, however thin, was shining in the eastern window, Jean saw a pattern on the stones between the two bedposts, a shadow-rectangle with a dot close to the upper edge. Kneeling on the bed, she ran her fingertips across the dot. There was a tiny, well-defined hole in the mortar between the stones, big enough for the nail of a picture hanger. And the whitewash was lightly scratched just where the corners of a picture would have bumped.
So what had hung there? One of Wallace’s drawings? Why else would it have been taken down? All the other pictures in the flat were copies of “heritage” paintings like the Mary, Queen of Scots, murder scenario in the living room. Just as well that one wasn’t hanging over the bed.
Jean stepped back onto the floor. Dougie opened an eye, looked at her with an expression that would have made the queen’s we are not amused warm and inviting, and went back to sleep with a soft sigh. “Sorry,” Jean told him.
She plugged her cell phone into its charger and took advantage of cleaning out the litter box in the closet to listen at the Laird’s Lug. The aperture channeled the sounds from the Laigh Hall with startling clarity—the thumps and bumps of objects landing on the wooden floor, Alasdair’s calm voice directing, the constable interjecting “Aye, sir” every so often. Both the task and the subordinate, Jean thought, should make Alasdair feel a little more in control of the situation.
She herself had lost control thirty-six hours before, when she pulled up in the courtyard to see Ciara emerging from the castle. Now all she could do was hang on.
White-knuckled, figuratively speaking, Jean stepped out of the fro
nt door to see the haziness starting to lift, the mist resolving itself into lowering clouds that were neither black nor white, just shades of gray. The leaves of the trees shivered as though fingertips ran down their spines. The air was as cool and moist against her skin as an earth-scented lotion.
Why was that constable pulling the gate shut? Talk about locking the barn door after the horses had swum the Channel and been served up with pommes frites . . . Oh. A media van was parked on the road. There were probably two or three others on the far side of the wall—they ran in packs, as Delaney had pointed out. Yep, there was a transmission antenna, appearing like a periscope over the jagged topping stones. If she hadn’t taken up with Alasdair, she’d be waiting on the far side of the wall with all the other reporters. . . . No. Recent crime wasn’t her vocation. She’d never intended it to be her hobby, but here she was.
Dogs barked from the farm, only to be quieted by Roddy’s gruff bellow. A couple of reporters equipped with cameras and microphones jogged past the gate, scenting blood, no doubt. Well, Roddy could defend himself.
Jean stepped through the doorway of the lumber room. It looked as she’d expected, with a concrete floor, a barred window high on one cement-block wall, and a light bulb protruding from the ceiling. Hints of paint and machine oil hung on the still air. Plant-trimming and tidying equipment sat in one corner, building-repair tools in another, fishing rods and related equipment in a third. Wallace’s telescope, shrouded in plastic, stood beside the door, along with two cardboard boxes surrounded by scuffed dust. It would make a rough and ready incident room at best, but Stanelaw’s miniature police station was just up the road, and full facilities at Kelso not much further.
As for those boxes . . . Jean deciphered the words written almost illegibly on the top one: “Miscellaneous clothing. Oxfam.” Was that Minty’s writing, designating Wallace’s clothes for charity?
“Begging your pardon,” said a male voice at her back, and Jean jerked aside. It was the young constable, his freckled face open and affable beneath his cap. Returning his smile in kind, Jean stood by innocently while he picked up the clothing box and carried it away.
Aha. The one on the bottom was labeled “Drawing materials and papers.” Her palms itching, Jean reached forward and tugged at the taped-down flap.
“Caught in the act,” said Alasdair behind her.
“It’s a fair cop, guv’nor.” She looked around. “Don’t tell me you’re not wondering what’s in these boxes. Maybe there are some more drawings.”
“Maybe so, but I cannot open them up without permission of the owner. Or failing that, a warrant.”
“I guess the clothes and the telescope and the fishing gear actually belong to Minty now, through Angus, but what about the drawings that were taken from the flat? Are they Minty’s, too, or do they belong to P and S?”
“There’s a fine point for you. I wonder if she’d bother arguing it, now. Why?”
“The thief didn’t take those drawings because of their artistry. He took them because they were Wallace’s. They must reveal something.”
“You’ll sprain yourself, jumping to conclusions like that.”
“Come on, Alasdair. Wallace’s antiquarian interests and the inscription and the occult stuff has to have some role in all this. Why was Angus’s body found at the chapel, huh?”
“That’s where he was standing when he fell over. Same reason Wallace’s body was found in the dungeon, like as not.”
“Wallace had to have climbed down to the dungeon, for whatever reason, but maybe Angus was dragged to the chapel.”
“Have you ever tried dragging a body? A bittie woman like you’d be right heavy to pull along, and Angus was a big man. Almost broke my back just rolling him over.”
“So he got himself there, and someone either watched him die, or came along and found him dead, and panicked and dropped the flashlight. Someone who got in and out without passing go and collecting two hundred dollars.”
He smiled at that. “Without passing through the courtyard. Oh aye, it’s a fine iron gate, but it’s only stopping law-abiding folk.” Alasdair picked up the last box.
“So as law-abiding folk, you’re going to get permission to search that box.”
“I’ll have a word with Delaney. Until then, we’ve got enough to be going on with.” He turned toward the castle.
“Kind of depends on where we’re going, doesn’t it?” Grabbing a fishing rod, Jean followed him out into the courtyard. “The door of the flat’s not locked. You’ve got the keys.”
He stopped, letting her catch up with him. “They’re in my front trouser pocket.”
She reached into his pocket and groped for the keys. From the corner of her eye she saw the constable tug the gate open again and a car entering. There were the keys on their ring, warm from their proximity to Alasdair’s body. Straightening, she looked around to see Inspector Delaney and Sergeant Kallinikos climbing out of the car. Delaney’s grin indicated that Jean and Alasdair’s pose was the funniest thing he’d seen since the last Benny Hill comedy. Kallinikos gazed upwards, trading dark stare for dark stare with the crows.
Jean turned her back on them and counted through the keys until Alasdair said, voice bland as pudding, “That one. Good morning, Delaney. Sergeant.”
Still toting the fishing rod, she locked the door of the flat and considered writing an article on the varieties and uses of British locking mechanisms, a topic she was getting more experience with than she could ever have anticipated.
Behind her, Delaney’s soft Edinburgh accent, less mouth-filling than Alasdair’s West Highland diction, replied, “What’s good about it? By the time we’d knocked up an innkeeper in Kelso and got rooms, it was time to turn round and come back out here. God, I hate these small towns. Like desert islands, they are, with the natives making fire from flint and tinder.”
“Or from burning-glasses,” said Jean under her breath. Yeah, you set a fire and it gets away from you—story of the human race . . . That’s right, Minty had the burning-glass from the museum.
“I’m native to Fort William, myself,” Alasdair was saying. “Grand place, if never so small as Stanelaw. Unless you’re thinking it’s Kelso that’s the wee peasant village and Stanelaw’s no more than something to scrape off the bottom of your shoe.”
Snorting with either amusement or a hairball, Delaney crunched toward the lumber room.
Jean tucked the keys into her own pocket and fell into step beside Alasdair. “And where are you from, Sergeant?” she asked Kallinikos as she passed.
“Glesga,” he returned, giving “Glasgow” the local pronunciation so emphatically it had to be deliberate. He added, probably because he was used to adding, “My grandparents left a small shipyard in Greece for a big one along the Clyde.”
“Me, I only got here a few months ago,” Jean called back to him, and followed Alasdair into the castle.
Either the place smelled a bit better today, or her nose knew what to expect. The small room just inside the door seemed less dark and gloomy, if hardly cheerful with its stark walls and gaping doorways, one into a closet-sized guard chamber and the other into Keith’s garderobe. In the Laigh Hall, the constable peered out one of the windows. “A lad’s scrambling down the brae behind the building.”
Alasdair dumped his box next to five other boxes. “Come along then, Freeman, let’s have him in.” The two men hurried back out the entrance.
Jean laid the fishing rod across the boxes, then walked over to the blocked-off door. She eyed first the small pawprints in the dust at its base, then the expanse of broken paneling beside it—that patch there, that must be covering the spyhole. The hair stirred on the back of her neck and her shoulders puckered.
Never mind. She sprinted off behind the men, wondering whether she’d ever stay alone in the flat, and if that would bother her. Wallace had slept there, year after year, behind a door that led nowhere, and Gerald had lived in the castle itself. . . . She popped out of the entrance to
see Alasdair leading the charge with not just Constable Freeman at his heels, but Kallinikos as well.
The three men double-timed it through the gap between the flat and the shop and around the corner of the building. A fraction later, Delaney stepped out of the lumber room, mouth open to give orders. It hung open as he looked around for his vanished minion.
Jean trotted past and into the gap, rejecting her impulse to say something about heading them off at the pass. She contented herself with a tally-ho gesture and a terse, “Trespasser.”
She hung a right onto a water-pitted path that snaked through the bracken and around tumbled stones, close beside the moss-plastered foundation blocks of the castle and beneath the windows of the flat. She slackened her pace—to her left, the slope fell steeply away toward the river. If she tripped over a root or slipped in the mud and fell, she’d have to be rescued, not a good use of police resources.
Kallinikos, running like an antelope, disappeared around the far corner. By the time Jean got there herself, running more like a tortoise, the chase scene had ended close beneath the steep stone escarpment of the castle. P.C. Freeman stood upslope from Derek, blocking his retreat along the muddy path. Alasdair was doing his looming routine again, helped by his position also higher up the incline. Kallinikos had his notebook out and pen primed.
Jean caught her breath. Behind her, Delaney stumbled around the corner and stood puffing, barely managing to pant, “What the hell’s all this, Cameron!”
Alasdair indicated the teenager. “I’ve warned him off once already. But he keeps turning up, like a bad penny.”
In his oversized black garb, Derek looked small and pale as a grub. He muttered something about bent coppers and tried a flanking movement. Alasdair’s large, capable hand pulled him back and delivered him to Freeman, who grasped his upper arm.
“Derek Trotter,” Alasdair told Kallinikos, who dutifully wrote the name down. And to Derek himself he said, “Out and about right early, aren’t we now?”
The Burning Glass Page 19
