The Burning Glass

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  “Here. Hold the flashlight.” Jean crammed the hairbrush into her jeans pocket. Turning around, she slipped her feet over the edge, felt for and found the rungs of the ladder, and started down. Cold air prickled through her shirt. Musty, still air. The walls squatted close by, but seemed as stable and steady as Alasdair’s grasp.

  She strained upwards to take the flashlight from Kallinikos while Alasdair clambered down the ladder. Freeman’s face appeared in the opening, then his hand helpfully directed a second beam of light into the depths. Somewhere in the background, Delaney grumbled a monolog.

  “So where’d Gerald put it then?” Alasdair asked.

  “The crazy uncle, archaeologist, poet, jeweler—he had an attic and he had a cellar, too.” Jean crept along the walls, using her hairbrush to sweep away the dust, fine as ash. There, a small irregularly shaped reddish block was wedged between larger, if just as irregular, gray ones. She knelt down and brushed delicately at it.

  Alasdair crouched beside her, shoulder to shoulder. “Aye, that’s red sandstone. He must have enlarged a drainhole, or prised out a smaller stone. And what’s this?” The nail of his forefinger scraped at the edge of the rock. “This looks to be plaster of paris, not mortar.”

  “Who’s got a penknife?” Jean called toward the opening. A small opening, in a low roof. Just few more moments, she told the panic squirming in her gut.

  Kallinikos climbed partway down the ladder to hand Jean a penknife. She opened it—the tiny blade was a miniature of Minty’s, a silver fang in the narrow light—and handed it to Alasdair.

  His touch meticulous, he scraped away the bits of plaster, wedged the blade into the resulting crevice, and pried. The rock moved. Jean’s small fingers grasped a corner. She pulled. And the piece of stone came loose, adding rosy dust to the shades and textures of red already on her hands.

  She turned the stone over and wiped it against her shirt. The hidden side was engraved with a harp. The Ferniebank Clarsach. Silently she held the piece up for Freeman and Kallinikos and, she saw, Delaney, his round face hovering behind theirs like a stray moon.

  Alasdair was now using the penknife to probe inside the hole. “There we are,” he said, and extracted a box about the same size as the cardboard one holding the remnants of the glass. But this box was metal and oblong, a diminutive lead-lined coffin.

  Jean peered into the hole, but it was empty. The chill of the deep earth oozed up her arms, pressed against her breasts. She shrank back.

  Alasdair handed up the box, the knife, the flashlight, the bit of stone. Darkness welled from the corners, the walls undulated . . . He took her arm, pulled her to her feet, thrust her onto the ladder and went back for her hairbrush. One rung, two—her back hurt. Her shoulders hurt. Her legs hurt.

  Freeman and Kallinikos grasped her shoulders, then her arms, and she was reborn out of the trap door onto the flagged floor of the Laigh Hall. Why had she ever thought the room was stuffy and dark? Compared to the dungeon, it was bright and airy as the hall of mirrors in a stately home.

  She regained her feet just as Alasdair emerged from the pit. If his smile wasn’t smug, it was at least serene. Taking the box from Delaney’s hand, he passed it over to Jean. “Open it.”

  For a moment she thought it was sealed, but no, the lid was merely a snug fit. She traced around it with her fingernails and eased it off. Inside lay a roll of rich crimson velvet, soft against her fingertips. Gently she unfolded it.

  Light blazed. Gold. Amid a chorus of gasps and reverent profanity, Jean held up a gold cross embedded with diamonds and rubies. At the crossing of the two arms was embedded a crystal about the size of a watch face, holding a tiny speck of wood, cloth, bone—something sacred. The back of the cross, she noted with dazzled eyes, was engraved with the ornate M monogram of Mary, Queen of Scots.

  “Is this Mary’s relic, the bread-and-butter gift for William’s hospitality?” she asked, her voice loud in the hush.

  “Or is it a thank-you to Isabel for services rendered?” asked Alasdair.

  “Either or both, it’s the cross Isabel’s holding in her portrait.”

  “Say what?” Delaney demanded

  Jean skipped the lecture on Scottish history. “There’s paper, too. Old rag paper.” She placed the cross into Alasdair’s palm, unfurled the rolled paper, and turned it toward the light. “Another letter, like the one in the museum. I think you’re right. This is the thank-you note for Isabel’s secret messenger work, maybe to her family after her death . . . Whoa.”

  “Eh?” asked Delaney.

  “There’s a strip torn off the edge,” Alasdair said. “The scrap found inside the harp?”

  “If so, then there’s a drawing on the back. Yep, there it is.” She eyed the latticework, a misshapen cup, a star, a series of diamond shapes. “Although what that’s all about is anyone’s guess. And probably will be.”

  “This is all part and parcel of Ciara’s fancies,” said Delaney, with the satisfied air of a game-show contestant finally getting one right.

  “There’s more to it than that.” Jean rolled the paper and tucked it back inside the small casket, then held the cloth so Alasdair could settle the cross into its embrace. She folded the velvet and replaced the lid. “There might be something in Gerald’s papers explaining why he took all of these, er, family heirlooms and played his games with them. Or there might not. Whatever, it took Wallace a long time to figure it out. Although, if not for him, we’d never have figured it out.”

  Kallinikos held up the bit of carved stone. “Did Gerald chip the harp off the gravestone?”

  “The edges look weathered to me,” Jean replied, taking it from his hand. “Maybe he just picked it up while he was messing around with the grave. Maybe he hid the cross in the foundations of the castle as, well, a charm of sorts, a blessing on future generations. On Ferniebank.”

  “Wasted his time, then.” said Delaney. “Come along, we’ve got Minty to deal with. I’ll take that.” He reached for the box.

  Jean stepped back and almost fell over her bag again. Swiftly she scooped it up and tucked the box inside. “This might be treasure trove, Inspector. I’ll notify the proper authorities.”

  “And the chipping belongs to Ciara,” Alasdair said quietly. “Ferniebank belongs to Ciara.”

  Muttering something beneath his breath that was probably not “thanks for your help,” Delaney clomped to the door and away.

  “I’m not so sure the old man wasted his time,” said Kallinikos. He collected Blackhall’s armor and followed. With a salute, Freeman brought up the rear.

  Voices echoed through the entrance. Engines roared. Then, at last, peace settled over Ferniebank. Jean and Alasdair stepped out of the castle into the clear air and a deserted courtyard. Sunset flared across the sky, gilding the edges of a few high clouds, pink, rose, gold, changeable and yet ageless.

  Alasdair looked at Jean. She looked at him, noting the glitter in his eye, feeling sure her own eyes resembled kaleidoscopes. “You’re looking a wee bit peelie-wallie,” he said.

  “That cheese and pickle sandwich must not have agreed with me.”

  “There’re more sandwiches in the fridge. And a bottle of whiskey in the cupboard.”

  “And lots of hot water in the shower. I’d ask you to join me, but . . .”

  Alasdair offered her his arm and escorted her to the door of the flat. “We’ve got enough to be going on with.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Alasdair stowed Dougie’s carrier in the back seat of his car and stood aside while Jean strapped the cat in. Again? Dougie’s disgruntled expression demanded. We just got here.

  “Call it a strategic withdrawal,” Jean told him.

  “No, that’s implying defeat,” corrected Alasdair. “We’ve not been defeated.”

  He was wearing his kilt, a declaration of intent. His green sweater shaded his eyes with the turquoise of the western sea. When he slammed the car door, the thud echoed from the face of the castle more like the p
op of a balloon than like the report of a gun. In the blush of morning sun, the dour old building looked almost cheerful, like a dowager’s seamed cheeks touched by rouge.

  The courtyard teemed with people and vehicles, with O. Hawick at the gate sorting the admittance-worthy sheep from the goats of the media. Police personnel were breaking down the incident room. Their supervisor, D.S. Kallinikos, leaned against the Mystic Scotland van chatting with—or chatting up—Shannon Brimberry. Her flock of tourists was wandering around the chapel all but baaing, and yet her blushes had nothing to do with her role as Little Bo Peep.

  Jean grinned at Alasdair. Shaking his head in mock despair, he headed toward the emptying incident room. She stood savoring the alluring sway of the kilt above the tall socks called hose, nicely filled by the braw Cameron calves. He’d laugh if she told him he swashed a buckle with the best of them.

  Her phone trilled. She hauled it out of her bag, checked the screen, flipped it open. “Hey, Miranda. About time you returned my call.”

  “What’s this I’m hearing? Minty Rutherford? Poison, knives—well, I’m thinking I’ve done well to survive the odd luncheon, then.”

  “You never threatened her. Let me call you again in a few minutes, okay? Alasdair and I are bailing out of Ferniebank. Enough is enough.”

  “Oh aye, as a honeymoon cottage the place is lacking romance. As a feature article in Great Scot, well, I’ll be standing by for the particulars.”

  “To say nothing of a pack of glittering generalities. Bye.” There was romance, Jean thought, and there was romance. . . . The phone burst into melody again. This time it was Hugh.

  Same verse, different soloist. “Up to your old tricks, I hear, courting danger as well as policemen. The lads renting your flat are right chuffed at brewing up in a daring reporter’s teapot.”

  “The last thing I want,” said Jean, casting a sharp look at her bolder brethren outside the gate, “is to be daring. Can I call you back? We’re just leaving Ferniebank for healthier climates.”

  “No worries.”

  That’s the idea. Stowing her phone, Jean crunched over to the door of the castle, which was just emitting Rebecca and Michael, the latter carrying Linda strapped to his chest like a wiggly breastplate. “So you’re away?” Rebecca asked.

  “Yep. One of Alasdair’s cousins had a cancellation at a self-catering cottage overlooking Skye, so we’re taking the place over. Peace, quiet, ocean views, blooming heather.”

  “The Gray Lady, Isabel, I think she’s away as well. I didn’t pick up so much as a blip.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Jean peered through the doorway to the no-longer-intimidating gloom of the interior. “Maybe when I held off an attack in the same room, that broke the pattern. Maybe my breaking the glass broke the pattern. If you can’t explain where ghosts come from, you can’t explain where they go.”

  Keith Bell shut the door of the flat, galloped down the steps, and bounded up the steps of the castle. “The sooner we get this place gutted and re-wired and everything, the better. With all the publicity, the punters are coming out of the woodwork. You gotta give them an authentic experience without giving them the real authentic experience, if you know what I mean.”

  Jean knew what he meant, but didn’t have time to say so before Keith pulled a tape measure from his pocket and plunged into the building, intent on tailoring not cloth but stone. “Good luck,” she called after him, and to Michael and Rebecca said, “Tourists come to see a place, but their coming changes its nature, so it’s not what they came to see.”

  “Catch-22,” concluded Michael.

  “Thanks for returning my car,” Jean told him. “I called the rental agency to let them know to expect you.”

  “No worries,” he returned. “I’ll hand in the car, stop by the museum with the box and all, bask in the acclamation, then catch a ride back to Stanelaw with a pair of customers.”

  “The letter is Mary’s hand, I’m sure of it,” said Rebecca. “I guess Isabel’s family kept the letter in the harp as a talisman for so many years it stuck to the wood and tore when Gerald removed it. No telling where that cross has been all this time.”

  “Other than passed down to the Rutherfords along with the harp,” Jean said. “Did you ask Ciara about letting the museum keep the artifacts until the bureaucrats decide who they belong to?”

  “Oh aye,” said Michael, with a quick jiggle to soothe his tiny bobble-headed parasite. “A lot depends on Gerald’s will, and whether the jewels and all were abandoned, and whether Stanelaw Museum is secure . . . Well, speak of the devil herself.”

  Now it was Ciara who left the flat and strolled toward them. Jean could only assume her relationship—of convenience or otherwise—with Keith had survived the last few days. Perhaps getting arrested together provided the same sort of glue that solving a case together did.

  “See my new earrings?” Ciara said, one plump hand lifting her curls to reveal dangling Celtic interlace. “Suits the Mystic Scotland logo, I’m thinking. Those little stars, my goodness, they turned out more trouble than they were worth.”

  Jean smiled, and told herself, this too shall pass, and soon.

  “Michael, thank you for seeing to the artifacts. And to restoring the glass. That cross is a stunner, and no mistake, but the chart’s the important item just now. I’ve faxed copies to London and New York. My publishers are over the moon.”

  “Chart?” asked Jean, with a wary glance at Rebecca, who passed the glance on to Michael.

  “The drawing on the back of the letter. It’s an amazing treasure, obviously the result of Henry Sinclair’s voyages. Keith and I have worked it out. It’s clearly a lost navigational system.”

  Alasdair strolled up and assumed a position at Jean’s side that made a guardsman in front of Buckingham Palace look animated.

  “The grid measures longitude and latitude,” Ciara explained. “The diamonds are based on the shadows made at the solstices, different shapes at different degrees of latitude—the Mediterranean, Rosslyn, Orkney. The cup shape, the arc, is astronomical orbits, as relating to alchemy, as relating to the Holy Grail. The harp was the key, just as I said, the music of the spheres, eh?” Ciara’s hands waved, building her castles in the air.

  “Henry Sinclair’s chart? That’s going to be hard to prove,” Jean ventured.

  “You cannot prove it’s not true,” returned Ciara with her most brilliant smile. “This is just the sort of validation folk are searching for. Well done, Jean. And Alasdair. And how clever of you to appoint me caretaker of Ferniebank ’til I can take over as owner.”

  Alasdair’s lean smile rejected any plaudits. “We’ll be obliged to meet in Edinburgh to deal with the paperwork. Especially now that Angus is dead and Minty’s in jail.”

  “That’s true,” said Michael. “Noel’s called an emergency meeting in Stanelaw—there’ll be repercussions from all this for years to come.”

  “And it’s the lawyers who’ll come out ahead,” Rebecca concluded.

  No one contradicted that. Even Ciara sobered, then recovered her smile. “Well, what happens, happens. Just as it did this weekend. I’ll be getting on. Keith’s working out a ghost’s gallery on the top floor—poor Isabel, still walking, I sensed her there myself not two hours since.”

  Jean didn’t contradict that, either, although Rebecca hid her face by adjusting Linda’s position in the baby carrier.

  “Jean, Alasdair, have a properly invigorating honeymoon.” Ciara shimmered on into the castle, trailing the scent of cloves and cinnamon and a musical murmur about “home again.”

  Home. Ciara had found herself a home, and a community, just as she’d intended when she and Valerie got tattoos of the clarsach. Community was the goal of tales of explanation and meaning, after all. If anyone could exorcise Ferniebank, it was the unsinkable Ciara.

  “What do you want to bet,” Jean said, “that Ciara’s chart is a sketch of the Borders mapping properties, or loyalties, or even troop movements from
some past battle? Mary simply re-used a piece of paper.”

  “That’s one bet I’ll not be taking,” said Michael.

  Jean glanced at Alasdair, who pointedly glanced at his watch. “I’d better get on out to the Western Highlands and write something to earn my keep. Not this sort of keep,” she added, with a look up at the gap-toothed parapets of Ferniebank. “This one is Ciara’s, and she’s welcome to it.”

  “You’d best get my jumper knitted before the snow flies,” Alasdair told her. He shook hands with Michael, unbent far enough to give Rebecca a small, reserved hug, and even tweaked Linda’s cheek.

  “Bye,” they replied as one. “See you back in Edinburgh—safe journey.”

  Jean settled herself in the car, belted herself in, and after an inventory of her body decided that trading mental aches for physical ones wasn’t a bad bargain, considering. She took one long look back at the castle, the chapel, the surrounding trees, the ever-moving river. Then she turned her gaze on Alasdair. The reflection of his keen profile overlaid the facade of the castle.

  Last night they’d talked, and washed, and eaten, drank, slept and woke, talked and made love and slept again—nothing like a cocktail of danger and whiskey to loosen tongues, in more ways than one. If a relationship was a do-it-yourself project, then they were doing it themselves, the hard way, one pebble, one grain of grit at a time. She smiled.

  “Aye?” Of course he’d sense her smile against the side of his face.

  “If I’m the grit that provides traction to your mental machinery, then you’re the grain of sand beneath my shell. You know, the irritant that makes a pearl.”

  He turned his head toward her. A tiny flame flickered in the depths of his eyes, sunlight on the surface of a fathomless ocean, but whether that indicated affection, impatience, or both, she couldn’t tell. And it didn’t matter.

  “Never mind,” she said. “Let’s go. And I do mean ‘us.’ ”