Artair nodded. “There was some suspicion around the death though. That’s what I found.”
“Oh?” I said.
He leaned over and pulled a file up from out of a bag he’d placed on the floor beside his chair.
“It was ultimately covered up, I think. That’s what’s bothered me the most when ye first mentioned it.”
“Covered up?” I said.
“Aye, or mistakenly reported.”
Tom and I shared a curious look before I took the pieces of paper that Artair handed me. He kept hold of them too for a moment and looked me in the eye. Artair was a playful man with a kindness that overlapped into everything he did. I’d never seen such a serious expression on his face. I gave him my undivided attention.
“Delaney, the only reason I knew tae look for this is because I’ve been at the library a long time, over thirty years. But when I first started working there, I was curious, energetic, and ambitious. I’m still curious.” He half smiled. “Deep in the archives I came upon something that made me wonder—had someone gotten away with murder? It leuks as if that moment, that time when I sat on a cold floor with open boxes around me and a mind tae put them in order, has come full circle, and here we are.
“All those years ago, I read a story about a man who had died on a boat, had been stabbed on accident by a dirk and then had gone over the side, his body being retrieved not too much later.”
“So he was stabbed?” I said.
“The top paper is a copy of that story.”
The article wasn’t from the university newspaper, but from The Scotsman. It was short and to the point. University students had been out on the water, there had been a tragic accident, and charges were expected to be filed, but no names were being released until further facts could be verified.
I flipped to the next page. It was an article from the university paper. It stated that there was a mistake in The Scotsman’s report that a stabbing had occurred. None had occurred. The accident was a drowning, that was all.
“You think it got covered up from one story to the next?” I said.
“Leuk at the last page,” Artair said.
It was another article from The Scotsman. Again it was short and to the point, claiming that the publisher of the paper stood by the reporter who first reported about the stabbing. They believed that the university was trying to cover up the event, but they had no further proof and the police weren’t cooperating. They would continue to try to gather more evidence or proof.
I looked at Artair. “Any other reports?”
“Not that I could find.”
“So a stabbing would be murder, a drowning an accident.”
“Even if the stabbing had been accidental, someone might have had tae pay the price for their carelessness. As it was, the story could have been that the young man fell off the boat of his own accord.”
“Well, this is certainly suspicious,” I said. “The contradictions, I mean.”
Who’d either lied or been mistaken, Edwin or Rosie?
“Aye. More memories came back after I started searching. This box was hidden in the depths of the library and when I brought it up so that I might ask questions all those decades ago I was told tae put it back where I found it. Quickly, at that.”
“Why wasn’t it all just destroyed?”
Artair smiled and lifted his eyebrows. “Like I mentioned tae ye at the library, we like tae keep a record of everything, us librarians, even if we’re told tae hide it away. Someone back then wanted the facts tae remain somewhere, I suppose. Probably wanted someone like me tae find them someday.”
I nodded. Proof was in front of me that something murderous or accidentally homicidal might have happened many years ago. But, other than Edwin and Rosie’s differing stories, what more did that mean—particularly to Billy Armstrong’s murder?
I had no idea.
“Do you think this ties in with Billy Armstrong?” I said.
Again, Artair shrugged. “Dinnae ken. It’s just something tae keep in mind for now.”
“I’ve got something else you might want tae keep in mind, Delaney,” Tom added.
Artair and I watched him as he stood and walked around the corner and into the front room. He brought back his own file folder.
“I have something I want tae show you,” he said as he opened the file. “I would not have found this on my own, of course. Da’s the one for research. But Rodger overheard us talking about William Wallace and the reenactments. He had this at his home and brought it tae me.”
Tom handed me the paper over the table. I held it so Artair could see it too.
“Another article,” I said. “From three years ago.”
“Rodger’s brother was a William Wallace reenactor back then,” Tom said. “Something happened.”
Artair and I read silently.
William Wallace Reenactor Gilroy Wyly was killed yesterday at the William Wallace monument in Stirling. In what witnesses say was an accident, Wyly was killed by a dirk. Witnesses say some of the reenactors were “playing around” with the dirks and this one accidentally stabbed Gilroy in the heart. The incident is under investigation.
Additionally, it was noted by the reenactors that the dirks weren’t used for the reenactments. The use of dirks would have been historically inaccurate.
“Well, that’s terrible,” I said. “And oddly similar to the boating story, or at least one of them.”
“Look at the picture of the group of reenactors,” Tom said.
In another less tragic setting the picture might have been comical; a group of almost identically dressed men standing together and looking equally circumspect and confused. There were no names under the picture but I recognized Billy Armstrong. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss yet again for the man. He had been handsome with intriguing eyes. I pushed away a wave of sorrow.
“Okay, now look at the bottom picture,” Tom said.
The smaller inlaid picture was a dirk.
“It looks like the dirk I found,” I said. “Maybe.”
“Aye, the picture is fuzzy,” Artair said.
“It might be,” Tom said. “I have no idea what that might mean except I think it’s something that might be of interest tae someone, maybe the police, but maybe not. Here’s something else Rodger gave me. You might understand his interest in collecting these stories after you see this one.”
It was a copy of another short newspaper article. This one talked about another William Wallace reenactor named Donnan Lawson and the automobile crash that killed him. There were signs his vehicle had been tampered with, and Lawson’s death was also under investigation.
“Do you know the results of the investigation?” I asked.
“Rodger didn’t know and I didn’t take the time tae try to search. Da?” Tom said.
“I think we can look more closely at this too,” Artair said.
“Some sort of conspiracy?” I said. “Against reenactors?”
“Meebe,” Artair said with a shrug. “It’s worth a leuk.”
“And it might be an angle the police haven’t considered.”
Tom and Artair looked at me.
“Someone who has something against William Wallace and what he stood for? Maybe?” I said.
They looked at each other; in tandem their spines straightened and their mouths formed hard lines.
“They wouldna be a Scot then,” Artair said.
“Right,” I said. That Scottish pride again. I cleared my throat.
“Do ye ken the angles the police have considered?” Artair asked.
“No. Inspector Winters wouldn’t tell me much.”
“I had a feeling you’d talked to him.” Tom smiled.
“I did. Just today, actually.”
“Let’s do some research first thing tomorrow,” Artair said.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
We put away the files, ate dinner, and then moved on to more pleasant subjects for the rest of the evening. Artai
r told me stories about Tom as a child, which were funny and appropriately embarrassing, but my mind was never fully in the current moment. Was the past to blame for Billy Armstrong’s death? Could there possibly be some sort of conspiracy against the reenactors? Was Edwin lying, and did that matter?
Artair left soon after dinner with the promise that he’d see me in the morning and a wink toward his son. I liked those winks, and I hoped I’d get to pretend I didn’t see them for a very long time to come.
TWENTY-TWO
As seemed to be happening lately, my morning didn’t go exactly as planned. Though I had intended to meet Artair first thing, I decided to stop by the bookshop first just to make sure there was nothing pressing that needed my attention.
I was also out of sorts about Edwin and hoped to see him, since he wasn’t answering his phone, again. Either he wasn’t being truthful with me or he didn’t remember or know what The Scotsman articles had claimed. I thought there was a chance he didn’t know about them, had been too caught up in the tragedy to pay attention, but if Edwin was anything it was informed and observant.
The first indication that something was wrong inside the shop, or at least wasn’t right, occurred to me as a million bookish voices came at me when I walked through the front door. They caught me off guard, but instead of trying to sort them out, I pushed them away when I noticed that Fiona was in the shop, speaking to Rosie as they stood on opposite sides of the desk.
“Delaney?” Rosie said.
Fiona cleared her throat and I noticed her red cheeks. Her voice had been raised; I realized I’d heard it through the other voices.
I cleared my throat too and made my way to the desk. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine. How are ye, dear lass?” Rosie asked, but I could tell she was trying to regain her composure.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Wanted tae get some work done,” Rosie said. “Came in a bit ago.”
“What’s up?” I asked Fiona.
“I’ve come tae talk tae Edwin,” Fiona said.
“He’s rarely in this early,” I said.
“That’s what I told her,” Rosie said.
“That’s what she said,” Fiona said. “But I have a hard time believing it. I thought I saw his car around the corner.”
“He’s not here,” I said tersely. “Do you need something that only Edwin can help you with?”
“Aye.”
“We can have him call you, or you’re welcome to come back in later,” I said.
Fiona’s eyes clouded and I remembered that not only had she been raising her voice at Rosie, she was a mourning mother who’d also lost her husband. She didn’t need people speaking to her like this, no matter what.
“I’m sorry, Fiona, but he really isn’t here. He keeps odd hours,” I said more evenly.
“He always has,” she said quietly and sadly. “He called me and asked tae see me, but has not answered my calls since. His tone sounded … like he had something important tae tell me. I’d rather not have to hunt him down.”
“I’ll be happy to have him call you,” I said again.
“Yes, please do. As soon as possible,” she said.
I stepped out of her way but I sensed that she walked too close to me on purpose, as if she wanted to accidentally run into me.
I turned and watched her leave and then faced Rosie again.
The inside of the shop was warm, comfortable, meaning that Rosie had been there a good hour, or …
I looked at her as her lips pursed and her eyes avoided mine. The back table light had been switched on, and a copy of The Scotsman sat on the corner of her desk.
“Oh,” I said. “Edwin is here, isn’t he?”
“Aye, but excellent job playing along, lass,” Rosie said cheerfully. Moments of contention rarely bothered her for long, particularly when she was pretending.
“I didn’t mean to … What’s up? Why didn’t Edwin want to see her?” I said.
“He was here when I arrived. He was peeking out the front window, hiding. He told me that Hamlet, ye, and I were the only people he wanted tae see today, but he wanted tae talk tae ye specifically. He’s either in his office or the warehouse, waiting.”
“Is he okay?” I asked.
“No, of course not. Edwin’s not a hider, he’s not one tae peek out the window. He faces things head on. Something must be terribly wrong. It’s up tae ye, dear lass, tae figure it out. And then come tell me.” She lifted her eyebrows.
“I’ll find him right away,” I said. Artair would know I’d get there when I could.
I hurried over to the dark side. I didn’t check his office but went directly to the warehouse. He wouldn’t be anywhere else.
It was colder over here and I rubbed my arms as I descended the stairs, and then was startled as I turned the corner and saw the warehouse door open. It was never supposed to be left open, even when someone was inside. I approached slowly.
Edwin stood in front of shelves I’d designated only for books. Though I hadn’t scratched the surface of inventorying all the items in the warehouse, I had at least straightened some of the books.
“Edwin?” I said as I came into the room.
“Delaney, lass, did you see Rosie?” Edwin asked as he turned. Even in the midst of the tragedy of his sister’s murder I’d never seen such dark circles under his eyes.
“I did. You okay?”
“No, I’m afraid I’m not. I need your help. Could you close the door, please? I left it open tae warm it up.”
The creaking door and heavy deadbolt were more foreboding today, but I closed and locked quickly.
“What’s wrong?” I said as we each took a seat. “Fiona was out there. I told her you’d call her.”
He took a deep pull of oxygen and then placed his folded hands on his lap as he released a heavy breath.
“I will call her later. However, I think my friend killed his son,” he said perfunctorily.
The idea had crossed my mind, more than once, but it was most definitely the angle I didn’t want to be true.
“You think Gordon killed Billy? Why?”
“He might have killed Leith too. I think he would like to kill me. I think he tried tae last night.”
“Edwin, we need to call the police,” I said, fumbling for my phone in my bag before he could tell me any more.
“Wait,” he said gently as he leaned forward and placed his hand on the edge of the desk. “I don’t know if we should.”
“Why?” I said, but the answer glimmered in my mind. At least a ghost of the answer. Edwin had done something wrong along the way, perhaps far back in the past, and he didn’t want that deed to come to light.
This really had nothing to do with protecting Fiona’s money. For an instant I felt like a fool, but I pushed it away. I needed to understand and not assume, not put my faith in ghosts of answers, but get the real ones.
“Because, Delaney, I think I can handle it, with your help, and I’ve already thought about it.”
I appreciated the fact that he’d thought about it, but it would have been impossible for any of this to be free of danger. Still, I wanted to help. I wanted to understand. I wanted to know all the secrets.
“Tell me, but I’m not promising I won’t call the police.”
“All right.”
“Start with why you think Gordon killed Billy.”
Edwin nodded. “The dirk you found.”
I nodded him forward.
“It was mine.” He swallowed hard. “I believe it was representative of the true identity of William’s biological father.”
“You?”
“Aye.”
My eyes filled with tears but I blinked them away. Edwin’s new pain was palpable.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He nodded and then blinked away something too, but I couldn’t be sure if it was tears or just a cyclone of emotion that he must surely be dealing with.
“I cared for the lad deeply
anyway, but I didn’t believe he was my son. I’m not one hundred percent sure still, but … When he was a child I knew him well. Now, it’s just … different I suppose. There are more regrets. I should have worked harder to stay in touch with the lad.”
“I’m sure you tried. You said that Gordon and Fiona raised him well, that events happened as they were supposed to. Edwin, I went to talk to Gordon. I found him at the fish market two days ago. You left here and said you were going to go talk to him. He said you didn’t.”
“No, I realized that I didn’t want Gordon to know that I knew about the dirk. Not yet, at least. When I left you I decided that he would never have wanted me to have the dirk, that it wasn’t his message. He would not have wanted me tae know that Billy was my son. That was all Billy’s doing, and … well, whoever told Billy the meaning behind the dirk.”
I nodded, sensing I might have just come upon at least a nugget of more truth. However, Gordon had at least acted surprised to see the dirk too, and I’d told him I’d shown the pictures to Edwin. If he’d killed Billy because of the dirk, he would have known about it before. Had he simply been surprised that I knew about it? He’d also said he thought it indicated that Edwin was the killer, but maybe this was a case of two sides of the same coin. Or dirk, as it was.
“How would Billy have gotten the dirk then? Where has it been? There’s a part missing from your idea.”
“I know. I’ve been trying tae put it together. I can speculate, of course, but there are just too many possibilities. I’m working on it.”
“But, Edwin. Gordon raised Billy as his own. Surely he couldn’t kill his own son,” I said.
“I think that me knowing the truth was the most devastating thing for Gordon. I think his pride couldn’t handle it. Yes, we were very good friends at one time, but Gordon’s feelings for me must have soured tae the point that he didn’t want tae share his son. If there was a story written down about Gordon still being alive, it didn’t include Billy’s parentage; Gordon wouldn’t have included that. But somehow, Billy found the truth and he wanted me tae know, so he brought the dirk with him tae the castle. I can’t come tae any other conclusion. I’ve tried.”
“I just don’t know,” I said.
“Possible, aye?”
Of Books and Bagpipes Page 18
