If Hilary’s first scream lacked conviction, her second, third and fourth made the walls bulge. With panicked flappings pigeons erupted from the tower. Footsteps raced across the grass.
Rebecca knelt. The shape in the sarcophagus had its own gravity. It was pulling her downward. Gold and white and red, musky sweet, drowned in shadow… . Hands grasped her shoulders and pulled her back. She looked up.
“Here noo,” said Grant, “what’s all this then?”
All Rebecca could do was point numbly, dumbly, into the tomb.
1
Chapter Nine
The kitchen was dark, illuminated only by the light from the dining room. Rebecca stood in the shadows rinsing out her cup. She’d had so much coffee in the last couple of hours that acid bubbled into the back of her throat.
The Galashiels force had responded with commendable briskness. So had police and reporters and television crews from so many places Rebecca wouldn’t have been surprised to find a New York cop directing the traffic gridlock on the bridge. Rudesburn had its publicity, all right.
The thrum of a generator vibrated in the window. Across the stream the inside of the priory church was lit by arc lights. The broken tracery of the west window was silhouetted like a row of teeth against the glare, and the occasional dark figure moving in or out of the door was a cartoonist’s caricature of a human being. Among the remains of the convent buildings pale shapes gathered and parted as though exchanging the shocking news. Traces of mist rising off the Gowan, no doubt… . Why bother to rationalize ghosts? Sheila was dead.
Again Rebecca saw the body laid out in the sarcophagus. The stone had been cold to the touch. Sheila, too, would have been cold—beauty forfeit and tongue stilled forever. Despite the warmth of her sweater-vest Rebecca shivered.
The back door opened. “Here he is,” said Grant, and ushered Michael into the kitchen.
Rebecca held herself back, gauging the magnetic field of his mood. His face was drawn, his eyes oddly pale, as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. “Rebecca,” he said, and opened his arms.
She threw herself against him. His cheek was cold and his T-shirt smelled musty. In the ferocity of his grasp, her ribcage felt like a slinky toy. “Where’ve you been?” she asked into his shoulder.
“In the attic of the hotel, lookin’ through Kerr’s old pokes and thinkin’. Thinkin’, mostly.”
About me? She didn’t ask out loud. “You didn’t hear the commotion?”
“Oh aye, I heard the sirens, but Nora stopped me in the lobby and Laurence on the pavement and then Grant on the driveway.”
Grant had changed into his uniform, making the subtle but important distinction between friend and official. His genial face was creased with lines. “The Chief Inspector’ll be lookin’ in straightaway.”
Rebecca asked, “Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you kindly,” Grant replied.
Michael was staring out the window at the priory. “What? Oh—I’d like something to clear the dust oot of my throat.”
She gave him a glass of water. He eyed her and it. Taking the glass, he found the bottle of Cragganmore in the cupboard and poured a healthy dram into the water. He drank. A faint flush crept up his cheeks.
“Better now?” Rebecca asked.
“I’ll do for the moment.”
They walked, Grant trailing behind them, into the dining room. The blue lights of police cars throbbed against the drawn curtains. Adele sat at the table wearing her son’s UCLA sweatshirt. Her glasses were folded in front of her, her eyes were closed and her hands clasped, but her tranquil, almost translucent, expression was marred by a tightness at the corners of her mouth. Mark leaned on the door, stirring a cup of coffee, his face wiped clean of any expression at all. He’d been stirring when Rebecca walked through the room ten minutes ago. The clink of the spoon was loud in the silence.
Tony sat against the wall of the vestibule, his forehead against his arms crossed on his knees. His clenched fists quivered, his knuckles starkly white, but the rest of his body was stock still. As if the shock of Sheila’s death wasn’t enough, Tony now had the status of his job to worry about.
Dennis eyed the other occupants of the sitting room couch with quick, nervous glances that became convulsive shivers in his body, reminding Rebecca of nothing so much as St. Nicholas’ bowl full of jelly.
Beside him Elaine sniffled into a tissue, her reddened, mascara-smeared eyes focused on Jerry. She kept trying to press herself into his side, but he responded less to her than he would to a mosquito. His stony profile was sculpted of confusion and resentment, his moustache drooped over pale lips clasped around an unlit cigar.
Hilary huddled, knees drawn up, in the depths of a chair. Her eyes were so like a little lost waif’s that Rebecca was surprised she wasn’t sucking her thumb. But her spate of hysterics had lasted only moments; since then she’d walked around like a marionette, loose-jointed and clumsy, bringing coffee and sandwiches to the others.
“Where were you?” Jerry demanded of Michael.
“In the attic of the hotel, tryin’ to do a wee bit of work.” Michael started throwing kindling into the fireplace.
Mark set his cup on the table with a clunk so abrupt Adele started. He hoisted a log from the basket. Tony raised his head from his arms and gazed dully into the sitting room. Grant clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. Dennis said beneath his breath, “I bet Adele did it. I bet she’s into human sacrifice.” Elaine rolled her eyes from him to the quiet figure in the dining room and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse.
“Suicide,” stated Jerry. “Obviously. The woman was way the hell out in left field.”
“I don’t think so,” Hilary said, her voice faint and far away. “I don’t think it was suicide at all.”
Mark gave her shoulder a quick pat, then groped along the mantelpiece for the box of matches. “Empty. Anyone have any matches? Jerry?”
Jerry pulled the cigar from between his lips, contemplated it, and threw it toward the wastebasket. “No.”
“No,” Elaine repeated. She put the cigarettes back into her purse.
“I’ve got some,” said Rebecca. She went into the bedroom, scrabbled through the dresser drawer, and found the matchbook. “Here,” she said to Mark when she returned.
“Thanks. Nice fresh pack, not a one missing.” Mark lit the fire and laid the matches on the mantel. A frill of yellow gnawed at the kindling. With snaps and pops, flame licked the logs and shredded up the chimney.
“Are those the matches you found in the attic?” Michael asked Rebecca.
“Yes. I thought maybe they were yours. Edinburgh Pub.”
“The Edinburgh Pub’s no in Edinburgh. It’s in London, no so far from Temple Tube Station, on Fleet Street.” His forefinger sketched street corners in midair. “I used to go there wi’ my mates from the Museum.”
“There’s a phone number written inside the cover,” Mark said.
Michael picked up the flimsy piece of cardboard. “071-323-7111.”
The front door opened. Tony, in one ungainly lurch, clambered to his feet. Grant pulled himself to attention. Adele put on her glasses. Her eyes looked like museum displays protected under glass.
Three men carrying satchels fanned out into the house. Two men dressed in the dark suits and conservative ties of stockbrokers loomed in the sitting room door. The shorter one said to Adele and Tony, “Would you mind sittin’ down in there?” Tony and Adele went into the sitting room and sat down.
The other man was so tall his head just missed the top of the door. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of dark blue booklets, and eyed them as though they were a particularly disappointing poker hand. American passports. Grant had collected them an hour ago. Then Rebecca had caught only glimpses of Detective Chief Inspector Simon Mackenzie and Detective Sergeant Harry Devlin, Edinburgh C.I.D. Now she stared.
With a pipe and deerstalker, Mackenzie’s gaunt features w
ould resemble those of Sherlock Holmes. In a robe, his sleek black hair tonsured, he could’ve passed for St. Bernard of Clairvaux. His dark eyes darted swift uncompromising looks upward, then retreated behind lashes opaque as window shutters. “Rebecca Reid?” he asked in a voice softer than she’d expected from such height. “You’re in charge of the students?”
“Yes.” No need to be nervous, she told herself. I haven’t done anything. But still a chill of apprehension fluttered down her spine.
“Hilary Chase, Dennis Tucker, Mark Owen.”
Devlin’s gaze skewered Mark. “Mr. Owen, I see you’re from Texas. You are aware that we have strict gun laws here?”
Mark looked as though he’d like to guffaw, but all he emitted was a pained smile. “Never touch the stuff.”
“Adele Garrity,” continued Mackenzie. “Jeremy Kleinfelter.”
“Look here, officer,” Jerry said, “it’s the middle of the night and we have work to do tomorrow. Just because the bitch did away with herself… .”
My, my, Rebecca thought waspishly, how quickly we forget all those meaningful glances and cozy smirks.
Mackenzie looked at Jerry much as his forensics team must even now be inspecting Sheila’s body. Jerry sputtered into silence.
Devlin opened a notebook and said, “Michael Campbell, Tony Wright, Elaine Vavra. British citizens.” With the addition of a grin Devlin’s dark curly hair, blue eyes and pink cheeks would have made him look like a leprechaun, Rebecca thought. But if he guarded any pots of gold or the ends of any rainbows, his hard, almost belligerent stare didn’t invite inquiries.
“Sit down, please.” Mackenzie handed Devlin the passports. Devlin handed them to Grant. Grant laid them all on the dining room table.
Michael dropped into the sole unoccupied chair. This was no time to stand on ceremony; Rebecca wedged herself in beside him. Mark settled on the arm of Hilary’s chair, his own arm resting behind her head. Dennis gave Adele his seat on the couch and joined Tony on the hearth. A log whined in the crackle of the flames. Heavy footsteps and the snick of closet doors opening and shutting echoed from the bedrooms next door and upstairs. Rebecca tried not to resent the hands prying through her possessions. The detectives were only doing their jobs.
The Chief Inspector hiked back his suit jacket, thrust his hands into his pockets, and addressed the mantel. “Miss Bridget Hamilton has very kindly given the investigative team a room in the back of the Craft Centre, and the procurator fiscal has made his report. The deceased is Sheila Fitzgerald, age thirty-five. Film producer.”
Michael twitched. So, Rebecca thought woodenly, Sheila had lied about her age.
“Suicide,” stated Jerry.
“Hardly,” Devlin returned. “She was stabbed in the heart with a small knife which we haven’t as yet found. Death was instantaneous. Murder.”
“Murder,” Jerry repeated. Elaine swallowed a squeak of dismay.
“Requiem aeternum,” Adele whispered. Hilary hid her face in her hands. Again Mark patted her shoulder, and this time his hand lingered. Dennis looked ill. Tony closed his eyes and rubbed them as if he could rearrange the reality they saw.
Rebecca had never thought the death was anything but murder. And yet hearing the word out loud was like a blow to the back of the knees. They were all suspects, she thought. They were the strangers, the outlanders. We’re the ones Sheila swatted around as though she were a cat playing with an assortment of mice. Death had been instantaneous? No, she’d had time to be frightened, to feel pain. Her expression had been far from composed.
“She wasn’t killed in the tomb where Misses Reid and Chase discovered her, but behind the chapter house. We found signs of a struggle there, and a trail… .” Not a person couldn’t fill in the words “of blood.” Mackenzie cleared his throat. “The murderer dragged her body into the church and arranged it in the tomb. She died between 7:15 and 9:15 pip emma. Unless one of you saw her after 7:15?”
Glances caromed from person to person, but no one answered.
“I need to know where each of you was between the hours of 7:15 and 9:15. “ Even though Mackenzie’s mild Edinburgh accent grew no louder, a threat glinted beneath the words.
Everyone began gabbling at once. With a few sharp questions, Devlin sorted out each account and wrote it down. Mackenzie’s eyes moved from face to face with the cool deliberation he’d accorded each passport photo.
Jerry had walked in the ruins and then gone to the pub. Before going there herself, Hilary had walked into the fields and woodlands south of the town, playing with a dog. Mark had hiked toward Melrose. Tony had taken some pictures from Battle Law and then worked in the van. Adele had meditated in the cemetery, then walked through the village. Dennis had bought a candy bar from Bridget and also worked in the van. Elaine had driven into Newton St Boswells. Michael had been in the attic. Rebecca had been in the house and in the Craft Centre with Bridget.
No one, Rebecca told herself, had an—alibi, that was the word—for the entire evening. And Michael had been alone the whole time. She held his hand, trying to warm his cold, inert fingers, without noticeable success.
The voices died away. “So then,” said Mackenzie into the thick silence, “until we have a chance to talk to each of you individually, we’ll assume the last person to see Miss Fitzgerald alive was P.C. Johnston.”
“Aye.” Grant surreptitiously polished the scuffed toes of his boots against his trouser legs. “She was in the call box afore the Craft Centre. It was right after dinner, and the weans couldna find their football, so I was moochin’ aboot the pavement lookin’ for it.”
Devlin wrote something in his notebook. “Find out who Sheila was talking to”, no doubt. Mackenzie said, “The murder weapon.”
More glances. The log expired. Traffic muttered outside, and footsteps tapped inside. Mackenzie played his pregnant pauses beautifully, Rebecca thought.
“P.C. Johnston tells me that Mr. Owen has a Swiss Army knife and Dr. Campbell a sgian dubh. Could we see them, please?”
Mark reamed out his pocket and produced the knife. Devlin crossed the carpet, took it from his hand, and put it in his own pocket. Michael leaned forward as if to rise, then stopped. His hand clenched convulsively. So did Rebecca’s heart. Oh my God, no, it couldn’t be.
“You’re not implying,” said Jerry, “that one of us murdered the woman? There are people all over the place, shopkeepers, villagers, busloads of tourists. And some friend of Campbell’s was here today. Why couldn’t it have been him?”
“We’ll talk to him,” said Mackenzie. “Is something wrong, Dr. Campbell?”
Michael’s body was a dead weight against Rebecca’s. He said, very slowly and precisely, “I don’t know where my sgian dubh is. I was looking for it earlier, and I couldn’t find it.”
“Neither could I,” said Rebecca. “It’s been lost.”
“Not stolen?”
Michael said, “It never occurred to me someone might’ve pinched it, no.”
“Why didn’t you report it missing?”
“Man, I had a few other things on my mind!”
From the corner of her eye Rebecca intercepted Jerry’s sudden look of enlightenment. “Campbell had quite an argument with Sheila this evening. It must’ve been about seven. He hit her.”
“He did not!” exclaimed Rebecca. Michael’s hand pulled her back down into the chair. “Where were you eavesdropping from?”
“I was looking at last week’s photos in the camera van,” Jerry replied. “I wasn’t eavesdropping—they rubbed my nose in it!”
“Aye?” said Devlin. Mackenzie focused on Jerry. Elaine and Adele shrank away to either end of the couch.
“I gather Michael and Sheila had a quick and dirty affair a couple of years ago,” explained Jerry. “He was insisting he’d given her the elbow—jilted her—and she was insisting it was the other way around. Then she made some catty remarks about his current girlfriend. Ms. Reid. I gather she’d overheard them having a free-for-all themse
lves.”
Rebecca bit her tongue. It was too late to hate Sheila, much too late. Michael’s face was blank with exhaustion. Earlier he might have honorably corrected “girlfriend” to “fiancée”, but not now. She’d made it very clear they weren’t engaged.
“Aye?” Devlin said again. A furtive sparkle stirred the depths of his eyes. “Must’ve been quite the day for arguments.”
Tony looked up from his grasshopper-like pose on the hearth. Dennis stared at his shoes. Hilary’s hand snaked up to clasp Mark’s where it lay on her shoulder. His eyes were silver mirrors, reflecting the scene before them but revealing nothing of the thoughts moving behind them.
Mackenzie asked Michael, “You were no friend of the victim’s, then?”
“I couldna thole the woman,” Michael replied, sliding back into his broader accent. “Oh aye, I put up wi’ her well enough once. But that was a long time ago, in London. Then she wisna…” Mackenzie waited patiently while he frowned, groping for a word. “She wisna jinkin’ aboot like a frantic hare then.”
Jink, Rebecca translated. The word not only meant to swerve or dodge but connoted evasiveness, even dishonesty. Judging by Mackenzie’s slow nod, his Scots was good enough to catch that.
“I have to admit,” said Adele from the end of the couch, “the woman could be exceedingly obnoxious. Her chakras were misaligned. She needed transcendental therapy.”
Mackenzie tilted his head to the side and looked at her blankly.
“A bleedin’ tart’s wot she was,” Elaine spat. “She ‘ad it off wiv ‘arf the men on this dig.” Under stress Elaine’s accent tended to migrate from the BBC studios to London’s East End.
Devlin’s mouth crooked in dry amusement. “Where were you at the time of the murder, Miss Vavra?”
Elaine gulped audibly. “I told you. I drove to Newton St. Boswells to buy cigarettes.”
Dust to Dust Page 13
