She turned toward the door and headed back out into the night, the squeaks of her shoes on the wooden floor attracting the attention of more than one diner at the pub.
"Good job, Devereaux," she cursed herself. A long glance in either direction revealed no sign of Fionna. "Now what?"
She realized she didn't know where Fionna lived or even what her phone number was. Not eager to reenter—and remoisten—the pub, Maggie hopped back onto her bike and began the relatively short pedal to her aunt and uncle's woolens shop. They would probably still be there, cleaning up after hours.
Arriving at the shop a few minutes later, she was greeted heartily by her aunt who unlocked the door for her.
"Look at you," Lucy scolded. "You're soaked to the bone!"
"Aye," Alex added. "What brings you here on such a wet night?"
Maggie shook her head and laughed. "It's kind of a long story," she said as she pushed her thick, wet hair back away from her face. "But, um, do you have a phone book I could use?"
"Well, of course, lass," Alex replied, pulling the directory out from under the counter. Lucy took it from the counter and handed it to her still-dripping niece.
"Thanks," Maggie said as she took the book. "Can I use your phone, too?"
"Sure enough," Lucy replied, pointing to the red tartan curtain behind her husband. "There's a phone in the back room you can use."
Maggie quickly thanked her aunt and uncle and brushed damply past the tartan tapestry to the storeroom beyond. Flipping quickly to the F's, Maggie found first the Fitzes then the FitzSimmonses. There was no 'Fionna' but there was a listing for a 'FitzSimmons, F.' on 'Pittodrie Place.' Maggie had no idea where that was, but figured, What the heck. Might as well give it a try.
What's the worst that can happen?
* * *
As Fionna approached the door to her flat, key at the ready, she heard her telephone start ringing inside.
"Oh, bloody hell." She fought briefly with the lock then flung the door open.
Throwing her purse down on the ground, she dashed inside to grab the phone only to hear the telltale click and hum of the caller hanging up before she'd even had the chance to say, 'Hello?'
The next sound she heard sent an involuntary chill through her veins.
It was the sound of someone closing her apartment door.
Stupidly, she had left it open when she had run inside. She didn't need to turn around to know that whoever it was that had closed her door was now standing inside her flat.
The adrenaline her heart was shooting into her bloodstream rooted her to the spot as she felt the intruder's gaze grab the back of her neck. Somehow though, she managed to turn her body enough to face her pursuer.
"Oh!" she said loudly, the terror falling from her like wet snow from a tree branch. "It's you."
Fionna FitzSimmons let out a loud sigh of relief. "You scared me half to death," she scolded as she turned again to hang up the phone. "What are you doing h—"
That was as much as she managed to say before the garroting wire seized her throat.
* * *
"C'mon, Fionna, pick up," Maggie urged as she counted the rings. Three. Four. Damn.
"Hello. This is Fionna. I'm not able to take your call right now so please leave a message after the tone. Thank you."
"Um, hi, Fionna." Maggie hated leaving messages on answering machines. She never knew what to say. "This is Maggie. Um, Devereaux. Uh, sorry I missed you at—er—I mean, sorry I was late tonight. At the King Street Pub, I mean. I, um, I got there about twenty after six, I guess. The waitress said you had just left. Sorry. I, uh, kinda lost track of time and, well, it's a long story. Yeah, uh, so anyway it's about six-thirty now, so maybe call me if you get in tonight, and um, otherwise I'll call tomorrow. Er, wait—no, I can't call tomorrow. I'll be out of town all weekend. Damn. I'm—okay, well—um, call me if you get in and if not I'll get a hold of you Monday. Okay? Okay. Um, bye."
Fionna FitzSimmons' murderer waited for the message to stop, and then drew the scalpel from a coat pocket and set to work, confident in the knowledge that the task at hand could proceed uninterrupted in the privacy of the victim's own flat.
15. Discoveries
The knock on the door startled Maggie awake.
"Maggie? Maggie, time to get up." Uncle Alex' voice at the door was kind but insistent. "We've a lot of ground to cover before tonight. Are you awake, lass?"
"Yes," Maggie groaned.
"Good. We'll see you downstairs in fifteen minutes for breakfast then."
"Twenty," she counter-offered. If she was going to spend the entire day driving around Northeast Scotland with her aunt and uncle, she was damn well going to shower first. Opening one eye tentatively as she sat slouched on the edge of the bed, she confirmed that the sun had not yet risen. Not terribly surprising for the end of October at the 57th Parallel, but slightly disheartening nonetheless. The bedside clock confirmed it was seven in the morning.
"There had better be coffee with breakfast," she muttered, and then she pulled herself to her feet and shuffled across the floor.
* * *
The hot shower having done the trick, Maggie stood before the mirror atop her dresser and inserted her earrings. She was more awake now and the residual heat from the shower was trapped nicely beneath wool slacks and the heavy wool sweater she had bought from her aunt and uncle's shop the week before—at discount of course. Looking to her jewelry box she noticed the silver Innes Clan crest pendant her grandmother had left her. Lifting it up, the light from a nearby lamp glinted off the letters which scrolled above the boar's head: 'BE TRAIST.' Be True.
Maggie hadn't worn the pendant she'd arrived in Scotland. It had seemed a bit contrived to wander around Aberdeen with her clan badge dangling around her neck. But it seemed more than appropriate to don the necklace now. After all, she was about to spend a day exploring the ancestral lands of the Clan Innes, followed by a night at the Clan Gordon's Castle of Park where her great-times-ten grandmother may have slept after marrying a son of the Gordon Chieftain. She fastened the clasp behind her neck and tucked the pendant securely inside her sweater.
She grabbed her two bags and headed downstairs for breakfast. In the small suitcase were her toiletries and a change of clothes. In her back pack were a couple of the books she had bought from Sinclair's shop and, of course, the Dark Book. She didn't really expect to have time to read anything, but she decided to bring the newer books along just in case. And the black leather tome would not be leaving her side again until the full translation was completed, published, and generally hailed by the relevant academic community.
* * *
"What a cute little town," Maggie opined as the MacTary's car approached the outskirts of city. "This is Elgin then?"
"Aye, the largest city in Morayshire," her uncle replied, "and the beginning of our tour. I believe Elgin boasts several monuments associated with the Clan Innes."
"Was Elgin," Maggie ventured as Uncle Alex turned the car sharply into the parking lot which had suddenly emerged from behind a building to their left, "sort of the capital for the clan?"
"Not exactly," Alex answered as they rolled to a stop in a snug parking stall. "It's not as if the Inneses all lived inside some castle here and ruled the surrounding lands by proclamation. All the clans were different. The Inneses were more simply the landlords of the area than the government. And Elgin just happened to grow into the largest city on the Innes holdings. But there's plenty here to give you a taste of the importance the Clan has had in the everyday life of people here."
As they set out in search of such, Maggie looked up. It was a rare autumn day in the Highlands: not a cloud in the sky. She hoped she wouldn't end up being too warm in her wool sweater. Looking around the picturesque medieval town that was slowly passing by her on either side, she wondered whether it was this sunny back in Aberdeen.
* * *
The late morning sun shone down on the King's Tower, casting a short but distinct sha
dow on the grass below. Nearby, a group of students, enjoying their Saturday, avoided the cool shade under the red and golden trees and walked instead on the sunlit stone path toward King Street. The sidewalks of King Street in turn were bustling with students and shoppers and residents enjoying what threatened to be the last sunny Saturday for the foreseeable future. One young family, a husband and wife and their infant son, turned from King Street onto Pittodrie Place, heading for the park at the end of the quay. Just ahead of them, the warm sun radiated softly onto the cement sidewalk in front of the Pittodrie Flats, stretching up the building's facade and reflecting brilliantly off the apartment windows. And although it was still cool outside in the shade, the windows of all of the south facing flats had been opened in the hope that some fresh air might offset the oven-like effect of the sun beating down on their panes. The windows of all of the south facing flats, that is, except 3-E.
* * *
Lunch was had, of course, at a local pub in Elgin. By lunch time, they had visited several of Elgin's more popular attractions, including the ruins of the 13th century cathedral once called 'The Lantern of the North,' and the Elgin Museum, with its displays on life in the Highlands. In truth, however, there were few of the promised indications of the importance of the Innes Clan in the city's history, aside from the occasional name on the occasional plaque at the occasional historic venue. So over lunch it was decided to drive out to nearby Coxton Tower to view at least one monument clearly associated with the Clan.
The drive was short enough and soon Maggie found herself standing in a dirt path looking up at the Tower.
"So, this was the Innes castle then?" Maggie asked, her head tipped almost all the way back as she scanned the facade of the tower house. Four stories tall and not much wider than a large room, the tower's four small windows guided her eyes from the grass at its base to the blue sky at its top. The roof was pitched, with three parapets jutting from its corners, and a thin chimney completed the diminutive tower's stretch toward the sky. She had tried to hide the disappointment in her voice at the sight of the small tower. She was pretty sure she'd failed.
"Well, no, not exactly," Alex replied. Lucy had elected to linger near the car. "This here isn't a full castle, it's just a tower house built for military fortification. I believe there may have once been an actual 'Innes Castle,' but it was destroyed during the Civil War—Cromwell and all that." He paused and stroked his chin. "But there is an 'Innes House' still in use not too far from here. It's really more of a residence than a castle, but it's impressive enough."
Maggie smiled at this bit of news. "Can we go there too?"
"Oh, aye, of course," Alex replied. Then he turned back toward his wife. "I think I'd best head back and see how Lucy's doing. But you stay here and poke around as long as you like. Then we can drive out to Innes House. It's close enough."
And with that, Alex began a leisurely stroll back to the car.
Maggie stared up again at the stone tower before her. She walked the perimeter of the structure, gazing up at the steep walls and high turrets, but she elected not to go inside save poking her head in quickly for a brief view of the abandoned first floor chamber. The afternoon sun was still high in the Highland sky, but she knew that it wouldn't be that long before it began its quick descent behind the horizon, and she wanted to see Innes House before dark.
* * *
Alasdair Baxter closed the door to his flat as he finished saying, "Thank you, Mrs. Davies. I'll look into it. Thank you."
"Who was that, love?" the rotund Mrs. Baxter asked from her comfortable wing-backed chair near the window. Afternoon tea was set out on the table next to her and she was awaiting her husband's return before pouring.
"Mrs. Davies from 3-F," Mr. Baxter responded as he lifted his keys from the hook by the door. "Says there's some kind of evil smell coming from 3-E."
"Oh," Mrs. Baxter replied. "Isn't that what the Hendersons said as well?"
"Aye," his voice held a slight weariness. "I imagine I ought to see what the girl's up to." He shook his head as his hand grasped the doorknob. "I wish they wouldn't rent to students."
"Aye, love," Mrs. Baxter smiled. "But if they didn't, then they'd have not enough tenants and little need for a resident superintendent and his loving wife."
Alasdair smiled at his bride of thirty-four years. "I suppose you're right, of course." He opened the door. "I'll just go straighten this out and be right back. Keep the tea warm?"
"I'll not pour it 'til you return."
And as the door closed behind her husband, Emma Baxter felt a sudden chill despite the warmth of the day.
* * *
The car turned onto the long drive which led to Innes House, and Maggie got her first glimpse of the enormous stately stone mansion. It was all white and boasted an ornate facade, a stone perimeter wall, immaculately manicured lawns, and a large square tower crowned with a British flag waving in the afternoon breeze. To Maggie's eyes, Innes 'House' looked very much like a castle indeed. She was reminded of the French word château, with its combined meanings of house and castle.
They quickly motored to the end of the mile-long driveway which led to the majestic residence, and as they approached the front gate, Alex pulled the car onto the side of the road and turned off the engine. "The House is still inhabited by the descendants of Berowald, who was made First Earl of Innes back in the twelfth century," he explained. "So it isn't open to the public. However," he flashed a smile at his wife and niece, "there's no prohibition against admiring it from afar."
As they exited the car and walked toward the mansion, Maggie felt that contradiction of emotions inherent in being an American visiting a British castle. On the one hand, castles, being rather hard to find in the United States, cannot help but evoke romantic images of knights and chivalry and Camelot. On the other hand, the British flag flying atop the stronghold's square tower tended to remind Maggie of the war her country had fought to free itself from the oppression of the British system of royalty, hierarchy and privilege. She liked the castle, but she was glad she didn't have to be a citizen of a country where some people were accepted as being better simply because of who their parents were. And yet here she was touring the sites of her own ancestry. Her brow creased at the paradoxes. She decided not to think about it anymore.
"So how big did the Innes holdings get, Uncle Alex?" she was walking next to her uncle while Lucy trailed behind a ways. While pleasant enough company, Aunt Lucy had not shown a great interest in the sights they had visited so far.
"Fairly large, I'm sure, though I can't tell you exactly how big." Alex rubbed his chin as they stopped to gaze upon the intricate detailing of the House's windows. "Estate sizes would grow and shrink. The Highlands had a different way of owning land than the English system used in the Lowlands. In this particular area, there was likely a hybrid of both. In any event, land would move around from family to family and even clan to clan as people died or got married."
"Interesting connection you've drawn there," Lucy laughed. She had come up behind them. "Death and marriage."
Alex laughed too. "I didn't mean it that way. But I suppose they both could have a substantial effect on a family's holdings."
"What would happen if a daughter of the chieftain married into a different clan?" Maggie was thinking of her great-times-ten grandmother, Brìghde Innes. "Would she bring land to the new clan?"
"Well, that depends," Alex started.
"She might as part of her dowry," Lucy interjected. "But as a rule, women didn't own land."
"Now, that's not entirely true," Alex countered. "The clan system allowed for a woman to own land." He raised a proud eyebrow at Maggie, "Unlike the English system."
"In theory," Lucy shot back. "But once she married, her husband would take over all administration of the lands. She might as well not own it."
Alex frowned over this for a moment. "Well, I suppose you're right. At least it's not worth arguing over. Things have changed for the better, I thi
nk, eh, Maggie?"
Maggie nodded in agreement, but before she could say anything Lucy jumped in again.
"Yes and no," she said with a cutting laugh. "We can own land and vote now, but we still have to take our husband's name."
Maggie had to nod at this too, although it was less true for her generation than perhaps it had been for her aunt's.
"Well, yes and no," Alex echoed back, obviously irritated that his wife seemed to want an argument. "You still wear your MacLeod badge to Braemar every year."
"Aye, but I'm a MacTary now, sept of the Clan Innes," she replied, not quite bitterly. "And if we'd have had children, they'd all be MacTary's too, not MacLeods."
"Aye, well," Alex looked away. "That's not a concern, is it?"
At this, Lucy's face turned a sick shade of white. She didn't say anything, just stared at her husband's turned away face. Then without a word, she whirled and started back toward the car.
Maggie looked after her, thoroughly puzzled.
After another few moments, Alex sighed and put his arm around his niece. "C'mon, Maggie. We'd best get going. We'll want to make it to Park before too late."
Maggie nodded a third time, still trying to figure out what had just happened.
* * *
"Oh, bloody hell!" Alasdair Baxter threw open the door to his flat. "I can't believe it! It can't be true!" He ran over to the telephone.
Emma Baxter pushed herself up from her seat by the window. "What is it, love?" She'd never seen him like this.
Ignoring his wife's question, Alasdair punched the wall as he waited for the call to go through. "Sweet bleeding hell! Hello? Police! Get me the police!"
"Alasdair, love," Emma put a hand on her husband's shoulder. "What's wrong?"
He turned to her and displayed the horror in his eyes. "3-E," he tried to explain, the receiver still to his ear. "The girl ... It's ... —Hello?"
Someone had picked up on the other end of the line.
"Yes. I need the police. Now!" His eyebrows knitted over the panicked sidelong glance he threw to his wife. "There's been a murder!"
Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Page 14
