Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1)

by Stephen Penner

  Emma took a step back from her husband as her mind's eye filled with the sweet round face of their tenant in 3-E.

  After giving the police the address and his name, Alasdair Baxter hung up the phone and turned to his wife, who had returned to her comfortable wing-backed chair. He walked over and touched her hand.

  "Fionna?" she asked without looking up.

  "Aye."

  And they both looked out the window, there being really nothing more to say.

  * * *

  The drive from Innes House in Morayshire to the Castle of Park in neighboring Banffshire had taken a bit longer than expected, but that was fine with Maggie. It had given the tensions which had sprung up in front of Innes House the opportunity to slowly drain away over the course of the trip. They had stopped for dinner in the town of Buckie, so it was well after eight o'clock when they finally arrived at Park. The sandstone castle, again more château than fortress, was illuminated by floodlights, but Maggie had grown too tired to take notice of much more than the fact that she was almost to a bed. The long day of driving, sight-seeing, and fresh air had exhausted her. There would be time tomorrow to admire the castle's architecture and grounds.

  Met at the front door by both a valet and a bell-hop, they were soon standing in the richly decorated lobby, Maggie and her aunt drowsily admiring the furnishings, Uncle Alex checking in at the front desk.

  "All right then," Alex stepped over to his travelling companions. "We're all checked in. We have the 'Black Watch Suite' on the second floor. There are two bedrooms, plus a private bath and loo. Should be very nice."

  Maggie grunted in tired agreement. The three headed up the stairs, and almost before she realized it, Maggie found herself tucked away in her bed, lavender pajamas on, and the door to her aunt and uncle's bedchamber safely closed. Reaching down to the backpack she had dragged to the side of the bed, she extracted the Dark Book.

  Her body was tired enough, but her mind still needed a bit of quieting before she would be able to surrender to sleep. She had to admit that it had been quite enjoyable to see the various castles and houses and towers associated with her ancestry. She was still wearing her Innes pendant, the silver boar's head laying across her heart. It was pretty cool to be Scottish.

  With that thought in her head, she pulled back the ancient leather cover of the book which predated even Berowald, First Earl of Innes. She carefully turned a few brittle sheets until she found an interesting-looking page. She was pretty sure she had previously translated the words she found there, so she concentrated and tried to remember what they said:

 

  The Dark Book closed and slid from Maggie's limp hands. She was more tired than she'd thought. The soft cadence of her own voice over the ancient Celtic words had ushered her softly into the trance of dreams.

  16. Mary Jane Kelly

  Elizabeth Warwick looked up at the facade of the Pittodrie Flats. The street itself was rather dark, lit only by a pair of dim streetlamps and the glow from the occupied flats above. Her attention was therefore immediately drawn to the flood of light which spilled out of the door directly in front of her. In the doorway stood an older man in a light blue cardigan sweater, shivering against the cold and waving frantically to them.

  "There he is," Willis announced unnecessarily. He had insisted on coming along.

  "Thank you. I see him."

  Although it had been surprisingly pleasant weather that day, the warmth had left with the setting sun, replaced by a typically cold, late-October Scottish night. The man at the door was likely freezing in his thin sweater, but he would just have to wait.

  Warwick scanned the scene. She could feel the acid burning an ulcer into her stomach. The first murder, four weeks ago to the day, had been grisly enough. But ever since she first stood over the prone body of Annette Graham, Warwick had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. That murder had been so ritualistic, the methods of killing and dismemberment so exact, the positioning of the organs so precise, that it was obviously part of some larger plan, even if only the enigmatic machinations of a madman. It would have been an act of the purest optimism—and naïveté—to have believed that the killer would stop after only one victim. Warwick had therefore spent the ensuing days and weeks trying desperately to unearth the clue or clues which could point to the identity of the murderer, could lead to his arrest, could prevent the next killing. As the weeks dragged on, few leads turned up, but so too were there no more murders. And against her better judgment, Warwick had allowed herself to hope that perhaps she had been wrong, that perhaps there would be no more killings. But now she was on the brink of standing over the body of victim number two, her hopes dashed and her hard work inadequate to save the life of whoever this young woman used to be.

  Warwick shook her head to clear her thoughts. She had been in the business long enough to know not to let her personal emotions interfere with the job at hand. It may have been too late for this victim, but she had to do whatever she could at this scene to prevent a third victim from falling at the murderer's hands. For this second murder, by initial accounts as violent as the first, had served to confirm her fear that they were in fact dealing with a serial killer. All the more reason to get on with the job and to do it right.

  She walked over to the old man at the door. He was probably around 60, with an almost completely bald head framed in gray fuzz. His eyes betrayed his fear.

  "Thank God you've come!" He didn't wait for her to say hello. "She's in 3-E. This way."

  Following behind the old man, and Willis bringing up the rear, Warwick asked, "What's your name, sir?"

  "Eh? Oh, Alasdair Baxter. I'm the superintendent for the building." Then he added with obvious discomfort at the memory, "I'm the one who found her body."

  Thankfully, there was a lift. Warwick really did not want to follow the aged Mr. Baxter up three flights of stairs. As they waited for the elevator, she could hear the approaching sirens of the other officers responding to the call. Inspector Cameron would most likely be among them.

  After a brief but jerky elevator ride, Warwick, Willis and Alasdair Baxter walked down the narrow hallway to flat 3-E.

  "All right then," Mr. Baxter said opening the door with his key. "Here it is."

  An overwhelming stench of death and sorrow pounced on them from inside the flat. After an involuntary gag, Warwick drew herself up again and ventured into the room, hand over her nose. She could hear Willis still coughing in the hallway behind her.

  "I'll just wait here with Mr. Baxter, shall I?" he called out between hacks. Warwick ignored him.

  The only light was from the overhead fixture near the door. Had the victim turned it on as she entered, or the killer as he left? Had he been waiting for her in the dark? She would have to look closer for signs of forced entry. Turning the corner into the living room, Warwick suddenly stopped: the girl's lifeless foot was sticking out from behind the other side of the couch. She closed her eyes and steeled herself. This was not going to be pleasant. Taking as deep a breath as the pungent air would allow, she walked sharply around the couch and pulled up short in front of the bloody carnage she found there.

  Sgt. Elizabeth Warwick had been an officer in the Aberdeen Police Department for five years, and had been in law enforcement in rural Northern England for two years prior to that. She had been to twenty-nine murder scenes that she could remember off the top of her head and had responded to an incalculable number of accident scenes where people had been burned alive in their automobiles or decapitated in some industrial accident. And of course, four weeks earlier she had stood over the butchered body of Annette Graham. She had known exactly what to expect when she came around that couch. She had known what to expect and she had been right. And still she turned away in horror, hand o
ver her mouth, and hoped she wouldn't vomit.

  After a few moments, she reluctantly returned her gaze to the bloody corpse at her feet. There was no doubt that it was the handiwork of the same evil soul. Indeed, at first glance the scene appeared identical to that of Annette Graham's murder. This woman had the same deep blood encrusted slice circling her throat. She too had had her arms placed at her sides and legs pushed together. She too had had her garments carefully pushed aside, her stomach carefully sliced open, and each and every one of her organs carefully extracted. And the killer had had the foresight to bring a two inch wide flat stone with him which he had once again balanced between the victim's closed, lifeless eyes. The only difference that Warwick could notice between this scene and the one on the stone pathway at the college was that the distinctive lung-heart-lung combination was now to the victim's right—Warwick's left as she looked down—rather than above the victim's head. Otherwise the same organs appeared to surround the body and Warwick didn't have to look far to spot the stinking brown pile of those remaining organs deemed unworthy of whatever ritual the killer had engaged in.

  "Jack the Ripper he's not."

  Warwick drew in a sharp breath despite herself. The voice itself was familiar but she had not been expecting it. Nor had she heard its owner walk into the flat while she was engrossed in thought.

  "How's that, Inspector?" She waited to finish the question before she turned around.

  "I said, he's no Jack the Ripper." Cameron stepped forward to stand next to the sergeant and pointed at the body. "You have heard of Jack the Ripper?"

  "Of course," she replied, trying not to be offended at the question. "Whitechapel. 1888. But what makes you say our killer's not like the Ripper?"

  "The Ripper killed five women, right? Do you recall when and where their bodies were found?"

  "Not at the moment, no."

  "Well, the murders took place over ten weeks. All the victims were prostitutes who worked outside the city gate to London. The first four victims were all found outside, strangled and butchered not unlike this poor girl here."

  Warwick winced. "So how is our man not like Jack the Ripper then?"

  "Ah well," Cameron turned away from the bloody corpse and looked about the room. "The fifth victim was a prostitute named Mary Jane Kelly. I only mention she was a prostitute because she must have been accustomed to taking strange men back to her flat. Her body was found inside, like this poor thing."

  Warwick closed her eyes. She knew he hadn't meant what he'd just suggested, but she decided to clear it up anyway. "You're not saying the girl here was a prostitute?"

  Cameron's face screwed up in embarrassment. "No, of course not. No, no. My point is this." He turned again to the dead girl's body. "All the Ripper's other victims—he killed them outside, and cut them up outside. He even killed two in one night, the first one just strangled, but the second one with her kidney cut out and taken from the scene. It was as if he'd been interrupted with the first girl so he found another victim as soon as he could. But with Mary Jane Kelly, he knew he'd have no interruptions. Just like here."

  Warwick winced again at the thought of the killer taking his sweet time in his evil deed.

  "But see, Mary Jane Kelly's body was different from the rest. He'd not stopped with just her kidney. He just kept cutting and cutting and cutting. Cut open every part of her you could think of. Her legs were sliced open to the bone from groin to ankle, and half her face was missing. He'd had all the time in the world and he didn't stop until there wasn't anything left to cut."

  Warwick nodded. Now she remembered.

  "And then," Cameron concluded, "the murders stopped. It was like he'd finally sated whatever demons had possessed him."

  "But here," Warwick finished the logic, "our man had the same opportunity, but did no more and no less than he'd done outside where anyone could have run across him at any time."

  "Which is not to belittle the severity of the butchery here," Cameron observed, "but he's not just a madman who wants to cut up women."

  Warwick looked at the dead woman's body and frowned. She closed her eyes. "And he's not sated yet either."

  Cameron sighed and nodded his head. "I'd wager you're right."

  Then the two officers stepped back out into the hallway to give space to the forensics officers who were arriving. Neither had yet noticed the flashing light on Fionna FitzSimmons' answering machine.

  17. A Healer

  "Maggie Devereaux?" The voice was pleasant, with only the softest urgency. "Maggie, wake up, child."

  Maggie rolled over and opened her eyes. She lay in a luxuriously decorated bedchamber and a woman's smiling face hovered before her. In her initial grogginess, Maggie let herself believe she was the lady of a medieval castle being awakened by her maid servant—before she then woke up enough to recognize her Aunt Lucy's smiling visage.

  "Mmmhm," Maggie managed to say as she sat up in the surprisingly comfortable bed. The Dark Book lay to one side; She had to resist the urge to quickly shove it behind her lest she thereby actually attract her aunt's attention to it. She must have fallen asleep while reading. She had slept like a stone, and although she felt as if she'd dreamt the whole time, the night's visions were dancing just out of her memory's reach.

  "What time is it?" she asked.

  "A bit after eight. You were tired, weren't you? Alex and I have already cleaned up so the bath's free. You'll want to get up now. They stop serving breakfast at nine."

  In short order, Maggie had risen, showered and dressed, once again stringing the Innes crest around her neck and under her sweater. Breakfast was a leisurely affair and although technically the kitchen stopped serving at nine, they had had no trouble allowing the MacTarys and their niece to linger over coffee to discuss the day's plans. The big event would be a tour of the castle's portrait gallery, but as that wouldn't open until noon on a Sunday, it was decided to spend the remainder of the morning strolling the grounds of the Park estate.

  The grounds extended over sixty acres, an area far too great to cover in one morning, but there were several pleasant walking paths which led through various gardens and wooded areas on the property. After visiting two separate rose gardens and a shrubbery, Maggie and the MacTarys followed one of the paths to an old kirk nestled near the edge of the estate.

  The kirk was made entirely of stone and stood no more than fifteen feet tall, save the steeple which jutted up proudly above the low front door. Old and somewhat in disrepair, the small church had been boarded off from entry, lest some curious hotel guest wander in and injure him- or herself. Luckily however, the kirkyard could not be so sealed off and soon Maggie found herself treading lightly through the smallish cemetery tucked behind the stone church.

  "A lot of estates had their own kirks back in the late middle ages," Alex explained as he glanced back at the gray edifice casting a cool shadow over the graveyard. "It wasn't always convenient, or safe, to travel into town for mass."

  Maggie was only half listening as she began to read the faded tombstones of the kirkyard.

  "Most," Alex went on, "like this one, ended up being deconsecrated as it became easier to go into town, and too expensive to house a priest at the castle to administer mass to only one family and a few servants."

  "Here it is!" Maggie shouted, entirely not in response to anything her uncle had been saying.

  "What?" Lucy strode over quickly from where she had been examining the stones of the kirk wall. Alex followed close behind.

  Maggie pointed triumphantly at a faded, weather-worn tombstone. She had been scanning the gravemarkers looking for a name she recognized from her grandmother's genealogy. She had succeeded.

  "What does it say?" Her aunt squinted but couldn't make out the worn letters on the gravestone.

  "It says: 'Brigia Innsia Gordonia,'" Maggie read aloud, "'Nata quartum decimum Aprilis A.D. 1600. Mortua septimum Augustus A.D. 1652. Uxor Alexanderi. Mater Margeritae. Sanatrix totus.'"

  Lucy smiled at h
er husband, then asked her niece, "And what does that mean? Our Latin's a bit rusty. That was Latin, right?"

  "Uh, right. Sorry." Maggie grinned uncomfortably. "Let's see. It means: 'Brìghde Innes Gordon. Born the fourteenth of April, 1600. Died the seventh of August, 1652. Wife of Alexander. Mother of Margaret. Healer of All.'"

  "Hm," Lucy observed.

  "Margaret, huh?" Alex asked. "Like your name."

  "Right," Maggie replied, her mind turning. "I think this is my great, great, great, and so on, grandmother."

  "Really?" Lucy was surprised. "How do you know that?"

  Maggie frowned in thought. "I did my genealogy once. We were able to trace one branch all the way back to a Brìghde Innes who was born in 1600. And I think her daughter was named Margaret."

  "I wonder if she's buried here too?" Alex looked around the small graveyard.

  "Probably not," Lucy answered as Alex began to wander off. "She's likely buried with her husband at his family's cemetery."

  "Yeah, you're probably right," Maggie answered dejectedly.

  "Not necessarily," Alex called out from the kirkyard fence. "Take a look over here."

  Maggie and her aunt scurried quickly over to Alex' position and peered down at two equally worn grave markers, one inside the fence and the other outside it. Maggie translated the names from their Latinized forms.

  "'James Wilkie' and 'Margaret NicInnes Wilkie.' Yup, this is them." Maggie nodded her head authoritatively, then asked, "Is 'Wilkie' a clan name?"

  Alex frowned for a moment. "Hmm. I don't believe so, although it may be a sept of a clan. If not, though, that may explain why they ended up here on her family's lands rather than his."

  Maggie grunted in agreement, as she pondered why the fence would split the late couple.

  "What else does is say?" Lucy encouraged.

  Maggie looked to the stone outside the kirkyard. "Okay, um: 'Margaret NicInnes Wilkie. Wife and Mother. Born the eighteenth of January, 1620.'"