Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1)

by Stephen Penner

  Maggie looked back to her aunt and uncle. "Hey, that's my birthday too," she shared. "Ooh, that's kinda spooky."

  Shivering at this somewhat morbid coincidence, she turned again to the gravestone. "Anyway: 'Born the eighteenth of January, 1620...'" She paused, double checking her translation of the Latin.

  "What is it?" Lucy asked.

  "Um," Maggie's lips twisted into a crooked frown. "Well, I'm pretty sure it says: 'Burned the twenty-second day of December, 1646.'"

  "Burned?" Lucy and Alex asked in unison.

  "Um, yeah." Maggie looked again at the iron rail separating her ancestor's grave from the churchyard. "That means she was a witch, right?"

  "Well, they thought she was, anyway," Alex replied. "That might explain why they wouldn't bury her inside the kirkyard."

  "Uh, yeah," Maggie agreed, peering back at the little Catholic church. "That it might."

  Maggie considered this unexpected information. Grandma had conveniently failed to mention during any of their genealogy sessions that they had an ancestor who'd been burned as a witch.

  "And she was only twenty-six when she died," Lucy observed. "What a shame."

  Maggie and Alex both looked again at the gravestone. Maggie frowned again.

  "Hey, you're twenty-six as well, aren't you, Maggie?" Alex asked.

  Maggie paused and looked at the gravemarker. '.' "Um. Yeah," she replied quietly.

  Then she gathered herself up. "Okay, I'm done," she announced. "We can go."

  * * *

  Following a light lunch—except for Alex who had enjoyed a hearty helping of beef and turnips—Maggie and the MacTarys made their way to the castle's portrait gallery, located conveniently on the third floor of the hotel. There was no lift.

  Just before the entrance to the gallery was the castle's 'museum,' which looked to Maggie suspiciously like a gift shop. Her aunt and uncle had also noticed the museum and Lucy was already inside examining the crystal baubles for sale within.

  "Did you want to look in the museum?" Alex asked Maggie while keeping a watchful eye on his spouse.

  "No, thanks. I'm really more interested in the portraits." She could tell where Alex wanted to be. "But you go ahead in there. I'll grab you guys on my way out."

  "All right, then," Alex was quick to agree, and turned to join his wife, who had already selected two different crystal decanters. Although he knew better that to tell his wife what she could or couldn't buy, he at least wanted to be involved in the selection. "We'll see you in a bit."

  The gallery proved to both fulfill expectations and disappoint hopes. It fulfilled expectations inasmuch as it looked exactly how Maggie would have expected a castle's portrait gallery to look. A long hallway stretched out before her, its butter colored wainscotting rising to hip level, giving way to a rich burgundy wallpaper which extended to the moulded ivory ceiling. A rich multi-colored Persian rug extended to a dark wooden table at the far end of the hallway, where the hall then extended to the right and left, forming a 'T' intersection. Overhead a series of small chandeliers hung every ten feet or so, casting a surprisingly dim light over the hallway. Mood lighting, Maggie assumed. The table at the end of the hallway held a display of cut crystal objects which collected what light was cast by the chandeliers and disbursed it into droplets of rainbow across the table and rug. The paintings which recessed down either side of the hallway were all housed in intricately carved gilded frames, each adorned with a small brass lamp throwing a strong, bright light onto the canvas below it, resulting in the obviously very intentional effect of placing great emphasis on the subjects of the portraits. Maggie stepped into the gallery and purveyed its offerings.

  Which is when she confirmed that the gallery would disappoint as well. Although the collection boasted portraits from as early as the mid-1500s, there was absolutely no sign of Brìghde Innes Gordon. Indeed, with the exception of a rather harsh looking woman from the early 1900s and a pair of truly plain sisters from the 1800s, the remainder of the paintings were of the male leaders of the Clan Gordon. This included Brìghde's husband, Alexander Malcolm James Gordon, second son of the Gordon clan chieftain. In his portrait he was adorned in full Highland dress, green kilt and great plaid hanging aristocratically from his strong frame. He looked quite the chieftain—or at least chieftain's son. Maggie frowned at the likeness.

  Behind every great man..., she thought. Then, she turned and exited the gallery.

  Once outside she stepped into the 'museum,' where she found her aunt and uncle each with several items in their hands and an eye toward the salesclerk.

  "Are we done already then?" Alex asked, suggesting he had little interest in looking at the portraits himself.

  "Yeah. It was interesting, but I think I'm ready to go home."

  "Well, we'll just be a few minutes more and then we can go." Alex looked to his wife for confirmation, who gave it in the form of a crisp nod.

  "In that case," Maggie reflected on the long car ride home. "I think I'll go find the ladies' room. Then I'll just meet you downstairs in the lobby, okay?"

  "The loo?" Alex translated. "Aye, good idea. Okay, we'll see you in the lobby in a few minutes."

  That settled, Alex and Lucy returned to their appraisal of the various items they had selected, and Maggie set off in search of a bathroom. Her search appeared at first to be a short one; she immediately spotted a sign hanging over a door at the other end of the third floor landing. The sign had three of those international symbols which are always drawn inside boxes and are expected to be understood by all, regardless of language: the first box contained the letters 'WC'; the second a silhouette of a man, with his detached ball head; the third, a silhouette of Mrs. Detached-Ball-Head. Maggie hurried on and looked forward to getting home soon. This quick success proved to be a mirage, however, as she traversed the hallway only to find a paper sign taped to the women's restroom. 'Closed for Repairs,' it said, with an added notation underneath, in that small European handwriting: 'Ladies Toilet on 4th Floor.'

  Great, Maggie thought. Now I have to find the stairs and the bathroom.

  The stairwell they had ascended to the portrait gallery stopped at the third floor. So there had to be a separate staircase to the fourth floor. A castle safety precaution, Maggie presumed. She considered returning to the Black Watch Suite until she remembered that they had technically checked out at noon and put their luggage in the car, lest they be charged for another night's stay. Considering this, Maggie noticed for the first time that the castle was eerily quiet. It was that time in a hotel when the previous night's guests had already checked out, but the next night's had not yet arrived. As a result, Maggie was the only one around when she finally found the staircase to the fourth floor.

  Apparently the management didn't expect guests to visit the fourth floor regularly. In addition to the fact that the only access appeared to be through a hidden stairwell that started on the third floor, the lofty stone corridors of this fourth etage were filled with legions of dusty furniture and boxes, some covered in tarps, others with dust and plaster chips adorning their exposed tops. The only light was from a series of small yellow paned windows set high in the stone walls. The light cascading in was filled with the swirling dust of this remote section of the fortress. Peering around, Maggie seriously doubted there was a usable ladies' room anywhere nearby. Nevertheless she set out cautiously down the hallway already planning her irritated demand of the front desk attendant to use the staff restroom.

  Her irritation began to wane somewhat as she became interested in the items lining the walkway. Although no expert on antiques, still she appreciated their workmanship, not to mention their very existence, having survived perhaps centuries of political strife and household catastrophes. Her purview of the furnishings was cut short however, as she spied a recess in the hallway over which hung the same anachronistic 'WC' sign she had seen one floor below. Having thus found her quarry, and hopeful that this door would not bear the sam
e paper-thin bar to entry as its third floor cousin, Maggie hurried past the remaining items and rejoiced at the absence of any 'do not enter' signs.

  Exiting the ladies' room shortly thereafter noticeably more relaxed, Maggie lingered over the various items between herself and the stairs. In addition to furniture, there were also decorative items tilted against the wall. Here, a large carved coat of arms; there, a gilded framed mirror. Here, a tarnished shield; there, an oil-painting of a beautiful blond aristocratic lady.

  Maggie stopped. She pushed her glasses back up her nose and stared in amazement at the portrait leaning against the wall to her right, a tarp lazily covering its upper left corner. It was a stare of recognition. And the woman inside the ornate frame seemed to return the look. Although Maggie couldn't read the tiny letters on the small brass name plate affixed to the bottom of the frame, she knew at least one word that appeared there. It was the same word that had appeared at the bottom of the page in the art book she had found in the subbasement. It was the same word she had read on the worn gravestone in the kirkyard. The beautiful blond noblewoman whose blue catlike eyes shone across the centuries, whose painted visage had been relegated to this forgotten hallway rather than being displayed with honor in the portrait gallery—even without reading the brass plaque, Maggie knew that this woman was her great-times-ten grandmother. Brìghde Innes Gordon. Healer.

  Maggie crossed the room and read the plaque, confirming her beliefs. On it stood two lines: 'A Healer, 1620,' as she had read in the subbasement book, and 'Brìghde Innes Gordon, 1600 – 1652,' as she had read on the kirkyard gravestone. Despite her strong urge to do so, she knew she couldn't just up and appropriate the painting as she had been able to do with the Dark Book. But she felt just as strongly that she ought not to simply abandon ancestor's portrait to this dusty, unvisited corridor. The thought of her female Innes ancestor sitting neglected in this forgotten hallway while her husband stood so proudly below in his green Gordon plaid made Maggie's blood begin to boil. She seriously considered grabbing the portrait, marching back down to the portrait gallery and hanging it on the wall in the space where Alexander the Great's portrait had hung—before she'd flung it violently down the hallway, hopefully shattering a chandelier or two on its way. Or perhaps she should simply slam Brìghde's likeness down on the front desk and scream bloody murder at whichever poor soul happened to be unfortunate to be working there just now. Several more similarly violent and aggressive scenarios rushed through Maggie's mind until, stepping back from herself, she became conscious of just how angry she was. Not normally one quick to temper, she now found herself flushed and sweating, her hands clenched into fists, and her heart pounding in her ears. So thoroughly surprised was she by this, that she stepped away from the painting, took two very deep breaths, and then hurried back up the hallway and down the stairs, her fingers still tingling with adrenaline.

  Perhaps, she considered as she descended the stairs, a strongly worded letter.

  * * *

  The ride home was quiet. Everyone was a bit tired and the beautiful rolling scenery of the Grampian Highlands made a welcome distraction. For her part, Maggie sat comfortably in the back seat and gazed contemplatively out the window. Across her glasses scrolled reflections of the Scottish hills, while before her mind's eye scrolled past a single word: 'Healer.' Among all the things she had seen in the weekend's whirlwind tour of her ancestral lands, it was this one word which had made the greatest impression. Printed in Gaelic in the black ink of the subbasement art book. Carved in Latin in the faded gray of the stone grave marker. Etched in English on the elegant brass plaque affixed to her ancestor's portrait.

  Maggie wondered just what a 'healer' was exactly. But even more than that, the word had ignited a spark inside her that made her wonder what it had to do with herself, her studies, and her grandmother's insistence that she study at Aberdeen.

  18. Twenty Questions

  "Good morning, Mr. Hopkins."

  Lt. Malcolm Russell's voice was calm and reassuring as he sat down casually on the corner of the table Will Hopkins was seated at. The policeman's relaxed demeanor contrasted sharply with the intimidating stone walls of the Aberdeen Police Department's interrogation room.

  "G—Good morning," Will stammered, eyes wide behind his gold rimmed glasses.

  "Thank you for meeting with us."

  Will just nodded, his mouth slightly ajar. Russell stood up again. He was a strapping, heavy-set man in his early 50s. A balding head clung jealously to a small collection of black hairs atop a spotted scalp. His clean shaven face melted into a thick neck which stuck out of the unbuttoned collar of his light blue, underarm-stained dress shirt. A striped red and navy blue tie hung loosely over his sizeable paunch and his sleeves were rolled up, exposing large, hairy forearms and their blurry blue tattoos from his days in the British Navy.

  "You and Miss FitzSimmons were in a relationship, is that correct?"

  "Y—Yes. She," he paused at the tense of the verb, "was my girlfriend."

  "All right then." Lt. Russell crossed over to the only window in the room—a small, depressing thing, its four panes had been frosted over to allow in light, but nothing more. "Boyfriend and girlfriend. Not engaged then?"

  "No," was the simple reply.

  "Any talk of it?" The lieutenant turned around casually, his tone conversational.

  "What, marriage?" Will looked down at his hands, nervously rubbing each others' palms. "Well, I mean, it had come up. We'd discussed it, I suppose. But only generally."

  Russell didn't say anything, just looked at him.

  "Nothing specific," Will added, filling the silence.

  "Okay." Russell walked back over and pulled out the chair opposite his subject, but didn't sit down. "And how long had you been boyfriend and girlfriend?"

  Will looked toward the ceiling in thought. "Er, almost two years. We met during her first year here at Aberdeen. I was in my third year. We started dating in December."

  Russell tuned the chair around and sat backwards on it, facing Will. "Your third year, eh? So you're in your fifth year now, then?"

  "Right."

  The lieutenant smiled, exposing large yellow teeth, stained by decades of coffee and cigarettes. "Just how many years does college take nowadays?"

  Will smiled, despite the circumstances. "Yes, well, it depends on what one is studying," he explained. "A regular degree might take only four years, but I'm in the medical school, so it's usually five. Then residency."

  "Oh, then you're almost done."

  "Right," Will confirmed. "I'll be done in the spring."

  "What's the plan then?" Russell raised his eyebrows in what appeared to be genuine interest.

  "Well, then residency. Working at a hospital as a new doctor."

  "And where will you do that?"

  "I don't know for sure yet, but I'm hoping to get back to London."

  "Are you from London, then?"

  "Yes, Kensington," Will smiled.

  Russell looked down at his thick fingers which had begun to drum the tabletop absently. "Medical residency. That's quite a bit of work, eh?"

  Will gave out a nervous but proud little laugh. "Yes. Long hours and little money. But it's worth it in the end," he asserted.

  "No time for a family really, then?" Russell looked up from the table to his subject's eyes.

  "No, not—" Will stopped and met his questioner's gaze. "No. I don't know. Maybe."

  The lieutenant stood up again and started to pace the room.

  "All right then, Mr. Hopkins. Let's talk about Friday evening, shall we?"

  Will sat forward and crossed his hands on the table. "All right."

  "Let's start with the basics," Russell said. "Where were you that evening, say starting around six o'clock?"

  Will loosened his hands and lowered his eyes in thought. "I, um, had an early dinner—around five thirty—and then spent the rest of the night studying."

  "Where?"

  "At my apartment."
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  "Alone?"

  Will grimaced at this. "Yes," he sighed. "Alone."

  "And at your apartment, not at the library?"

  "No. I study best alone," Will defended. "Besides the medical campus is some distance away. I prefer to study at home when I can."

  "Okay. If you say so." Russell clasped his hands behind his back, but continued to pace. "And you don't live out by the medical campus?"

  "No."

  "You live here near the Old Campus, then?"

  "Right."

  "Why's that?"

  Will took in a deep breath. "Well part of it is that it's closer to Fionna." He grimaced again. "Was closer to Fionna."

  "All right and where was Miss FitzSimmons while you were—what did you say?—while you were studying?"

  Will thought for a moment, then answered, "I don't know. As I said, I was home studying. Alone."

  "Aye, you did say that," Russell acknowledged, then stopped directly in front of Will and turned to look him in the eye. "So let me make sure I understand what you're telling me: On a Friday night, having chosen an apartment to be close to your girlfriend of two years, with whom you'd discussed getting married I might add, you elected to spend the entire evening home alone, studying, and you have absolutely no idea where she was. Is that what you're going to tell me?"

  Will set his jaw. "Yes."

  "And of course you have no witnesses to vouch for your whereabouts that night, I suppose?"

  Will shoved himself back in his chair. "No. Look, Fionna knew how important my career is to me. It wasn't unusual for us to spend an evening apart—even a Friday evening. In fact it was rare that one of us wasn't studying either Friday or Saturday night. And as for witnesses, no, I don't have any. I didn't know I'd need any. In fact, it hadn't even occurred to me until just now that I was even considered a suspect and—"

  "Calm yourself, Will." Lt. Russell's tone returned to its reassuring, conversational tenor and he held up a hand. "No one's accused you of anything. We're just trying to figure out what happened."