Maggie was getting ready to leave herself. While this was going on the waiter had stopped by and asked her if she wanted another rootbeer. She declined with an embarrassed smile and asked for the check. After paying, she was left with the dilemma of whether to stop by Ellen's table and say, 'Hi.' On the one hand, Ellen was a friend. On the other, she felt awkward having just spied on her. The first hand won out.
"Hi, Ellen."
Ellen looked up with a blank expression that quickly changed to one of friendly recognition. "Oh, hi, Maggie! How are you? Did you just get here? Sit down."
"Oh, no, that's okay," Maggie waved her hand at the suggestion. She thought the waiter might still be watching her. "I've actually been here for a while, sitting in the back studying." She slapped gently at the book under her arm.
"Oh," was all Ellen replied.
"Was that Will?" Well, she had to ask eventually.
"Er, yes," Ellen decided to answer. "Yes, it was."
"How's he doing?"
Ellen frowned and shrugged. "Not good. He's really terribly sad. Can't blame him really, though, can you? And being here in Aberdeen all the time just reminds him."
"I bet," Maggie offered.
"Aye, so he's heading back to London tomorrow. He's actually been in London every weekend since—since Fionna was murdered. He was there when Kelly was killed, too. He's had most of his exams either waived or postponed. I don't—" She hesitated. "I don't know if he'll be coming back."
"That's too bad," Maggie nodded supportively. "It must be unbearable to lose someone you love." The sentence brought back faint stabs at the thought of her grandmother's death, and of her mother before.
"Aye," Ellen fiddled with her glass. "And it's all the worse. You didn't know this, but— Well, Fionna was pregnant."
Maggie was stunned. And then deeply saddened. "Oh dear..." she started.
"Aye," Ellen nodded, "and it was complicated. Will wasn't even sure if he was ready to be a father. They'd talked about— Well, they'd talked about other options, and I don't mean adoption. Fionna's brother was livid. But now, Will— Well, you can imagine the guilt." She shook her head sadly, then raised her gaze to Maggie. "I was trying to console him, you know?"
Maggie smiled at her friend. "I know."
The conversation paused then and the two women waited uncomfortably for several moments.
"Are you heading back into the college, then?" Ellen asked finally, standing up.
"No, actually. I'm heading home. It's getting late."
Ellen nodded and dropped a banknote on the table. "Aye, good idea. I'll walk out with you."
The two walked out into the dimming late afternoon. Ellen thinking about Lord knows what, and Maggie thinking about everything but her school work.
And only ten days left.
38. Feasgar Math, a Shuinclair
After another good night's rest, Maggie spent Saturday morning debating whether or not to proceed with the course of action she had thought of the evening before. She had concluded that her problem lay in the fact that she had learned the how and the what of the murders—both in Aberdeen and Glenninver—but not the why. Or the who. It was in search of the why that she had considered this option. It was because of the who that she hesitated.
Eventually, though, with a good lunch in her stomach and her nerves calmed by yet another rootbeer at The Boar and Thistle, Maggie elected to pursue the only option she knew of which might shed some light on the reasons behind the murders, on whatever it was the killer hoped to accomplish with his ritual.
The bus dropped her off only a few blocks away, and she only had to take one deep calming breath before pushing open the door, jingling the string of bell's which hung on its back.
The bookshop was just as she remembered it, except that a rather old looking man was walking straight at her.
"Excusse me misss," he said as he ducked around her to the door.
From behind his counter, Devan Sinclair called out, "See you again soon, Doctor."
Then Sinclair looked as his new arrival. A faint smile broached his lips.
"Good day, Miss Devereaux."
Okay, so what's the best way to play this? Maggie asked herself.
"No 'Maggie' today?" she asked.
"Ah, well, I'm working, aren't I?" Sinclair's smile deepened. "Sometimes it's best to stay professional." This last observation was accompanied by a curt and confident nod.
"Most likely," she agreed. "Well then, could you help me find some books, Mr. Sinclair?"
"I'll try to help. What are you looking for?"
"Do you have anything in Gaelic?"
Maggie wasn't sure but she thought she saw the slightest glint of surprise cross behind his eyes. "That's right, you speak Gaelic. For your studies, correct?"
"Tha, tha Gàidhlig agam," Maggie smiled broadly. "A bheil Gàidhlig agaibh?"
Sinclair paused and stared at Maggie. Finally he answered, in English, "Yes, I can speak Gaelic. But I choose not to."
"Oh, that's too bad," Maggie flashed an enigmatic smile. "How is it that you know Gaelic? Most Scots don't."
Sinclair paused again. He appeared uncomfortable under his controlled facade. "I learned it when I was young."
"Oh," Maggie tipped her head in interest. "Are you from a Gàidhealtachd?"
Sinclair paused again. His longest pause yet. Finally he straightened himself up. "What kind of book are you looking for, Miss Devereaux?"
Maggie smiled again. "Well, putting aside the Gaelic books for a moment, I was actually hoping that I could buy that book I saw the last time I was here."
Sinclair's brows lowered as he tried to recall what book she was referring to. "Which one was that again?"
"Er, the one that wasn't for sale then?" She opened her big brown eyes as wide as she could.
Sinclair frowned. "It's still not for sale, Miss Devereaux."
"Oh, come on, Devan," she leaned forward onto the counter. She hoped she was being flirty. "Won't you be nice to me?"
"Miss Devereaux," he looked at her, the way one might look at a younger sister. "Maggie. I am being nice to you. I won't help you in what you've been doing. I warned you against it, but you've obviously ignored me. I won't help you on this path. So don't ask me to."
Maggie was uncertain what to say. Finally she pulled her purse around and fished in it for her wallet. "Look. Fine. Whatever. Just sell me the stupid book. How much is it? I'll pay double."
"The book is not for sale."
"Come on—"
"No. It's impossible. The book is gone."
Maggie stopped, her wallet halfway out of her purse. "Gone?"
"Gone."
Well, great. Now what? "Well..."
"Actually, do you know what, Miss Devereaux?" Sinclair walked around the counter. "I think I'll close up the shop early today. Suddenly I'm not feeling so well. Thank you for coming, but if you'd be good enough to accompany me to the door?"
"Well, I—" Sinclair took her by the elbow and steered her to the exit.
"Thank you for coming. Good day."
He closed the door solidly behind her. She turned around just in time to see him flip the 'OPEN' sign to 'CLOSED.'
Maggie stood there for a moment in the cold December afternoon, disbelieving and unsure what to do next. An old lady walked up to the door as well, but then stopped and looked at the 'CLOSED' sign.
"Is the bookshop closed already?" she asked with obvious disappointment.
"Afraid so," Maggie replied. "Apparently Mr. Sinclair's not feeling himself today."
She was unaware of the truth hidden in her own words.
39. Open to Suggestion
Warwick walked slowly down Aberdeen Quay. She could see the train station two blocks away down Victoria Street. She was reviewing the case in her head. There were lots of numbers to remember: three victims, four weeks apart, five dead children a generation ago, six bloody organs around the corpses. And seven days until it would be four weeks since the third victim.
She glanced around the area. There were more trees here then she had ever realized or noticed before. She heard Maggie Devereaux's voice in her head: 'The key's in the tree' and 'It feels nearby.'
But she could also hear Cameron's voice: 'You'll have my job someday, but not if you start doing foolish things' and 'What were you thinking, Elizabeth?'
"Maybe..." she mused aloud. "But no, that wouldn't be prudent."
As she walked along she caught sight of a stout oak in a small park. The park had a view of the train station and the oak, its branches bare in the winter cold, had a large knothole about six feet off the ground.
Warwick stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at the knothole. She stood there for a very long time, her hands on her hips and her mind debating fiercely with itself. Finally, she looked around, confirmed there was no one watching her, and stepped off the concrete path onto the frozen lawn of the park.
* * *
Maggie sat twisted up on the couch in her aunt and uncle's living room. Spread out on the cushions and the floor were several books, including a tour book of Aberdeen and the surrounding countryside. In her hand was her guidebook about Scotland's stone circles. As she had hoped, several of the better preserved circles were near Aberdeen.
Now she just needed a ride...
* * *
Warwick removed her empty hand from the knothole.
"Stupid, Elizabeth," she muttered, embarrassed. "Stupid to even try."
She hurried back to the sidewalk and walked quickly away from the small park, her head down and her hands shoved into her pockets.
What were you even thinking? she asked herself.
After a few more strides, she finally raised her head again. The flush of self-conscious failure had faded from her cheeks. She glanced around to make sure no one she knew had seen her walk up to a tree, stand on her tippy-toes and start fishing around inside some knothole. No one appeared to be looking at her. In fact there were very few people about at all on that particular Monday morning. Her scan of the horizon ended as it fell onto yet another nearby tree with yet another large knothole high, but not too high, off the ground. This one was in a yard in front of an old commercial building.
Warwick stopped again, her hands inside her pockets and her mind racing.
"Damn," and she walked over to the tree.
* * *
"I can't," Iain protested, his voice hushed. "I have to work."
He pointed through the curtain to the back room. "Your uncle expects me to be here all week. Can't it wait 'til Sunday? Or at least Thursday. I've the day off then."
Maggie crossed her arms. She felt a bit of anger rise in her throat. It's not like she had asked this sort of favor before. Well, Glenninver, but that had been his day off anyway. But this was important. And Sunday would be too late. Even Thursday would be pushing it. Every day counted. Still, anger and yelling was clearly not the way to go here.
"But Iain—" her voice was as sweet as honey and drew the words out slowly. "Are you sure? I really need your help. You know so much more about Scotland than I do. And it's so important for my studies."
"Maggie—" he protested again.
She grabbed his hand and held the length of her body against his arm.
"Please, Iain. I really need you." She looked him square in the eye, and lowered her voice just a notch. "I'd do anything, if you'd just help me out."
Iain looked into her soft caramel eyes. He could feel his will draining into them.
"Well..." he started.
Gotcha.
"... I do have some sick leave saved up."
Maggie's face exploded into a broad smile.
"And I do—cough, cough—feel a bit of a chill coming on." He smiled weakly at her. "But I can't do it tomorrow. I only have so much sick leave, and knowing you, I'll end up having to spend the night or driving halfway across Scotland in the dark. We'll do it Wednesday. I'm off Thursday, and that way we'll have extra time in case you suddenly need me to drive you to London. All right?"
"Oh, thank you, Iain!" Maggie beamed. "Thank you. I'll meet you outside The Boar and Thistle at nine o'clock, okay?"
"All right," he said in a hushed voice, worried his employer might overhear.
"Thank you again, Iain!" She leaned up and kissed his cheek. "You're a dear. 'Bye!"
And she was out the door.
Iain stood for a moment, watching after her, his hand to his cheek. Then he laughed at himself and turned back to his work.
40. Stone Hinge
Iain's sporty sedan sped over the rolling highway.
"So what's with the sudden interest in stone circles?" he asked, justifiably.
"It's a part of my studies," Maggie explained, less than candidly.
"So you had me lie to my employer—and your uncle I might add—because of your studies?" His tone wasn't angry, just curious. "Why not wait until Sunday?"
"First," Maggie held up a finger. "He's not actually my uncle, he's my third cousin once removed or something. Second, there's a time pressure on this. And besides, they're probably closed on Sundays, at least in the winter."
"Well, I'm not sure stone circles close exactly," Iain let this thought trail off as craned his neck to look up at the sky through the windshield. "But it's a lovely day, no?"
A freezing rain was splattering across the windshield and it was still dark even at 9:15 in the morning.
"No," Maggie laughed. "Not really. You're not sorry you're with me now are you?"
Iain took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at her. "No, of course not." He smiled, half to himself. "Damn, you are clever, aren't you?"
Maggie just smiled back and turned to look out her window.
* * *
The stones at Mundurno lay just to the northwest of Aberdeen. They were the first set of stones one would encounter when leaving Aberdeen on the highway toward Elgin. Unfortunately, they had fallen into almost complete disrepair and consisted of little more than several small stones scattered seemingly at random across a grassy field. Someone with training in archeology generally, and Scottish stone circles in particular, could probably have looked at the few remaining stones and been able to visualize the circle as it had originally stood. Maggie had no such training.
"It's not very big, is it?" she asked Iain as they completed the short walk from the car park to the stones.
"Aye, well, size isn't important." He leered at her, a smile pasted across his face. "Sometimes."
Maggie could feel herself blush. "I mean," she forged ahead, "I expected it to be bigger. And more stones."
"Well, stones can be rather heavy, no?" He walked up to one of them and inspected it. "And they hadn't any lorries back then. I imagine I'd probably choose just a few small stones myself if I had to drag them across the countryside on my back."
Maggie ignored this comment and pulled out her guidebook. She had hoped there might be some sort of tourist information stand, but what was left of this circle was just sitting in the middle of somebody's field. No information stands, no gift shops, no nothing. Barely any stones, for that matter. She was beginning to wonder how helpful this field trip would turn out to be.
"What does your book say?" Iain walked back from the now fully inspected stone.
"Not much, I'm afraid," Maggie frowned. "I was kind of hoping to see more."
"More what?"
"More something."
"Oh, aye." Iain gave exaggerated nod. "I understand."
Maggie shot a sharp glance at him then walked over to the largest of the stones. It was still no more than two feet tall. She bent over to touch it, and as she did so, her clan crest pendant fell out of her sweater.
"What's that?" Iain asked. He had followed behind her.
"Oh, it's my clan crest." Maggie grabbed hold of it and looked down. "My grandmother gave it to me."
"Can I see?" and Iain carefully took hold of it. "It's smudged," he observed.
"Yeah," Maggie admitted. "I've trie
d to clean it off, but nothing seems to work."
Iain let go. "Aye, well, that's too bad. But it's pretty anyway. What's the motto again?"
"'Be Traist.'" Maggie shrugged. "But now it says 'Be Aist.'"
"Aye, well that probably means something too," Iain laughed, then he gestured at the field around them. "So what are we looking at?"
Maggie frowned again. "Good question."
There were only three stones of any size and she could not make out any top or bottom to the circle. The thick cloud cover made it impossible to figure out east from west.
Maggie flipped through her guidebook. "Come on," she said at last.
"Where are we going?"
"To the next circle."
Iain decided not to make any disparaging comments about the length of the drive out there in comparison to the length of their visit. It could turn out to be a very long day, no need to make it feel any longer.
"And which would that be?" he jogged up next to her as they returned to the car.
Maggie frowned into her book. "Tyrebagger Hill," she replied at last, and opened the car door.
"Aye, well that does sound promising," and Iain hopped into the car himself.
* * *
Sgt. Warwick sat at her desk, the freezing rain beating against the translucent window behind her. Spread out on her desk was every last piece of documentation she could find on two sets of murders eighteen years apart. Directly in front of her she had the photographs of the three Aberdeen victims: Annette Graham, Fionna FitzSimmons and Kelly Anderson. Each body lay in the same peaceful position and the same gruesome condition. The organs were definitely rotating around the bodies: the heart/lungs combination was at Annette's head, to Fionna's right, and at Kelly's feet. What did it mean? And would she be able to stop the madman before some poor girl ended up with her heart and lungs a meter from her left hand?
* * *
Tyrebagger Hill commanded an excellent view over Aberdeen and the bay beyond. The stone circle there rested inside the gated entrance of a small field. According to the guidebook, it was a 'recumbant circle,' meaning that at the head of the circle lay a large horizontal stone—hence 'recumbant'—flanked on either side by two upright stones. The rest of the stones were smaller than the recumbant and decreased in size as they got farther away from the main stone. As a result, someone standing inside the circle would be left with the very distinct impression of standing on a clock-face with the recumbant stone sitting squarely at twelve o'clock.
Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Page 31
