Instead Maggie considered the explanation for several seconds, the mish-mosh of competing ideas still spinning dizzily in her head. She grasped for a thought. “Is she Welsh?”
Now that, Warwick had not expected. She wasn’t sure that she’d expected to find Maggie Devereaux at the crime scene, but she hadn’t been surprised by it either. But the American’s question came as entirely unforeseen. “Welsh?” she confirmed. “No, I don’t think so.” Then the inevitable follow up question: “Why?”
“Oh,” Maggie began to reply, her senses beginning to return to her, helped no doubt by the newly stern expression worn by the police officer glowering at her. “Er … no reason.”
Oh, superb, Devereaux. Maggie mentally rolled her eyes at herself. There’s no way she’s going to believe that.
“Come now, Maggie.” Warwick crossed her arms and intensified her stare. “There’s no way I’m going to believe that. You asked that for a reason. You know something. Something that may help the investigation. What is it?”
“Nothing really,” Maggie tried. “Just speculation, you know. And wrong speculation, I guess, if you’re arresting the not Welsh ex-wife. Heh.” This last syllable sprang from her nervousness; but she knew Warwick wasn’t going to let her out of this one.
“First off,” Warwick began, surprisingly calm, “I’m not arresting anyone.” She let her gaze soften and proceeded, certain in her ability to extract the information from the American student. “In fact, I think they’re wrong. I think Jessie’s innocent. But I couldn’t convince them. And I won’t be able to without more information. If you know something, Maggie, tell me. Otherwise an innocent woman will go to prison.”
Ouch. Maggie winced at the stinging injustice of it. That wasn’t fair. Hitting below the belt.
“Not to mention,” Warwick pressed her advantage, “ever finding the boy alive.”
And she’s down for the count. …8…9…10! We have a winna!
“Okay.” Maggie’s shoulders dropped, half in relief. “I’ll tell you what I know. For what it’s worth,” she was quick to add. Then she had a thought—a crazy thought—but one she decided to voice. “Will you tell me what you know in return?”
Stunned might be too strong a word, but Warwick was obviously surprised. After the shock faded from her eyes, it was replaced with a bemused smile. “No promises, Maggie. Tell me what you know. Then we’ll see.”
So Maggie did. Most of it anyway. Not the magic. But the kidnapping in Wales. And the prophecy.
“I think they might be connected,” she concluded.
Warwick thought for a long moment, her arms crossed over her chest, one fist raised to support her chin. “Aberystwyth, you say? I could call down—”
“No!” Maggie interrupted. She also hadn’t mentioned her interrogation by the police. “Er, that is— It’s really not necessary. The police don’t know anything. Er, probably, I mean. They probably don’t know anything. Not that I would know.”
“Maggie,” Warwick began, her voice very like that of a schoolteacher, or a mother, or a mother who’s a schoolteacher, “you’re not a suspect, are you?”
“Suspect?” Maggie repeated incredulously. “No, of course not. Don’t be silly.” She shifted her weight and rubbed a nervous hand across the back of her neck. “More like a person of interest really. I told the police what I’d seen and they seemed to think—at first, that is—that I might be involved. But I’m not, of course, so, you know, there’s no need to call them. Really.”
Warwick frowned slightly but decided not to pursue it. “Hm,” she commented. “Anything else?”
“No,” Maggie answered with her own frown. “No, I really don’t think so.” She shrugged and glanced around the quiet townhouse. “I guess that’s why I’m here. To find out more.”
Warwick just stared at her, a perturbed look draped across her visage.
“You’re not going to arrest me, are you?” Maggie finally asked. “For disturbing the scene. I hadn’t even really gotten to that yet— Er, I mean, I wasn’t going to disturb anything. Not really.”
“Hm,” Warwick repeated. “It’s not a bad idea. But I’ll tell you what.” She stepped around Maggie and poked her head briefly into the nursery. “Everything looks fine in there. I’ll go take a look downstairs. You must have come in through the ground floor, right?”
“Er, right.” Maggie grinned nervously. “Of course.”
“So I’ll go downstairs and make sure everything’s okay down there too. If so, you’re free to go.”
Maggie felt a wave of relief wash across her.
Warwick pointed down at a thick, paper-filled file on the ground next to where she had been standing. “That’s my case file. Could you watch it for me? This may take a few minutes.”
“Uh, sure,” Maggie agreed.
Warwick started down the stairs.
“Aren’t you going to make me promise not to touch your file?” Maggie asked after her.
Warwick turned around with a knowing grin. “Would it matter if I did?” Then she turned back and disappeared down the stairs.
Maggie waited for several seconds, her gaze shifting from the file to where Warwick had disappeared and back again. Finally she picked up the file and began to thumb through it as fast as she could manage.
Warwick’s notes were on top. Her daily log of activities, chronicled by five minute intervals. Under this was a series of photographs—or more correctly stated, a series of documents with photographs paper-clipped to them. There were several bundles, each corresponding to a person. A person of interest, Maggie smiled to herself. The bundles consisted of handwritten interview notes to which was paper-clipped some sort of government issue photograph of the person, the person’s name written on the white margin in blue ink. Driver’s license photos, Maggie supposed, or passports—something the police could get easily. She perused each bundle carefully, interested in who Warwick considered to be persons of interest.
The first one was Jessie MacLeod. The ex-wife and mother of the missing child. The woman the police would be arresting that night. The one Warwick thought was innocent. Maggie skimmed the notes of the interview then turned to the next bundle.
Nellie MacQuarrie. MacLeod’s nanny. And if Warwick’s notes were to be believed, his lover. One of many no doubt.
Barry Nelson. MacLeod’s business manager. Impeccable dresser. Devoted to his wife.
Caroline MacDonald-Nelson. Nelson’s wife. “Wow,” Maggie whispered at the sight of Caroline’s photograph. “She’s gorgeous.” A surgeon, too. Maggie tried not to think bad thoughts about her. She moved on to the next bundle.
Marsaili NicRath. A business rival of MacLeod’s. He’d stolen control of her successful Gaelic news and culture website, but only because he wanted to shut it down. She’d hired a lawyer.
Glynis Campbell. NicRath’s lawyer. And also Jessie MacLeod’s. ‘Conflict of interest?’ Warwick had noted.
And there was one more photograph, paper-clipped to the inside back cover. Warwick was thorough, she had to give her that. But maybe a bit paranoid as well. It was a copy of an I.D. photo—from the Glasgow Police Department. ‘Alison Chisholm, Sergeant Detective’ read the type-written caption at the bottom. Now she had a face to go with Warwick’s repeated references to a ‘Chisholm’ who was helping her with the investigation. Before Maggie could wonder why Warwick had gone to the trouble of obtaining her partner’s photograph, she heard footsteps begin a squeaky ascent from downstairs. Maggie folded the file closed but neglected to set it back down on the floor.
“Finished,” Warwick announced when she reached the top of the stairs.
“Yes, thank you,” Maggie replied, handing Warwick the file folder. Then she realized what Warwick had meant. “Oh! You mean you—you’re finished. Right. Good. Um… Am I free to go now?”
Warwick tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to suppress a smile. She tucked her file under her arm. “Yes, Maggie Devereaux. You’re free to go. I’ll wait a few minutes afte
r you. The front door’s unlocked.”
“Great. Thanks. I’ve just got a couple of things to fetch.” Maggie ducked into the nursery and in a matter of seconds reemerged with her back pack and flashlight, now turned off. “I’ll just be off now.” And she hurried down the steps and out the front door, as Warwick sat down at the tops of the stairs and shook her head lightly, her faint smile belying the doubts in her heart. She hoped she’d done the right thing.
Maggie closed the door to the townhouse behind her and stood on the porch for several moments, her eyes closed and the cool night air drying the sweat at her temples. After several moments, she’d slowed her racing heart, then swung the backpack over her shoulders and started down the street.
So much for her career as a spy. She’d cased the place for hours, but still Warwick had managed to show up and scare the living daylights out of her. She wondered what else she’d overlooked.
“Dumb, Devereaux,” hissed the shadow darkened figure across the street from MacLeod’s townhouse, green eyes fixed on the receding form of the American student. “Stupid. And dangerous.”
42. The Call of the Bean-Sìth
She was in the field again. The little red schoolhouse was right where she’d left it. Only now she was fully grown, a woman. Maggie straightened her shoulders. She stepped toward the structure.
“Don’t.”
Maggie turned around. There was no one there. She turned back. The schoolhouse was gone. In its place stood a small castle. A stone keep on an island in the middle of a small lake. There was no bridge.
She looked down. She was on a row boat. It was drifting across the dark loch toward the island. The sky above was gray and threatening. Without ceremony the boat slammed into the shore. She stepped off onto the rocky land.
She looked up. A great hill stood before her. The castle was out of sight. But Maggie knew it was atop the hill. She began to climb.
“Don’t.”
She ignored her mother’s voice. She crawled on hands and knees up the steep, grassy embankment. At the top of the cliff she threw herself over the edge and looked up.
She was in a cemetery. In front of her stood a weathered gravestone. ‘ELLEN NicINNES DEVEREAUX.’ Maggie’s mother. Maggie stood up and walked around the headstone. Her quest lay beyond.
The castle was a church now. A small stone kirk in the center of the cemetery. She walked toward it.
“Don’t. Please.” Her mother’s voice again.
Maggie turned around. Now there were two gravestones. Ellen Devereaux’s and another. ‘CATHERINE NicINNES INGRAM.’ Maggie’s grandmother. This gravestone was silent. Maggie turned back.
She was inside the castle walls. The earthen floor was stained with blood. No one was about. The air was perfectly still. Then a cry pierced the air. It was the ghostly scream of a woman. It came from the nearest tower. Maggie ran toward the tower door. She dashed inside.
She found herself inside the church. Stained glass surrounded her. She heard another sound. She looked toward the balcony. The stained glass window there was shaking. It depicted a hideous dragon-like monster with seven heads. A hydra. The glass rattled violently. It shattered with an explosion of glass and light and color. In its place stood a real hydra, three-dimensional and terrifying. The monster flew on dragon’s wings to the balcony ledge. It perched itself there, its fourteen reptilian eyes boring through Maggie.
Maggie stumbled backward. She reached for a weapon. There was none. The hydra unfolded its wings and dropped to the floor, feet from Maggie. Three of the heads let out a horrifying roar while the other four heads bobbed toward her.
Then she heard another cry. The ghost woman again. It came from behind her. She turned quickly. There was another gravestone. ‘BRÌGHDE INNES GORDON.’ It marked the entrance to a subterranean mausoleum. She ran to the stone and pulled. The hydra gave chase, its footsteps shaking the small kirk.
Maggie pulled the stone free. She dropped through the narrow opening into the dark room. It was a library. On the table nearest her was a book. The Dark Book. Her Dark Book. Next to it was another book. A small one. The ghostly cry was coming from within its pages.
She snatched up the small journal, then turned to look back up at the hole to the vestibule. The hydra roared again above her. Then one of its heads rushed down into the library, undulating on a long serpentine neck. Maggie swung the journal at the advancing head. The book transformed into a sword. The sword sliced the head clean off. The remaining heads screeched in agony above her. Maggie could hear and feel the beast flee from the church.
Maggie turned and looked down at the head rolling to a stop at her feet. She recognized its face. It was her own.
“Answer the call.” It was her grandmother’s voice.
Then she woke up.
Maggie sat up in bed. She was sweaty and out of breath, but not really scared. And she was sure of three things.
The castle was the Castle of Park.
The church was the small stone kirk on the castle’s grounds.
And she needed a ride.
43. The Castle of Park
The Castle of Park was located only some fifty kilometers northwest of Aberdeen. More château than fortress, the four-story structure had once been a Highland tower house before being converted into one of the residences of the Gordon Clan Chieftain. Nowadays, while having remained in Gordon hands, the castle has been converted to a guest house. Maggie had overnighted there the previous fall, her interest piqued by a personal connection. Her great-times-ten grandmother, Brìghde Innes, had married a son of the Gordon chieftain and moved to Park. And it was on the estate’s sixty acres that Brìghde had been buried. Maggie had found her ancestor’s gravesite. In the cemetery next to the castle’s kirk.
The kirk itself was a small stone structure, long since deconsecrated, its Gordon parishioners having dwindled in number and become more willing to travel to nearby Banff for mass. The one-story house of worship was boarded shut on Maggie’s last visit and she had been unable to venture inside to see what treasures it might hold. That time she had traveled to Park with her aunt and uncle, Uncle Alex driving them halfway across the Highlands and back. This time Iain drove.
Iain steered his new convertible along Scotland’s A96 highway. Maggie was taking in the passing scenery, her thick brown hair blowing behind her as the wind rushed past her face. She almost didn’t hear Iain’s voice.
“Thank you for inviting me along again on one of your little trips,” he was saying. “Maybe one of these times you can drive,” he teased.
“Hm,” Maggie replied thoughtfully, “that would require me buying a car, I suppose. And I do so enjoy letting you drive me all around Scotland.”
“I am quite good at it, aren’t I?” he asked with exaggerated pride.
“Oh, quite,” Maggie wholeheartedly agreed. “Really excellent, I must say. And I especially admire your ability to drop everything on a moment’s notice to shuttle me around at my whim.”
Iain laughed, but only halfway as he recalled his employer’s reaction to another request for a day off. “Your uncle’s getting used to it, I think. We’ve made an arrangement: for every day I miss with little or no notice, I have to cover the store alone on a Saturday. He and Lucy have been spending a lot more time together since you’ve arrived, I think.”
“Well, that’s good,” Maggie replied over the rush of air. “And I’m glad he’s making you available for my last second impulses.”
“Oh, aye. He’s a good man. And I think he felt bad I don’t get to go with you to Park last fall.”
“It was kinda your idea, wasn’t it?”
“Perhaps,” Iain replied cautiously. “But remember our concern that they might not let a Grant stay there, what with the historical animosity between the Grants and Gordons.”
“Well, I don’t suppose they have any cattle for you to steal,” Maggie replied sardonically, “so we should be all right.”
“I’m wounded.” Iain clutched at his ch
est. “It’s been generations since the Grants stole any cattle from the Gordons.” He laughed at the thought. “And anyway, cattle raids were all just a part of the romance of the Highlands, aye?” He reached out and took her hand.
She let him, but frowned down skeptically at their clasped hands. “Nice try, Romeo. Now pay attention to the road.” She pointed at an upcoming sign. “We need to take this next turn off. Then follow the signs toward Banff. We should be there in about fifteen minutes or so.”
Seventeen minutes later, Iain pulled his car up to the main entrance of the Clan Gordon’s Castle of Park.
“You’re in luck,” Maggie whispered with exaggerated relief, “no wee school girls to bar your entry.”
“Thank God for small mercies,” Iain acknowledged as he pulled up the parking brake.
The castle consisted of three sections all painted a warm yellow-beige which stood out beautifully against the lush green of the grounds. The oldest section was a medieval looking tower, complete with a series of square cutaways in its parapet. The newer sections were a manor house equal in height to the tower and the four stories of hallways connecting the two. Maggie jumped out of the car even as Iain was undoing his seatbelt.
“I’ll go check us in,” she announced. “You get the bags.”
Iain just chuckled and shook his head. He really did like her spunk, even if it meant being ordered around every now and again. “As you wish, milady.” But she was already gone.
Then another thought struck him. Perhaps she was as excited as he was, and couldn’t wait to get to the room—their room. After all, he remembered, it was their first overnight trip together. He jumped from the driver’s seat and fairly yanked the bags from the boot.
As he walked into the lobby, Maggie stepped over to meet him.
“All right,” she held up the room key, “we’re all set. We’re in the ‘Black Watch Suite.’”
“Ooh, now that does sound impressive. A suite.” Then his eye glinted and his voice found its salesman brogue. “Do you ken what the Black Watch is, milady?”
Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2) Page 26
