The Secret Portrait (A Jean Fairbairn/Alasdair Cameron mystery Book 1)

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  Jean turned her guffaw into a throat-clearing ahem. MacSorley, who kept turning up like a bad penny.

  “He brought me to Glendessary House, close to where my illustrious foremother Jenny Cameron set out on her mission to history.”

  “Your illustrious . . .” No, not poor Jenny, not again.

  Rick paced back and forth, fabric swirling, hardware jingling, his hand clasping the hilt of his dirk, his face glowing with fervor. “The moment Charles saw Jenny at the head of her troops in August of seventeen forty-five, he fell deeply and passionately in love. How could she resist him? Why would she want to? Jenny came to her prince after the battle of Falkirk in January of seventeen forty-six, and told him she was pregnant. With his first child. His heir. They were married at Stirling. Clementina Walkinshaw was their lady-in-waiting. But to foil the Hanoverian spies, word was given out that Charles was sick and Clementina was nursing him back to health at her home. At Bannockburn, right? Where Charles’s ancestor Robert the Bruce won Scotland’s independence. How appropriate!”

  Was it? Clementina’s sister worked in the household of the Prince of Wales. The real Prince of Wales, the one whose father actually sat on the British throne.

  “The child, a son, of course . . .”

  “Of course,” Jean murmured, starting to feel giddy.

  “. . . was born soon after the tragedy of Culloden. Charles risked life and limb to come here to Loch Arkaig in August of seventeen forty-six, a year after he’d raised his standard. What a year it had been, triumph snatched from his grasp through the betrayal and ineptitude of others! He came here not to see the treasure of his gold Louis d’Or, but the treasure of his son and heir, who was hidden with Jenny among her people. Later, Clementina Walkinshaw brought his son to Charles in France.”

  Jean added, “And bore him a daughter.”

  “Who can blame him, in his tragic exile from his home, turning for comfort to the woman who reminded him of his lost wife?”

  “Lost? Jenny didn’t die until seventeen seventy-two.”

  Rick turned on her, forefinger raised. “Yes. Exactly. Jenny died in seventeen seventy-two. That’s why Charles never married Clementina. He was still married to Jenny. It was only when Jenny died that he agreed to marry that lying little Louise of Stolberg.”

  “Which proves he was married to Jenny,” Jean said wearily. Yes, this was the sort of “proof” she’d expected, the sort of manic algebra employed by conspiracy buffs, where if a equals x then y is blue, Q.E.D. She could ask why Jenny never went to France or Italy herself, but she figured Rick would have some sort of answer. “And you’re the multiple great-grandson of this kid of Charlie and Jenny’s?”

  “Yes I am. Douglas is the name the prince assumed when he went undercover. Sobieski is the prince’s mother’s name.”

  “Your name is MacLyon.”

  “It’s a new millennium. There’s a new Scottish parliament. Can total separation from tyrannical England be far behind?”

  There was another rhetorical question Jean didn’t bother to answer.

  “When the people of Scotland turn to me to head their new state, I want to offer them a fresh start, a new dynasty with a new name.”

  She was still tempted to duck and cover, but no, her fingers were moving too fast over the keyboard. While it wasn’t the story Rick thought it was, it was still a story. “Are you a British citizen, Rick?”

  “I refuse to become a citizen of that awkward combination, plodding Anglo-Saxon tying down the fiery Celt. I’ll become a citizen of Scotland when it regains its independence and calls me to be its monarch.”

  “And the good times will roll,” Jean said under her breath. So that’s why he hadn’t bought a title. He was going for The Big One.

  “You’re skeptical.” Rick smiled indulgently. “That’s quite understandable. That’s why I included copies of all the important papers in your press kit. The genealogy, the marriage certificate, letters from Charles to Jenny calling her his dearest wife and referring to their child. How fortunate the Hanoverian spies never intercepted any of those letters!”

  Yeah, right, she thought again. Like the Stuarts would have committed any of this to paper. “You have a marriage certificate?”

  “I have documents proving the true lineage of the house of Stuart, suppressed by centuries of Hanoverian conspiracy. First they worked to surround Charles with incompetents, leading to his defeat. Then they worked to keep the people of Britain in thrall to their elitist policies. Scoundrels!”

  “And have these papers been authenticated?” Jean inquired.

  “Of course. By the Museum of Scotland. I’ve got a letter from the curator, some guy named Campbell. Which worried me, Clan Campbell betrayed the Prince and all he stood for, but this guy promised to keep everything quiet until I need him to step forward and testify. Sometimes people do rise above their heritage, don’t they?”

  Some guy named Campbell? Jean couldn’t wait to hear what Michael Campbell-Reid had to say about his name being taken in vain. Assuming she’d be coherent once she got out of this fun house. She’d thought Rick was a bit of a wuss, but now she was seeing fire and brimstone in his pale eyes, even if his tongue couldn’t quite decide whether to speak colloquial American or proclamational bombast. “Where did you get these documents?”

  “From my loyal follower, Kieran MacSorley. He had George search them out.”

  “And Kieran, your loyal follower, took them to the Museum?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. . . .” The electronic trill of “Scotland the Brave” stopped Rick cold. He fumbled in his sporran, pulled out his phone, and switched it off. “Poor old George, what a shame he didn’t live to see this day! You and Miranda can set up the press conference in Edinburgh. At Holyrood Palace. We’ll need all the pageantry, of course, the heralds and the Black Watch and the clan chiefs. It’ll be an important day in the history of Scotland. The Stuart heir announcing that he’s back again and ready to take up his duties.”

  “And what about Elizabeth Battenberg?” asked Jean, thinking that the Tower of London was looking more feasible by the minute.

  “She’ll be confronted by an accomplished fact, won’t she? She’ll just have to settle for England and Wales and Northern Ireland. I’ll let her keep on vacationing at Balmoral, of course. They get into the swing of things there pretty well, considering.”

  Jean hit the exclamation point on her keyboard so hard it dinged. What cheek! What chutzpah! What bloody nerve! For a moment she wondered if this was, after all, just a publicity ploy for some sort of game. Maybe Rick was about to whip out the box holding the disks and say, “April Fool!”

  No, he was beaming paternally on her. “Did you notice the gates of the house when you came in? The copy of the Traquair gates?”

  “The gates are standing open because the Stuarts are back. Or they were, until George Lovelace was murdered.” Jean saved everything and closed the lid of her computer. She had to get those documents, the original documents, to Michael. “Rick, I appreciate the press kit with the copies of the papers, but don’t you think the originals would be better off in Edinburgh?”

  The light in his face dimmed. “But the Hanoverian conspiracy. . . .”

  Forcing a smile, Jean stood up. “Papers so important to the history of Scotland should be in the Museum of Scotland, with all the other unique Scottish relics, where your people can appreciate them.”

  He brightened, probably seeing his documents in the main hall of the Museum surrounded by security guards.

  “You’ll need the papers at Holyrood,” Jean went on, using the same tone of voice she’d use to cajole a balky niece or a nephew into bed.

  Slowly he nodded. “Yes. You’re right.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” she extemporized. “I bet D.C.I. Cameron would send those papers to Edinburgh with a police escort. Don’t you think? I mean, maybe it was fate that sent a man named Cameron here at all. You can’t defy fate, can you?”

  “No. That’s
what Fiona says.” Rick set his chin. “All right then. Go find Cameron. Send him in here. I’ll give him the documents.”

  Overpowering her urge to say, Your wish is my command, Jean gathered up her laptop and her bag and headed for the door. Once in the hall she broke into a trot, heading toward someone sane. Annoying, but very sane.

  Rick not only took all the Jacobite myth seriously, he’d built his entire castle in the air, from dungeons to a flagpole flying the rampant lion, on papers that Kieran MacSorley said George Lovelace had searched out. In her ears Jean heard Miranda’s gales of laughter. In her heart she felt a stirring of pity for Rick. And somewhere in her back-brain she sensed Cameron’s voice saying, There’s a motive for you.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Detective Sergeant Sawyer was standing just inside the door of the billiards room. Jean brushed by him. “Is Cameron here?”

  “Why?” Sawyer demanded.

  But Jean had already spotted her quarry. He was weaving his way over the power cords, at the same time pulling his bulky jacket on over his suit. She started toward him. “Chief Ins . . .”

  A meaty hand grabbed her elbow. “Hang on there, lassie.”

  “Hey!” Jean yanked her arm from Sawyer’s grasp.

  “Give over, Andy,” said Cameron’s quiet but intense voice. “Miss Fairbairn? I’m away to Spean Bridge, can it . . .”

  “No, it can’t wait. Come here.” Jean only realized she’d seized his forearm when she found herself standing several paces down the hall holding a handful of squashy jacket and very solid flesh. “I talked to Rick. Or rather I listened while he talked to me.”

  “Aye?” Cameron retrieved his arm. The door of the billiards room slammed shut, knocking a nearby picture askew.

  No way could she explain it all in twenty-five words or less, but she did her best, ending up, “. . . so I told him you’d take the documents to Edinburgh with a police escort.”

  She had to hand it to the man, he only spent five or ten seconds looking as if he’d been smacked in the face by a salmon. “You’re not joking, are you?”

  “Hell, no. The guy’s crazy as a bedbug. About the only thing he didn’t say was that he’d been chosen by God.”

  “Bugger,” Cameron said reverently, and started down the hall. “Let’s have a look at these documents of His Majesty’s, then.”

  Jean hurried after him, and was at his side when he knocked briskly at the library door. Without waiting for a reply, he pushed it open. “Mr. MacLyon? You wanted a word?”

  Rick was posed in front of the fireplace, the firelight reflecting from all his buckles, badges, and buttons. In one hand he held a leather portfolio tooled in a Celtic interlace design similar to Cameron’s tie—something he noticed immediately, and approved with a benevolent smile.

  Jean commended Cameron’s fortuitous choice of accessories.

  “I have here documents important to the state of Scotland,” Rick announced.

  Cameron extended his hand. “I’ll see these are cared for properly.”

  “Great.” Bestowing largesse, Rick handed over the portfolio. “Now. I’m having a small dinner party tomorrow night in honor of the occasion. Just my inner circle. Fiona’s arranging with the Montrose Inn in Spean Bridge to cater and serve. Jean, she can find you something to wear. Sandy, since your technical people still have my employees’ kilts, I’ve ordered new ones from the hire service in Fort William. Including one for you, too.”

  Cameron’s eyes rolled toward Jean. Did you know about this?

  She tried a barely perceptible shake of her head at him, and to Rick said, “Thank you. We’re honored.”

  “Oh aye, so we are,” Cameron added in a half-strangled voice. His thin smile indicated that he felt a command performance was a good excuse to keep an eye on the suspects.

  With a regal wave, Rick dismissed them. “Off you go. Jean, call ahead and tell the Museum to expect the papers.”

  “I’ll make sure they treat them as they deserve.” She managed to get out the door and down the hall before she exploded with a sound that was both guffaw and groan.

  Cameron walked up holding the portfolio at arm’s length, like a snake. “Fall about laughing, then, but mind we’ve got two dead men. George’s murder, at the least, must be tied up with Mad MacLyon.”

  “I mind, I mind,” Jean said. “It’s all so absurd. It’s all so pathetic.”

  “Aye, that it is. And it might could be the break we’ve been needing.” His smile was balanced between grim and rueful. Again the pilot light flickered in his eyes. “Gunn and I are away to Spean Bridge to interview Meg Parkinson-Fraser, she refusing to come here. I’ll have him take the papers on to Edinburgh.”

  “Tell him to give them to Michael Campbell-Reid at the new Museum on Chambers Street. I’ll warn Michael to expect them. Rick says Michael authenticated them, but there’s no way he even saw them. I bet it’s all a scam of MacSorley’s.”

  “That’s one bet I’ll not be taking.” Tucking the portfolio under his arm, Cameron left the building.

  Rick’s soundtrack continued unabated, pipes blaring and drums thrumming. What, would silence expose his thoughts to creeping rationality? There was merciful fantasy, and then there was fantasy-as-opiate, repudiating the outside world and glutting the world within.

  The outside world. Jean hadn’t been in Glendessary House for twenty-four hours, but it felt like a month. Despite its size, there was something claustrophobic about the place. She turned toward the staircase to see Vanessa strolling along the hall from the kitchen, dressed in MTV casual. “You want lunch, Jean? Toby fixed some sandwiches.”

  “No thank you, I’m going to run some errands in Spean Bridge.”

  “Sure. Take your time. Oh, and Jean,” Vanessa stepped closer. “What about the ghost? Have you heard it yet?”

  “Yes, I heard it. And . . .” Like seeing ghosts was going attract comment in this house? “. . . I saw it. It’s not George. It’s Archie MacSorley.”

  “Who?”

  “Kieran’s father, who died here during the war.”

  “So what’s he doing haunting the place?”

  “Ghosts don’t reveal their motives,” Jean said, and, still a bit giddy, added, “It’s like there’s some sort of paranormal union with a non-disclosure policy.”

  “A union . . . Oh. Funny.” Vanessa bared her teeth but didn’t exactly smile. “And does this union keep ghosts from hurting you?”

  “Pretty much, yes, unless you count being frightened as being hurt. Why? Are you feeling threatened?”

  “Not really, it’s just that I wasn’t thrilled when I thought it was George haunting the place, but I figured he’d be, like, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

  “A benign presence.”

  “Yeah. I just hope Archie’s not anything like Kieran.” She made a sour face. “You know?”

  “I know,” Jean assured her. “I wouldn’t worry about ghosts. There are plenty of other things to worry. . . .”

  Along the hall came Neil, holding a cracker with a bit of cheese on it. “Have a go at this,” he said, and presented it to Vanessa’s red lips. His glance at Jean said, See what you’re missing?

  It was Jean’s brain that was doing the calisthenics now, not her gonads, thank you anyway. “Y’all know what Rick told me this morning?”

  “Mmm-hum,” said Vanessa her mouth full.

  Neil said, “So Rick put you in the picture at last.”

  “And?” Jean prodded.

  Vanessa fluttered her hands. “It’s Rick’s baby. I mean, either you get with the program or you’re out. I’m with the program. No problem.”

  “Oh aye,” said Neil. “Mind you, I’m only the piper.”

  “You’re more than that,” Vanessa told him. He grinned.

  They seemed to think Rick’s mania was just an innocent hobby. Jean turned up the volume a notch. “George had to know about this, this king stuff.”

  “Sure. But he was sworn to secrecy with the rest of us.”
Vanessa grinned back at Neil.

  They reminded Jean of students skylarking in the back of the room while she went over the material for the test. “Hello? Rick’s talking about a press conference at Holyrood!”

  “Sweet.” Vanessa’s green eyes lit with visions of ball dresses and glass slippers, then faded. She was too smart to think her pumpkin would always be a coach. “Okay, yeah, I know, it’s not going to happen like he imagines. Still, he’s not hurting anything.”

  “It’s all just a bit of fun,” added Neil.

  “It wasn’t fun for George,” Jean said. “Or for Norman, either.”

  Neil had the grace to look shamefacedly at the floor. Vanessa shook her head and sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. But getting up Rick’s nose isn’t going to help George.”

  Toby loomed out of the hallway. “The lunch is ready. Last night’s soup’s not half bad. My mum always says soup’s all the better for sitting a day.”

  “Okay,” Vanessa told him. “I’ll tell Rick, although he probably won’t want to eat anything. He can get really hyper.”

  “I’ll be back in time for dinner,” Jean stated, and headed up the stairs, more determined than ever to touch bases with the real world, such as it was. But she had a couple of calls to make first.

  She packed her computer and notebook in her carry-on bag, so she could take them with her, then punched Michael’s number into her phone.

  “Michael Campbell-Reid,” said his energetic tenor.

  She paced across the room and back, the phone to her ear. “Michael, it’s Jean. You’ll never believe what I just heard from Rick MacLyon.”

  He listened, interrupting her again and again with increasingly indignant exclamations. By the end of her recital he was making the same simmering noise as a teapot on the boil. “Well if that isn’t . . . If those papers had come here I’d have heard, and if they’ve not come here, then they’ve not been properly authenticated. No matter what MacLyon is saying about a letter with my name on it. You and your detective friends are thinking this has something to do with George Lovelace’s murder, are you?”