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

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  The women walked out into the corridor. Sure enough, here came Archie out of the sitting room door. Jean stepped in front of him. The reek of smoke filled her nostrils and throat. “Archie. Archie MacSorley. It’s all over, Archie. You can go now.”

  The ghost stopped. The hollow eyes were still focused on the end of the hall and the deeply shadowed face, looking like Neil’s in the billiards room, was still expressionless. Not Cameron’s intelligent expressionlessness, but complete vacancy, no expression at all.

  “Yes, Archie, George was here. But he’s gone now. He’s waiting for you. Your oppo is waiting. Go with him. Go together.”

  A flicker of comprehension trickled down Archie’s face, no more than the shadows subtly shifting.

  “Go home, Archie. It’s all over. George is waiting.”

  And suddenly the figure wasn’t there any more. It didn’t fade away, it simply vanished, and with it the smell of smoke. Jean tried to clear her throat and ended up coughing from somewhere deep in her gut, down around her ham sandwich lunch. At last she stood up straight, into lighter, fresher air, and stretched some warmth into her limbs.

  Fiona asked, “You’ve sent him away, then?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I hope I’ve helped him, whatever happened. You’ll have to wait and see.”

  “It won’t be me seeing.” Fiona turned toward the kitchen. “We could do with a cup of cocoa and a scone, I’m thinking.”

  A normality fix. Not to mention a fix of sleep-inducing carbs. “Yes, please,” Jean said.

  Sitting at the kitchen table they ate and drank and chatted about books and movies, each comment interspersed with long meditative silences. At last, yawning and pleased she was capable of yawning, Jean went upstairs, took a long hot shower, and sank into her pillow. Her brain jerked hither and thither and finally flatlined. The yew hedge. Cats. Kilts. But, thank God, no gunshots. She woke up abruptly at the sound of car doors slamming.

  The sun was shining through the curtains. Voices echoed from the entrance hall. She crawled out of the bed, dressed, and staggered downstairs for the epilogue.

  Fiona was carrying a tray into the library. Jean followed her through the door, and saw Cameron scouting along the bookcases. He was still wearing his kilt but without the jacket. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and its collar lay open, exposing his throat. The lines between his brows and bracketing his mouth were plowed deep. His skin had the pallor and his eyes the bruises of a sleepless night. Even his voice was scraped a bit thin. “I’ve brought Mrs. MacLyon home. She’s upstairs having a wash. I thought you’d like a word or two about last night’s interviews.”

  “How’s Vanessa doing?” Jean asked.

  “Well enough, I reckon. Rick’s in hospital, heavily sedated.”

  “Pity,” Fiona commented, which summed up the situation nicely.

  They sat around a small table and shared out coffee and toast. No, it didn’t taste of ashes. Feeling almost herself again, whoever that was, Jean leaned back with her cup balanced on her thigh. The tall windows gleamed, darkened, and gleamed again as clouds drifted across the sun. Clarinda dozed in a sunny spot with her paws tucked beneath her well-groomed breast. Jean was jealous.

  “Well then,” said Fiona.

  “You’ve heard them talking, the MacSorleys,” Cameron began. “I’ll spare you the recriminations and excuses. I didn’t hear one word of remorse, I’m telling you that.”

  “You suspected that Kieran had gotten someone else to do his dirty work,” said Jean. “You thought it was Toby, though. Not Neil. But he took his family mythology like a drug, didn’t he? The mythology that was his identity as a MacSorley, as his parents’ son.”

  If Cameron caught the significance of her choice of words he didn’t take advantage of the opening. “Like his mother, he was given to eavesdropping. He overheard Lovelace telling you, Fiona, about taking the coin to Jean. But Neil, being a bit of a liar and a sneak himself, decided there was more to it than that. Lovelace was after seeing a journalist, therefore he was after blowing the gaff on the entire plot, the forgeries, the embezzlement, the lot.”

  “Well he was, but not directly,” Jean said.

  “Neil felt he had to dispose of George before the journalist turned up for her interview. Then no matter what she was claiming Lovelace said, Neil’s mum and dad could say it was all a lie.”

  “But George didn’t tell me anything. All I did was put a dent in Neil’s plans. He thought he’d have more time before George was discovered, so that the other people in the house could wander around and act suspicious. Instead I showed up and pinpointed the time of death. And since I wasn’t doing anything else, I paid attention to his piping.”

  “You were a problem for him, no doubt about that.” The coffee was drawing the color back into Cameron’s unshaven cheeks. He even offered Jean a quick quirk of a smile on the word problem.

  She’d give him that silent comment, along with a rather cramped smile of her own.

  “It was premeditated murder, was it?” asked Fiona.

  “Oh aye, that it was,” Cameron replied. “Neil lured Lovelace here, on a day he’d normally not be here at all, by pretending he wanted to—well, he told us ‘turn traitor as well,’ but like as not he told Lovelace something different, something about doing the right thing.”

  “How did he manage to switch his kilt with Toby’s?” Jean asked.

  Cameron extended his cup. Fiona poured him more coffee. “He was never a proper suspect, mind. We’re thanking you for that, Miss Fairbairn.”

  She had fallen into Neil’s trap. Her, Ms Skeptic. It was little consolation everyone else had fallen, too. All she could do was grimace and say, “You’re welcome.”

  “Sawyer told Gunn to collect the men’s clothes. Rick went into his room and Toby and Neil into their rooms, which are at the opposite ends of the house.”

  “Gunn couldn’t cover all three at the same time,” Jean concluded. “Neil told Toby he’d take both their kilts down together. Toby trusted Neil—why shouldn’t he? He didn’t suspect Neil had switched kilts any more than anyone else did. I hope Gunn isn’t in trouble over this.”

  “Not so much as he might have been, as otherwise he’s conducted himself well. It’s a fine learning experience for him, I’m thinking. For us all.”

  By the window Clarinda sat up, stretched, and then lay down facing the opposite direction. A cloud blotted out the sunlight. She looked up, annoyed, then when the sun shone out again settled down secure in her power.

  “So you have a strong case against Neil,” Jean said.

  Cameron nodded. “Oh aye. Good job he never destroyed that CD, but then, why should he do? It was perfectly innocent in itself. Even now all it can do is throw doubt on his alibi. Taken along with the forensic evidence of the kilt, though, not to mention his confession of a sort, well then. I reckon he’ll be sent down for life.”

  “Poor Neil,” said a flat female voice. “Poor handsome, stupid Neil.” Jean looked around, Cameron stood up, and Fiona reached for a clean cup. Vanessa walked down the spiral staircase from Rick’s office. With her fresh-scrubbed face and brightly-patterned silk robe she’d look about fifteen, except for the worry lines faintly etched at the corners of her eyes and mouth. And there was a new tautness in her posture, too, as though laid-back didn’t do it for her, not any more.

  She accepted a cup of coffee and crunched into a bit of toast. “What’s this I hear about George writing a confession about the forgeries and everything?”

  “There was one hidden in his old photo album,” Jean said.

  “Norman said something about George saying something about ‘writing up the truth,’” said Vanessa. “At the time I didn’t think anything about it, Norman was always the know-it-all. I’m not surprised Kieran latched onto him, they were a lot alike.”

  “Maybe after Lovelace’s death, Hawley saw his chance for a bit of blackmail,” Cameron suggested. “But that’s one area where Kieran’s keeping his mouth tight
shut, the accident when Norman drowned, and whether he and Charlotte planned to deflect suspicion from Neil to Toby. We may never know the truth of that.”

  “So Kieran and Charlotte didn’t know Neil had killed George until the deed was done?” Jean asked “And the fact that they both had alibis was just coincidence?”

  Cameron answered, “In a way. Mrs. MacSorley was helping Mrs. MacLyon prepare for the meeting. . . .”

  “Harassing me,” interjected Vanessa.

  “. . . when Mrs. MacLyon said something about Lovelace having been to see Jean. And Mrs. MacSorley drew the same conclusion Neil had done. She made some excuse and rushed off to Corpach to—she’s saying persuade, I’m thinking threaten—Lovelace into changing his mind.”

  “But it was too late,” Jean said.

  “Kieran went jogging instead of attending the meeting, said he’d had his fill of Rick and his pretensions. Even though it was Kieran himself pushed Rick over the edge.”

  Vanessa snorted. “No kidding.”

  “And once I was on the scene,” said Jean, “the MacSorleys and the MacLyons went into damage control mode. Sorry, Vanessa.”

  “That’s exactly what we were doing,” Vanessa returned, “and not just with the damage of poor old George being murdered, either. I figured, somebody was dead, Rick had gone far enough, it was time to bring down the curtain and douse the lights. It was time to get on with our lives. I wasn’t intending for Rick to go completely over the edge, though. No way, no how.”

  “His fantasies were encouraged beyond all reason,” said Cameron, and this time his eye did stray to Jean’s face.

  “Is he going to recover?” she asked, returning his look evenly.

  “They’ve got him medicated up to the eyebrows right now, but as soon as I get him home. . . .” Vanessa set her cup down with a ding. “I’ve got to call his clients, let them know he’s going to be out of it for awhile. And the Popcom Board. That’s going to be fun. Fiona, can you fix me breakfast? None of this kipper or kidney stuff, you know, eggs and fruit and a bagel. Bring it into my office. Alasdair. Jean.”

  Both Jean and Cameron stood up, but before they could speak Vanessa was already gone. Her high-heeled slippers clicked across the tiled floor of the entrance hall and down the corridor.

  “She’s had no more sleep than I’ve done,” said Cameron.

  “She’s young,” Jean told him. “She’s not far from pulling all-nighters in college. And what she’s got up to her eyeballs is caffeine.”

  Fiona gathered together the cups and toast racks. “More coffee?”

  “The lads will be along soon to break down the incident room,” Cameron said. “I’d better be having my bath and a change of clothes.”

  “I’m going home,” stated Jean, rather surprised that when she said home it was Edinburgh she meant. Her own space. Free air. “Unless you want me to hang around here and make another statement.”

  Gracing them both with a benevolent smile, Fiona left the room.

  Cameron looked after her, his brows tilted up in the middle, registering puzzlement. Don’t ask, Jean told him silently. Don’t tell.

  With a slight shrug, he turned to her. “We’ll be needing another statement, aye. Could you come to Fort William on the Tuesday?”

  “Sure. And you know where I am in the meantime. You have my card.”

  “Right.” Cameron turned toward the door.

  She watched him walk away, shoulders set, kilt swaying. No amount of disillusionment was going to spoil the inspiring view of a man in a kilt. A tingle ran down her body, commemorating Cameron’s firm, matter-of-fact embrace—if you could call that grab and drag into the back door an embrace. . . . The name spilled from her lips, from her emotions, before her rational mind could dam it up. “Alasdair.”

  He stopped. “Aye?”

  Go on, or you’ll always regret it. “How about dinner Tuesday night?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, blue eyes sharp and bright as the lights atop one of his own squad cars. He paused just long enough to make Jean wonder if she needed to start wiping egg from her face. Then he said, “Dinner? Oh aye, Jean, that’s a grand idea.”

  “See you at the police station on Tuesday,” she replied, but she wasn’t exactly relieved.

  “Oh aye.” He shut the door quietly behind him.

  Well then. Her pride—their pride—had gone down as smoothly as whiskey. She was even feeling just a bit dizzy. . . . With a rueful laugh, Jean turned and looked around the beautiful room. Heaven must look very much like a library. Books, comfy chairs, a cat dozing by a window overlooking a garden. No ghosts complicating matters. No. . . .

  But she wasn’t sure she’d want a heaven without men.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Jean gazed out of the window of the restaurant at the yellow façade of the hotel opposite. Some pedestrians paused to read the chalkboard listing the day’s specials. Others strolled on by, enjoying the rays of sun slanting between the buildings of the High Street. Overhead, gulls floated in a clear blue sky.

  The waiter began clearing the table of its dishes—madras, raita, balti. Rich, greasy, spicy food that made her think vaguely Biblical thoughts about the fat of the land and anointing heads with oil.

  Alasdair leaned back. “Coffee,” he told the waiter. “Jean?”

  In his resonant voice, her first name sounded odd, as though it had greater substance. “Sure. Coffee and kheer, please.”

  The waiter nodded and walked away. In the background a twangy Indian melody didn’t quite hook up with her neurons, and therefore didn’t distract her from the matter at hand. Who was looking at her with his usual cool curiosity. “All right then, what were you really wanting to talk about?”

  “You did well keeping up the idle chitchat this long,” she told him.

  He didn’t waste his time parrying that sally. “You’ll be called to testify at the trial, right enough. The trials, Neil’s and Kieran’s as well.”

  “I guess they won’t let Neil have his pipes in prison. What a waste.” Jean looked out the window again. The sun’s rays had crept a millimeter closer.

  Alasdair said, “Rick’s stabilized, I’m told. Vanessa’s organizing his transfer to the U.S.”

  “He’ll recover, then. Or at least be able to deal with reality again.”

  “Depends on your definition of reality, doesn’t it now?”

  “Yes, it does.” They’d spent a good—a very fine—hour discussing literary and cinematic fantasy, the great stories, the ones that mattered. They weren’t just in the same paragraph, they were in the same. . . . The dragons’ fiery breath stirred the hair on the back of Jean’s neck.

  The waiter set down coffee cups and a bowl of thick, milky rice pudding. She ate a bite. Smooth, sumptuous. Sensual. “What about the house?”

  Alasdair poured several drops of cream into his coffee and watched them swirl through the black liquid, taking its edge off. “Fiona tells me one of Rick’s clients owns a hotel chain, is looking to buy Glendessary House as a country hotel. Should the deal go through, Fiona plans to stay on and help manage the place.”

  “She’ll do a great job. I hope it works out. Does Toby have to go back to jail?”

  “He’s turned Queen’s witness, which will mitigate. Fiona says he’ll have a job at the hotel when he’s released.”

  “Good,” Jean said, exhaling in relief for Toby, the fall guy. “What about Rick’s Jacobite collection? Would Vanessa consider selling or even donating that to the Museum of Scotland?”

  “Ask her. Just now she’d be glad to let it go, I reckon. May I?” Delicately he scooped a spoonful of pudding from her bowl, ate it, and licked his lips, his tongue slowly tracing their elegant Gothic curve.

  Jean quenched the flare in the pit of her stomach by looking quickly down into her pudding.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Oft times the kheer’s too sweet and sticky.”

  “Does sweet offend your aesthetic sense the same way sentimentality doe
s?” She scraped her spoon across the indentation his had made in her pudding, obliterating it.

  “I suppose I mistrust them both, aye.” He set his spoon back in the saucer. “By the by, Toby, of all people, was able to fill in the last gaps of Archie’s story.”

  “Toby? Aha! His grandfather who served with Lovelace!”

  “Got it in one. He was working as an orderly at the infirmary, and gambling with the others the night of the fire.”

  “So what happened exactly? Archie and George were roughhousing, shoving each other around like my nephews do, and they knocked the lantern over?”

  “At the same moment Archie fell against the corner of the fireplace. Bashed in his head and killed him instantly.”

  “Oh no!” Jean set down her spoon.

  “The lantern fell into the pile of matches they were using as chips for their game. Before anyone quite realized what was happening, the place had blazed up. They ran for their lives.”

  “And didn’t have time to bring Archie’s body out with them.” Jean could see the whole awful scene, taste the smoke and the panic. “The authorities thought he’d died in the fire and staged a modest cover-up.”

  “When you go quick like that, all of an instant—well, it’s no surprise Archie was still walking about, just as he would have done the night he died.”

  “You’re saying ‘was.’”

  Alasdair nodded. “Fiona told me about your—not an exorcism, that’s right uncharitable. Whatever you’re wanting to call it, Vanessa says she’s not heard Archie since the Saturday.”

  “And Fiona’s never sensed him at all, but then, she only sees the future. . . .” Jean tried another spoonful of pudding, hoping fat would make a good anesthetic.

  It was Alasdair’s turn to look outside. “Are you thinking Archie was waked up by George’s death?”

  “Called from whatever limbo or purgatory he was in, yes. Not just because George, his oppo, was murdered down the hall, but because Archie’s own grandson did the deed. Avenging a crime that never happened. I said something to Miranda last week about wheels of fate and poetic justice.”