Murder in the Smithsonian

by Margaret Truman

  “You know more than I do,” she said. “Ian, I’d like to stay here instead of at the castle.”

  “Fine. We’re fairly booked up but I can always find room for you. I know at least one suite is available.”

  “Anything, a closet, it doesn’t matter.”

  He stared at her. “You look tired, Heather. It’s been a rough road, hasn’t it? I’ll do anything I can. I hope you know that.”

  “I do know it, Ian.”

  “Tell you what. Let me get you squared away in the suite, give you a chance to unwind and then we’ll have dinner. Unless, of course, you have other plans.”

  She finished her drink. “That would be just fine,” she said.

  A porter showed her to a suite in the older west wing. Large windows in the beige-and-brown living room looked out over rooftops to the Firth of Forth, a wide inlet from the North Sea. She went to the window and looked in the direction of Cramond, a village at the mouth of the River Almond that was, as far back as the second century A.D., an important Roman fort and supply base. She located it, then shifted a little to the right, where she saw an orange sun’s rays bouncing off the roof of the McBean castle. She felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to go to it, reminded herself that morning would be time enough…

  She joined Ian Sutherland in the Carver’s Table, where she had another whiskey, a peaty Laphroaig this time. Sutherland recognized the mood she was in and didn’t try to be part of it. They ate Aberdeen Angus beef from the buffet, and Ian had a bottle of wine delivered to the table. After dinner they sat in the lobby. He sipped a brandy, she had nothing, said almost nothing.

  “Heather, you better go to bed,” he said. “You’re exhausted.”

  “Yes, I am… you always were understanding.”

  “I tried, although I sometimes wonder whether things would have worked out between us if I’d been more understanding. I loved you, you know. I’m sorry, this is no time—”

  She took his hand. “Don’t apologize, please. I think I loved you too, Ian, but it was the wrong time, wrong place. Fate, maybe.”

  “And we must dree ane’s weird.”

  “Yes, we all must endure our fate.”

  “Sleep well, dear Heather. Pleasant dreams. If I can do anything for you tomorrow, don’t hesitate.”

  “I won’t. Good night.” She kissed his cheek, then went to her room, where after an hour of confused and tortuous thoughts she finally fell asleep.

  ***

  She was up and on her way to the McBean castle by 7:30. Traffic was heavy coming into Randolph Crescent but thinned out on Queens Ferry Road. She bore right at Davidson’s Mains and followed local roads until she reached Lauriston Castle, which had been willed to the City of Edinburgh by its last owners, William and Margaret Reid, with whom Calum McBean had been friendly.

  She continued on to a break in a belt of yews, turned into it and followed a narrow dirt road for approximately a quarter of a mile, dense growths of rowans, hollies and rhododendrons lining her route. Directly ahead was the McBean Castle, small when compared to other fortress structures in Scotland but certainly large enough to establish its credentials as “a castle” rather than a house. The main tower, built in the sixteenth century, was four stories tall and sported two corbelled two-story turrets. Attached to the tower was the more recent portion of the complex. A scots pine, symbol of a Jacobite refuge for victims being pursued by redcoats, stood next to the turret door. A pair of chestnut trees flanked the door to the mansion. Pheasants and partridges fed on rolling lawns while peacocks preened among them, their brilliant tail feathers creating sudden bursts of color against the monochromatic green grass and gray stone of the buildings.

  She pulled up in front of the turret, got out and walked around to the side. A flat expanse of lawn stretched toward the Firth of Forth, where tiny white sails and larger stacks of ocean-going vessels provided a mini-skyline. Heather had often played croquet on that lawn with her uncle and close family friends. “Stroke it firmly, lass,” Calum would say, sometimes taking the mallet from her and demonstrating. Once, when she showed annoyance, he said, “Ye a lassie o pairts, Heather, but ye tyne the gate of if ye don’t listen.” At least he’d complimented her first before suggesting that she’d lose her knack for the game unless she listened to him.

  She felt a lump in her throat as she remembered it. No matter how stern Calum McBean could be, she never doubted for a second that he loved her deeply, would have given up everything for her.

  “Is it ye?” a female voice asked.

  Agnes, their housekeeper of many years, was crossing the lawn.

  “Hello, Agnes.” They embraced. When they stepped apart, Heather was suddenly aware how old Agnes looked. She was in her late seventies but somehow had always seemed younger. Now there was no question of her age, and Heather wondered whether eighty wouldn’t be more accurate.

  “You surprise me, but then you always did that,” Agnes said, grinning. “You’ll be stayin’ for a spell?”

  Heather shook her head as they walked toward the house. “No. I can’t stay long, I’m afraid, just a few days. I’ll be in the city with friends.”

  Agnes stopped and frowned. “You’ll not be stayin’ here overnight, in your old room? The master would be disappointed.”

  “I can’t, Agnes. I’d like to but—oh, look.” She pointed to a clump of larch from which a pair of roe deer peered back at them.

  “They’re thick as meal,” Agnes said.

  The deer withdrew into the trees. Heather walked to the trees and looked down at a small marker over the grave of Calum’s favorite dog, a Shetland sheepdog he’d named Ceit, Gaelic for Kate. The dog had lived to be seventeen, and when she died Calum buried her by the larch trees and inscribed the stone:

  Ye were my Frien, Sweet Ceit,

  And I be keen o ye;

  Ye rin the gless on earth,

  But ye byde forever i me hert.

  He’d cried the day they buried Ceit, and that evening in the foyer he hung a painting a local artist had done of the dog.

  “Hello, Ceit,” Heather said to the watercolor of the sheltie as she and Agnes entered the house.

  “A fine animal, that,” Agnes said. “Broke your poor uncle’s heart when she went. I’ll make ye some tea.”

  “That sounds wonderful, Agnes. It’s good to be home.”

  Agnes disappeared into the kitchen and Heather wandered into the library. It was weeks after Calum died before she could step foot into it. She stood now just inside the door and slowly looked about the room. The floors were covered with Persian rugs subdued enough not to detract from the rich display of art on the walls, including two large leather panels that had originated in Cordova in the mid-seventeenth century. The ceiling was a rococo display of cupids and heraldic beasts frolicking in high relief, and the fireplace carried through on the ceiling motif. The furniture was mostly Chippendale. Everywhere were works of art—Chinese porcelain, Mortlake tapestries, Ellicott clocks, pieces of Derbyshire fluorspar known as Blue John given to Calum by William Reid from his extensive collection at Lauriston, original oils and watercolors, priceless firearms, Egyptian statuary and illuminated manuscripts.

  Heather crossed the room to a display cabinet behind which were outstanding examples of Calum McBean’s artifacts from past secret societies. One shelf was devoted to the Legion of Harsa, although only a few items remained from that collection. Once, the Harsa medal held center stage in that cabinet, but then Calum had donated it to the Smithsonian. Heather asked him about it once and was told that he wanted to distribute certain pieces to public places in every corner of the globe. Calum could make decisions like that on the spur of the moment. He was as impetuous as he was irascible, pondering the simplest decisions for months, making snap judgments on major issues within moments…

  “Will you have your tea in here?” Agnes stood in the doorway, holding a silver tray.

  “Yes, I will. Thank you, Agnes.”

  The housekeeper set the
tray on the desk and asked if Heather needed anything else.

  “No, but you could do me a favor. I’d just as soon not have many people know that I’m in Edinburgh.” She wasn’t in the mood to conduct a wake.

  “As you say, Miss Heather. I’ll not be here all day. I planned to leave sometime after the noon hour.”

  “That’ll be fine. Will Clifton be here?” referring to a caretaker who lived in a cottage at the far end of the property close to the firth.

  Agnes made a face. “I’ve not seen him for a fortnight, miss. Been on a bash lately.”

  Heather smiled. “He’s been cockin’ the wee finger, has he?” Clifton, she thought, gave credence to the saying, “The British drink for pleasure, for the Scots it’s a profession.”

  “That he has, miss. I’ll leave you now. Just ring if you need me.”

  “I will, Agnes, and thank you.”

  There was a pile of unopened mail on the desk, which she quickly went through. A file folder contained documents relating to the changeover of administration and maintenance from the McBean estate to the City of Edinburgh. One of the letters confirmed what Ian Sutherland had told her: the city had come to a final vote accepting the terms of the takeover. She slipped that letter into the file, leaned back and sipped her tea. Agnes had put a wheat scone, clotted cream and bramble jelly on the tray. Heather closed her eyes, and for a moment imagined Calum sitting in the chair, thin, sinewy and bent like a walking stick, gray hair stabbing the air from what seemed a hundred different directions, his face deeply lined with experience and wisdom, a man who’d looked into the sun for a very long time. She opened her eyes, whispered, “I miss you,” got up, stoked the fire and looked out the windows to the shimmering firth on the horizon. Scotland’s weather was up to its usual tricks. The morning’s sunshine was now threatened by dark clouds rolling in from the east, where heavy rain could be seen as black mist over the water. A gust of wind rattled the hand-blown glass in the window, and seconds later the sky above opened, unleashing a torrent of rain.

  Heather stayed at the window and watched the storm’s rapid progress. It was over, at least for the McBean castle, in ten minutes, followed by a brilliant rainbow that slashed through the lightening sky and dove into the Firth of Forth.

  Heather spent another half hour at the desk. She put in her purse a signed copy of a letter agreement that had been drawn between the estate and a leading antique dealer in the Edinburgh area, Ranald Robertson, who had been one of the few dealers Calum ever trusted. Knowing that, Heather had allowed Robertson to take on consignment selected pieces from the castle and to sell them to the public, with the lion’s share of the proceeds returning to the McBean estate to help pay for taxes and renovations. There was a note from Robertson that he would be participating in a weeklong antiques fair at the Assembly Halls on Princess Street and that his booth would feature items from the McBean collection.

  “Is it all right if I’d be leaving now, Miss Heather?” Agnes asked from the doorway.

  “Yes, of course. Are we still locking up in the same way?”

  “Yes, mum. Everything is secured excepting for the main door.”

  “Good. I’ll stay a while and be back in the morning. Will you be here?”

  “I expect so. Miss McBean, might I mention something to you?”

  “Of course, Agnes. Since when haven’t you been able to?”

  Agnes approached the desk. “I just wanted you to know, Miss Heather, that what you did for me after Master McBean died was generous to a fault. He’d provided nicely for me in the will. There was no need for you to make more of it.”

  “You deserve it, Agnes. Uncle Calum was very fond of you and deeply appreciated your loyalty. So do I.” She squeezed the older woman’s hand.

  Agnes started to leave, stopped halfway to the door, turned and said in a grim voice, “And I’ll go to my grave knowin’ that he didn’t use his own hand like they say he did.”

  “And so will I, Agnes, so will I. Maybe we’ll get to the bottom of that before our graves call us.”

  “Better make it soon, Miss Heather. I’ve been feelin’ a bit wabbit lately.”

  “So have I, Agnes. We both need a rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Aye, you will.” She shook her head. “They never believed me, the bobbies, that I heard two shots. They said I was hearin’ things, like I was daft.”

  “I know, Agnes. Some day the truth will be out. Take care.”

  “You, too, miss.”

  Shortly after Agnes left, Heather decided to walk to Cramond village for lunch at the Cramond Inn. Her uncle seldom went out to eat or drink, preferring the comforts of the castle and, as he put it, “me own conversation.” But he sometimes made an exception and went to the inn, where Robert Louis Stevenson had enjoyed many evenings downing whiskey and ale with bar friends… Calum would arrive in an ancient automobile, wearing a flowing black-and-gray tweed cape and a black tam-o’-shanter, brandishing his ebony walking stick like a bobby’s nightstick, with, of course, Ceit at his heels. If he didn’t like the people at the bar he’d go to a table in the dining room and drink alone until someone came in whose company he could tolerate, Ceit sitting passively beneath the table and accepting an occasional affectionate pat from her master. But such visits were rare, no more than once a month, and were virtually nonexistent toward the end.

  Heather stopped at a kirk just up the road from the inn and strolled through its burial grounds, once the scene of a Roman garrison. She felt like she was in a limbo, a place where the senses were never allowed to be resolved, the mind prohibited from seeing far enough ahead to know the reasons for things, or the answers…

  They greeted her warmly at the inn. She enjoyed a whiskey at the bar, then had a delicious local lunch in the dining room—prawns wrapped in smoked salmon, Dover sole, a small salad and coffee.

  After lunch she took a walk along the River Almond. The tide was out and the river’s muddy bottom stretched to the deeper waters of the firth. Hundreds of gulls screamed as they swooped low over the mud flats in search of food. She looked out over the firth and the boats bobbing in the water. The eastern horizon was black; another storm was on its way. Her hair rippled in an increasing breeze, and her face felt the sting of sea water whipped up from the firth and carried inland. Since Lewis’s death she’d been fairly successful in controlling her emotions, at least the outward show of them. But now, alone, in her native country, the beauty of it overwhelming and with the realization that she would never share it with the man she loved, she stopped fighting it. She leaned on a piling and let it out, not bothering to hide her heaving body from whomever might be watching, not caring whether a crowd gathered, feeling nothing but the awful loss, and the pain.

  As she walked back toward the castle along the water’s edge she felt a little better. Her Scottish heritage taught her to keep things inside, hidden, exclusive. It was wrong. She’d lost something important; it had been plucked from her like a gull snatching a mollusk from the sand. “Damn you,” she said to whomever had killed Tunney. “Damn you for all of your days.” Her words blew back in her face and she quickened her pace, eyes straight ahead, never looking up to the narrow road, where a dark green sedan moved slowly along, the driver matching his speed to the lone, small figure on the beach.

  ***

  Five minutes before she reached the castle the day’s third storm erupted. It was dark as night. The winds bent the chestnut trees low to the ground, and a bolt of lightning splashed intense white light over everything, followed by a booming clap of thunder. (“They’re booling upstairs,” Calum used to say.)

  She drew a deep breath and ran toward the turret, holding her purse over her head. The rain soaked her as she fished for the key, found it and opened massive doors imported from Spain. Another flash of lightning, thunder reverberating off stone walls, objects dancing on the walls as the wind forced itself through crevices and turned the foyer into a wind tunnel.

  The phone rang. Wha
t a time. Heather kicked off waterlogged shoes and wrung water from her hair onto the floor. She heard something fall in the kitchen, probably a pan from a wall rack. “Hoot awa,” she muttered, and ran in stocking feet toward the nearest phone, picked it up from its cradle, dropped it, put the wrong end to her ear, reversed it. “Hello…?”

  They’d hung up. “Damn,” she said, slamming the receiver. She looked at her watch. She’d have to hurry to catch Robertson’s booth at the Assembly Halls. She went to the bathroom, where she brushed out her damp hair and vigorously rubbed her legs and feet with a coarse towel. One thing she’d wanted to do before leaving was to gather up a collection of antique, hand-painted miniature soldiers to give to Robertson. Calum had enjoyed the collection but considered it an adolescent indulgence. She was quite sure he’d approve of her decision to sell off the collection.

  She walked down a long, cluttered hallway leading to what was called the reception hall, another room dominated by Calum’s collections. In addition to being a showcase for the miniature soldiers it housed an eclectic array of ancient armament, brickbats and broadswords, pepper boxes and perriers, scimitars and sgian-dubhs, foils and gaffs. The room was almost pitch-black; thick purple drapes cut off what light was available from the outside.

  She reached for a wall switch, found it, flipped it up. A chandelier flickered to life, followed by a violent explosion of thunder and the room went dark again. During the brief moment of illumination Heather had advanced halfway across the room. She skirted a table in the center and approached the cabinets that held the soldiers. A door leading to an adjacent study was open. She stopped in front of it and stiffened at what sounded like a groan from the next room. The wind, she decided. A sliver of intense light slashed through a small gap in the drapes as lightning again lit up the sky.

  Heather glanced up at a row of ten-foot-tall Italian glaives lined up on the wall next to the doorway. They dated from the sixteenth century, the fashionable weaponry of the day—long curved blades projecting from elongated, studded wooden handles inlaid with gold, silver and mother-of-pearl and laced with bands of gold damascene. Again a sound from the next room. She peered into its dark recesses, saw nothing, took a step toward the cabinet. The glaive nearest the doorway pitched forward from its clamp, the blade diving toward her head. Indeed, if she hadn’t taken that first step the outcome might well have been… well, the blade missed her by inches and clattered to the floor.