Last Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 3)

by Stephen Penner

  “Excuse me?” she demanded of the tall Scotsman.

  He hesitated, clearly recognizing the edge to her tone, and a bit surprised at being called out on his comment. But the beer in his hand and the blonde on his arm seemed to fortify his courage. “I said it was typical. You’re off to some distant city, on some secret mission, and when the opportunity presents itself to be honest about what you’re doing, you clam up. Do you even know how to be honest?”

  Maggie narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “I’d like to have someone to talk to, but he’d have to be somebody pretty special. Strong. Understanding. Trustworthy.”

  Iain’s own eyes narrowed. “It’s hard to trust when the trust’s been broken.”

  “It goes both ways,” Maggie shot back. “A true friend is ready to trust when the time is right.”

  Heather had faded into irrelevance as Maggie and Iain locked eyes.

  “Just a friend, eh?” Iain scoffed. “Is that all I was? Well, then go tell a friend. Go tell Ellen.”

  “Tell me what?” Ellen walked up just then, Stuart peering wraithlike over her shoulder. She ignored Heather. “Hello, Iain.”

  He nodded stiffly to her. Heather tightened her grip. She was suddenly outnumbered.

  “Tell me what?” Ellen repeated.

  “Secrets,” Iain answered glumly.

  Ellen flashed a saccharine smile, her large teeth beaming, and turned to her American friend. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me, Mags. Tell someone you can really trust. Tell Philip.”

  “Philip?” Iain asked far too quickly, the shock—and pain—obvious in his voice.

  Maggie wasn’t sure what to say. Ellen was.

  “Oh, aye.” She looked back to Iain and laid it on thick. “A handsome young professor. He’s from Vancouver, Canada, right by Maggie’s own hometown. He’s just arrived in Aberdeen and teaches some of the very subjects Maggie here is studying. And…” She winked at Maggie. “I think he’s taken a rather obvious shine to our Maggie here.”

  Maggie felt herself blush, but she didn’t stop Ellen.

  Ellen tipped her head slightly and addressed the woman attached to Iain’s arm. “I think it’s important to be with someone who really understands you. Don’t you agree?”

  Heather provided a cold smile and hugged Iain’s arm. “Oh, yes. I agree completely.”

  Maggie ignored Heather. And Ellen. And especially Stuart. She stared up at Iain. He was staring right back at her.

  Finally she looked down. “Goodbye. Iain.”

  Iain nodded. “Goodbye, Maggie.”

  And they went their separate ways.

  24. Everything in Its Place

  Maggie drank way too much. The shared room with Ellen turned out to be doubly smart. She doubted she’d ever had made it back without her. She recalled being dumped into the bed. If she’d cared about whether Ellen stayed, such concern evaporated when the nightmare started.

  This time she was already in the grave. All the way at the bottom. There was no coffin, just cool, damp earth. She was looking up from the bottom, her back cold and wet, her head heavy and dirty. Clouds passed in front of the half moon that illuminated her grave.

  The walls were too high to climb. She almost didn’t even bother trying. It would be easier to just give up and accept her fate. She felt exhausted, her shoulders achy and her limbs leaden. But she forced herself to her feet and reached for the grassy top, trying to wedge her shoes into the sides of the earthen vault.

  It was no use. The surface was just out of her reach and her shoes couldn’t find any footholds. She scrambled and scrambled, but got nowhere. Her front was filthy, smeared and caked with mud. She was out of breath. Her arms ached. Her knees were scraped. She would try one more time, then resign herself to her doom.

  She extended her hands as far up as she could.

  She jumped as high as she could.

  She didn’t quite reach the top.

  But she didn’t fall back to the bottom either.

  A hand reached over and grabbed her wrist. A man’s hand. A strong hand.

  She grabbed her savior’s arm and felt her heart lighten as she was pulled from the pit. She landed on the grass and looked up at the man who’d saved her life. They were still holding hands.

  It was Iain.

  She didn’t know what to say.

  He didn’t say anything.

  Instead he let go of her wrist and knelt down next to her, smiling.

  She propped herself into a half-sitting position and smiled back—then shoved him into the grave with her feet. He fell to the bottom with a damp thud. She looked over the edge to see him lying in a twisted heap.

  He was starting to move, so she pulled the shovel out of the pile of dirt next to her and began filling the grave.

  25. Big Dig

  Edinburgh Castle has stood for centuries atop its grand hill, surveying the city below, the harbor, and the icy waters of the North Sea beyond. Its rambling parapets and granite face paid tribute to its history as both a political and military institution. From long before the time of the Stuart kings to the modern day, the castle towered over the daily lives of the Scottish capitals’ inhabitants, from their births at home and hospital, to their young days in the schools, to their weddings in the churches, to their first jobs at the factories, and finally to the unavoidable end of all lives and their final internment in one of the city’s many cemeteries.

  In one such cemetery, well-known for many reasons, the castle would have been visible from the grounds, but for the dense trees and the dark night. Instead, the pale sliver of moonlight illuminated only the bleached headstones and the rusted blade of a shovel as it cleaved the ground and turned, tearing the roots of the living grass from the death-concealing dirt beneath.

  Shhk. Shhk. Shhk.

  Dig. Turn. Toss. Dig. Turn. Toss. Dig. Turn. Toss.

  There was time. No time to waste. But still time to use.

  Shhk. Shhk. Shhk,

  26. Sinclair

  There came a knock at his door. Loud. Staccato. Professional.

  Devan Sinclair pushed away from his breakfast table. His toast and coffee would have to wait. He’d learned it wasn’t the late night knocks that were to be feared; it was the early morning ones. And if not, feared, at least respected. Early risers rarely took no for an answer.

  He peered out the peephole to confirm his suspicion, then opened his door.

  “Good morning, officers.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Sinclair,” said the shorter of the two women standing in his hallway—the blonde one, with the funereal expression. Each wore a nondescript suit and displayed a badge on her belt.

  Sinclair assumed he was supposed to be impressed by their knowing his name. He wasn’t particularly. He stepped back and invited them inside.

  For his part, he was dressed in gray slacks with a matching gray vest and a crisp white shirt. His dark blond hair was combed straight back and his face was freshly shaved, save the well-groomed goatee, making the scar down his left cheek unmistakable. He was an early riser as well.

  “I’m inspector Lindsey Benson of the Edinburgh Police,” the taller officer identified herself as she put away her badge and entered the flat. “This is Sergeant Elizabeth Warwick of the Aberdeen Police. Do you have time for a few questions?”

  “Of course.” Sinclair closed the door behind them and returned to his seat at his breakfast table. He gestured for them to join him. “I’m always happy to help the authorities.”

  Warwick and Benson sat down at Sinclair’s small kitchen table. There were chairs for four, but breakfast was for one. Just as well. They’d eaten on the way over.

  Benson started the questioning. It was her city. “Are you familiar with the Hotel Regency downtown?”

  Sinclair nodded as he swallowed a bite of food. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “I would prefer it,” he said, “if you’d just come out with it. Please don’t try to trick me into admitting something which will be easily explained away as a misu
nderstanding caused by your being overly coy. Simply tell me why you’re here and what you want to know.”

  The officers hesitated. Each looked at the other for some indication of how to respond. Warwick gave it first. She sighed.

  “Fine,” Warwick said. “There was a murder several weeks ago at the Hotel Regency here in Edinburgh. It was fairly grisly. The victim was found in the bathtub with blood everywhere and a flat stone across his eyes.”

  Sinclair kept his face expressionless. “Yes? And?”

  “And your name was on the registry,” Benson jumped in. “In fact, that was the last time you came up in any electronic transactions anywhere. You just fell off the face of the Earth after that.”

  Sinclair looked around his small, but comfortable flat. “I’ve fallen nowhere, I assure you. I’ve been here the entire time.”

  Benson leaned onto the table. “Why did you rent that room? And how did a dead man end up in the bathtub?”

  Sinclair resisted leaning away from the inspector. Instead, he held his ground and replied, “I have no idea how a dead man ended up in the bathtub. And I did not rent that room.”

  “It’s your name on the registry,” Benson repeated. “Your credit card number was used.”

  “My credit card number was stolen,” Sinclair replied, “and used rather irresponsibly until I closed the account. Whoever stole it rented that room, purchased some very expensive electronics, opened several adult internet accounts, and even donated to the Tories. None of which I approved.”

  Benson narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you report the theft?”

  “No,” was the simple answer.

  “Why not?” Benson pressed.

  “Would you have caught them?” Sinclair challenged.

  Benson hesitated. “Maybe.”

  Sinclair shook his head. “Unlikely at best. Identity theft may be trendy, but it’s still just theft. Your department has too many other, more serious crimes to pursue, and already not enough officers to do it.”

  Benson could hardly argue with that.

  “Why Edinburgh?” Warwick interjected.

  Sinclair understood the question. “I needed a change. A fresh start.”

  “Why was that?”

  Sinclair met Warwick’s gaze directly. “I don’t think I need to explain that to you, do I, Sergeant?”

  Benson looked puzzled. Warwick didn’t. Just the opposite, actually.

  “Is that all?” Sinclair asked, standing up. “I need to get about my day.”

  “Not quite,” Benson answered. She removed the clan crest pendant from her pocket. “Do you recognize this?”

  Sinclair looked at the baggie for several seconds. “I’ve seen them before,” he answered, “but I don’t know whose that is.”

  Benson smiled and returned the evidence to her pocket. “All right then. Thank you, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Warwick thanked him as well and they let themselves out as Sinclair cleared his dishes. Once in the hallway, Benson turned to Warwick. “Well, that last bit was interesting anyway.”

  Warwick agreed, but likely for different reasons. “How so?”

  Benson pulled out the pendant again. “He didn’t ask us where we found it. And he assumed we cared whose it is.”

  27. The Best Laid Plans

  The rest of Maggie’s night was a painful drunken blur, but when she woke, the memory of burying Iain alive was as fresh as if it were happening right then.

  Ignoring, as best she could, the brick lodged behind her eyes, she rose, showered, and went down to the hotel lobby for breakfast. She also decided to ignore that Ellen wasn’t in their room when she woke up, preferring to believe she had simply gotten up first and would be waiting downstairs.

  In addition to a clean, cheap room, Hotel Rebus also offered a continental so-called breakfast. One of the advantages of having eschewed The Continent for The Isles was regularly enjoying a breakfast that consisted of more than ten versions of bread. Then again, she thought, as she placed a hard roll and an even harder roll on her plate, any attempt at eggs or sausage right then would likely have resulted in some rather violent vomiting. Maybe the Continentals were just hung-over more often than the Brits.

  Maggie found a small table in the back corner of the breakfast room. There were a few others also breaking their fasts just then. One was reading the paper, two were talking to each other, another was intently buttering his roll, and all of them were, like her, trying to ignore the large-screen TV blasting at them from its spot covering most of the main wall.

  Maggie’s eyes would not have taken kindly to being asked to focus on newsprint just then, so she decided not to seek out a discarded section of newspaper. She didn’t have anyone to talk to. And she didn’t want any butter on either of her rolls. So she sighed and surrendered to Mr. Orwell’s ubiquitous screen.

  There were two hosts on the morning program: one man and one woman. Both were plasticly pretty, with broad smiles as fake as the seascape projected behind them. The bubbly blonde woman was giggling as she finished the latest story. “…and I bet that cute little kitty-cat will stay away from that sandwich-slicer from now on.”

  She turned to her co-host and cued the next story. “Liam?”

  “Thanks, Kelsey.” He grinned at her, then turned back to the camera. Maggie took a bite from the harder roll and chewed with begrudging interest.

  “Grave robbers struck the Greyfriars Kirkyard last night,” Liam reported with a suddenly somber expression, “digging up the grave of a woman named Rebecca NicInnes Adams. Although police haven’t released details as to what might have been taken, the crime matches similar recent grave robberies from as far away as Aberdeen.”

  Maggie dropped her roll. It clanked off the plate and onto the floor, but she paid it no attention. She was riveted to the TV. So of course, that’s exactly when Ellen and Stuart walked in.

  “Maggie!” Ellen called out over the television and hurried to her table. “There you are. None too worse for wear, I see. Did you sleep all right, then?”

  Maggie craned her neck to try to see around Ellen, but it was too late. Mr. and Mrs. MacSmiley had moved on to a story about remote-controlled boats in some city fountain somewhere. She sighed and returned her gaze to her friend.

  “I slept okay,” she said. Then she rubbed the back of her neck and added, “Strange dreams, though.”

  “Well, too much Scottish beer will do that, eh?” Ellen grinned. Then she excused herself to fetch something to eat. Stuart followed her and in a few minutes they returned to Maggie’ table, eating breakfast and ready to plan their day, unaware that Maggie’s plans—whatever they might have been—had changed.

  “So what shall we do today?” Ellen asked.

  Maggie knew exactly what she was doing that day. The question was how to ditch Ellen and Stuart so she could do it.

  “I was thinking we could go to the National Museum,” Stuart suggested. “They’re having an exhibit on the greatest advances of science.”

  No chance in Hell, Maggie thought. “Maybe,” she said. “Could I see your tour book, Ellen?”

  Ellen had bought the latest guide to the Scottish capital when Maggie had asked for the ride. She’d been to Edinburgh plenty of times before, Ellen had explained, but always liked going with someone else because it gave her a chance to play tourist in her own country. Maggie flipped through the pages, looking for a map of the city, and specifically one with Greyfriars Kirkyard. When she found it, the write-up on the opposite page confirmed she’d be going there that day.

  Commissioned in 1561 by Mary Queen of Scots because the cemetery at St. Giles Cathedral (see page 37) was full, Greyfriars Kirk Cemetery is reported to be one of the most haunted spots in all of Scotland. The most famous ghost is that of ‘Bluidy’ George MacKenzie, which is reported to attack tourists, leaving bite and scratch marks. Sir George MacKenzie was the Lord Advocate of Scotland from 1677-1688 and was an accomplished lawyer and novelist. One of his more notable cases came defending a woman
accused of witchcraft in the Midlothian witchcraft trials of 1661, although, as he explained at the time, not because there were no such things as witches, but rather that they were rarer than people thought.

  The south end of the graveyard contains many enclosed vaults and two ‘mort-safes’—low, iron-work cages covering temporary graves which could be rented out until the bodies had decomposed enough to no longer be of interest to the grave-robbing “resurrection men” who provided Edinburgh Medical College with fresh bodies before the 1832 Anatomy Act began allowing, and regulating, the use of corpses for medical purposes.

  Maggie looked up from the book. MacKenzie? Grave robbers? Witches?! Oh yes, she was going to Greyfriars Kirkyard. She just needed to ditch Ellen and Stuart.

  She’d gotten pretty good at ditching people and actually had begun to categorize the different types of ditches by timing and type. The previous day had been a ditchin-advance, a planned separation allowing her to pursue what she needed to pursue. That likely wouldn’t work again. Ellen seemed intent on spending time with her that day, which meant Stuart would be around too. So Maggie needed to use a ditch-of-opportunity, disappearing either with some pre-planned excuse or when her companions were distracted, then explaining it later.

  She looked at the map. For better and worse, Greyfriars Kirkyard was basically across the street from the National Museum. She sighed.

  “Stuart,” she forced herself to say, “I think you’re right. Let’s go to the National Museum’s exhibit of that science junk or whatever.”

  Stuart was so surprised—either by Maggie agreeing, or by her being nice about it, or, most likely, the combination of those two things—that his bite of roll actually fell out of his mouth. Not very appealing. Maggie was officially done with breakfast.

  “Uh, wow,” Stuart stammered. “That’s great. Brilliant. Thank you.”

  He looked down at his soggy, half-eaten roll bite. “Maybe I’d better get a new roll,” he said, and hurried away before Maggie could change her mind.