Last Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 3)

by Stephen Penner

  So after they got back from the museum, she left Ellen and Stuart back at the hotel and walked the few short blocks to ‘The Tome Tomb.’ As soon as she crossed the threshold, she knew she was in the right place.

  It looked identical to the interior of Sinclair’s old Aberdeen store. From the stuffed floor-to-ceiling bookshelves to the dapper forty-something man standing behind the counter.

  “Sinclair.”

  He looked up at the sound of his name. If he were surprised by her arrival, he didn’t show it. “Maggie. How nice to see you again.”

  He looked the same as the last time she’d seen him. The second-to-last time she’d seen him had been after midnight in a graveyard with a murderer hunting them. But he held the same hard-earned self-confidence on his visage. He was dressed impeccably in beige pants and a matching silk vest, a crisp white shirt beneath. She knew, even though she couldn’t see them, that his shoes were perfectly polished too. His blond goatee was still neatly trimmed and his blond hair again combed straight back. The only blemish was also the coup de grace to his look of controlled fury: a mottled scar running the length of his left cheek. Few people knew how he’d gotten it. Maggie was one of them.

  “What happened?” Maggie got right to it. And she wasn’t talking about the scar.

  Sinclair hesitated. He regarded her for several seconds, his gaze seeming to penetrate her very thoughts. “Perhaps you should tell me.”

  Damn it. That flummoxed her. She didn’t want to tell him she didn’t remember anything. Apparently she didn’t have to; her hesitation was enough.

  “You don’t remember, do you?” he probed.

  “I remember enough,” she rejoined.

  Again he delayed his response. He raised a hand to his chin and looked down at her, tapping his lips. “I don’t think so,” he finally said. “Interesting.”

  Maggie didn’t like being examined like an ant under a magnifying glass. She knew what happened to the ant. “You know what?” she said. “Never mind. I never should have come here. I remember everything, okay? So maybe it’s you who doesn’t remember. What do you think of that?”

  “I think,” he replied, “that the more information one has the better. And you are lacking vital information.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks for helping with that,” Maggie replied crossly. “Thanks for nothing.”

  Sinclair didn’t say anything. He just stroked his chin and stared at her with his piercing black eyes.

  Maggie decided it was time to go. In fact, she wished she’d never come. A feeling which intensified when she realized she had likely been influenced to seek him out by the fake email from the fake dead Sarah. She hated being tricked into doing things. So she was going to nip it in the bud. Now that she knew where he was, she could come back when she was ready, and on her own terms.

  “Well, nice to see you,” she managed to say. “I think I’ll be going.”

  Sinclair didn’t stop her. But he did watch after her, certain she’d be needing more watching after soon enough.

  *

  “And if you peer over this cubicle wall,” Benson said as she finished giving Warwick a tour of Edinburgh’s main precinct, “is Emma Valentine, one of our top forensic techs.”

  Warwick peered around, rather than over, the cubicle wall and offered Valentine a hand in greeting. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” Valentine replied, standing for her visitors.

  “This is Sergeant Elizabeth Warwick from the Aberdeen Police,” Benson said. “She’s giving us an assist on the Hotel Regency case.”

  “Oh really?” Valentine chimed. “I was just finishing up some more work on that one.”

  “What kind of work?” Warwick asked. She was always looking for more leads.

  “We just finished downloading and collating all of the victim’s email and social media information,” Valentine answered.

  Warwick rolled her eyes. She’d been doing police work long enough to remember ‘little black books.’ People made it so easy any more to find out everything. They posted it themselves. “Did you find anything interesting?”

  “Well, we confirmed he knew that woman who killed herself up in Aberdeen. Sarah something.”

  “Sarah MacKenzie,” Warwick said.

  “Aye, that’s her,” Valentine replied. “They had quite the whirlwind on-line romance, it seems. That MacKenzie lass was pretty aggressive, if you know what I mean. Didn’t leave much to the imagination. Lots of explicit messages. Some pretty creepy stuff too.”

  “Oh, really?” Benson asked, a little too curious perhaps. “Like what?”

  “Well, it was kind of hard to understand,” Valentine equivocated, “but if you read between the lines, I’d almost think they were into some kind of necrophilia.”

  “Necrophilia?” Benson repeated. She turned to Warwick. “That might explain the grave robberies.”

  Warwick shook her head. “I don’t think so. First of all, that would make our two main suspects dead, which would be problematic. And anyway, the necrophilia cases I’ve done have all involved either murderers or morticians. They usually prefer fresh bodies.”

  Benson just stared at her for a moment. “You’ve done a lot of different types of cases, haven’t you?”

  Warwick shrugged. “I guess so.”

  “Well, all I know,” Valentine said, “is that your Miss MacKenzie was adamant that our victim bring something she called ‘the bones’ when he came to Scotland. He promised to and she seemed pretty happy about, judging by the pic she sent back.”

  “Bones?” Benson questioned. “He couldn’t have brought bones from Canada. They never would have let those through customs.”

  Warwick had to agree. “Maybe it’s the title of a book. They were both academics.”

  “Aye, maybe that’s it,” Valentine said. “I hadn’t thought of that. Too much real blood and guts in my line of work. Besides, nobody capitalizes anymore when they type, so I can’t tell a book title from a necrophiliac aphrodisiac.”

  Benson shook her head. “Ick. I don’t think I need to know any more right now.”

  “Oh, there’s one more thing you’ll be wanting to know,” Valentine assured.

  “What’s that?” Benson replied.

  “You know that grave robbery last night, at Greyfriars?” Valentine reminded them. “Well, these two mentioned Greyfriars and something about consecrating their relationship over an open grave.”

  Warwick looked at Benson and raised an eyebrow. They both knew where they would be going that night.

  31. Bluidy MacKenzie

  Later that night, after the sun had set and her blood had stopped boiling, Maggie joined Ellen and Stuart at the front gate of the darkening graveyard, preparing to enter a section so haunted it was locked during the day. After a brief, and suitably ominous introduction, the tour guide—a different one from the afternoon—raised his lantern and led the twenty or so tourists who’d paid for the tour into the gloom of Greyfriars Kirkyard. Maggie’s big decision was whether to wait until they’d gotten inside the Covenanters Prison before peeling off and ducking into the shadows. She wasn’t sure how she was going to explain this particular disappearing act, but sometimes you just had to go with a figure-out-the-excuse-later-ditch.

  As it happened, they marched rather directly to the Covenanters Prison and before Maggie really had time to choose an option, the tour guide was unlocking the gate with exaggerated clanking and awe. He pushed open the cast iron gate with a long, dramatic squeak.

  “Stay close,” he warned, thickening his Scots brogue a bit for the tourists, “and be wary. You may sense a presence, a strange feeling, unexpected cold. These are almost to be expected any more. But if anyone experiences any injuries or sensations of being scratched or bitten, tell me immediately. The MacKenzie Poltergeist might well be in a foul mood this night.”

  “I don’t really believe in ghosts,” Stuart whispered to his companions. “Do you, Maggie?”

  Maggie considered he
r response. She knew ghosts were real, so to that extent she didn’t merely believe in them. “No,” She answered.

  Ellen grinned and looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “You, Maggie Devereaux, are a bonnie wee liar.”

  Maggie had to smile back. “You’re just figuring that out?”

  “Hush now,” the tour guide admonished his group. Theirs wasn’t the only whispered conversation.

  The whispers turned from conversational to expectant. The stone walls of the prison were topped with an iron-railed walkway, from which the guards could and did shoot prisoners. Over one thousand men and boys were imprisoned there, with no shelter and a mere four ounces of bread a day, over the four months the cemetery prison was used. As the tour group moved on, a woman in the crowd suddenly spoke up.

  “Did you feel that?” she asked excitedly. “Like a blast of cold air?”

  “I didn’t feel anything,” someone replied in the dark.

  “I think I did. Maybe.”

  “Oh, I did. Definitely.”

  The tour guide raised his lantern to his face. “That’s Bluidy MacKenzie inspecting what he thinks are his newest prisoners. Stay calm. He’s wanting to see if anyone tries to escape.”

  Maggie knew her cue when she heard it. As the group trudged forward, Maggie slowed to the back of the pack, then stepped behind a particularly gnarled apple tree, its wood slick, its branches empty black fingers reaching toward the sliver of the moon high in the night sky. When the group had walked far enough away, Maggie hurried over the soft, shifting ground back to the creaky iron gate. With a quick look over her shoulder to confirm no one was watching, she darted out of the Covenanters Prison. She didn’t hear the people behind her.

  “Did you feel that?”

  “Like a rush of cold air.”

  “Heading right for the gate.”

  *

  Maggie wasn’t prepared for the almost complete blackness that blanketed the graveyard away from the tour guide’s lantern. What moon there was, was thin and gave barely enough light to make out the stone path under her feet. As irritating as the darkness was, she was also thankful for it. It would give her excellent cover as she inspected the defiled grave of Rebecca NicInnes Adams.

  The white-and-blue police tape stood out easily against the black of the grass and monuments. There was no cop this time. None that she saw anyway, but the thought of one made her nervous. What if he was just on break or something? She decided she didn’t need to climb down into the grave or anything. Just find a quick bauble, maybe something off the headstone, even a clump of sod, then get back to the group. There was something about the whole business that was starting to give her the creeps. Like someone was watching her. It reminded her of the feeling she had in Sarah’s flat. Another place that might have had its own MacKenzie Poltergeist.

  She shook off the feeling and ducked under the tape. It would only take a minute. But she never got that minute. As she leaned down and patted the ground for something removable, she felt a sharp slash across her face.

  “Ow!” she cried out instinctively. She immediately regretted the loud exclamation, but had no more time before the second scratch, this time across her ear, and a sudden shot of pain in her shoulder. She was overcome by a sensation of cold and the smell of something even worse than the aroma rising from the open grave.

  “Ow,” she couldn’t help but say again, although quieter. But then a loud, “Hey!” as she felt another scratch across her throat. She tried standing to swat away whatever it was assailing her, but a final slash across the back of her head sent her tumbling off balance and into the open grave. She landed with a loud bang in a heap of stinging, dirty, ankle-sprained disarray.

  She looked up from her seat atop her ancestor’s rotten coffin and was relieved to feel the presence leave. She was less relieved when she realized why. A flashlight beamed down on her, blinding her until she shaded her eyes against it.

  “Maggie Devereaux?” the flashlight-wielder asked.

  Maggie recognized the voice. Damn. She looked up and offered a smile. “Hello, Sergeant Warwick.”

  32. You Have the Right to Remain Silent

  The Edinburgh police station was actually rather pleasant. It was well lit, with a comfortable lobby and walls covered in a genial combination of art and historical photographs. If it hadn’t been for the fact that it was the middle of the night, her friends didn’t know where she was, and she was locked into an interrogation room, Maggie might actually have liked the place.

  She lowered her head into her hands and waited for her inquisitor to arrive. At least they’d taken off the handcuffs. But as she sat there, tired, mind racing, a little hungry, and generally miserable, she knew they were making her wait to add to her discomfort. One more way to crack her. But it didn’t matter. She was never, ever going to tell them the truth, so they could do whatever they wanted. It’s not like she actually knew anything anyway.

  She looked up at the corner of the room. There was a completely-not-disguised video camera pointed right at her, its red recording light blinking. Great, she thought, returning her head to her hands. Her humiliation would be memorialized for posterity. How could it get worse?

  The door opened. It got worse.

  Sergeant Warwick walked in. Inspector Benson was right behind her.

  “Hello, Maggie,” Warwick said as she sat down opposite her. Benson remained standing. “You’re in a lot of trouble.”

  Maggie knew that was probably true, but she wasn’t sure what law she had actually broken. Maybe trespassing, but that couldn’t be that big of a deal. Plus, she could always claim she was attacked by the ghost of Bluidy George MacKenzie. “For what?” she challenged them.

  “For what?!” Benson echoed incredulously. “Tampering with a crime scene, for starters.”

  Ah, okay. That was more serious than just trespassing. “I wasn’t tampering. I fell in.”

  “You ducked under the crime scene tape, Maggie,” Warwick pointed out. “It’s not like you were just on a stroll and suddenly fell into an open grave.”

  “Would you believe me,” Maggie tried, “if I said I was being chased by the MacKenzie Poltergeist?”

  “No, we wouldn’t,” Benson answered.

  But Warwick didn’t answer Maggie’s question. Instead, she asked another of her own. “The City of the Dead tour is on the other side of the kirkyard. Why were you over by the grave?”

  Maggie wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “What’s your interest in that grave, Maggie?” Warwick pressed. “You can tell me.”

  Maggie almost believed she could. But not with Benson standing there. And not with the video camera on.

  “Returning to the scene of the crime,” Benson suggested. “Like when we caught you sneaking out of Sarah MacKenzie’s flat.”

  “What?” Maggie looked up at the tall policewoman. “There was no crime there. She committed suicide.”

  “So you admit you went inside?” Benson demanded.

  “I never said that,” Maggie replied quickly. She was pretty sure she hadn’t said that. She’d done it, but she hadn’t said it.

  “Don’t play dumb, Devereaux,” Benson warned. “We know you weren’t out for a walk that night with that bloke, what was his name?”

  “Philip.” Maggie was keen to solidify her alibi. “Philip Harmon. He’s a visiting professor at the college. And I most certainly did go for a walk with him that night.” Although it was after he rescued me from you two.

  “Why did you go inside the flat?” Warwick asked evenly, almost conversationally.

  Maggie narrowed her eyes at Warwick. How much had they seen?

  “We found your fingerprints inside the flat,” Benson asserted.

  Maggie was pretty sure that was a bluff. They would need samples of her fingerprints to make a match, wouldn’t they? And the one time she’d ever been fingerprinted, she’d seen to it they didn’t last in police custody. Still, maybe they lifted them off a can she threw in the re
cycling or something.

  “Well, Sarah was my faculty advisor,” Maggie explained. “So if my fingerprints are in there, it’s probably because I touched something once when I visited her.”

  Maggie thought that was a pretty good explanation. Benson’s frustrated expression confirmed it.

  “Maggie.” Warwick leaned forward earnestly. “You need to cut the bravado and start being honest.”

  Do you even know how to be honest? Maggie could hear Iain’s mocking voice.

  “I am being honest,” Maggie asserted. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I don’t know anything. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

  “You’re here,” Benson barked, “because you’re connected to three different crime scenes. Apparently separate crimes, except for the fact that you’re tied to all three.”

  “Me?” Maggie was taken aback by the accusation. Then she thought about it for a moment. Sarah’s flat… Greyfriars… And… “Three?” she asked.

  Benson glared at her for a moment, then pulled Maggie’s pendant from her pocket and shoved it in her face. “Three.”

  Reflexively, Maggie reached up to her naked neck. She damned herself for doing so. They all knew what it meant.

  “This is your pendant, isn’t it?” Benson demanded.

  Maggie didn’t answer.

  “It was found at a murder scene here in Edinburgh,” Warwick explained, decidedly more calmly than Benson would have. Warwick was obviously the good cop. Good choice, Maggie thought. She liked Warwick. Benson not so much. “The murder was similar to the ones at the college last fall, right after you arrived. We’re going to take your fingerprints and DNA tonight, Maggie. Our forensics team found female DNA at the scene. If it’s yours, you’re looking at a lot more than just tampering with a crime scene.”

  Maggie sat there, trying to think of some plausible lie as to why her DNA would be in that hotel room. But she couldn’t think of anything. She still didn’t know the real reason she was in that hotel room.