“Hello, Rodger,” I said.
“How are you today, Mrs. Shannon?” Rodger said with a nod.
I wasn’t legally Mrs. Shannon. I’d kept my name, but I’d still answer to Tom’s.
“Great. How are you?”
“Right as rain,” Rodger said. “Tom’s in the back, filling the mop bucket. He’ll be out soon.”
“Thanks.”
“Can I get you something?”
“No thanks.” I sidled up to a barstool just as Tom rolled the mop and bucket out from the back. He made even a mop and a bucket look good.
“Ah, my lovely wife,” he said, though more reserved than usual, when he saw me. He directed the bucket on wheels my way and kissed me quickly. “What are you up to?”
“I’m off to be unfaithful, I’m afraid.”
“Aye? That was quick. We’ve not been married even six months yet.”
“I’m visiting another pub.”
“I can live with that. Which one?”
I told Tom and Rodger about the messenger and showed them the note. The customer couldn’t help but hear some of the conversation, but I noticed he tried hard not to look like he was eavesdropping. I noticed something else too: Tom glanced at the man with scrutiny, not curiosity. I took it as a cue to keep my voice low, but still, the pub was pretty small.
“Deacon Brodie’s is a lovely pub,” Rodger said. “Not as wonderful as this one, of course, but it’s fun, particularly with the story attached to it.”
“Aye, leave it to the Scots to honor a bad man because his story was intriguing.” The customer rose from his chair.
I was so surprised by his interjection that I started slightly. He walked directly toward me, smiled, and extended his hand. “Name’s Findlay Sweet. I’m a long-ago friend of your husband’s. It’s a pleasure to meet the lass who tamed him.”
We shook, and I inspected him. He was much older than Tom, but probably not as old as Tom’s father, Artair. Findlay’s hair was dark steely gray; his eyes matched in color and were pleasantly framed by thick laugh lines. Three deep creases also rode across his forehead. His face held a serious expression, even when he smiled.
“You know each other?” I looked back and forth between them.
“We’re buddies from our fishing days,” Findlay said.
I looked at Tom. I didn’t know he’d had fishing days.
Tom lifted an eyebrow and didn’t smile. “Aye, for a while Findlay and I fished on a boat together. I worked for Mr. Sweet but didn’t take to the life as much as he might have hoped.”
“Aye.” Findlay nodded slowly. “I did have hope.” He cleared his throat and looked at me. “I’ve moved on from the lifestyle too. I’m a driver now.”
“Oh. A good friend of mine drives a taxi.”
“I’m not that kind of a driver.” Findlay paused and seemed to look at Tom with something unfriendly in his eyes.
I was so perplexed I might have said aloud, Huh? I cleared my throat just in case.
“Always good to see you, Sweet,” Tom said. But he didn’t mean it. It was rare that he said something he didn’t mean, but this time it was clearly his way of asking the man to leave.
A long, uncomfortable moment passed before Findlay nodded again and smiled only at me. “You are lovely. I wish you both the best, but you need to keep your eyes on this one. He can be shifty.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Delaney.” Tom put his hand on my arm. “It’s okay.”
“Is it?” Findlay said. “Time will tell, I suppose.” He turned and walked out of the pub.
“What in the world was that?” I asked.
“Aye, boss, what was that?” Rodger echoed. “That man’s been staring out the window nursing one wee drink for a couple hours. When you two spoke earlier, I didn’t pick up on anything like … whatever that was.”
“He wanted to make sure my new wife was aware I might not have been her best choice.” Tom shrugged. “I wonder if he was just waiting for her to come in.”
“That was a risk,” I said. “How would he know I’d be in? What happened between the two of you? Did you steal his girlfriend or wife or something?”
Tom shook his head. “A story for another time. You’ve got to be on your way. Do you want to take my car?”
“No, I have boots, and it’s not far,” I stuck out one red-boot-clad foot and smiled. Deacon Brodie’s pub wasn’t far at all. It was kind of a shame I hadn’t visited it—and all the other nearby pubs. I’d been to a couple in Edinburgh, but I’d neglected so many others. I would always choose Tom’s over trying anything new. “I can walk there just fine.”
“Those are lovely boots,” Tom said.
Rodger whistled. “Nice.”
We were all trying much too hard to move past the uncomfortable atmosphere Findlay Sweet had left behind. I hopped off the chair and kissed Tom. Rodger whistled again. As I made my way to the door, I glanced back. Tom was mopping the floor, not looking up, but Rodger was. He sent me a comforting smile and a wink. I wondered if he’d get the story from Tom, and I wondered if either of them would share it with me.
THREE
The façade of Deacon Brodie’s Tavern did not disappoint. Snow-sprinkled plants hung in flower boxes above three gold entryway arches. Three windows above the arches made me think the pub had a second floor. And three more stone-walled stories above that told me the tavern was topped off by apartments—flats.
My first impression of the inside was “rich.” An ornate carved ceiling capped a wooden bar, chocolate wood-paneled walls, a plaid carpet, and jam-packed liquor shelves. The inside wasn’t huge, yet big enough for ten or so tables with chairs. It was bigger and busier than Tom’s pub, but that wasn’t a surprise.
A man appeared from a hallway on the other side of the bar and walked toward me, smiling as he made his way. He was built like Edwin, tall and thin. His legs moved almost as quickly and smoothly as Edwin’s too. He wasn’t young, but his bald head made it difficult to guess his age.
“Ms. Nichols?” he said as he stopped in front of me.
“Mr. Chantrell?” I guessed as I shook his outstretched hand.
“Aye. Louis, please. I’m so happy you are joining us.”
“Frankly, I couldn’t resist, and it’s Delaney, please.”
Louis laughed and nodded. “We like to do things with a certain flair. Ms. O’Conner insists.”
“Thank you for including me.”
Louis nodded and turned. “Come along,” he said over his shoulder.
I followed, but we stopped in front of the bar.
“Can I offer you a drink?” Louis faced me. “We’re not going up to the second-floor restaurant, but we can have whatever we want in the room we’ve booked.”
“Water will be fine.”
Louis looked at the bartender, who nodded. I thought we would resume walking again, but Louis did a double take and studied the bartender a moment longer.
“Do I know you?” Louis asked him.
The bartender was probably in his sixties, with short brown hair and pale skin. When he smiled, his ordinary face transformed into a handsome one.
“I’m not sure,” he said, his accent as strong as Rosie’s or that of my friends Elias and Aggie. “Do ye come into the pub a fair amoot?”
I knew “amoot” was amount and was silently thrilled that I could handle the translation, even as easy as it was.
“No, in fact I don’t,” Louis said. “What’s your name?”
For a moment I thought the bartender wouldn’t answer. But he did, carefully enunciating the syllables of his name, exaggerating them. “Ritchie John.”
Louis studied him a moment more. I felt like nudging my escort to move along, but I didn’t.
“Very well. If you would please bring waters back, plus a bottle of the house’s best whisky and six glasses.”
“I’d be happy tae … the very best?” Ritchie asked.
“Aye, no matter the cost,” Louis confirmed
.
“Absolutely. I’ll be by in a moment.”
As Louis resumed walking, Ritchie sent me some raised eyebrows and a mysterious frown. I sent him a quick smile and a nod.
Louis led me down a short hallway past the bar and the stairs leading up to the second floor and in through a doorway framing a green-painted door.
The room was richly furnished like the rest of the pub, but it was also small, making it very crowded.
A rumble of conversation quieted as Louis shut the door, and everyone looked expectantly toward us.
“We are all here, how grand!” an older woman I recognized as Shelagh O’Conner said.
She sat on the far side of the table, in the only chair that was padded. Her gold dress and sparkling earrings gave her a regal appearance against the burgundy upholstery of the chair. She smiled under reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. Her gray hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and there were no flyaways in sight.
Brigid had included many pictures in the article she wrote about Ms. O’Conner’s library. In the pictures of Shelagh, I’d noticed a rare vivaciousness in her eyes. In person it was even more noticeable.
“You are Delaney?” Shelagh’s accent was lighter even than Edwin’s, closer to Hamlet’s.
“I am. Nice to meet you, Ms. O’Conner,” I said.
It would have been too awkward to shake hands over the table, so we just nodded at each other.
“You too. I’ve looked forward to it,” Shelagh said. “Louis, show Delaney her seat, and please introduce everyone.”
I spied one person I already knew. He and I smiled at each other across the table.
Birk Blackburn, a good friend. I wasn’t surprised he was there, but that was because finding Birk anywhere wouldn’t surprise me. As part of the secret auction group that Edwin belonged to, the Fleshmarket Batch, Birk bought and sold things in a world where money was no object. I was happy to see him because I was fond of him, but I was also somewhat disappointed that he was in on this too. He would be formidable competition if we had to somehow win Shelagh O’Conner’s approval to purchase her books. He thought the same; I could see the challenge along with the friendly twinkle in his eyes.
Birk was, as usual, dressed impeccably, and I noticed how nice he looked in the suit he wore. I hadn’t even thought about running home to dress up. A quick look around confirmed that Shelagh, Louis, and Birk were all dressed to the nines, or at least the eight and a halves. The other three of us looked to have chosen comfort over fashion.
The other two people in the room were introduced as Tricia Lawson and Jacques Underwood.
Tricia might have been forty. She wore very little makeup, and her hair was back in a short, simple, brown ponytail. She wore a blue sweater over a crisp white blouse, and her large round glasses surprisingly didn’t overpower her face. She was petite all over, except for those glasses. A frown tugged at her mouth, which made her look suspicious.
Jacques Underwood didn’t seem to share her skepticism. He kept his arms crossed in front of his rounded chest, however, even as he flashed a quick, small smile. His dark hair was swept back from his forehead, and his dark eyes shone with curiosity.
Tricia was a librarian at a local secondary school, and Jacques had come to Edinburgh just that morning from Paris. When he spoke I noticed that his French accent was strong, though his English was perfect.
Louis did the introductions, but Shelagh added a small comment with each person. With me she said, “Works at the loveliest bookshop.” With Birk, “He has done so much good for the city.” With Tricia, “A true librarian who has instilled the love of reading in children who might never have picked up a book for pleasure.” With Jacques there seemed to be a small apologetic tone to her words. “Jacques is one of my closest possible relations. I have no children of my own, but Jacques is … I call him my nephew, but he’s more like a second cousin, and he calls me his aunt.”
“Dearest Auntie.” Jacques said genuinely as he and Shelagh smiled at each other.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Enter,” Louis said.
The bartender, Ritchie, came in carrying a tray filled with a whisky bottle, glasses of water, and shot glasses for each of us.
After Ritchie handed out the waters, he asked Louis if he could “have the honor of pouring” the shots.
“Aye, please,” Louis said.
Ritchie had put the tray down on the table in a space in between Tricia and Jacques. In seemingly smooth, practiced moves, he removed the lid from the whisky bottle and then began to fill the shot glasses. He extended the first glass to Shelagh, who smiled and nodded as she took it. Then he handed a glass to Louis; Ritchie held the glass just out of Louis’s reach and kept eye contact with him for what seemed a moment too long. Finally Louis cleared his throat, and Ritchie smiled and handed him the glass.
The rest of the filled glasses were delivered quickly, without incident, until the final shot. Tricia pushed up her spectacles just as Ritchie was scooting the whisky toward her. Something happened—I wasn’t sure if it was because of how the shot was being scooted across the table or if Tricia’s arm might have hit Ritchie’s, but the glass tipped over and fell directly onto Tricia’s lap.
Tricia scooted her chair back and stood. “Oh!”
Since there was so little space, the chair couldn’t move far and Tricia couldn’t have escaped the whisky even if she’d been faster.
“Lass, I’m so sorry,” Ritchie said as he grabbed a dishcloth from the tray.
“Damn!” Jacques said as he looked at Ritchie. “Very careless of you.”
“I’m so sorry,” Ritchie said as he looked at Jacques.
To his credit, Ritchie did sound sorry, but he didn’t back away from Jacques’s condescending tone.
“It’s okay,” Tricia said as she looked at Jacques. “It’s just a wee dram, not much to it.”
The whisky had spilled onto her shirt and jeans, but the splashes were small.
“Lass, I’ll get ye a wet cloth,” Ritchie said.
“No, no need. Please just repour the shot. I can wash these things easily.” She sat and scooted her chair back into place.
“Aye.” Ritchie poured the whisky back into the glass again.
“Thank you, kind sir,” Shelagh said, smiling at Ritchie as if to let him know that no harm had truly been done.
Ritchie smiled back at her and then excused himself, apologizing again to Tricia and telling us he would be available if we needed anything else.
“Well, everyone, thank you for coming,” Shelagh said as she lifted her glass once Ritchie was gone. “You are the four specific people I wanted here today. I’ll cut right to the chase. You see, I’m ready to part with my library, and it shall surely go to one of you in this room.”
It wasn’t a large enough crowd for a buzz to travel through, but we all had a reaction to her words. Small noises, shifts in our chairs. What did she mean? We waited for what she would say next.
Once her pause had gone on a tiny beat too long, she continued. “My reasons are varied and personal, so don’t ask me why you’re here, just know that I wanted you. If at any moment you would like to leave, I won’t hold it against you in the least. This might be overwhelming, but that’s not what I mean for it to be.”
We nodded, and when no one jumped up and rushed away, Shelagh lifted her glass, now filled with scotch, and held it high.
“To the written word, the most beautiful creation in the universe,” she said.
We all saluted and downed the shot. One would do me just fine, so I was relieved when Louis didn’t pour another.
“All right,” Shelagh said. “Louis is here in an advisory capacity. He is a longtime friend and my closest advisor. He is also well aware of the fact that sometimes I listen to him and sometimes I don’t. I haven’t shared all the details of my plan with him, so if you have questions, please direct them to me.”
Louis nodded again, but I sensed he didn’t like bei
ng left in the dark.
The air in the room grew charged. The game was about to be on, whatever that meant.
“Down to it, then.” Shelagh paused, and her face became very serious. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You will all search for a treasure. The person who finds the treasure will be the winner and will receive my entire library, upon my death.”
Silently we looked at each other. Perhaps a treasure hunt was a bit cliché, but I felt a thread of excitement at the idea of it. Did everyone else feel the same?
“Are you sick, Auntie?” Jacques spoke first.
“No, I’m sixty, though. I wish I could live forever, but alas, that’s not going to happen, and since my birthday I’ve felt much more aware of my mortality. It’s time to take care of some things. My books, many of which came before me, will live much longer than I will. They will need a home after I’m gone. But please understand, the four of you were chosen because I am one hundred percent certain that none of you will simply tuck the books inside boxes, hide them away. You will all do something appropriate, loving, with them.” She held up her hand as it seemed Tricia wanted to ask a question. “No, I’m not going to ask what your plans for the books might be. I’m not going to require that information. I am certain that whatever any of you choose will be perfect.”
I took a drink of water.
“What’s the treasure we will be hunting for?” Jacques asked.
“What do you think it is?”
Birk leaned over the table toward Shelagh. “A book, of course.”
Shelagh smiled. “Of course.”
“Auntie, is it one of your Jekyll-Hyde books?” Jacques asked with such a tiresome tone that I suddenly wanted anyone but him to win his aunt’s books.
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