Deadly Editions

by Paige Shelton

  “I’ve seen plague masks for sale, and I thought they were fascinating. Maybe it’s just what it is. I’m sorry I left so quickly.”

  “No need to apologize.” He grabbed my hand.

  The bird-beaked plague masks had been a part of doctors’ costumes. The beak in the mask was stuffed with burning herbs and perfumes to fight off the plague, which at one time was thought to have been brought on by foul-smelling air from all the waste that was dumped outside. The costume was also worn so that sick people would know that the person treating them, was in fact a plague doctor.

  “You know the plague doctors weren’t actually real doctors, real scientists,” Tom said.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “And those suits—the long coats, the masks—didn’t protect most of them very well either. Many of the ‘doctors’ attending to the patients didn’t live long.”

  “Not surprising.”

  “Aye. And they could be wicked cruel too. None of them knew what they were doing. Everyone was just trying to figure out how to get rid of the plague. All methods were attempted. Bloodletting, et cetera.”

  “That’s why it’s called ‘practicing’ medicine, huh?” I smiled.

  “It’s part of our history, I suppose. It was a terrible time, just because of some fleas on rats. Vicious creatures, those fleas.”

  We’d made it to the bottom of the hill, and Tom reached for the police station’s door. The station was in a stone building with a wonderful old short clock tower projecting up from its middle. As I looked around, my eyes landed on the grounds of the Holyroodhouse, the Queen’s official residence in Edinburgh. Tonight, though, there was something about it—it rung some sort of bell in my mind. Why did it suddenly seem like something I should pay attention to?

  If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything.

  The bookish voice came from Mark Twain—a voice I had heard before, in recordings of course. It came to me the way I remembered his slow Missouri twang. Why was he talking about lying as I was trying to figure out why the Holyroodhouse suddenly seemed pertinent?

  “Lass,” Tom said.

  I looked at him. “Yes, sorry, what?”

  Tom smiled knowingly. “That was one of those moments, wasn’t it?”

  “It was.”

  “Aye, it’s charming.”

  “Hope you always feel that way.”

  “Care to tell me what it was about?”

  “In my head, I heard a quote about lying as I was looking at the grounds of the Holyroodhouse.”

  Tom’s eyebrows came together. “So, the voices, they’re not clear communications?”

  “No, not really.”

  “I wish I could help you.”

  “Me too.” I looked toward Holyrood again and then back at Tom. “Maybe it will come to me. Let’s go talk to Inspector Winters.”

  “Aye. I look forward to seeing how they greet you tonight.”

  “I do have a reputation.”

  Tom smiled again. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  The officer sitting at the front podium did a double take when his eyes landed on me. I hadn’t seen him before. He was cute and fresh-faced and younger, I thought, than any officer I’d yet to meet in Scotland.

  “Uh-oh,” he said as he reached for the phone in front of him. He kept his eyes on us as he pushed some buttons. “She’s here, Winters. Yep, that Delaney woman. The redhead from America.”

  “Delaney woman?” I said to Tom.

  The officer hung up the phone. He smiled nervously at me, which was weird. “Winters is on his way up.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Delaney and Tom,” the inspector said a moment later as he came around a wall that hid a hall that led to offices and interview rooms. He was still in his uniform. “Hello, and welcome. Derek here treat you right?”

  “Derek was perfect,” I said, making the young man smile in relief.

  “Good to hear. Come on back.” He turned and started down the hall, but he peered backward at us. “We’ve debated naming this room after you.” He stopped outside the police interview room I’d been inside many times, the first occasion being very shortly after I moved to Edinburgh.

  We were there again.

  “I feel like I should be able to tell you something that would help,” I said after we were all seated around the old dark wooden table.

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, except that I’ve seen more than anyone has seen, at least collectively. I’d like to just rehash every single thing, just in case,” I said. “Talk it out, if that makes sense.”

  Some police officers or inspectors would roll their eyes and tell me they had everything handled, but Inspector Winters was a friend. Besides, he knew I wasn’t exaggerating. He understood what I was feeling.

  “Tell me everything,” he said.

  I went over every detail, from the messenger, to Shelagh’s meeting, to her beautiful library, to the clues. Everything I could possibly think of. When I finished, I took a deep breath. I hoped I hadn’t forgotten something.

  “Have you guys discovered any other reason to talk to Findlay again?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “May I ask why specifically he was arrested?” I said.

  Inspector Winters nodded. “We found some of Shelagh’s blood in the backseat of the car he drives her in.”

  “What did he say about that?”

  “He said that Shelagh cut her finger the week before, that the two of them tried to clean it up.”

  “You must have believed him.”

  “Not at first, but we gained footage of him on errands to the grocery store and the automotive-parts place. His alibis during her abduction were airtight and caught on cameras.”

  “No one has seen Shelagh anywhere?”

  “Not that we know.”

  “Have you searched all her employees’ homes?”

  “We have, but thanks for asking.”

  “Sorry.”

  “So what about the book? Was the last clue really the Starbar?”

  “Yes. The copy of the book we have isn’t telling us anything. Hopefully, as with a couple of the other clues, something will just come to one of us. We’ve visited lots of pubs.”

  “Tell me which pubs again,” Inspector Winters said.

  As I listed them, his eyebrows came together. He pulled out his notebook and had me again repeat the names of the pubs so he could write them down. He excused himself and told us not to leave.

  He was back a moment later with a copy of a newspaper, the one Brigid worked for.

  “Look.” He spread the newspaper on the table and pointed at an article that Brigid had written a couple months back. “This is from a little while ago. We keep old yearly files of copies, and I remembered reading this one, thought it was interesting.”

  I leaned over and read the headline: EDINBURGH’S MOST HAUNTED PUBS.

  There was a list of six, according to Brigid at least. Birk and I had visited five of them. The only one we hadn’t been to was called The Banshee Labyrinth.

  The article’s introduction promised that visits to the six pubs in the article were sure to chill patrons to their bones. Each pub was also described in a separate paragraph or two. The description for The Banshee Labyrinth read:

  This venue proves why Edinburgh is truly a Jekyll & Hyde city. Apparently at one time one of the richest and most respected men in Edinburgh lived next door to where the pub is located. At night he brutalized his wife. Some say he was one of the inspirations for Robert Louis Stevenson’s Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It was said that Stevenson knew the violent man and followed his trial closely. Listen with your ears perked and you’ll hear yells and screams. It will terrify you, in the best way possible. You’ll need a map just to explore all the crannies and crevices. Here’s one that will do.

  The sketch of a map was underneath.

  “I know this story. I read about Eugene Chantrelle,” I said. “She
lagh’s … assistant is … That’s the part I unintentionally left out! I mean, I don’t know if it matters at all, but maybe there’s more than one killer with that last name. Or a version thereof, like—”

  “Louis Chantrell,” Inspector Winters finished.

  “His last name is spelled differently, without an e at the end, but yes, that’s it.”

  I looked at Tom and then at Inspector Winters and then back at Tom. “I can’t believe Brigid hasn’t put together that she might have written the article that gave Shelagh the idea of what pubs to use, but I think this is wonderful. Even if Louis’s name isn’t important, I bet we just figured out another clue in the treasure hunt.”

  * * *

  In the history of The Banshee Labyrinth, I bet it had never closed for “routine maintenance.” But tonight it was dark and quiet inside, the sign on the door telling us that indeed there was some maintenance going on, even if we couldn’t spot anyone doing anything.

  “I think the sign is code for ‘The owner needed a night off,’” Inspector Winters said. I’d never seen him as aggravated as he’d been when we came upon the pub’s locked doors.

  “Could you get it open?” Tom asked.

  “I could, but I’d like to get a hold of the owner to do it instead. The potential clue isn’t really probable cause. I need to get all the officers and inspectors on all the cases here too. And I really do believe this is more about the book than about Shelagh, but what if the book leads us to Shelagh?” He grumbled some curse words and pulled out his phone. “I’m going to try to get in touch with people.”

  As Inspector Winters worked to reach someone who might open the pub without the need for breaking down doors or windows, Tom and I tried to peer inside the darkness.

  “It is Tuesday,” he said a moment later. “Not a terrible night to be closed.”

  I glanced at the time. It wasn’t that late, only about nine. “I’m going to text Brigid, ask her more about her article.”

  “All right.”

  I sent her a text stating that I wanted to talk to her, but there was no sign that she got the text, no dots moving across the screen. I frowned at the phone before I slipped it into my back pocket.

  “She’ll respond,” Tom said.

  “At some point.” I peered inside the window again.

  Inspector Winters rejoined us. “I’ve got officers working on things. I really don’t want to break the door down unless we have to. I’m going to stay here awhile, until I hear from someone. You two can stay as well, but it could be a long night. If we get inside, I’ll let you know what we find.”

  After a few minutes and the arrival of other officers, Tom and I somewhat reluctantly (it really was cold, so not too reluctantly) left, catching a bus back to Tom’s pub. I kept checking my phone, but Brigid didn’t respond.

  “Call her,” Tom said.

  “No, I just want to ask about her article. She’ll get back to me. I’ll call Birk.”

  He answered on the first ring, and I told him how we’d put things together to come up with what we hoped was another clue.

  “Oh, I hope they find Shelagh,” he said. “And figure out who murdered Ritchie John. The book is the least of my worries.”

  “We can only hope.”

  “Keep me up to date, lass,” Birk said.

  “Will do.” I ended the call. Brigid still hadn’t texted back.

  As Tom and I disembarked from the bus on the edge of Grassmarket Square, we looked toward Tom’s pub. It wasn’t crowded, but the customers inside seemed to be having a good time.

  I glanced around the market, fully expecting to see the Monster, for him to jump out and try to scare us. Maybe laugh at us. Joke’s over! There wasn’t a murder, and Shelagh gets to go home unharmed. This was all just a setup. None of it’s real, just the product of Shelagh’s crazy imagination.

  But though it seemed he loomed even more than before, the Monster wasn’t there. There were no shabby coats flapping in the breeze, no scary person lurking in the shadows. It was just my wishful thinking.

  It was real. The murder was real, and Shelagh was missing. None of this was a setup. It was one tragedy after another.

  We remained alert as we stopped by the pub to see if Rodger needed anything. He didn’t, so we made our way to Tom’s car and went home to our cozy, blue, and hopefully safe house by the sea.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “What?” I said as I sat up in bed. “What’s going on?”

  A noise had awakened me. More conscious now, I heard it again. A knock was sounding on the front door. Tom was sitting up too.

  “Stay here, lass, I’ll see who’s there,” he said.

  I hopped out of bed and grabbed a sweatshirt to throw over my pajamas. “Nope, I’m going with you. Strength in numbers.”

  “All right. Stay behind me.”

  I grabbed my phone and saw it was three in the morning. It was probably the police. I hoped they had some good news. I hoped Shelagh had been found alive and well.

  We met Elias and Aggie in the hallway. Elias held a bat. I didn’t even know there was a bat in my house, but I was okay with it.

  Tom and Elias lead the way, and Aggie and I followed them down the stairs.

  “Who’s there?” Tom called.

  “It’s me. Brigid.”

  The four of us relaxed at once. Elias lowered the bat. “What the ’ell?”

  “The lass from the newspaper?” Aggie asked.

  “Yes, I sent her a text earlier. She must have wanted to answer it in person.” I stepped next to Tom as he opened the door.

  “Brigid?” he said.

  “I was working, trying to keep a low profile as I spied on some politicians. Can’t tell you the details, but I couldn’t look at my phone until about twenty minutes ago. I tried to text back,” she said as she held her phone toward me. “What’s up?”

  “It’s three in the morning, lass,” Elias said as he peered out.

  “Well, I know, but I just couldn’t wait. I’m sorry.” She cocked her head. “Aren’t you Delaney’s landlord?”

  “It’s a long story. Come on in, Brigid,” I said.

  She smiled. “Thank you. And I promise I won’t make this awkward.”

  Tom had told me that he and Brigid had lived together for a short time before they broke up. They’d lived in the blue house. It hadn’t bothered me in the least, but her comment made me remember it, now with a little less indifference. I decided I just wouldn’t think about it.

  “I’ll make … something,” Aggie said before she went into the kitchen.

  “I’m going back to bed.” Elias, the bat relaxed on his shoulder, made his way upstairs again.

  Brigid took a seat on the couch as if it were the spot where she always sat. “What’s up, Delaney?”

  I sensed Tom gritting his teeth, but he was nothing if not polite. He sat in a chair, and I joined Brigid on the couch—the one that had been hers for a short time. Again I tried not to think about it, hoping my face wasn’t involuntarily moving into a cringe.

  I explained how it seemed that all the clues led to pubs listed in her article. She looked genuinely surprised.

  “I didn’t even think about that. It’s been months since I wrote that article,” she said. “And I never considered it much more than fill, nothing investigative. I think we just needed something, so I threw it together.”

  “Did Shelagh mention it to you when you were interviewing her?” I asked.

  Brigid shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. She said she liked my writing. That’s why she approached me to do the article about her and her library. I’m sure she didn’t mention that pub article specifically.”

  Tom and I waited as Brigid fell into thought. She looked up at me a moment later.

  “I’m sure she didn’t mention it,” she confirmed.

  “She might not have, simply so you wouldn’t be able to help with the treasure hunt she had in mind. Maybe she didn’t even know about the treasure hunt at t
hat time.” I paused. “Maybe that’s it exactly. Something must have happened to cause her to want to set up the hunt. In the first meeting she called us all to, she said that she was healthy but getting old and that it was time to do something with her library. That sort of made sense, but what if it was something else? What if she’s ill? Did you get any sense of that?”

  Brigid frowned. “She didn’t seem sick, Delaney, but she didn’t seem completely right either.”

  “How do you mean?” Tom asked.

  Brigid looked at him as if she’d forgotten he was in the room. “Not completely in her right mind, though I have no idea if that’s a polite way to say it or not.” She turned back to me. “Here’s the thing: I really liked her. Before I went to talk to her, I’d researched her history. When I met her, I liked her so much that I couldn’t even bring myself to ask her about her past. I know, I know, that doesn’t sound like Brigid-go-for-the-jugular reporter, but Shelagh was older, and though she wasn’t really ill, I didn’t want to contribute to anything that would send her quirky behavior over the edge. It didn’t seem necessary for the article I was writing.”

  Aggie came in, carrying a tray full of cookies and hot chocolate. Momentarily I wondered how she’d managed to get the hot chocolate fixed so quickly.

  “Thank you.” Brigid reached for the tray. “I’m starving.”

  “I don’t mean to misjudge Shelagh,” I said. “And I certainly don’t want to make false or irresponsible accusations, but I think it’s only fair to have wondered about her mental health all those years ago, and if there are health issues, maybe they could be part of what’s happening now.”

  “Or maybe she’s just incredibly creative,” Brigid said around a cookie.

  “Aren’t the two sometimes closely tied together?” Tom said. “Extreme creativity and mental illness?”

  “Sometimes.” Brigid shrugged. “But”—she paused and thought and chewed—“I really think that if Shelagh is anything, it’s … energetic and imaginative. And also bored. Well, she used to be. She was an only child growing up in a lonely house. No family other than her horrible parents.”

  “And her cousins in France,” I said.