He closed the lid of his laptop so he could focus on us more fully, leaning back on his chair with his elbow resting on the arm, fingers crooked lightly under his chin. He looked at us like he might look at a specimen under a microscope, and I got the distinct feeling that he would be perfectly okay pulling our legs off one by one to see what would happen.
“Mr MacPherson,” Fletcher said, putting an over the top, bubbly pep into her voice that freaked me right out. She stepped closer to the desk and held out her hand, putting a huge grin on her face. I hung nearby. Maybe I’d be the stoic reporter… historian… archivist… whatever it was, and she could be the super enthusiastic one. “It is such a delight to meet you. Your family has such a long and rich history. We’re honoured for the chance to chronicle it further.”
MacPherson let her hand hang there for so long that she started to drop it back to her side, but at the last moment, MacPherson reached out and grabbed it, pumping it once. That was a good power move. I would have to remember that one.
Fletcher pulled her hand back, and I saw her shake it out by her side as subtly as she could. “I’m Mara Dourne. This is my partner Jax Fleming.” Emily had already introduced us, but Fletcher went over it again, cementing our fake identities in MacPherson’s mind. I tipped two fingers to my forehead in a little salute.
MacPherson smiled at us and stood, his frame tall and powerful, his shoulders broad. He clearly worked out, and he wore that suit like it was a second skin, comfortable and casual and utterly at ease. He moved around his desk and over to one of his bookshelves, each stride smooth and clean. He pulled a large tome free and flipped it open, passing it over to Fletcher. I crowded in to pretend to take a look. The pages were thick and yellow, crinkled around the edges, and it was filled with handwritten names connected with complicated lines and brackets.
“My family’s genealogy,” he explained. Fletcher looked it over and nodded as if she thought it was very impressive, though I could tell she also had no idea what she was looking at. Hopefully, MacPherson wouldn’t be able to pick up on that as well. “My ancestor, James MacPherson, and he played a vital role in the Burgh’s early development. My family has always been here throughout the centuries, shaping the town, helping it grow.” He took the genealogy back from Fletcher and carefully slid it back in its spot. He preened as he spoke, his chest puffy up slightly. “Here’s his portrait.”
He picked up a charcoal drawing of a man with a big, bushy beard and a brooch of the family crest holding a tartan cloak in place, and MacPherson held it out for us to examine as well. We made the appropriate appreciative noises. “What are you interested in learning about?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.
“Well, right now, we’re doing some preliminary background work. Eventually, we’ll want to do a piece on you about how you’re carrying on your ancestors’ legacy in the modern day,” Fletcher said, nodding as if she knew exactly what she was talking about. I could already tell her flattery strategy was going to work. There was a gleam in MacPherson’s eyes at the thought of an entire profile about him.
I turned my attention to the bookshelves, moving closer so I could take a look at all the knick-knacks and the titles on the leather spines. Most of them were historical records of Inverness through the years as well as accounts on his family. It seemed like he really liked to blow his own trumpet. Aside from the very impressive ship in a bottle, there were also more of the charcoal drawings on yellowed paper, carved wooden Celtic crosses, and delicate glass work with colour splattered throughout. I wondered how many of those old books and artefacts MacPherson had bought off Holden.
“You say your family has always had a hand shaping this town,” Fletcher asked as I leaned in for a closer look at one of the crosses. The detail work was impressively intricate. “May I ask what you’ve been working on to carry on that tradition?”
MacPherson walked to his window so he could stare dramatically out at the grounds with his hands clasped behind his back. “I’ve done a lot of philanthropic work over the years,” he began, and since his back was turned, I rolled my eyes at his tone. “I run a charity for historical preservation and have made sizeable donations to many of the castles and other important cultural sites around the highlands.”
I made sure I wasn’t reflected in the glass and then made a mocking mouth motion with one hand.
“And I’ve recently acquired a new asset that I think will really help make this city truly great. There’s been a slight… delay in my plan, but it won’t be long until things are back on track.” MacPherson turned his torso so he could give us another proud grin, the exposed tip of his canine sharp and pearly white. I nodded like I was interested and offered a smile of my own.
“What kind of asset?” Fletcher asked, trying to act like she was merely curious and not digging for information.
But MacPherson tapped the side of his nose, and his expression turned sly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the official statement once I’ve got everything in place.”
“If I might ask a question?” I spoke up for the first time, raising one finger into the air, and MacPherson cut his gaze towards me and raised an eyebrow for me to go ahead. “What do you think would make this city truly great?” I parroted his words back to him, and they tasted a little rotten in my mouth.
“I’m glad you asked.” MacPherson finally turned away from the window. Even his five o’clock shadow was perfect. “My family values tradition. Always has. In recent years especially, I feel we’ve been straying too far from our roots, losing our culture, our history. We need to hold onto our past as tightly as we can. It’s what gives us our identity, after all.” He smiled, pleased with his answer, and I nodded along as if I thought it was a good one.
“Might we speak with the rest of the family?” Fletcher asked. “We want to focus our story mostly around you, of course, but it would be great to have some background and context for who you are in your personal life. People love a good family tale, after all.”
Something flickered in MacPherson’s pleasant demeanour at the mention of his family, something dark and scaly. It was only there for a second before he wiped it away, but I caught it in his eyes and the curl of his mouth.
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Who better to talk about me than my loved ones? Well, me, I suppose, but I may be biased.” MacPherson laughed, and Fletcher and I twittered along in agreement, thought Fletcher cast a sideways glance in my direction. Luckily, MacPherson didn’t notice it because he’d bent over to speak into the intercom on his desk. “Emily, could you come in here please?”
“Yes, sir.” Her reply crackled through the speaker, and barely a second later, MacPherson’s assistant popped through the door as if she’d been standing right outside the entire time. She didn’t approach, just stood by the open door, waiting for orders.
“Our guests would like to speak to the rest of the family. Escort them would you?” MacPherson said, and Emily bowed her head. “Oh, and remind me, Beatrice is still out of town, isn’t she?”
Emily hesitated then nodded. “I believe so, sir.”
MacPherson shook his head and made a quiet ‘tsking’ sound. “A shame. She’s a bright one, our Beatrice. Perhaps you can schedule a follow-up with her, though I’m afraid she’s so hard to pin down these days. Always on the move.”
“We’ll certainly give it a shot,” Fletcher agreed. “Have a good day, Mr MacPherson. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” he replied, but I thought I caught a hint of disdain under the otherwise well-meaning words. It was as if MacPherson wore a mask or even a full-on person suit, like his actual fabric suit was attached to the skin of his neck and wrists, a practically perfect facade of a normal human being. It was only at the eyes and the mouth that the illusion failed and the creature underneath showed through.
I should have worn a hat so that I could tip it in farewell rather than speaking, but I forced myself to smile and say, “Thank you
for your time, Mr MacPherson,” before I followed Fletcher and Emily through the door.
“Mrs MacPherson is in the sun room right now. Shall I take you there?” Emily asked.
“That would be great,” Fletcher said, and we started off down the hall.
“What’s it like working for the MacPherson family?” I asked as Emily held open the door to the stairwell for us. You could usually trust the employees to tell it how they really saw it.
It took Emily a beat or two to answer me, the click as the door latched shut behind us loud in the enclosed space. “They pay me well. I get great holiday benefits. I can’t complain.” I could see her face as she spoke since she was leading the way down the stairs. Her ponytail swished across her back, her heels silent on the carpeted steps.
“That’s great, but do you like it?” I pressed. “Would you say Mr. MacPherson is a good man?”
“He is a good employer.”
That wasn’t what I asked.
I let it drop as we reached the bottom of the staircase and walked out into the ground floor of the estate. We’d emerged near the kitchen, if the smell of baking bread was anything to go by, and my stomach rumbled despite the fact that we’d had lunch not too long ago.
“This way, please,” Emily said.
We stepped briefly into the estate’s main entrance hall. The tiled floor was checkered black and white, and the way half the squares reflected the light from the wall sconces and the other half absorbed it made the whole room feel almost otherworldly. The columns marking a path from the large doors to the wide, sweeping staircase were even wider and grander than those at the back entrance, with carved vines winding their way up towards the ceiling
“My entire flat could fit in here,” Fletcher whispered, leaning in close to my ear so her words wouldn’t echo around the huge room.
“Same,” I replied. I didn’t really understand why someone would need so much space. It wasn’t like the MacPhersons actually used all of it on a daily basis. That seemed impossible. It would cost so much to heat, clean, and staff, but then again, the family did have money to burn. They definitely wanted to show off their wealth to whoever walked through their doors.
Following Emily, we skirted around the foot of the large staircase to the door directly opposite the one we’d just come through. The next hall was lined with portraits of the MacPherson patriarchs. They were almost all oil paintings, growing more and more recent the further we walked down the corridor. The eyes seemed to follow me, leering as I passed, and I shivered. It was easy to tell that all the men were related. The same nose carried on down the line, and there was a matching imperious set to the eyes that only came from knowing you had enough money to swim in.
I was glad when we reached the corridor’s end. The next room was a wide, sumptuous living room studded with chaise lounges and bookshelves. The hearth was unlit, colourful engravings differentiating its stone face from the rest of the navy and gold papered wall. The ceiling was painted in what I thought was a Renaissance style, filled with colour and intricate detail. The back wall was entirely glass, spilling sunlight into the room through the many branches and leaves of the sun room beyond.
I didn’t really understand why the MacPhersons needed a sun room when they lived in Scotland. We got sun for maybe half the year, and even then, it was flighty and inconsistent. The glass box would regulate the temperature, allowing them to grow flowers from warmer climates, but it seemed like it was just another power flex with their money.
I could see someone moving around within the glass room, Mary MacPherson, presumably, but she was mostly hidden within the rows of plants as we crossed the sitting room. The door to the room opened with a wash of warm, humid air, and I immediately began to sweat as we made our way deeper inside.
“Mrs MacPherson?” Emily called.
A short, slim woman appeared from behind a broad-leafed plant. The richness of her peach-coloured dress marked her as MacPherson’s wife, and her auburn hair was done up in a careful bun atop her head. Her face was lightly wrinkled, softening the edges around her eyes and mouth, and if I had to guess, I would say she was at least ten years younger than MacPherson himself. She peeled dainty gardening gloves off her hands as she tilted her head to look at us, though I noticed that there was no dirt on the fabric.
“Emily, hello,” she said, smiling pleasantly if a little vacantly.
“Might I present Mara Dourne and Jax Fleming?” Emily said as she gestured at Fletcher and me. I startled for a second, having completely forgotten my own fake name, and then held out my hand for Mary to shake. “They’re doing a profile on Mr MacPherson.”
“We were hoping you might have a minute to talk to us?” I added as Mary placed her soft fingers in mine. It wasn’t quite a handshake, almost as if she expected me to kiss her knuckles or something, so our arms hung there awkwardly for a moment before I finally let go.
“Of course. Thank you, Emily,” she said, dismissing the woman. Emily nodded and disappeared back into the house. She held up her finger for Fletcher and me to wait. “Just one moment. Alexis?” She raised her voice and turned her head to the side as she called out, and a younger woman dressed in a black blouse and skirt stepped into view. There was actual dirt on her gardening gloves, and she held a pair of pruning shears in one hand.
“Yes, ma’am?” she asked. Her eyes landed on Fletcher and me in the background, and she swallowed, throat bobbing. I thought there was something nervous in the way she held herself, her shoulders not hunched but drawn in close to her neck, one hand gripping the wrist holding the shears.
“Would you mind getting us some tea, please?”
“Of course.” Alexis put the pruning shears down and hurried for the door, eyes cast to the ground as she walked past Fletcher and me as if she didn’t want to be caught studying us. I turned my head to watch her go, noting her fast, almost clipped stride.
“Let us sit somewhere more comfortable,” Mary suggested, and she gestured towards the sitting room.
I was all too happy to get out of the humid sun room, and I led the way over to the chaise lounges clustered near the dark hearth. Fletcher and I paused just long enough to allow Mary to sit first, figuring that she probably had a favoured seat. She settled into the paisley chaise closest to the hearth. I couldn’t quite figure out the most professional way to position myself on the long cushion. I finally opted for perching on the end, my feet planted on the floor and my back straight.
“How did you and Mr MacPherson meet?” Fletcher asked, launching right into things. Her voice had lost some of the enthusiastic pep in favour of a softer tone.
“At a Christmas party that his family threw. Ah, it was stunning.” Mary’s eyes went starry as she cast herself back in time to that night, the remembered lights reflected in her pupils. “He was the most handsome man there, of course. And the most charming as well.”
Sounded fake, but alright.
“And how long have you been married?” Fletcher smiled as if she thought Mary’s story was a real-life fairytale.
Mary returned to the present, folding her hands primly in her lap. “Twenty years now.”
“Are you also from an old family?”
“Not quite as old as the MacPherson clan, but nearly. It’s always better to marry money to money. People outside it just don’t understand the rules or they get overwhelmed, and that’s when tradition starts to break down.” Mary sounded a little bit like she was parroting one of her husband’s lines.
“What do you think tradition means?” I asked. I wondered if she would give us her own opinions or just repeat back what MacPherson would say.
“Traditions define us,” she replied. “They make us who we are. If they’ve endured for so long, it must be for a good reason.”
“Do you think there’s any place for new traditions?”
She cocked her head to the side. “But then they wouldn’t be traditions.”
I pursed my lips. Scottish music was one of our country�
��s defining traditions. It was a crucial part of our cultural and historical identity. The MacPhersons were right on that account. But, if I was interpreting the rest of their beliefs right, they would have the same hundred old songs in the same style they’d always been played in, over and over again.
But traditional music was a living, breathing thing. When I spoke with my musician friends, part of what made it great was the crossover between other styles and genres or the spin each new player put on an old tune. If the first traditional musicians had wanted their tunes to remain stagnant, they would have written them down, not passed them along from ear to ear in the word of mouth tradition.
I didn’t mention any of that to Mary MacPherson. She had a look on her face that meant that anything I said contradictory to her statement would go in one ear and out the other.
The tea arrived during that little lull in the conversation. Alexis pushed the door open with her hip and backed into the sitting room with a silver tray balanced in her hands. She set it down on the carved coffee table in between our chaises and placed a porcelain teacup and saucer in front of each of us, carefully pouring tea from the dainty pot in the centre. There was also a tiered tray full of shortbread, mini Victoria sandwiches, and a couple of croissants.
“Thank you,” I said, and Alexis bobbed her head. With her back to Mary, her brow was furrowed, and it almost looked like she was trying to tell me something with her face, but then the moment passed and she straightened, turning back to her boss.
“Is there anything else, ma’am?” she asked, her voice quiet and demure.
“No, thank you, Alexis.” Mary dismissed her with a wave of her hand, leaning forward to delicately pick up her teacup.
I loaded my plate with food before Fletcher could steal all of it like she always did, and though I figured there was probably some protocol here that I didn’t know, I picked the Victoria sandwich up with my hand and bit into it.
The Hidden Eye Page 22
