by Molly Macrae
“From Summer to both of us and Christine. The official statement’s been released. No surprises. No arrest. No suspect mentioned.”
Janet didn’t say anything and started walking again.
“Mom? Are you all right?”
“Not as all right as I’d thought.”
Tallie made the sandwiches when they got home. Janet thanked her and ate hers, and then went into the living room. She’d put her stack of books on an end table. She moved it onto the floor where she couldn’t see it with a casual glance, and then she curled up with two cats and a crossword until bedtime.
In the morning, when the cats finally convinced Janet they were seriously starved, the three trooped down the stairs and into the kitchen together. Janet thanked the lads for not tripping her, fed them, and saw a note with a web address that Tallie left before going for her morning run.
Hope this doesn’t put you off your breakfast. Streamed interview with Ian.
“I was ready to hand in my S.C.O.N.E.S. membership card,” Janet said at the doorway meeting that morning, “until I saw Ian’s ridiculous interview. I’m keeping the card now, if for no other reason than to stop Ian’s idiocy. The way the interviewer fawned over him upset Smirr, too. The poor cat sneered and left the room.”
“Show them,” Tallie said. “Do your impression of Ian.”
“I have a jolly good theory,” Janet said, doing a poor imitation of Ian’s accent but an excellent one of him flipping hair from his forehead. “I’m reaching out to the Road Policing Unit and, what ho, they appear to be jolly well receptive.”
“The bloody fool,” Christine said.
“What’s his theory?” Summer asked.
“That’s the kicker,” Janet said. “He wouldn’t tell the interviewer, so I find it hard to believe he really has one. He might be working on one, but in that case, he’s nosing around and meddling and who knows what kind of evidence he’s screwing up.”
“Don’t you love it when her dander’s up?” Tallie said.
“I’m glad it amuses you,” Janet said. “Thank you, though, for finding exactly what I needed to get me going again this morning. With the official statement out, and now with Ian loose, we need to focus. Are there any new insights?”
“I have a new idea about the puzzle of Florence being so sure Malcolm came home after the ride,” Tallie said. “It’s my earlier idea tarted up. It explains the open window, too. Malcolm didn’t come home, but someone else did, someone who knew Malcolm’s habits. Someone who might have an interest in going through the books there. Maybe even packed some of them up in a handy box. Maybe Gerald.”
“Yesterday or the day before, you wondered if it was an intruder,” Janet said.
“From the way Florence talks about Gerald, he’s kind of the same thing,” Tallie said.
“I like this,” said Christine. “A lot of pieces fit together. Florence didn’t see who came in that afternoon, and we know from our experience at Nev’s that Gerald will come and go without a word. We know he likes books. Janet spotted one under his arm that night, and Danny says he always has one with him. Last night we wondered if the foundlings are his. A book about the engineering feat of the Bell Rock Lighthouse is just the kind of thing to impress a boy who grows up to join the Royal Engineers. By report, he has pictures of lighthouses on his walls.” She looked at each of the others. “What do you think?”
“It’s worth following up,” Summer said.
“Sure,” Tallie said. “Whether the books are Gerald’s or Malcolm’s or belonged to both of them.”
Janet nodded agreement.
“Good,” Christine said. “I think we should call on him.”
“Wait.” Janet had started to nod again, but stopped. “On Gerald?”
“Who did you think I meant?”
“I—oh, but don’t you remember when we showed up that first time at Florence’s? It didn’t go all that well.” Janet pictured Gerald at the bar in Nev’s, looking like a grizzled wolf in lean times, with Danny standing guard. Had Danny been guarding the wolf or guarding them from the wolf? “I don’t know, Christine.”
“It’ll be fine,” Christine said.
“But in his time of grief?” Janet said.
“Is he grieved?” Christine asked.
“Why wouldn’t he be? Reclusive doesn’t mean unfeeling,” Janet said.
“Although it might,” said Summer. “What else do you know about him?”
“He lives local, but Danny says he lives on his own terms,” Christine said.
“And what are his terms?” Summer asked.
“Keeping to himself,” Janet said.
“But he was in Nev’s Monday night,” Christine said, “and that implies a need for human contact.”
“Or whisky,” said Tallie.
“This isn’t a whigmaleerie,” Christine said.
“As if we’d go in for a whigma-whatsit,” Janet said. “As if I’d know one if I ever saw it.”
“Leerie,” Christine said. “Whigmaleerie. It’s a whim, a fanciful notion, but it’s Scottish, thus more robustly onomatopoetic, and it’s exactly what this visit to Gerald is not. Listen to me, Janet. One of the reasons I was successful as a school social worker, and thoroughly enjoyed my work, is because I looked at every problem as a mystery to be solved. You know I’m a nut—not a bampot—but an avid mystery reader. I approached my families like mysteries, knowing that if I could uncover the right clues, and put them together so they answered the questions, then I could help my clients. I particularly enjoyed working with extended families. I’ve a real touch for connecting with people, and I believe wholeheartedly in the power of intergenerational connections for finding answers.”
“It’s hard to argue with that,” Janet said. Hard to argue with Queen Elizabeth ever, she thought. QE II—the avenging social worker. Even so, she didn’t quite see how intergenerational connections were going to help them approach a lean, lone wolf.
“You’ll see,” Christine said. “It’ll be fine. I’ll call ahead this time.”
“You have his number?” Janet asked.
“Amazingly enough, he’s in the directory,” Summer said. “I found him while she was stirring us to action.” She held her phone for Christine to see.
“In that case”—Christine tapped the number into her phone—“why wait?”
Janet, Tallie, and Summer watched Christine place the call. All four of them jumped slightly when Gerald answered.
Christine turned her back to them while she talked, and they gave her that much privacy. She didn’t move away, though, and they didn’t either. From Christine’s end, it sounded like a pleasant, wide-ranging chat. She mentioned books in general and the books in the box, Lachlann, Danny and Nev’s, remembering him when she was a girl, and a pantomime she and Florence were in. She listened a good deal, too. Then they heard her ask if she could bring him anything and what or who Cyrus was.
“I’ll see you this evening, then, Gerald,” Christine said. “I’ll bring my friend Janet. You and Cyrus will like her. Cheery-bye the noo.” She disconnected and turned back around, looking as surprised as she sounded. “He says come.”
“And maybe a bit more than that,” Tallie said. “You sounded almost like old pals.”
“I’m actually quite gobsmacked. There I was, afraid I was blethering on, but he blethered right back and sounded such a lovely man. He said he likes books, Lachy, and Danny and Nev’s. He said he was sorry, but he doesn’t remember me as a girl, nor does he remember leaving a box of books on anyone’s doorstep. He doesn’t get many callers other than Lachy. When I asked what I can bring him, he said toffee. No hesitation at all. He says the door will be open and not to mind Cyrus.”
“And who or what is Cyrus?” Janet asked. “We heard you ask that.”
“I think he’s a dog, but don’t hold me to it. When I asked, Gerald laughed and said, ‘Not old enough to be retired like me. He looks after me. He’s gentle as a lamb.’”
“I�
��m glad you had the good sense not to mention your aversion to sheep,” Janet said. “It doesn’t sound as though Gerald looks the same coming and going at all.”
“No, and the visit isn’t a whigmaleerie at all,” Christine said. “We’re doing a good deed. My only misgiving is that he didn’t seem to have heard about Lachy and I hate to bring that kind of bad news.”
“What and where is this Achnamuck where Gerald has his croft?” Janet asked as they closed the shop and tearoom that evening.
Tallie found Achnamuck for them—a road they could reach by driving out the way Janet had bicycled the morning she’d found Malcolm, and going over the Beaton Bridge, then several miles beyond. They promised Tallie and Summer they’d be careful and would keep in touch. They took the box of books with them and stopped at Basant’s before leaving Inversgail.
“I know it is not polite and it is not the correct pronunciation,” Basant said when they asked for toffee pudding, “but toffee always reminds me of the poem about the Welshman. Do you know it?
“Taffy was a Welshman,
Taffy was a thief.
Taffy came to my house and stole a piece of beef.
I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was not in.
Taffy came to my house and stole a silver pin.
“The reason I think of that might possibly be because when we were lucky enough to have taffy or toffee when we were children, my small sisters thought they were very clever to steal my share.”
“The wee rascals,” Christine said.
“So they thought,” Basant said. “They didn’t know that I would set aside a thieves’ portion for them.”
“That was kind and generous,” Janet said.
“It taught me to remember that thieves live close to home. Is the pudding for your mother, Mrs. Christine? I heard she hasn’t been well.”
“She’s on the mend, thank you. No, this is for Gerald Murray.”
“Then you are kind and generous as well,” Basant said, and gave them an extra-large portion. “You heard the terrible news about Lachlann Mòr?”
“We did. Did you know him?”
“A friendly chap. His death has shaken me and I am sorry for his young widow. There was none better at tossing the caber, none gentler with those in need.”
“Was it just me, or did Basant’s rhyme sound a lot like Lachy was a thief?” Janet asked when they were back in the car.
“It occurred to me, too.”
Soon after, Janet heard Christine humming to herself. “What’s that you’re singing?” she asked.
“Not singing. Composing,” Christine said. “What do you think of this? It’s a pastiche.
“Lachy was a nurse-man, Lachy was a thief.
Lachy came to my house and stole my handkerchief.
I went to Lachy’s house, just to have a look.
Lachy came to my house and stole a precious book.
I went to Lachy’s house and called for Lynsey dearie.
Lynsey came to my house and told a whigmaleerie.
“I used poetic license there at the end. In my rendition, whigmaleerie means something closer to taradiddle. What are you doing?”
“Typing it into the cloud,” Janet said. “Sometimes truth is stranger than doggerel.”
Christine slowed as they neared the Beaton Bridge, and then pulled onto the verge and stopped.
“Why are we stopping?” Janet asked.
“Just for a moment. I want to do something.”
“Do what?”
Christine got out without answering. Janet climbed out, too, her antennae quivering. But Christine did nothing more than stand in the middle of the span and lean against the solid stone wall so she could look along the burn toward where Malcolm and his bicycle had come to rest. Janet went to stand beside her.
“I wanted to pay my respects,” Christine said. She pulled something from her coat pocket and dropped it over the side into the gurgling burn below.
“What was that?”
“A piece of juniper. The plant badge of Clan Murray. Something to say goodbye to an old friend. Not really a friend, though. Goodbye to a memory, a vestige of my childhood. Come on, let’s go call on another.”
When they were back in the car, buckling their seat belts, Christine said, “Did you know that if you ingest juniper, you’re more likely to see ghosts?”
“You haven’t been drinking gin, have you?” Janet asked.
“I’m not partial to the taste. I’m not partial to the idea of seeing ghosts, either.”
Achnamuck Road wasn’t much more than a single lane track up and over one brae to the isolation of the next. Gerald’s house, when they saw it, wasn’t anything more than it needed to be—long, low, and whitewashed, with a door in the middle and a chimney at either end, the snug comfort of smoke rising from the nearer one. The roof, rather than traditional thatch, was corrugated tin the color of a blue Highland sky.
“It looks fresh and well cared for,” Christine said. “Lang may his lum reek.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Long may his chimney smoke,” Christine said. “I don’t see a car or truck. He must have one, though, to get into town.”
A granite barn with a pen alongside stood beyond the house. A ewe and two half-grown lambs watched from the pen.
“In the old days, he might have kept the animals inside with him at one end of the house,” Christine said. “I don’t see the dog.”
“Is Cyrus a dog?”
“We’re not to mind him, whoever he is.”
They parked on a level area where other vehicles had clearly come and gone, and got out of the car wondering who the last person to come visit had been.
“Lachlann or Isla,” Christine said.
“Or Norman when he told him about Malcolm,” Janet said. “I’ll take the box. You bring the pudding.”
They knocked and called and found the door unlatched, as Gerald said it would be, and heard an answering woof that reminded Janet of Malcolm’s dog.
“Hello, there,” Christine said to the collie who met them when she opened the door. “You must be Cyrus. I’m Christine and this is Janet.”
“There’s something so businesslike about a smooth collie,” Janet said. “Like Reddick’s Quantum. Hello, dear. I’d offer to shake paws, but I have this box.” She held the box so the dog could sniff it.
They’d come into a square entry with enough room for a couple of people to greet a dog, wipe their feet or leave a pair of garden boots, set down a basket or umbrella, hang a coat, take off a hat, tidy their hair.
“Take us to your friend, Cyrus,” Christine said. “Come along, Janet.”
The dog sat in front of Janet, stared at the box, and growled low in his throat.
“It’s all right, Cyrus. It’s just a box of books.” Janet stepped sideways. The dog growled again. “You go on, Christine. I’ll stay here until Gerald calls him.”
“Try putting the box down.”
“What do you think, Cyrus?” Janet asked.
At the name, the dog looked up at her and then turned back to the box. Janet slowly lowered the box a few inches. The dog watched. She lowered it a few more inches and stopped. The dog looked at her again as though offering encouragement.
“Maybe it’s the Dalwhinnie he doesn’t like,” Janet said.
“He might be more of an Oban or Lagavulin man,” Christine said.
Janet lowered the box to the floor. The dog bumped it with his nose and then licked her hand. “Don’t keep Gerald waiting, Christine. This is working. We’ll be along.”
“Righty-oh.” Christine left the entry calling, “Hello, Gerald. It’s Christine and Janet and lovely toffee pudding.”
Janet rubbed the dog’s ears and caught the tag on his collar. “You are Cyrus. It’s good to meet you.” Below his name on the tag was written He who bestows care. “You’re doing a fine job of bestowing care on your friend. You saved him from the unwanted clutter of stray boxes. Let’s go see him.”
Janet stumbled over the box, but kept herself from falling, and then she followed Cyrus, running toward Christine’s urgent calls. They ran straight ahead, through the narrow house, and into an extension made entirely of floor to ceiling windows that hadn’t been visible from the front. A fantastic panoramic view of the sea, from all three sides of the room, drew Janet’s eyes first, then Christine’s white face and open mouth, and then Gerald Murray on the slate floor, and the pool of blood around him.
19
Again. How can it be again? I don’t want to hear that word. I don’t want to be here. I don’t . . .
Janet was having trouble concentrating, kept seeing the dagger and Gerald. She swallowed and focused instead on remembering the details of the house so at odds with the man who’d walked silently in and out of Nev’s.
Had he added the extension himself? Rebuilt the interior of the original house? The place was Spartan, like a man who didn’t say much when he went to a pub. Engineered and carpentered. Tight. Neat. Tidy. Precise. Private. Clean. White, white, white. That’s why the blood was so shocking. Slate floors. In the room they walked back through to get out, to get away, he didn’t have much. But what he had was good. Flat-woven kilim rug, deep upholstered chair. A Charles Rennie Mackintosh chair? Possibly. Photographs of lighthouses, a drawing of a bridge. Two bookcases forming a library corner. If the books in the whisky box were his, had they fit on those shelves?
The outside of the house was like the outside of Gerald. Not much to look at. Deceptive. But only from the front. He and his house were not the same coming and going.
Janet, Christine, and Cyrus waited outside after calling the police. Christine paced. Janet stood next to the car, hugging herself, letting Cyrus lean against her, staring at the ground. Vehicle tracks marked the area where they’d parked.
