In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams (20 page)

She stepped aside so he had a view of Gavin’s body.

He abruptly stopped, stared at the dead man, then at her.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I found him here.”

He sent her a quick look before kneeling at Gavin’s side to test for a pulse, just as she had.

Gavin Whittaker was well and truly dead, and wishing him alive didn’t make it so.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. He turned his head, his eyes shining in the dim light.

“I saw the ship,” she said. “I wanted to see more of her.”

She couldn’t look down any longer. She thought she might be sick at the sight of all that blood.

He glanced around. “Where are the guards?”

“I haven’t seen anyone since I arrived.”

“That’s odd. Unless Gavin dismissed them.” He stood. “Are you certain you don’t know anything about this, Glynis?”

She shook her head.

“Yet you were talking to Baumann a few days ago. What about?”

She wrapped her arms around her waist, staring at him. “Do you think I’m a Union spy and my mission was to kill Gavin? Do you honestly believe I could kill another human being?”

“No, I don’t,” he said. “But I also think you know something you’re not telling.”

The expression on his face didn’t soften. Nor did his eyes warm.

She folded her arms in front of her, almost like a barrier. Her trembling worsened and the chill from the wind was slicing through her. Her stomach quivered, her lips felt numb, and her knees threatened to refuse to support her.

She’d experienced the same sensations when the police had arrived to tell her about Richard’s accident. That night, too, had been rain-filled, thunder accentuating the policeman’s words.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Smythe, nothing could be done. The driver said he didn’t see your husband until too late. With all the rain, we can see how it would be possible.

“You need to tell Lucy,” she said now. “Someone murdered her husband.” She frowned at him. “Not me, Lennox.”

“You still haven’t explained what you were doing here, Glynis.”

She shook her head. She couldn’t tell him now, not with Gavin dead at their feet. Was he another man whose death she’d have on her conscience? Had Baumann done this?

He reached out and touched her hair. Only then did she realize it had come loose from its careful bun. He pulled the wet tendrils free from her face, the tenderness of his touch making her close her eyes.

She willed herself to another place. Somewhere death didn’t hover nearby, where she didn’t have a secret, and Lennox didn’t suspect her.

“Glynis.”

Glynis, mind your manners. Glynis, you can’t say such things to me. Glynis, do you know how shocking you are?
How many times had he said something similar to her?

She opened her eyes and stepped away. How foolish she was to long for him at this moment. A man lay dead only feet from them. A murderer could be nearby.

She’d returned to Scotland much wiser, yet his touch stripped her of any wisdom or sense.

“I didn’t kill him, Lennox.”

“I didn’t think you did. Did you see anything or anyone?”

She shook her head.

“Are you working for Baumann?”

“No,” she said, grateful it was the truth.

“Why are you here, Glynis?”

“I told you. I wanted to see the ship.”

He shook his head. “Why did you come to the yard?”

“I came to talk to you,” she said.

There, a tinge of the truth.

“Why?”

She looked away.

Why had she said that? Words were a net to trap her, and she felt like a fish gasping for air.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, looking away from the rivulets of blood-tainted rain spreading on the deck.

Was the
Raven
cursed now, because she’d known murder? Would the sailors who manned her think the ship unlucky?

She glanced up at him to find Lennox still studying her intently. She had no other explanation to give him.

How had this situation become so terrible? She’d started off with such great intentions. But it was a Scottish poet who’d said the best laid plans of mice and men often go astray.

Burns certainly had it right.

L
ennox sent his driver to summon the police. Until they arrived he suggested they wait upstairs.

The last time she’d been here, his office had been a series of small rooms, one leading to the other until the place was a warren. Now the walls had been knocked down until there was only one large, rectangular space.

A massive desk with three visitor chairs, two in front and one on the side, sat in the corner. Six drafting tables were arranged in three rows in the middle of the room, each table covered with a drawing.

She stopped at the closest table, studying the sheet of paper, but couldn’t understand what she was seeing.

“It’s the structural plans for a new hull,” he said.

She glanced around at the other tables. “Are they all different ships?”

“Two of them are. The others are different types of plans for the same vessel.”

“How many ships do you work on at a time?”

“The
Raven
occupied most of our resources. Normally, we’re working on three to four ships at once.”

That many? Cameron and Company had indeed expanded.

A wall of windows looked out over the quay and at either side of the door. Sunlight would flood the room and warm it well in winter. From here Lennox could
see most of the docks and who was approaching the office on the land side.

She could picture him sitting on one of the tall stools, intent on the drawing before him. Hours would go by and he wouldn’t notice. Nor would he care as long as he created something from a thought in his mind.

In her childhood she’d often found him scrawling something on a piece of paper. When she wanted to see, he would reluctantly show her a sketch of a ship or a hull.

She left the tables, walking to the white painted shelves occupying both of the remaining walls. In each compartment rested a small rendition of a ship, so flawless in execution she stared in amazement.

“May I pick it up?” she asked.

He nodded.

Putting her umbrella on the floor, she reached out with both hands, cupping them around the delicate ship. The name was painted in tiny Cyrillic letters on the stern.

“It’s Russian?”

He nodded again.

From the smokestacks to the captain at the bridge everything was crafted in perfect miniature. She traced a finger across the hull.

“Who did these?” she asked. Had Lennox learned yet another skill?

“Garrison McPherson,” he said. “He worked at the yard for years.”

“Such a talented man.”

He didn’t respond, merely folded his arms, leaning against one of the tables.

She gently replaced the model and retrieved her umbrella, continuing her walk.

“Are these all the ships Cameron and Company has built?”

“We haven’t built all of them. But most of them, yes. Here and in Russia.”

“Why did your father ever decide to construct a shipyard in Russia?”

“He was asked to,” he said. “I guess you go where you’re wanted.”

There were a dozen things she could say to that, but decided silence was the best recourse.

“Does he miss Russia after he sold the yard there?”

“Why the interest, Glynis?”

She glanced at him, surprised. Didn’t he know she’d always been fascinated in everything about him?

“People who think Scottish winters are bad have never spent one in St. Petersburg.”

She strolled across the room to the opposite wall, with its empty compartments. Lennox planned ahead.

“Where is the
Raven
’s model?”

“It hasn’t been built,” he said.

She glanced at him, wondering at the change in his voice.

Her attention was caught by another ship, one reminding her of the
Raven
. It leaned forward like it raced the wind, wanting to outsail anything on the water.

“The
Vixen
?”

“One of those ships never constructed,” Lennox said. “It doesn’t have a practical purpose. Nowadays a vessel has to be worth building.”

“It looks like a swan settling over the waves. A steamship with all the grace of a clipper.”

“Have you studied ships?”

Once she had, with the intent of impressing him with her knowledge.

“I designed her after you left for London,” he said, coming to her side.

He named the ship
Vixen
. Had he named it for
her? Is that what he thought of her? She didn’t know whether to be annoyed or pleased.

“Do you want to sit down?”

“No.”

She would be better off moving, keeping active, anything but think of Gavin’s death.

She should have dissolved into tears or fainted. Perhaps she should wave her handkerchief in the air and claim the vapors overwhelmed her.

Was she being unwomanly by not acting fragile? Was that why Lennox studied her, a V forming on his brow?

The moments ticked by in silence. Now was the time to tell him what she’d come to the yard to explain. The whole horrible story could have tumbled from her lips for him to accept or reject.

The door opened and the moment was lost.

“Mr. Cameron?”

One of the men came forward, introduced himself and his companion as members of the Glasgow police.

The two looked like yard workers, both broad of shoulder and chest, each walking in the curious rolling gait of a man used to the rhythm of the ocean. Had they once been sailors and changed their vocation?

The younger man had a full beard and mustache, while the older man with touches of silver on his temples only wore a mustache.

Lennox led them to the desk in the corner. She sat on the straight-back chair, grateful she didn’t have to perch on one of the tall stools. Lennox sat in the large chair behind the desk while one of the policemen sat in front of him. The older man stood beside the window and addressed Lennox.

“Who is the dead man, Mr. Cameron?”

“Gavin Whittaker,” Lennox said. “His employer is Fraser Trenholm & Company out of Liverpool, but he represents the Confederate government. I turned the
Raven
over to him yesterday and expected him to set sail in two days.”

One of the men nodded, while the other said, “An American again.”

“And you found him, miss?” one of the men asked her.

“It’s Missus,” Lennox corrected. “Mrs. Smythe. Mrs. Smythe is the widow of the attaché of the British Legation in Washington.”

“America, Mrs. Smythe?”

A flush of embarrassment traveled up her spine to settle at the back of her neck. It was never a good idea to be the focus of attention, and right at the moment three sets of male eyes were watching her.

She nodded. “However, I’m a Glaswegian and I’ve recently come home.”

“What were you doing here, Mrs. Smythe, on a Sunday?”

I’d come to confess
.
I wanted to tell Lennox everything in a way he would understand and possibly forgive.

“I came to see the
Raven
,” she said, facing them down. “I knew the ship would be leaving soon and I wanted a glimpse of it.”

Almost any situation could be endured with enough pride. She tilted her chin up and refused to look away. Let them believe her or not. She couldn’t do anything about their thoughts, but she could alter their impressions in the way she answered their questions.

The policeman glanced at Lennox. “Did you know Mrs. Smythe would be here, sir?”

“I often work on Sunday,” he said, deflecting their question. “I would appreciate if you wouldn’t tell my minister that.”

Both men smiled.

“Was Mr. Whittaker dead when you found him, Mrs. Smythe?”

“Yes,” she said, giving stern instructions to her stomach to remain calm. She would somehow have to find a way to block out the memory of all that blood.

“Did you see anyone else aboard the ship?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “Nor did I hear anything.”

The younger man asked, “The weapon was a wicked looking knife. Had you seen it before, Mrs. Smythe?”

“Anyone Gavin met would have,” Lennox interjected. “He had a great fondness for demonstrating it. It was part of the walking stick he carried with him everywhere.”

She gripped her hands together to still their trembling.

The discussion moved to the guards on the
Raven.
As she listened, she realized how shrewd was Lennox’s manipulation of the conversation. He told the men that, in view of the recent arson attacks on the Clyde, three guards had been assigned to the
Raven.
The men must have been dismissed by Gavin, who had the authority to do so.