The Avalon Chanter (25 page)

Alasdair offered no corrections, no
additions. He gazed evenly at her, jaw set, no longer icy but cool
and patient. Like a cat before a mouse hole.

“
So the body’s been there since
nineteen seventy-one, most likely,” repeated Miranda. “A time when
Wat and Elaine were past being newlyweds and well settled in their
musical Camelot. No happenstance I’ve been talking with David
Ogletree at Triskelion Records about that.”

“
Gallowglass’ recording label, right?”
Jean asked, angling the phone toward Alasdair again. “Hugh’s with
them, too. They’ve been around a while.”

“
So has Ogletree. He’s retired now, but
has the memory of an elephant—last time I saw him, at a Battlefield
Band concert, he was going on about Gallowglass’ early days as
though he’d played every note himself.”

“
You phoned him to ask about Wat’s
early days. Well done!”

“
That’s me, always helping the police
with their inquiries. Literally, not euphemistically. We had us a
lovely chat about traditional music starting with Fairport
Convention and the Chieftains and all. When I finally managed to
bring him round to Wat and Farnaby, we had us another lovely chat
about teaching the young folk.” Miranda paused for, Jean assumed, a
sip of restorative elixir.

“
Somewhere in the midst of the memoir,”
she continued, “he mentioned that before Gallowglass went on to
fame and fortune, Wat was so desperate for money, he went so far as
to ask Ogletree for a loan. A sizeable loan.”

“
Wat needed money,” Alasdair
repeated.

“
Aye, he did that. He told Ogletree he
was after making over a medieval fortlet on Farnaby into a school
and house for himself and Elaine. Renovating a medieval ruin
costing much more than purpose-building a school, aye, but it would
be giving the place the proper ambience. Or so Ogletree was saying,
and I expect he’s quoting Wat.”

Jean looked up at the photo of the old castle
hanging on the wall by the bathroom door. “We were told here that
Wat intended to redo Merlin’s Tower into a home like Lindisfarne
Castle after he retired, but he never got around to it. Not quite
the same story. Close.”

Alasdair followed her gaze, one eyebrow
quirked, and murmured her own words back to her. “Memories can be
skewed.”

She nodded agreement.

“
Merlin’s Tower, is it? How quaint.”
Miranda went on, “Ogletree lent Wat a goodly sum. He’s under the
impression Wat went so far as to consult an architect. But that was
the end of it. After six months or so, out of the blue, Wat
returned the money.”

“
When was this, exactly?” Alasdair
asked.

“
Erm, from context I’m thinking it was
seventy or seventy-one.”

“
What did Wat tell Ogletree?” asked
Jean.

“
No more than that he’d changed his
mind, thank you just the same. Ogletree’s under the impression Wat
couldn’t get planning permission—the fortlet’s by way of being a
listed building—but Wat never said. Some years later, when his ship
came in, so to speak, he purpose-built the school after all. And he
bought himself the manse after the church set the vicar commuting
to Farnaby for once-a-month services.”

“
Maybe the architect told him a
renovation wasn’t feasible,” said Jean. “Or it cost more money than
he thought he could get from Ogletree. And yes, getting permission
to redo a listed building can be quite a hassle, if not
impossible.”

“
As I’m knowing only too well,” said
Miranda, “with the
Great Scot
offices here in Edinburgh. Who knows what masses of red tape
need unfurling south of the border?”

Alasdair said, “We’ve been thinking the
nineteen seventy-one death was a crime of sexual passion, but
money’s as good a motive for murder. Tends to inspire a fair bit of
passion itself, especially when it’s tied so closely to power.
Maybe there’s an insurance policy or will involved—although since
the renovations were never done, that’s a right long shot. Well,
I’ll set Darling to researching Wat’s finances.”

Lucky Darling
.
Although he might welcome a stint with some old tax records or
whatever, after the alarms and excursions on Farnaby.

“
Surely money’s not the motive for
whoever attacked Grinsell,” returned Miranda.

“
No,” Alasdair stated. “The motive’s
revenge, most likely.”

“
Revenge. You mean Maggie or . . .”
Jean forced the name between her teeth. “Niamh.”

Alasdair got up and paced across the room.
The stiffness in his back and shoulders answered her question
without her having to ask. “Miranda,” she said into the phone,
“speaking of the Gallowglass school, it’s almost time for the
concert and I’m in a pair of jeans with mud and grit on the
knees.”

“
We’re away to a tourist agency
dinner,” Miranda replied. “I’d rather be listening to loads of
grand music than blethering on about airport revenues and the like,
but needs must. Ta ta for now.”

“
Cheers.” Jean switched off the phone.
For a long moment she sat slumped on the bed, willing her train of
thought onto another track. Down another fork in the road. But it
wouldn’t change course.

Chapter Twenty-three

Finally, Jean said dully, “You told me last
night Grinsell had solved cases because of his abrasiveness. You
meant he solved the Phillips case by strong-arming Niamh’s mother.
You knew that all along.”

“
Aye, that I did.” Alasdair still gazed
out the window, not that there was anything to see. He was probably
gazing at the reflection of the room and her small figure huddled
on the bed. “I did not know any names other than Maggie’s, not till
Miranda phoned this morning. The chap in Cambridgeshire was going
on about Grinsell’s particulars, not those of the case.”

“
Right.” Jean turned Alasdair’s verbal
tic back on him. Unlike him, however, she couldn’t stop with the
one word. “But when I asked whether Grinsell was involved in
Maggie’s case you fudged. You flanneled. Why? Because I was already
on the warpath about Grinsell and you didn’t want to add any more
arrows to my quiver by defending him? Please let’s not get into an
argument about ends justifying means.”

“
That’s not my intention at
all.”

“
I know arguing isn’t your intention.
What is?”

“
Last night my intention was getting at
the truth with a minimum of fuss, when you and Maggie and Grinsell
were already fussed. Without giving you ammunition to confront
Grinsell or defend Maggie or anything of the sort. But then, last
night I did not know he’d himself be the case today, did I now?
You’re identifying yourself with her, never mind you’ve got no more
in common than your academic career and your age—your court case
was nothing like hers. You weren’t being impartial with Grinsell or
Maggie as it was, and you’re not being impartial with me
now.”

“
No, I’m not. I’m never really
impartial, and this time is worse than most, but dammit, Alasdair,
it’s hardly fussing to give someone the benefit of the doubt. The
presumption of innocence.”

He turned around and fixed her with his
best—his worst—stern look. She was mildly surprised his words
didn’t fall and shatter like shards of icicle. “Maggie has a motive
for attacking Grinsell. Full stop. Niamh does as well. I’m not
arresting either of them. I’m not playing the macho cop harassing
the wee inoffensive lassies. They’re persons of interest, that is
all.” He might as well have closed,
over
and out.

“
I know that. Don’t insult me.” Jean
waved her hands, but the right words didn’t materialize in them.
“Niamh. Grinsell cost her parents their marriage, sort of. He sent
her father to prison. Okay. Fine. You didn’t hear her talking about
it in the chapel. She realizes it was Donal himself who’s to blame.
She may not even know what Grinsell’s role was.”

“
Even if Annie never mentioned the
name—and I’m not betting tuppence on that—I cannot believe Maggie’s
not been going on about the man ever since her interview last
night.”

Jean saw Maggie, Tara, and Niamh sitting
around the table at Gow House, caring and sharing. If Alasdair
wasn’t right so much of the time, fighting with him would be a lot
easier.

“
Explain this,” he went remorselessly
on. “Crawford’s saying he left Maggie’s big torch with Niamh.
Niamh’s saying she put it away. Maggie’s saying it’s not there.
Which one’s telling the truth?”

“
Maybe both of them. Maybe—someone
else—Elaine . . .” Jean felt as though the bed was sucking her down
like quicksand. She jumped up and cast one way, then the other, but
found nowhere to run.

“
Last night you saw someone walking
along the road between Gow House and the priory. Niamh could have
helped herself to one of Maggie’s tools and planted it at Merlin’s
Tower. You were suggesting something of the sort
yourself.”

“
I suggested some mysterious someone,
not Niamh. And why would she take the chanter?”

“
I’m not saying she did that. I’m
saying she might well have gone pushing or tripping Grinsell into
the nettles and bashing him whilst he was down, then keeping her
head and working to save his life when Crawford brought her along
to the scene. She could hardly be doing otherwise, no slipping him
the wrong drug or the like, not with Hector looking out for him as
well.”

“
So if Niamh used the flashlight on
Grinsell, where is it now? Did she throw it over the cliff, like
you originally thought? Did she keep it because she needed the
light, like Darling said? Tara heard the car stuck in the
pothole—did she hear Niamh leave the house about the same time? How
did Niamh lure Grinsell up to the tower anyway? Tell him she had
something new on Maggie’s case?”

“
All grand questions,” Alasdair
conceded.

“
How about this one: Do you really
think she did it?”

Breaking eye contact, he glanced toward the
bedside clock, then strode across the room to the closet. From
inside he said, “Time I was changing myself into my glad rags for
the evening.”

“
Answer me.”

He emerged carrying the customized bag
for his kilt and its accessories. “I’ve worked half my life for the
Northern Constabulary. Their motto is
Dion
is Cuidich
. Protect and serve. Now I’m head of Protect
and Survive. You’ll be sensing a theme here.”

“
Law, order, and protection. Yeah.
Funny how Maggie said that secrets hurt, even when they’re meant to
protect. It seems to me what you’re interested in is protecting
yourself from fuss.”

With an incoherent growl, Alasdair vanished
into the bathroom. He closed the door so quietly she didn’t even
hear the latch snap shut.

No, she wasn’t being fair. The situation when
they’d been talking last night wasn’t the same as it was now.
Instead of worrying about Grinsell’s tactics, now he worried about
the case itself. If he found her feminist fuming unhelpful, well,
she could excuse that. But she wasn’t going to let go of her
righteous indignation that easily.

Grasping at the incongruity of Niamh either
taking the chanter or trying to kill Grinsell or both, clinging to
the knowledge that she and Alasdair had clashed over issues of
crime and criminality before and come through to the other side,
Jean stamped up and down several times. Then she stacked the tea
cups on the tray with such solid dings she was afraid for a moment
she’d cracked them.

A knock on the front door below reverberated
in the floor. Footsteps, and Pen’s voice was raised in concern and
pleasure. “Hildy! Where’ve you been, puss?”

A masculine aw-shucks mutter clarified into
Lance saying, “I found her outside the pub flirting with one of the
day-trippers, a reporter fellow eating a bacon sandwich.”

“
She was flirting with the sandwich, I
expect. Thank you ever so much—come along, Hildy.” The door shut
and Pen’s steps moved back down the hall. One crisis had been
averted. Lance had proved himself quite the protector of
damsels-in-distress.

Peace fell downstairs. Another round of
the room, and Jean spotted her computer sitting on the desk next
to
The Matter of Britannia
.
She pounced on it, booted it up, opened her word-processing
program, and stared at the blank expanse of white encapsulated by
blue bars and arcane icons.

“
Northumbria, The Doubtful Shore,” she
typed. “Northumberland belongs to both England and Scotland and to
neither. It’s a place of lost kingdoms, lost saints, and lost
treasures such as the ruins of Farnaby Priory.”

She clicked on “Save” and stared again.
Most readers would be more interested in her adventures with the
body that was in the tomb than the body that, so far, wasn’t. But
writing about that skirted close to true crime, not
Great Scot
’s
demographic. Besides, she’d always avoided revealing anything
about the cases she and Alasdair had been involved in and she
didn’t intend to start now.

She wasn’t, she realized with a muffled
groan, going to start anything until she had more historical
speculation and less true crime staring her in the face.

Internet? Were you there? Yes—whatever passed
for wi-fi on Farnaby connected.