The Avalon Chanter (35 page)

Darling exhaled through pursed lips, probably
finding it hard to fault Crawford’s reasoning.

A tautness at the corner of Alasdair’s not
even remotely pursed lips indicated his thought: Was Crawford
trying to frame Elaine, who couldn’t speak up for herself, and
cover up for—whom? Himself?

Motive, thought Jean. Always motive. And so
many motives right now came down to a wish to protect, not to
harm.

“
And yet,” Alasdair said, “even after
Grinsell was, erm, no longer on the case, you lied to
me.”

“
Begging your pardon, sir, but you’re
not—you’re no Inspector Grinsell, but . . .”

He’d better not say anything about holiday
cop, Jean told herself.

He finished his sentence, “. . . you told me
the body in the grave’s my own father. That’s a turn-up for the
books. D.I. Grinsell was here, putting himself in harm’s way, for
my family, wasn’t he?”

“
He didn’t know he’d be in danger
here,” said Darling. “He came along thinking he could settle a
score with Maggie.”

The ice still overhung Alasdair’s
expression.

So the whole time Grinsell had been harassing
Maggie last night, the chanter had been lying a few feet away. If
anyone had found it, would it have changed anything? No, Jean told
herself, probably not even the trajectory of Grinsell’s abuse. And
none of Donal’s actions would have altered in the least.

Taking mercy on Crawford, she said, “It must
have been Elaine I saw from the window of the B and B, walking
along the road toward the priory. You’d think her white hair would
have caught the light, though.”

“
She was wearing her old gardening
hat,” said Crawford.

James waded in. “Elaine must have used Wat’s
old key to the shop, leaving the shawl and the chanter here before
I opened it for the police. Then she went on to the pub where Pen
found her. Hard to say what she was thinking. The poor old soul’s
got her own reasoning these days.” He set a hand on Crawford’s arm.
“It’s all right, lad. You meant to protect Elaine. You had no idea
the chanter had meaning for you personally.”

Alasdair’s thin lips said,
No, it’s not all right.
He turned on
James. “You and Pen also knew, then, that Elaine had likely nicked
the chanter. Is that why the pair of you and Crawford here were
having a chin-wag—when was it, Jean? One in the
morning?”

“
One-fifteen,” she said.

“
Sorry to wake you,” James told them
both, with his best hang-dog, whiskers-drooping expression. “I
didn’t get back from the pub till late. I found Pen sitting up with
Edwin. He thought he’d best stay on the island, not quite trusting
the inspector.”

Alasdair’s voice crackled with fissuring ice.
“Just how cozy with members of the public are you planning on
making yourself, Constable?”

Darling took a step back, as though planning
an escape route.

James and Crawford both stared. “The Flemings
aren’t members of the public,” said Crawford. “They’re on my patch,
aye, but . . .”

James’s voice was louder. “Edwin’s our
son-in-law, Mr. Cameron. He and our daughter Lisa have been married
for fifteen years. Two grandchildren, finest lad and lass you’ve
ever seen.”

Alasdair’s face, already fair, went stark
white.

James added, “You didn’t know that?”

Oh shit.
Jean,
too, stepped aside, visualizing the photo of Maggie with Lisa
Fleming. Lisa Crawford.

The villain who had perverted the course of
justice was the best friend of the local constable’s
mother-in-law.

Despite being the shortest man present,
Alasdair seemed to loom almost to the ceiling. His voice
flash-froze the entire room, left patterns of frost on the
flagstones, piled snow banks in the corners, strung icicles from
the door frames. “No. I did not know that.”

“
Aye.” Crawford tried a smile, but it
withered on his lips. “I’d visited Farnaby often enough over the
years. Likely I’d passed Lisa on the street or sat in at the same
session. Then, when I was assigned Bamburgh and Farnaby, Wat Lauder
introduced me round and I met her and Maggie and . . . Well. Here
we are. Sir.”

“
No,” stated Alasdair. “Where you are
is sitting in your boat guarding the evidence. Soon as Berwick
arrives, you’re off the case. Are you hearing me?”

Crawford gulped and nodded. His “Aye, sir,”
came out as a squeak.

“
Give him the shawl and the
chanter.”

Using the most economical, unobtrusive
movement possible, Darling handed over the bundle.

“
Away you go. Bearing in mind that I’ve
got no stomach for another round of playing who’s got the
chanter.”

“
Aye, sir.” Crawford scuttled away, his
long legs moving like a crab’s. His eyes the size of his own
plates, James turned to follow.

“
Wait there,” Alasdair ordered, and
James stopped in the doorway. “Sergeant Darling. I’d be obliged if
you’d look into the status of the search teams.”

Darling whisked out his phone and retreated
to the other room, muttering urgently.

“
Mr. Fleming,” Alasdair went on. “You
were after leading one of the teams yourself?”

“
Aye, that I was—I’ll be getting on
then, shall I?”

“
Please.”

James’s exit was less a scuttle than a quick
march, through the outer room and away.

Jean realized she stood with her arms
crossed, hunched over against the blizzard. Slowly she
straightened.
Evidence is like a quantum
particle,
she thought.
The act of
observing it changes it
.

She decided this wasn’t the best time to
mention that fact to Alasdair. Neither was it a good time to remind
him how he’d prevented her from having a friendly chat with Pen, a
chat that would assuredly have touched on family relationships.

Assessing the chill ebbing from his face and
the color returning to it, she said, “How about if I go back to the
Angle’s Rest, see if I can help Pen there and Hugh at the pub?”

He looked around, briefly puzzled, as though
surprised to see her.

“
Alasdair?”

He seemed to shrink back into himself. He
reached up and loosened his tie. He smoothed his kilt. He turned as
stiff a smile on Jean as she’d ever seen, but it was a smile
nonetheless, rejecting the fierce Ice King—no, that persona had
never been an act. “Best be getting yourself back to the B and B.
I’m afeart we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

She leaned quickly in to brush her lips
across his cold cheek, prompting the slightest easing of the smile,
and she headed back to the B&B.

Moonlight washed away the stars and laid a
shimmer on the sea. The towers of Bamburgh were almost invisible
against the land behind, except for pinpricks of lighted windows. A
boat glided into the harbor. Reinforcements from Berwick? No, that
was the Ecclestons’ sightseeing boat. It stopped by the pier. A
couple of dim figures hurried down from the street and secured the
lines.

You’d think the village was deserted, except
for the lights blazing in every window and the occasional
ultra-serious voice echoing through a doorway or down Cuddy’s
Close, annotated by bursts of melody from Hugh’s guitar. From
Hugh’s musical security blanket.

Soon the tide would be at its peak, but Clyde
and Lance wouldn’t be taking the ferry out, not until tomorrow.
Until the sun shone again.

The tide flooded and the tide ebbed, people
were born, matured, died. Castles rose and either crumbled or
became tourist attractions . . . The siren-like screech of Rosalie
Banks punctured Jean’s reverie. Yes, there she was, clambering off
Clyde’s boat and onto the breakwater—she’d realized there was a
story here after all, and come back. “No one’s found Parkinson? And
that ginger lass with the flash voice, that’s his daughter? Who’s
in charge then?”

“
The Scots fellow, Cameron,” someone
replied. “He’s away with the search parties, though. Stop in the
pub. He’ll be back.”

Jean quickly tried the knob, but the door of
the B&B was locked—and a good thing, too. She tapped on its
carved wooden panels, hoping Rosalie-the-Reporter wouldn’t see her.
Or Crawford sitting in his boat in the darkness, well bundled
against the chill night air and the frosty remnants of Alasdair’s
wrath. Talk about being caught between a rock and an icy place. She
imagined Crawford not exactly tallying his sins, but certainly
re-evaluating his options.

The lock snicked and Rebecca opened the door.
“There you are. And before you ask, yes, I had me a look through
the peephole before I opened up.”

“
Good.” Jean stepped into what she
hoped was—but feared couldn’t be—a sanctuary against the perils of
the night.

Chapter Thirty-four

After the cold shop and the colder night, the
front hall of the Angle’s Rest seemed warm to the point of
suffocating. But the aroma of baking breads and steaming coffee
made a wonderful contrast to the stench of decay still clinging to
Jean’s nose hairs.

Locking the door again, Rebecca glanced down
the back hall. “Linda’s sound asleep. Michael says he’s about to go
struggling through a field overgrown with heather. You remember
that old folk song with a line about ‘tripping through the
heather’?”

“
Yeah,” Jean said, peeling off her
coat. “That’s what you do. You trip over the heather and fall flat
on your face.”

Pen looked around the corner from the
kitchen. She’d changed into her purple sweatsuit, ruffled apron,
and green athletic shoes. A floury bandage peeked out from below
her pushed-back sleeve. “Jean. James phoned and said—oh, we’re so
sorry, we had no idea you didn’t know Edwin’s a relation.”

“
What?” asked Rebecca, and winced when
Jean told her the tale. “Oh. Bad luck, Pen.”

“
What’s done is done.”

“
How’s your arm?” Jean
asked.

“
It’ll be right as rain in no time at
all. That Hector, he’s a fine lad, isn’t he? I’m thinking he and
Tara would get on well, with them both being Americans—not that I’d
want to see him and Lance battling it out for her hand like knights
of old. We’ve had that sort of argy-bargy on Farnaby
already.”

An argument over a woman’s
affection?
Jean’s ears pricked, but Pen was already
ushering her into the dining area and seating her in front of a
thermal carafe and a plate of scones and bacon rolls. She shoved
several photo albums to one side and set a cup and plate in front
of Jean. “Have all you like—Hugh’s taken two carriers full over to
the pub—James is saying it’s true what Edwin feared, Elaine lifted
the chanter from the grave. I hoped he was wrong, but he’s a clever
lad. Quiet, but clever.”

Of course she would defend the father of her
grandchildren. No problem. Jean was grateful Pen was taking it all
in stride and wasn’t throwing her and Alasdair’s things out onto
the sidewalk.

She had already heard Crawford’s version of
events. Accepting a cup of coffee—it wasn’t as though she was going
to get any sleep tonight anyway—she asked, “Why didn’t Edwin tell
Alasdair he was afraid Elaine had taken the chanter?”

“
Well now,” Pen said, “Inspector
Grinsell was a bit of a tartar, might have caused poor Elaine as
much grief as he caused Maggie. And then the inspector himself
became the point of the exercise, didn’t he? No good distracting
the police in the pursuance of their duties with a situation so
long gone.”

Okay. Jean accepted that as more or less the
same answer Crawford had given. She reached for a roll fragrant
with the scents of bacon and butter.

Rebecca turned her chair toward the door, the
better to hear any childish whimpers from down the hall. Hildy
magically appeared and wafted onto a third chair, her ears and eyes
showing above the rim of the tabletop like an alligator cruising
the surface of the water. Pen scratched her ears and earned a
self-satisfied glance.

Jean took too large a bite of the roll and
had to wait until she’d chewed and swallowed to say, “Elaine
wrapped the chanter in that lovely purple shawl you knitted for
her, Pen. I’m afraid it’ll be police evidence now.”

“
I’ll make her another.” Instead of
pulling out her own chair, Pen leaned on its back. Her plump face
no longer drooped with worry but was firm with resolve.
Here we are, then. Mustn’t complain. Time to
launch the boats toward Dunkirk.

“
Elaine had a key to the back room of
the bookshop. The room that had been Athelstan’s
office.”

“
Aye. Maggie was saying that Wat’s old
key went missing years ago, but Elaine’s likely had it all along.
She’s got any number of oddments tucked away at Gow House.
Souvenirs, in a way. Memories.”

“
You’ve spoken with Maggie?” asked
Rebecca.

“
We’ve been phoning to and fro all
evening. Keeping our spirits up. We’re that worried about poor
Niamh. Her father murdering Inspector Grinsell, imagine that!
Dreadful. Just dreadful. Is the coffee hot enough for you,
Jean?”

“
It’s delicious, thank you.” It was
just as well the Farnaby jungle telegraph, or mobile network, to be
accurate, worked as well as it did. It saved a lot of explanation.
Jean gestured with her cup. “It looks as though you have lots of
memories in those photo albums.”

“
I was having myself a wander down
memory lane. Fancy having a look at the old days here on
Farnaby?”