The Burning Glass (14 page)

She was still not wearing any makeup, in the
full light of day, even. She shrugged. As for her hair, she would
probably win a Medusa lookalike contest. There. A wet comb
helped.

Back in the hallway she looked around. Still
no Dougie. You’ve never been properly snubbed, Jean thought, until
you’ve been snubbed by a cat. She walked gingerly into the bedroom
and threw open the curtains so that the light fell on Alasdair’s
face. He twitched and groaned, and then, with a ghost of a smile,
muttered, “Bonny Jean.”

She kissed the top of his head, then found
her glasses on the dresser and put them on. A look through the
window showed her patches of blue sky between white billows of
cloud, the distant green hillside, the gilded trees, the river
glittering to another ray of sun. Just because she couldn’t see the
main road from here didn’t mean that headlights wouldn’t reflect
this way.

Alasdair sat up and gazed at the bedside
clock as though trying to remember how to tell time.

“Coffee?” asked Jean. “Tea?”

“Please.”

Smiling, she tottered off to the kitchen and
found the packet of coffee inside Minty’s basket—it was like Dr.
Who’s Tardis, bigger inside than out. Within moments she had the
pot dripping away. The delectable scent alone helped to jump-start
her brain. Dutifully she ascertained that both cars were still
occupying the otherwise empty courtyard and the piece of
inscription was still sitting on the bookshelf. But Dougie was
nowhere to be found, not under the couch, not under the bed, not
behind the television.

Her smile curdling, Jean rattled the box of
kibble and called his name. That produced Alasdair, back in pajamas
and T-shirt. “Misplaced the moggie, have you?”

“Where could he have gotten off to? The
windows are shut, he couldn’t have slipped out. I mean, y’all don’t
have window screens here—I’m always worried about him back in
Ramsay Garden. Dougie?”

Alasdair opened the door of the broom closet
and flipped on the light. “He’s used his loo.”

“Dougie! Breakfast time!”

Alasdair switched the light off, then with
almost a double-take, peered into the shadows. “Well, now, that’s
right interesting.”

“What?” Jean tried to peer past him.

“See that bit of light just there?”

She shoved him half a step aside and looked.
The far end of the closet was illuminated by a thin strip of, well,
not light exactly. Not-darkness. Which wavered suddenly as a small
body leaped through it and into the closet.

Both Jean and Alasdair jerked back, then
laughed as Dougie came strutting past the brooms and piping,
whiskers at full smirk. Brushing by his attentive audience, he
headed straight for the kitchen. “Fetch the torch,” said Alasdair,
squeezing back into the closet.

Jean got the flashlight and placed it in his
outstretched hand, then pressed herself into the closet behind him.
The beam of light revealed an opening cut through the thickness of
the stone wall, perhaps a foot tall and eight inches wide. At the
far end it was partially covered by a broken piece of wood—the
paneling in the Laigh Hall. It moved aside when Alasdair pushed at
it, opening onto shadow.

“He’s found himself a secret passage. Is that
an arrow slit that was once on an outside wall? Or a serving hatch
from the old kitchen?”

Jean eased herself back out into the flat.
“It’s too small for a hatch, and that was never an outside wall. I
bet it’s a squint, a spyhole. The Laird’s Lug.”

“I’ll tack a bit of plywood over it, keep the
moggie within bounds.” Alasdair emerged from the closet and
switched off the flashlight.

Dougie was sitting next to his bowl, his head
cocked to the side, obviously thinking,
first they run about
looking for me, then they neglect me. Humans!

With a low bow, Jean made him an offering of
kibble. Then she poured out two cups of steaming black elixir,
handed Alasdair a cup, added milk to her own, and drank. Another
brain cell stirred to life. “The Laird’s Lug, or ‘ear.’ The laird
would eavesdrop on his guests or petitioners or workers—the people
waiting around to see him. The hole was probably covered by a
tapestry or something, the equivalent of a secret microphone
today.”

“He’d learn a thing or two to his advantage,
if not to theirs.” Disdaining the proffered milk carton, Alasdair
took a swig of coffee, straight up. “That’s likely listed in the
old P and S survey. I’ll have a wee keek after breakfast.”

“Speaking of which . . .” Jean gathered the
supplies she’d brought and assembled muffins and eggs. They ate off
the ordinary pottery from the cabinet, leaving Minty’s crystal and
china gleaming in the drainer. “I’ll take her things back when I go
to lunch, er, luncheon. I hope her new creations are as good as
last night’s food, and she hasn’t gotten carried away with
something weird like anchovy ice cream.”

“The food was good, but then, we had a bit of
an appetite.” Alasdair only kept his deadpan lack-of-expression for
a few seconds. His grin broke through like sunshine through storm
clouds, exposing slightly uneven teeth that just added to the
charm. Alasdair. Charm. Who knew?

Jean knew. She grinned back at him. “You did
hear the footsteps, right? And the harp music?”

“Obliging of Isabel to play accompaniment—if
that’s what we were hearing.”

“I don’t think we were hearing the wind, or
anything like that, but no, it might not have been the ghost
playing the Ferniebank Clarsach.”

“Usually these things are explained away
with, it’s music from a radio, or, it’s someone playing a CD or the
like. Though if it’s someone playing silly beggars, I’d like to
know how they managed it.”

“And why they bothered.” Jean grinned again.
“But what if it was Isabel? We might have been hearing the same
music played on the same instrument that Robert the Bruce heard. By
the same hands that Mary Stuart heard playing. No matter how you
try to un-romanticize them, they’re still important historical
figures. Suddenly I’m not so dubious about that dratted paranormal
allergy.”

“Even though it was when we found we had the
same allergy . . .” He let the sentence trail away into a rueful
smile.

He understood. Jean reached over and took his
hand. Outside, the gate clanged open. Feet clumped across the
gravel. With a quick squeeze, Alasdair released her hand and leaped
to the window. “Well now. Roddy Elliot’s got a key as well.” He
reached for the doorknob, then spun around and strode back to the
bedroom.

No, Jean thought, the P and S caretaker
wasn’t going to impress anyone wearing pajamas. Especially not a
farmer who’d probably been up since dawn. She peered out from
behind the curtain to see a raw-boned man lumbering across the
courtyard. His wellie boots were splashed and his pants stained,
and his sweater, an intricate Fair Isle knit, trailed broken ends
of yarn.

Crows called from the top of the keep. Roddy
stopped and looked up, shading his eyes with a knobbly hand. Jean
thought he was going to start cawing back.

Then Alasdair brushed by her and through the
front door, fully dressed, although, she assumed, still unshaven.
Since he wasn’t as dark-complected as P.C. Logan, though, he didn’t
appear disreputable, just casual. “Mr. Elliot,” he called.

Roddy looked around, his hooked nose leading,
like an accusatory finger.

“Good morning. May I be of assistance?”

“My fishing tackle needs seeing to.” His
voice was deep, his words slow, as though he was pulling each one
from a bog.

Alasdair waited.

“It’s in the wee shed here.”

“You have yourself a key, then,” said
Alasdair.

Lifting his hand, Roddy displayed two keys
dangling from a ring looped over his middle finger. In the US, that
would almost have been a rude gesture.

“There’s fishing tackle in the lumber room,
aye, but it’s listed on my inventory as belonging to Wallace
Rutherford.”

“He’s left it to me, hasn’t he?” Roddy was
almost a head taller than Alasdair. His face was leathery,
weatherbeaten, although Jean suspected that the bloodshot ruddiness
of his cheeks and nose, as much as she could see of them above his
scraggly gray beard, also signaled a taste for the water of life.
He might look nothing whatsoever like Zoe, but the coiled,
head-forward stances of grandfather and granddaughter were not
dissimilar.

Alasdair drew himself up. “And why’s he done
that? You were mates, were you now?”

From somewhere behind her, Jean heard the
warble of “Ode to Joy.” Her cell phone. She’d never turned it off
last night. She lunged for her backpack, pulled out the phone, and
peered at the screen.
Miranda Capaldi
. “Hey, Miranda.”

“I’m not waking you, am I?” her partner’s
dulcet voice asked.

“Heavens no. We’re up and about and
Alasdair’s outside having words with the farmer from across the
road.” She sidled back to the window. The two men had moved toward
the far end of the outbuilding. Even as she watched, Roddy applied
his key to a lock and pushed open a door. Both men stepped inside,
out of her sight.

“Well then,” said Miranda, and paused
delicately.

“No gory details,” Jean reminded her. “No
gore. Not in this century, anyway.”

Miranda laughed.

“If you’re calling to tell me that Minty
changed the time of her function to noon, you’re too late. The
woman herself dropped by yesterday, with the sort of picnic hamper
you’d expect to find at Balmoral.”

“Oh aye, that’s one reason I’m phoning.
Sorry. The Puppetry show last night was a bit—distracting.”

Jean thought of several double entendres but
restrained herself, not wanting to direct Miranda’s attention back
to her own night’s activities.

“Also, I’ve got a bit of catnip for you. I
met John Balfour—John-the-ledger-book, our accountant—for breakfast
and tax strategies this morning. When I told him where you’ve gone,
he said he’s strategizing for Ciara Macquarrie as well, helped
organize Mystic Scotland some years since.”

Hm
, Jean thought. If Alasdair had been
married to Ciara before Mystic Scotland . . .

“Mind you,” Miranda went on, “he’s not at
liberty to reveal all. Nor should he do.”

“You don’t want him talking about us to
anyone else.”

“Quite right. Even so, when I was working on
the series about the financial aspects of the tourist economy, he
handed me several examples of councils giving tax relief and
permissions to create tourist destinations, one of them being
Stanelaw and Mystic Scotland.”

“Plus, I hear Ciara bought Ferniebank from
Angus Rutherford to begin with.”

“So John was saying. Clever Angus, eh?”
Miranda said. “There’s more. John hemmed and hawed, but I finally
drew him out. A very large sum indeed went into Ciara’s account
this last month, at least a hundred thousand pounds, I reckon.”

Jean whistled. “Did it come from Angus? Or
from somewhere else?”

“Not from Angus. He and Minty went into debt
to build the cooking school, I’m hearing—though not from John,
mind. What I am hearing from him is that Ciara already had the
backers for her health center and all before she went to Stanelaw
Council, though I suppose the money could have been a late
investment.”

“No reason to think something underhanded is
going on here. Well, other than the usual conflict of interest or
pork barreling or whatever.” Jean strolled into the kitchen and
back again. “The Rutherfords got a grant from the Ancient Monuments
Commission for the dig and stabilization. Protect and Survive was
paying Wallace his salary. Angus and Minty probably never got much
income from Ferniebank—these places cost more to maintain than they
bring in. No surprise they’d finally sell up.”

“Ah, but John was telling me they’re getting
a percentage of future income.”

“That’s a good move, taking profits but not
liability. Assuming there are profits, although with Ciara peddling
the whole occult thing along with massages and aromatherapy, there
will be. Ciara and Minty are stranger bedfellows than . . .”
Ciara and Alasdair
, Jean finished silently.

Miranda’s throaty laugh tickled Jean’s ear.
“Now I’d best be sharpening my blue pencil. One of the free-lancers
has handed in an article twice as long as we’ve got space for. No
rest for the weary, Saturday or no.”

Jean’s phone beeped. “No rest for the rested.
I’m getting another call. Just a minute.”

“No problem. I’ve said my piece. As for you,
I’m expecting a report on Minty’s newest concoctions. Cheerio.”

“Will do. Bye.” Saved by the beep. Eventually
Jean would have to thrill Miranda with Ciara’s not-so-secret
identity as the former Mrs. Cameron, but until then . . . She
pressed buttons. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Jean.” Hugh sounded chipper,
as usual. Well, it was past ten o’clock now. He was probably making
good progress on his first mug of milky tea.

“Hi, Hugh. How are things back at Ramsay
Garden?”

“Ah, the music, the singing, the drinking. A
proper Festival ceilidh, it is.”

“Just remember to throw out the empties,
please. The bottles, although there will probably be people you’ll
need to throw out, too.”

“Not to worry,” Hugh said with a chuckle.
“I’ve got some eye-opening news for you, although I’m thinking your
eyes must already be open.”

Jean had just redirected her eyes to the
window. Roddy was exiting the outbuilding empty-handed, while
Alasdair locked the door. The farmer stomped through the gateway,
hands clenched at his sides, upper body so stiff Jean could almost
detect the bolts driven through his neck. Alasdair tossed Roddy’s
keys up in the air, caught them, then strolled across to shut and
lock the gate once again.
Very good
, Jean thought.
My
hero
. To Hugh she said, “Sorry. What news is that?”