The Burning Glass (46 page)

Again the line echoed. Panic spilled through
Jean’s chest.
Minty’s not going to bite. She is going to bite.
Either way
. . .

“Very well then,” Minty said. “Six p.m.” The
line went dead.

So did Jean’s knees. She dropped into the
desk chair, said, “We’re on. Six p.m.,” and watched the room
shimmy.
What was I thinking? What have I done?

Alasdair pressed a hand down on her shoulder,
steadying the sway of the room. “Well done.”

She managed to suck down a full breath.
“Right.”

“Her agreeing to come, that’s incriminating.”
Delaney hauled himself to his feet. “Let’s get to it, then.”

Kallinikos turned to a fresh page in his
notebook and started jotting notes as Delaney spoke. Alasdair
interjected, “If Val can describe a few bits of jewelry, we’ll
genuinely have an inventory. We’re needing the sketch from the harp
book. Jean, can you copy Wallace’s handwriting?”

“Sure. I’ll rig up a confession—I bet there’s
paper in the desk here.” She pulled open the drawer and dug through
some odds and ends, including several Ferniebank pamphlets and a
small paperback titled
Rocks and Minerals of the Borders
.
“Here’s some blank typing paper and envelopes. I could plug in his
typewriter, but something as personal as a confession . . .”

Alasdair handed her a folder of papers from
the cardboard box still sitting on the coffee table. “Here you
are.”

“And here,” said Kallinikos, putting a file
folder into her other hand. “The two drawings that Logan pinched.
I’ll have a photocopy made of the one with Valerie.”

Jean pulled out the sketches. The top one was
of Angus contemplating the money chest. Had it ever occurred to him
to just hand the jewels over to the museum, without giving Minty
the chance to decide their fate? But that would have meant
revealing Gerald’s follies.

And there was Wallace’s drawing of the
complete inscription. He had carefully cross-hatched the missing
pieces, including the one that had been in his pocket when he died.
All were accounted for except the one with the harp, and that was
long gone . . . Another cockroach scuttled through the back of
Jean’s brain, only to slip into the crevice beneath
What was I
thinking?
and disappear.

Somewhere beyond a thrumming in her ears,
Delaney was talking. Alasdair opened the door and he and Delaney
walked outside. Kallinikos followed. Feet double-timed it across
the gravel.

Just keep busy
. Even if it was with
busy work.

All right then—what if she were an
eighty-year-old scholar, what if she’d lived for years here, in
this flat, alone . . . Jean went through several sheets of paper,
taking her time, and finally produced a confession that she could
live with. Or so she intended, anyway. Just as she folded it into
an envelope and wrote in her newly acquired and suitably shaky
hand, “To be opened in case of my death,” Alasdair appeared with
parcels of food. He stood over her until she’d forced down a cheese
and pickle sandwich and a bottle of water, and then he vanished
again. The clock read two.

Don’t think about it
.

Dougie wandered in from the bedroom and
toured the room, leaping from couch to shelf to windowsill, there
to settle down for a bath and a meditation. A few minutes later,
Kallinikos arrived with a photocopy of the sketch from the flyleaf
of the harp book, made on thick drawing paper, and a scribbled list
of jewelry. Jean limbered up her old scholar’s hand once again and
on the back of the sketch started writing: “An enamel locket
decorated with small rubies and emeralds. A diamond ring. A
necklace . . .” Some of the pieces sounded Victorian, and maybe had
belonged to Gerald’s wife or mother. Others were very old.
Thanks, Gerald
. His hand certainly extended from beyond his
grave.

The clock on the desk read three-forty-five.
Jean finished the list, then got up to look outside—for what, she
didn’t know, perhaps to compare the angle of the westering sun with
the time on the clock—and her phone warbled. Where was her bag? Oh,
behind a throw pillow on the couch.
Miranda Capaldi
. “Hi
Mir—”

“So Ciara’s been cleared, and her architect
as well! Well done Jean and Alasdair! What’s happening now?”

“Ah,” Jean stammered, “things are going
on—I’ll have to call you back.”

“Oh. Sorry. Ring me when you can talk.”
Miranda’s speedy exit, Jean only realized when she closed her
phone, probably meant she’d conveyed the impression that she and
Alasdair were engaged in a moment of Monday afternoon delight. Oh
well, she and Miranda would have plenty of time to laugh over it
all later on. So would Hugh. And Michael and Rebecca.

Don’t think about it
.

But she had thought about it, in outline
form, with footnotes, by the time Alasdair ushered Blackhall and
Kallinikos into the flat. Kallinikos hoisted the box of papers and
sketches. “I’ll put this with the others.”

Alasdair announced, “We’ve got body armor for
you.”

Blackhall held up what looked like the
bastard cousin of a straight jacket, without sleeves. “It’s mine,
the only female one they could turn up on short notice. I’m taller
than you, though.”

Jean retired to the bedroom, there to feel
like a knight being girded by his squire—two squires, as Alasdair
duplicated Blackhall’s every tug and squeeze. The vest was stiff,
heavy, smelled like chemicals, and was, as predicted, too big.
“You’ll be obliged to wear something over it, hiding it,” Blackhall
commented at last.

Alasdair pulled off his sweater and dragged
it down over Jean’s head, almost taking her glasses with it. She
settled it around her, then looked in the mirror over the dresser.
She saw a blobby blue body with spindly arms and tiny white face.
“Good thing it’s dark in the Laigh Hall or she’ll wonder why I’ve
bloated up like a tick since this morning.”

“You’ll do fine,” said Blackhall. “That’s
Kevlar, likely to stop a bullet.”

“A bullet,” Jean repeated. Despite all her
cogitations, the possibility of Minty having an illegal gun hadn’t
occurred to her. At least the cops would have legal guns, although
Alasdair had handed his back to the Northern Constabulary.

He waved Blackhall out of the room and rolled
up his sleeves. “Everyone’s left Glebe House save one lookout,
lying in the churchyard with binoculars.”

“This is going to work,” Jean stated, as much
to herself as to him.

“That it is,” he stated, as much to himself
as to her. He squeezed her arm, her shoulder now being unavailable,
and bent his forehead to hers—yeah, she was buttoned up, but cheery
she wasn’t. Before any ruptures could occur in his carefully
glaciated expression, before any fissures could break her pretense
of calm, a wave of officialdom burst through the front door and
down the hall.

Kallinikos and Freeman swept Dougie’s litter
box and assorted cleaning implements into the bedroom and started
setting up recording devices in the closet. The squint, Jean
thought, was actually going to be used for its original purpose. It
might have been listed in the fine print on the P and S survey, but
if not for Dougie, a vital part of the investigative team . . .
Here came the little creature himself, whiskers smug, borne in
state in Freeman’s arms. “That’s a grand wee moggie,” Freeman told
him, flirting with oxymoron, and set Dougie down on the bed.

Outside the window, the shadow of the castle
was elongating over the river and toward the east.
What the
bloody hell was I thinking?

Delaney stood in the living room, holding out
her backpack. “The fake documents are inside, at the top.”

“Thanks.” She hung the bag from her shoulder,
not that she could feel it through the armor. She couldn’t feel
much of anything, other than a tickle of sweat. Somewhere her pulse
was beating. She could hear it in her head like the flood and
retreat of the sea.

Kallinikos reported, “She’s left Glebe House.
I’ve got Binns amongst the trees by the layby, if she stops there
and walks in the back way.”

The die was cast, the Rubicon crossed, the
bridges burned. Half of Lothian and Borders seemed to be gathered
in the living room. But when Jean stepped outside, not a soul was
in sight. The incident room was closed tight. The gate was
temptingly ajar. She caught a quick movement behind the roof
parapet—what, were they going to rappel down the side of the
building like marines? A crow launched itself into space and with a
cawed remark flapped away.

A dog barked. A cow mooed. The sky shone,
clear and peaceful. She looked behind her to see in Alasdair’s eyes
a storm brewing, the indigo horizon of a blue norther. Then he shut
the door.

Feeling like a turtle, Jean walked down the
steps of the flat, across the gravel, and into the front door of
the castle. From the shadow of the entrance she heard a car
approaching and slowing. Through the open doorway she saw a Range
Rover turn in through the gateway. She glanced at her watch. Trust
Minty to be bang on time.

Jean inhaled the musty air, exhaled her
fears, and told herself,
Showtime
.

The Range Rover rolled to a stop. Minty
stepped out, gracefully, her leather boots—not quite
dominatrix-style, but close—barely pressing down on the gravel.
She’d removed her apron and added a tweed jacket and her leather
handbag, but otherwise looked as informally formal as she had
earlier.

Then a second car drove into the courtyard. A
patrol car. Logan. Of course he would still trust Minty. As Jean
faded back into the shadows of the Laigh Hall—the far side of the
Laigh Hall, behind the boxes—she sensed rather than heard a stir of
consternation from the hidden troops.

Logan followed Minty into the Hall and braced
himself by the door, his expression that of an executioner testing
his rope. Minty herself took several steps closer to the Wallace
collection and turned her cool, composed gaze upon Jean. “Here we
are, then. Like the shoemaker’s children going without footwear, so
the policeman’s doxy creates a blackmail scheme.”

“We cannot have that,” Logan said.

Jean tried what she hoped was a knowing
smile. “Has it occurred to you, Constable, that it’s hard to create
a blackmail scheme out of thin air? Minty has things to hide.
That’s why she’s here.”

“She’s here as a public-spirited citizen
reporting a crime,” he replied. “You’d best be coming with me,
quietly, now. Inspector Delaney’ll be keen on hearing this
story.”

Minty stood draped in shadow like a Roman in
a toga. Like a queen in ermine. Good move, figuring out a way of
getting rid of Jean long enough to destroy the threatening papers.
Minty probably played nothing more than bridge, but still, she was
a heck of a gambler.

Jean had to play the hand she held. She
pulled her backpack around to the front and reached inside. “You’ll
recognize Wallace’s drawing and handwriting.”

A tiny burst of static caused Minty to glance
behind her. Logan plucked his radio from his shoulder. Distantly,
Delaney’s voice said, “Valerie Trotter’s done a runner. Stop her at
her cottage.”

“Valerie Trotter,” repeated Minty, the name
edged with venom.

“Sir,” Logan protested, “I—”

“Now, Logan. She’s got to be stopped!”

“Aye, sir.” Logan hurried toward the door.
“Come away, Minty, we’ll deal with this later.”

With a glance at Jean that was more
calculated than cool, Minty walked across the Hall and into the
entrance chamber. Jean stood immobile, not looking at the blank
door and the bit of paneling covering the squint.
Good move,
Delaney. I bet that was Alasdair’s idea, bluff the bluffer.

The sound of Logan’s car roared and then died
away. The front door shut, a key turned in the lock, and Minty
walked back into the Hall.

Okay
. Jean tried to settle the sudden
shrill titter of her nerves. Minty was taking an even bigger chance
now. If she intended to eliminate Jean as yet another pesky
annoyance, Logan would know she’d been here. Of course, he’d cut
her enough slack to wrap Edinburgh Castle. Minty’s eyes burned
beneath their heavily draped lids. Good, she was getting
frustrated. Bad, she was getting frustrated. “Where are these no
doubt fictitious documents?”

Stepping forward, Jean laid the sketch and
the envelope on top of the box containing Wallace’s other papers.
“If you’re so sure they’re fictitious, why are you here?”

“I looked through Wallace’s papers and saw no
drawing and certainly no, ah, testament.”

“The drawing was inside a book,
The Harp
Key
. The confession . . .” Jean’s brain lurched. “It was inside
that case for cufflinks and stuff. In a false bottom.”

Minty looked down at the box as though it
concealed animals with sharp teeth and nervous dispositions. Then
she bent toward it, right hand extended, her handbag sliding down
her left arm to her left hand. After another long pause, during
which she could easily have counted the thumps of Jean’s heart, she
stood up holding the drawing and the envelope. A whisper of
movement trickled down the main staircase and she looked sharply
upwards.

“Birds, bats,” said Jean. “Alasdair says
there are both in the rafters.”

“You’re not frightened, here, alone?”

The woman was a fencer as well as a gambler.
Fencers, now, they used blunted swords. “Wallace lived here alone.
Gerald lived here alone. They got along just fine.”

“They were eccentrics. Especially Gerald, in
the fine old British tradition.”

“Traditional but embarrassing. A shame
Wallace’s enthusiasms got out of hand, and attracted Ciara. Who
knows better than I do what a weirdo she is? She was the last
straw, I bet. After all you’d done for the community, she barged in
with plans that would have attracted the wrong element. And raised
questions about the jewelry.”