The Burning Glass (48 page)

Jean peered into the hole, but it was empty.
The chill of the deep earth oozed up her arms, pressed against her
breasts. She shrank back.

Alasdair handed up the box, the knife, the
flashlight, the bit of stone. Darkness welled from the corners, the
walls undulated . . . He took her arm, pulled her to her feet,
thrust her onto the ladder and went back for her hairbrush. One
rung, two—her back hurt. Her shoulders hurt. Her legs hurt.

Freeman and Kallinikos grasped her shoulders,
then her arms, and she was reborn out of the trap door onto the
flagged floor of the Laigh Hall. Why had she ever thought the room
was stuffy and dark? Compared to the dungeon, it was bright and
airy as the hall of mirrors in a stately home.

She regained her feet just as Alasdair
emerged from the pit. If his smile wasn’t smug, it was at least
serene. Taking the box from Delaney’s hand, he passed it over to
Jean. “Open it.”

For a moment she thought it was sealed, but
no, the lid was merely a snug fit. She traced around it with her
fingernails and eased it off. Inside lay a roll of rich crimson
velvet, soft against her fingertips. Gently she unfolded it.

Light blazed.
Gold
. Amid a chorus of
gasps and reverent profanity, Jean held up a gold cross embedded
with diamonds and rubies. At the crossing of the two arms was
embedded a crystal about the size of a watch face, holding a tiny
speck of wood, cloth, bone—something sacred. The back of the cross,
she noted with dazzled eyes, was engraved with the ornate M
monogram of Mary, Queen of Scots.

“Is this Mary’s relic, the bread-and-butter
gift for William’s hospitality?” she asked, her voice loud in the
hush.

“Or is it a thank-you to Isabel for services
rendered?” asked Alasdair.

“Either or both, it’s the cross Isabel’s
holding in her portrait.”

“Say what?” Delaney demanded

Jean skipped the lecture on Scottish history.
“There’s paper, too. Old rag paper.” She placed the cross into
Alasdair’s palm, unfurled the rolled paper, and turned it toward
the light. “Another letter, like the one in the museum. I think
you’re right. This is the thank-you note for Isabel’s secret
messenger work, maybe to her family after her death . . .
Whoa.”

“Eh?” asked Delaney.

“There’s a strip torn off the edge,” Alasdair
said. “The scrap found inside the harp?”

“If so, then there’s a drawing on the back.
Yep, there it is.” She eyed the latticework, a misshapen cup, a
star, a series of diamond shapes. “Although what that’s all about
is anyone’s guess. And probably will be.”

“This is all part and parcel of Ciara’s
fancies,” said Delaney, with the satisfied air of a game-show
contestant finally getting one right.

“There’s more to it than that.” Jean rolled
the paper and tucked it back inside the small casket, then held the
cloth so Alasdair could settle the cross into its embrace. She
folded the velvet and replaced the lid. “There might be something
in Gerald’s papers explaining why he took all of these, er, family
heirlooms and played his games with them. Or there might not.
Whatever, it took Wallace a long time to figure it out. Although,
if not for him, we’d never have figured it out.”

Kallinikos held up the bit of carved stone.
“Did Gerald chip the harp off the gravestone?”

“The edges look weathered to me,” Jean
replied, taking it from his hand. “Maybe he just picked it up while
he was messing around with the grave. Maybe he hid the cross in the
foundations of the castle as, well, a charm of sorts, a blessing on
future generations. On Ferniebank.”

“Wasted his time, then.” said Delaney. “Come
along, we’ve got Minty to deal with. I’ll take that.” He reached
for the box.

Jean stepped back and almost fell over her
bag again. Swiftly she scooped it up and tucked the box inside.
“This might be treasure trove, Inspector. I’ll notify the proper
authorities.”

“And the chipping belongs to Ciara,” Alasdair
said quietly. “Ferniebank belongs to Ciara.”

Muttering something beneath his breath that
was probably not “thanks for your help,” Delaney clomped to the
door and away.

“I’m not so sure the old man wasted his
time,” said Kallinikos. He collected Blackhall’s armor and
followed. With a salute, Freeman brought up the rear.

Voices echoed through the entrance. Engines
roared. Then, at last, peace settled over Ferniebank. Jean and
Alasdair stepped out of the castle into the clear air and a
deserted courtyard. Sunset flared across the sky, gilding the edges
of a few high clouds, pink, rose, gold, changeable and yet
ageless.

Alasdair looked at Jean. She looked at him,
noting the glitter in his eye, feeling sure her own eyes resembled
kaleidoscopes. “You’re looking a wee bit peelie-wallie,” he
said.

“That cheese and pickle sandwich must not
have agreed with me.”

“There’re more sandwiches in the fridge. And
a bottle of whiskey in the cupboard.”

“And lots of hot water in the shower. I’d ask
you to join me, but . . .”

Alasdair offered her his arm and escorted her
to the door of the flat. “We’ve got enough to be going on
with.”

Alasdair stowed Dougie’s carrier in the back
seat of his car and stood aside while Jean strapped the cat in.
Again?
Dougie’s disgruntled expression demanded.
We just
got here
.

“Call it a strategic withdrawal,” Jean told
him.

“No, that’s implying defeat,” corrected
Alasdair. “We’ve not been defeated.”

He was wearing his kilt, a declaration of
intent. His green sweater shaded his eyes with the turquoise of the
western sea. When he slammed the car door, the thud echoed from the
face of the castle more like the pop of a balloon than like the
report of a gun. In the blush of morning sun, the dour old building
looked almost cheerful, like a dowager’s seamed cheeks touched by
rouge.

The courtyard teemed with people and
vehicles, with O. Hawick at the gate sorting the admittance-worthy
sheep from the goats of the media. Police personnel were breaking
down the incident room. Their supervisor, D.S. Kallinikos, leaned
against the Mystic Scotland van chatting with—or chatting
up—Shannon Brimberry. Her flock of tourists was wandering around
the chapel all but baaing, and yet her blushes had nothing to do
with her role as Little Bo Peep.

Jean grinned at Alasdair. Shaking his head in
mock despair, he headed toward the emptying incident room. She
stood savoring the alluring sway of the kilt above the tall socks
called hose, nicely filled by the braw Cameron calves. He’d laugh
if she told him he swashed a buckle with the best of them.

Her phone trilled. She hauled it out of her
bag, checked the screen, flipped it open. “Hey, Miranda. About time
you returned my call.”

“What’s this I’m hearing? Minty Rutherford?
Poison, knives—well, I’m thinking I’ve done well to survive the odd
luncheon, then.”

“You never threatened her. Let me call you
again in a few minutes, okay? Alasdair and I are bailing out of
Ferniebank. Enough is enough.”

“Oh aye, as a honeymoon cottage the place is
lacking romance. As a feature article in
Great Scot
, well,
I’ll be standing by for the particulars.”

“To say nothing of a pack of glittering
generalities. Bye.” There was romance, Jean thought, and there was
romance. . . . The phone burst into melody again. This time it was
Hugh.

Same verse, different soloist. “Up to your
old tricks, I hear, courting danger as well as policemen. The lads
renting your flat are right chuffed at brewing up in a daring
reporter’s teapot.”

“The last thing I want,” said Jean, casting a
sharp look at her bolder brethren outside the gate, “is to be
daring. Can I call you back? We’re just leaving Ferniebank for
healthier climates.”

“No worries.”

That’s the idea
. Stowing her phone,
Jean crunched over to the door of the castle, which was just
emitting Rebecca and Michael, the latter carrying Linda strapped to
his chest like a wiggly breastplate. “So you’re away?” Rebecca
asked.

“Yep. One of Alasdair’s cousins had a
cancellation at a self-catering cottage overlooking Skye, so we’re
taking the place over. Peace, quiet, ocean views, blooming
heather.”

“The Gray Lady, Isabel, I think she’s away as
well. I didn’t pick up so much as a blip.”

“That’s what I thought.” Jean peered through
the doorway to the no-longer-intimidating gloom of the interior.
“Maybe when I held off an attack in the same room, that broke the
pattern. Maybe my breaking the glass broke the pattern. If you
can’t explain where ghosts come from, you can’t explain where they
go.”

Keith Bell shut the door of the flat,
galloped down the steps, and bounded up the steps of the castle.
“The sooner we get this place gutted and re-wired and everything,
the better. With all the publicity, the punters are coming out of
the woodwork. You gotta give them an authentic experience without
giving them the
real
authentic experience, if you know what
I mean.”

Jean knew what he meant, but didn’t have time
to say so before Keith pulled a tape measure from his pocket and
plunged into the building, intent on tailoring not cloth but stone.
“Good luck,” she called after him, and to Michael and Rebecca said,
“Tourists come to see a place, but their coming changes its nature,
so it’s not what they came to see.”

“Catch-22,” concluded Michael.

“Thanks for returning my car,” Jean told him.
“I called the rental agency to let them know to expect you.”

“No worries,” he returned. “I’ll hand in the
car, stop by the museum with the box and all, bask in the
acclamation, then catch a ride back to Stanelaw with a pair of
customers.”

“The letter is Mary’s hand, I’m sure of it,”
said Rebecca. “I guess Isabel’s family kept the letter in the harp
as a talisman for so many years it stuck to the wood and tore when
Gerald removed it. No telling where that cross has been all this
time.”

“Other than passed down to the Rutherfords
along with the harp,” Jean said. “Did you ask Ciara about letting
the museum keep the artifacts until the bureaucrats decide who they
belong to?”

“Oh aye,” said Michael, with a quick jiggle
to soothe his tiny bobble-headed parasite. “A lot depends on
Gerald’s will, and whether the jewels and all were abandoned, and
whether Stanelaw Museum is secure . . . Well, speak of the devil
herself.”

Now it was Ciara who left the flat and
strolled toward them. Jean could only assume her relationship—of
convenience or otherwise—with Keith had survived the last few days.
Perhaps getting arrested together provided the same sort of glue
that solving a case together did.

“See my new earrings?” Ciara said, one plump
hand lifting her curls to reveal dangling Celtic interlace. “Suits
the Mystic Scotland logo, I’m thinking. Those little stars, my
goodness, they turned out more trouble than they were worth.”

Jean smiled, and told herself, this too shall
pass, and soon.

“Michael, thank you for seeing to the
artifacts. And to restoring the glass. That cross is a stunner, and
no mistake, but the chart’s the important item just now. I’ve faxed
copies to London and New York. My publishers are over the
moon.”

“Chart?” asked Jean, with a wary glance at
Rebecca, who passed the glance on to Michael.

“The drawing on the back of the letter. It’s
an amazing treasure, obviously the result of Henry Sinclair’s
voyages. Keith and I have worked it out. It’s clearly a lost
navigational system.”

Alasdair strolled up and assumed a position
at Jean’s side that made a guardsman in front of Buckingham Palace
look animated.

“The grid measures longitude and latitude,”
Ciara explained. “The diamonds are based on the shadows made at the
solstices, different shapes at different degrees of latitude—the
Mediterranean, Rosslyn, Orkney. The cup shape, the arc, is
astronomical orbits, as relating to alchemy, as relating to the
Holy Grail. The harp was the key, just as I said, the music of the
spheres, eh?” Ciara’s hands waved, building her castles in the
air.

“Henry Sinclair’s chart? That’s going to be
hard to prove,” Jean ventured.

“You cannot prove it’s not true,” returned
Ciara with her most brilliant smile. “This is just the sort of
validation folk are searching for. Well done, Jean. And Alasdair.
And how clever of you to appoint me caretaker of Ferniebank ’til I
can take over as owner.”

Alasdair’s lean smile rejected any plaudits.
“We’ll be obliged to meet in Edinburgh to deal with the paperwork.
Especially now that Angus is dead and Minty’s in jail.”

“That’s true,” said Michael. “Noel’s called
an emergency meeting in Stanelaw—there’ll be repercussions from all
this for years to come.”

“And it’s the lawyers who’ll come out ahead,”
Rebecca concluded.

No one contradicted that. Even Ciara sobered,
then recovered her smile. “Well, what happens, happens. Just as it
did this weekend. I’ll be getting on. Keith’s working out a ghost’s
gallery on the top floor—poor Isabel, still walking, I sensed her
there myself not two hours since.”

Jean didn’t contradict that, either, although
Rebecca hid her face by adjusting Linda’s position in the baby
carrier.

“Jean, Alasdair, have a properly invigorating
honeymoon.” Ciara shimmered on into the castle, trailing the scent
of cloves and cinnamon and a musical murmur about “home again.”

Home. Ciara had found herself a home, and a
community, just as she’d intended when she and Valerie got tattoos
of the clarsach. Community was the goal of tales of explanation and
meaning, after all. If anyone could exorcise Ferniebank, it was the
unsinkable Ciara.