by V Clifford
‘Go on,’ Red said.
‘Well, by the time we were all cosying up in the pro’s shop, the secretary was wavering. Her resolve was visibly crumbling. Every time he opened his mouth her eyes showed her disbelief. So whatever fairy tale he’d fed her wasn’t coming true. What he was doing to me didn’t fit with her expectations. I’m grateful that she walloped him with that club, though, because I was definitely flagging.’
Mac said, ‘A bit like now, I guess.’
‘No, nothing like now. Then, I was up against a psycho who was desperate to kill me, but he knew if he did he wouldn’t get anything. There’s nothing more frustrating than an opponent who has a psychological advantage like that. I could see it in his eyes. He’d lost the plot . . . I wonder why they took me away down there? D’you think it was because the course had been cleared for the tournament?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘The course would never be that empty ever. But . . . is he a member?’
Mac said, ‘I’ll find out.’ He stood and went to the door and spoke for a moment to a PC in the corridor, then turned back, continuing, ‘I don’t get it. Don’t surgeons get paid mega bucks? And what about the old Hippocratic oath and all that?’ He shook his head. ‘I think you’re right, Viv. He must be a psycho. I get that he’s greedy and fancies a bit of extra cash, but the homophobic hate crime is in that kind of category. Imagine working as hard as he’s had to to become a surgeon and blowing it for the sake of a few quid.’ He looked at Viv.
She was looking sheepish. ‘It’s more than just a few quid. There’s land . . . and . . .’ She faltered, embarrassed. ‘Well, the details don’t matter. He’ll never get his hands on it. The whole purpose of Dawn leaving it to me was so that her family wouldn’t. She had no other reason.’
Mac and Red laughed in unison. Mac said, ‘You think?’
Viv was definitely close to the end of her tether. ‘Trust me; her motives weren’t gracious.’
Red said, ‘I think we’ve got enough to be going on with. The last thing we need is a DNA swab.’
‘What? Why do you . . . for Christ sake, my details are already in the system.’
Mac confirmed this with a nod to Red.
.‘Okay, Doc. I’ll take you home.’
Mac said, ‘You’re all right. I’ll take her.’
Red looked put out.
Viv glanced from one to the other. ‘For fuck sake! Does it matter who takes me? As long as someone does, and soon.’
Viv emerged after a few days cocooned in her duvet. She plugged her landline in and put her mobile on to charge, a significant sign of healing. Shaking her head proved it was still tender. She stretched her arm as high as she could − better. The minute power was coursing through the phone it began beeping. Texts and messages just kept on arriving. She wasn’t ready to hear them yet and set about making espresso and hot buttered toast. As she waited for the coffee to drip through, she thought of the boatman, Byron Ponsonby. It struck her that there must be a limit to the reasons for breaking into a grave. These days taking a body for medical science was off the menu, but searching for grave goods was not. It might have been that Edward BP knew that one or both of the bodies had been buried with special items. And grave goods from the twentieth century wouldn’t mean loaves of bread or libations for gods in the afterlife; more likely to be precious and non-perishable. Jewellery, money, even documents were likely contenders. Pets, at a stretch, but who would want to dig those up?
Armed with breakfast she padded through to the sitting room, booted up her laptop, and settled on the couch. Her laptop pinged continuously. Emails, like texts and messages, could wait until the coffee had worked its magic. Meanwhile she Googled Byron Ponsonby again. She couldn’t find the article about the land dispute that she’d seen last time. She scrolled and scrolled until something else caught her eye, an article on Lady Byron Ponsonby, still alive and kicking and living on Sheriffmuir. Viv had noticed some mature specimen trees on the hill behind Maggie’s bothy; non-native species were usually a sign of a big house.
She clicked onto Google maps. This was her kind of research. What was not to like about armchair archaeology? Sure enough, a turreted Victorian pile was hidden in the trees. Not huge; probably built as a shooting lodge. She homed in and saw that the photograph had been taken in summertime. The fields were yellow and not bright green as they’d been last week. She clicked back to the article and read on. It turned out that the estate was called Ochil Brae and was owned by a family called Bruce. Lady Byron Ponsonby had first been Lady Bruce. It looked as if she’d inherited the estate, and yes, it was a shooting estate with a grouse moor over the back of the hill. It also included a number of cottages, the Inn, and Maggie’s bothy. Viv said to the screen, ‘I wonder if your inheritance cost you as much as mine has?’
She convinced herself that this was all relevant because it connected Byron Ponsonby of the lakeside dwelling to the archaeological dig on Sheriffmuir. From this site Viv typed in ‘Bruce of Sheriffmuir’ and a whole ream of articles came up, including information that the Byron Ponsonbys still had an ‘interest’ in the estate. She raised her eyebrows and grinned. This could take some time so she refilled her coffee cup, pushed the central heating button to override and wrapped her duvet round her until it kicked back in.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Historical land auctions where locals had to bid for the grazing, an old article from the Stirling Observer about some minor Royal or other coming to shoot, and a couple of mentions of the Byron Ponsonbys were some of the pieces she ploughed through. She even read a story about Lady BP opening the Doune and Dunblane Show, an agricultural event that had attracted the world and his wife if the crowded sepia photographs were anything to go by. Viv was hooked. Old photographs always fascinated her and now that she could put faces to Sir Malcolm Byron Ponsonby and his stunning wife Lady Claire Bruce, it made the puzzle all the more worthy of unpicking.
Byron Ponsonby had made money in the tobacco trade in the west of Scotland. His knighthood went to his grave with him. Lady Claire, on the other hand, was ancient, Scottish landed gentry, her title was inherited. So that’s why there’s still a Lady Byron Ponsonby living up at Sheriffmuir now, thought Viv. She found the Inn’s website and jotted down the postcode. If it was part of an estate, all the buildings would have the same code. Definitely worth searching for the current Lady BP.
‘Oh, my God! Well, who’d have thought.’ Viv stretched for her mobile and pressed Mac’s fast dial.
‘Viv. Thank God. I’ve left you so many messages.’
She interrupted him. ‘Yeah, yeah. You should know better than to bug a woman who needs her beauty sleep.’
‘Beauty sleep, you’re like Rip van bloody Winkle.’
She smiled at his concern. ‘I’m fine now. Aching but fine. But listen, I’ve been doing a bit of Googling and guess what?’ She heard him sighing. ‘Who’s rattled your cage this morning? I was just going to say that I’ve found . . .’
He interrupted her. ‘Look, Viv, I’m busy right now, but we could grab a coffee later. I’ll be through here at five; how about I nip up then?’
She hesitated. ‘Okay. Do that. Why don’t you bring a pizza and I’ll see if I can find a bottle of . . . ‘
Again he cut her off. It was so unlike him. ‘I’ve got something on tonight.’
Something in his tone made her stomach tighten. ‘What, like a date kind of something?’
‘Yeah, well, kind of.’
‘Surely you know whether it’s a date or not. I pity the woman if you’ve not yet decided.’
He came back at her. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’
Viv wasn’t enjoying this one little bit. ‘Okay, coffee it is. But actually I could just tell you now.’
‘No can do. See you at five.’ He cut the call.
Viv stared at her mobile in disbelief. Mac didn’t hang up. Mac didn’t date. Or he hadn’t since they’d been back working together. In two or more years he hadn’t mentioned a single
love interest, well not in the present tense. She placed her hand on her belly as if it would calm her mind. ‘Mac with a date? Mac in a relationship? No way. Yes way. Shit.’ This news certainly shaved the edge off her excitement about the BPs. She repeated to herself, ‘Mac with a date. A real live date.’ She fleetingly wondered who it could be, and imagined what they might do. Disturbing. A vision of Mac laying his elegant hand on the small of another woman’s back made her shudder. What the fuck was going on? She’d had her chance. Jealousy wasn’t an option with mates.
She loafed around, trying to muster enthusiasm for her earlier discovery, but her heart wasn’t in it, so she set about answering emails and checking text messages. These distracted her for a little while but a vision of Mac with his hand on the small of a fantasy woman’s back kept creeping into her mind. She rubbed her eyes. What the hell was wrong with her? She didn’t want Mac, but she obviously wasn’t too pleased if someone else did. She gave herself a talking to and eventually crawled back into bed, exhausted.
She woke to an insistent blast on her buzzer. The clock read 16.30. She staggered to the intercom and spoke to the person downstairs. ‘Whoever you are I don’t have the author . . .’
Mac said, ‘Open the door. It’s me.’
She looked down at herself and her eyes almost popped out. ‘Come up. Take your time. I was just about to get in the shower.’ She lied. Leaving the door on the snib she dived into the bathroom. When she had finished her ablutions and scrubbed her teeth, she found Mac in the kitchen browsing through an ancient copy of a trashy magazine, with a pot of coffee beginning to gurgle on the stove.
She rubbed gingerly at the hair around her wound.
‘That still looks pretty painful.’
‘It’s much better. If you’d seen it yesterday with all the blood still crusted round it, it looked much worse, like a wound from a movie set only not . . .’ She heard herself babbling. She couldn’t make eye contact with him, but had to slide by him to get to the cupboard with the cups. The smell of him made her swallow. He shifted his chair to let her reach in. She felt her colour rising, hating the proximity.
‘You all right there?’ he asked.
And too defensively she replied, ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Eh, well, because only a few days ago you were beaten to a pulp.’
Of course his question was entirely innocent. ‘I’m healing well. As you see.’
She lifted her damp hair back off her face, exposing the gash.
‘Ouch! Still looks bad. You’re braver than I would be.’
Now she knew he was kidding. Mac had seen some serious action in his time and Viv had seen his scars.
‘So what did you find out that you were so keen to tell me?’
Again too defensively she said, ‘I thought you’d want to know. The Byron Ponsonbys own all the land up at Sheriffmuir. And Lady BP, whoever the hell she is, still lives there. I’m guessing in the shooting lodge up in the woods beyond Maggie’s bothy.’
He nodded. ‘You’re right. Lady BP does still live up there, but not in the lodge. Maggie O’ the Bog . . . is Lady Byron Ponsonby.’
It took a few seconds for this to sink in. ‘Maggie is Lady Byron Ponsonby?’
He nodded and smiled, delighted at being able to surprise her. ‘I got a couple of PCs to do a bit of digging and they found an old piece from . . .’
She interrupted him. ‘The Stirling Observer? Probably the same one that I found. But how did they discover that Maggie was a Byron Ponsonby?’
‘Easy. I got a phone number for her and rang and asked if I was speaking to Lady Byron Ponsonby. At first she said who’s asking, but when I said the police she relented.’
‘Okay. So she and Edward are . . .? Husband and wife, brother and sister, cousins? What?’
‘Brother and sister. Neither married.’
‘What was all that stuff about all those generations living in that bothy?’
‘Well, she didn’t actually say that. She just said that they’d been there, worked the land . . .’
‘She was deliberately trying to mislead us.’ She blew out a breath. ‘So has she got something to do with Edward? I mean, are they in cahoots?’
‘In some way, but we haven’t worked it out yet. You see if all they’ve done is look inside a family grave, they by rights haven’t done anything illegal.’ He grinned. ‘But if they stole something from the grave. For example, a skull, but more importantly one with gold teeth in it . . .’
She gasped and screwed up her face. ‘No way. Why the hell would they do that?’
‘Perhaps they thought they’d find other grave goods and didn’t, then decided that they might as well have what treasure there was. We’re searching his cabin as we speak.’
‘What, for gold teeth?’ she laughed.
‘Yep! Apparently toffs used to spend quite a bit of money having teeth removed and gold ones put in their place. Very few people are blessed with the kind of gnashers you have.’ He looked at her, but she avoided his eye.
Her colour rose again. She wished he hadn’t paid her a compliment, however backhanded it was, but it was what she liked about him. There was no side to him. Her teeth were one of her best assets, but still, he shouldn’t have said. Should is shit, Viv, she reminded herself. If he wasn’t going on a date, would she have noticed? Would she have blushed like a stupid schoolgirl? No and no. Get a grip, girl.
She busied herself organising the coffee. ‘Let’s take it through.’ She nodded to the hallway and carrying both their cups wandered ahead.
‘You got any of that crystal sugar left?’
‘No,’ she replied. She thought he sighed and threw over her shoulder, ‘First world problem, Mac, not the end of the world as we know it. If you check the top cupboard to the right of the window you’ll find some molasses sugar. Try that.’
When he joined her he took up more space than she liked. He seemed totally disproportionate to the room. As if the room had shrunk. She perched on the windowsill, the space furthest away from where he plonked himself onto the couch.
‘You’ve done well to find out . . .’
‘Piss off, you patronising sod. You’ve already got everything that I found.’
‘I know, but it doesn’t do any harm having you back it up.’
‘I still can’t believe they opened up a grave for a few teeth. There’s bound to be more to it. I mean, who’d risk jail for a few bits of gold?’
‘Oh the weight of the gold will be worth a few bob.’ He blew over the top of his cup.
She’d seen him do this a hundred times, but now it looked so delicate. She felt herself being charmed by it. By the way he wrapped his long fingers round the cup. By the way he hitched up his trousers to prevent them from becoming kneed. By the way he pushed his hair out of his eyes. She internally bawled at herself to grow up.
He smiled as if he noticed she was tussling with something. ‘You okay?’
‘Why d’you keeping asking me that? Of course I’m okay.’
He shrugged and raised a placatory hand. ‘Okay. Well if you’re that okay maybe you could do a bit more digging. Online of course.’
She caught something in his tone that meant the words had more meaning to them. ‘D’you mean my kind of digging?’
He sighed and shook his head. ‘I don’t want to influence what you look at online, but if there did happen to be something beyond teeth . . .’
‘Ah! Okay. I gotcha.’
He swiped his hand across his forehead in mock relief. ‘Good.’ He stood. ‘I’d better be going then.’ He didn’t move towards the door, but kept staring at her as if imploring her to say something.
She looked at her feet. ‘Right. I’ll see what I can do.’ Then she pushed herself off the windowsill.
He strolled down the hall. She followed. He opened the door and stepped onto the landing, at which point she sighed, feeling on the right side of safety, in no danger of reaching out to him. He raised his hand in the slightest wave, b
ut didn’t look back.
She closed the door and with her back against it slid to the floor and put her head in her hands. ‘What an arse? How could I be such an arse?’ Then as if he might have heard her she turned and stared at the door. ‘Right, get yourself together.’ And with this she returned to her laptop in the sitting room. At a loss for inspiration she typed ‘grave goods in the nineteenth century?’ into Google and was amazed at the types of things that showed up. First up, it was illegal to bury anything with a body, since it was believed to be contaminating, but lots of people ignored this and requested that they be buried with objects that had meaning for them. Even Queen Victoria insisted on having goods in her coffin with her.
The Byron Ponsonbys needn’t have been any different. Perhaps there was a family story about what they took to the grave, or their wills would reveal what was left. Someone must know. The internet was addictive and she scrolled and scrolled, occasionally hooked by a story that although interesting, turned out to be a dead end. Eventually, with a bit of searching on the wrong side of legality, Viv managed to find first their death certificates, then by sheer fluke a letter of wishes belonging to, or ascribed to, Lady Byron Ponsonby. Mac wouldn’t want to know how she got the information and she’d be accused of moral bankruptcy but he’d still want whatever she found. She marvelled at how easy it was to get such personal information. Even Sanchez had managed to find her and Sal’s accounts. Her justification for this kind of snooping was, she believed, for the greater good, unlike Sanchez who’d done it entirely for his own gain. She could justify almost anything, if she had to.
Lady BP had hoped to be buried with a few pieces, one ring that had belonged to her grandmother − no description given, the family would be expected to know which ring she meant − a carved ivory box − no mention of size or contents. She also wanted to be buried in her cream silk dupion dress and a lace jabot. Viv wondered if she’d got her wishes, and if she had what kind of state that frock would be in after decades in the ground. She glanced at the time on her laptop and was surprised to see how late it was. She’d managed to kill almost four hours on this search and felt peckish. She hadn’t eaten since the buttered toast late morning, and the coffee she’d had with Mac had long since ceased to give her veins a boost.