The Loch Ness Papers

by Paige Shelton

  “Possibly.”

  “Good. Well, Rosie, I might come back for the book, but I think you’ve most likely shown me the pertinent items inside it. May I return if I need it?” he asked.

  “Aye, I’ll keep it ready for you,” she said.

  “Very good. Ta,” he said.

  Still carrying Hector, I walked Inspector Winters out to his car.

  “I’ll ring you, Delaney, but don’t feel obligated,” he said. “I think your eyes would give us all a fresh perspective, though.”

  I felt more and more obligated every minute that ticked by. “I won’t.”

  He got into the car and drove away and I looked at Hector. “It appears I have some work to do.”

  Because he was the most perfect dog ever, he licked my cheek in complete support.

  SIXTEEN

  I didn’t take Hector with me over to the dark side, the side that held the warehouse, my work space. It had been Edwin’s space until he gave it to me. He had behaved as if removing himself to a boring old office after so many years of becoming one with the warehouse was no big deal. It had been, I was sure. He was as much a “thing” in the room as everything else was. He belonged there just as much as the old books, the antique mousetraps, and the ancient scalpels. I belonged there too, and was always happy whenever Edwin visited, but for the most part it was just me and the things, and the stories that went with them, occasional visits from my bookish voices, and my quiet hours of work.

  Today, despite the collection of old Edinburgh castle prints that I had been planning to research, I turned my attention to Gavin MacLeod and Norval Fraser.

  However, I decided to start at the beginning. Nessie. The Loch Ness Monster. I began a search.

  Though I’d never dived deeply into Nessie stories, I’d heard or read about the monster over the years. I didn’t think I’d be surprised by what I found today. I was wrong.

  It seemed there was some debate regarding the first sightings of the old girl. “Dubious” accounts were made as far back as 564 A.D. An Irish monk, Saint Columba, might have fended off the beast simply by making the sign of the cross and proclaiming that the monster should go away. Apparently, Nessie listened.

  Modern interest wasn’t sparked until July 22, 1933, though, when George Spicer and his wife came upon something they described as a “most extraordinary form of animal” crossing the road in front of their car. With a thick neck, no visible limbs, and a large body, to them it certainly looked like a monster.

  Hugh Gray’s photograph, allegedly taken on November 12, 1933, while he was walking his dog, also churned more stories. The photograph was questionable, however, and some alleged it was just a depiction of Hugh’s dog grabbing a stick from the water. The original negative was lost, but later Maurice Burton came upon some lantern slides of the negative. It was ultimately decided that the picture was simply an otter in the water.

  On January 5, 1934, Arthur Grant was taking a midnight motorcycle ride along Loch Ness’s northeastern shore and claimed to see a long-necked, small-headed creature cross the road and slip into the water. He drew a sketch of what he saw. It has been claimed that Arthur, a veterinary student, might have exaggerated his story, or perhaps he’d just come upon an otter or a seal, misshapen by the poor lighting.

  The most “infamous” moment, and the one I’d most heard about in Nessie history, was tied to two photographs, and was set into motion in April of 1934. One photo that looked like a dinosaur’s neck and head sticking up from the water, and another with a similar head in a diving position. It was the first photograph that many still clung to as evidence of the monster, despite both photographs being later exposed as part of an elaborate hoax involving a London gynecologist, a disgruntled employee, a willing relative, an insurance agent, a toy submarine, and some wood putty.

  Other notable “sightings” or hunts had occurred over the years, but my interest turned only to the stories that mentioned Norval Fraser. He had frequently been spotlighted or mentioned as an “expert.” Writers of most of the articles seemed to stop just short of making fun of him. They all seemed to portray him as a sweet old guy who might have lost his marbles. I understood their reaction, even if I felt the journalists could have done a better job of remaining impartial. I made a mental note not to treat Norval that way if I ever saw him again, and, of course, if he wasn’t a killer.

  Then it was on to his great-nephew. Gavin MacLeod had, indeed, built a successful business, or that was what it seemed at first. Happy clients making money were the highlights of the early reports. But more recent articles told a different story. Gavin might have been up to no good, doing what Birk had already mentioned, running something akin to a Ponzi scheme. I couldn’t find the word “Ponzi” in anything I read, but clients as well as government officials had become concerned about strange returns on some investments. According to a few articles, investigations had been underway for some time. At least Inspector Winters now knew about the tie to Albert Winsom. Rosie had done a good job.

  My research also uncovered more information about Mr. Winsom. For decades, the relationship between the two monster-hunters had been made up of differences in opinion, a competition of conspiracy theories, as far as I could tell. They both believed in Nessie, but Winsom would never acquiesce that she might have taken Norval’s father. In fact, Winsom was adamant that Nessie was a friendly monster with a sweet disposition and would never hurt a human.

  Norval, of course, thought Nessie was evil and wicked.

  But even though their rivalry had given heed to one noted physical altercation, the real contention had only begun recently, because didn’t arguments about money make everything more contentious? Albert Winsom had been quoted as saying that Gavin MacLeod had stolen his money, and he thought that Norval Fraser, fellow monster hunter and conspiracy theorist, had somehow influenced that theft. In my opinion, them’s were the fighting words.

  “Ugh, it’s in writing and everything,” I muttered to myself, thinking that Albert Winsom’s motive, many of Gavin’s clients’ motives, in fact, were now one hundred times stronger than Norval Fraser’s. Had Inspector Winters come to that conclusion already? Or did it not matter? Were the fingerprints conclusive? They were usually considered pretty good evidence, but I knew there could always be something else at play. I’d heard that fingerprints alone weren’t reliable evidence.

  A little more research later and I found Mr. Winsom’s shop’s address. Surprisingly, not on the Internet, because I didn’t know the name of the apothecary, but there it was in an old card file Edwin kept in the warehouse. I’d theorized that the file might contain addresses for every single person in Edinburgh. The long wooden drawers surely began their lives as part of an old library Dewey decimal system; they even had tarnished metal card frames on the fronts of each of the eight drawers. There, in the thick group of Ws, was an Albert Winsom, chemist and collector, his shop’s address written with blue ink in Edwin’s handwriting. I took a picture of the card with my phone.

  Once the file drawer was closed and put back on the shelf where it belonged I sat again in my chair and stared at my laptop screen. I hadn’t learned anything new. Not really. I’d just confirmed things and refreshed my memory, and added another layer of mystery to the Nessie stories.

  I was anxious. I realized now, with a surprisingly strong conviction, that I believed that Norval did not kill his great-nephew. Was my gut just trying to tell me something? If a bookish voice wanted to pipe up, I’d listen. I lifted my eyebrows, but no one spoke. Then it came to me like a light bulb. It was Inspector Winters who kept my doubts alive. The fingerprints evidently weren’t enough to convince him of Norval’s guilt or he wouldn’t have asked me to look around Norval’s flat for something. I didn’t know if that something would help or hurt Norval, but I hoped it would help.

  “Hang on,” I said aloud. Where had Norval lived as a boy? Wikenton. I began another search.

  Wikenton was still there, but not really. No longer an incor
porated village of its own, the sites I found online highlighted its glory days, back during the war. It had been home to thirty-six families, most of whom had been fishermen and farmers. There had been a small post office, a grocery store, and a candle shop. Though a few still lived in cottages on the village cove’s shores, it was no longer part of a postal route, and those who remained had to claim Inverness addresses.

  A few more clicks and I came upon an article I hadn’t seen during my earlier research.

  LOCAL MAN GOES MISSING, SON SUSPECTS THE LOCH MONSTER

  Mr. Leopold Fraser, local shoe cobbler, who was cursed with bad eardrums and wasn’t given the privilege of going off to war, went missing nigh on two days ago. His seven-year-old son, Norval, told this reporter and a rapt audience of fellow villagers the story of his father talking to Nessie the night before and promising the boy a real introduction the next day. But when the next day came, there was no Leopold, nor sign of any monster. Leopold hasn’t been heard from or seen since.

  I read on, but it was more of the same; twists on the Fraser tragedy that didn’t seem as entertaining or funny as the writers were attempting to make them.

  Norval probably blamed himself, in the way young children tended to blame themselves for their parents’ behavior. Villagers had other ideas. Some thought it feasible that Leopold fell into the loch and drowned. Some thought he ran off to fight in the war despite his eardrums. And then there were a select few who thought Leopold might have been up to no good in one way or another, one of those ways being that he ran off with another woman. In fact, the woman was named, but with a first name only—Flora.

  “Did you run off with Flora, Leopold? And who is Flora?”

  Try as I might, I found nothing more on the mysterious woman named Flora and where she might have come from or gone to.

  But I found something else, a couple of nuggets of information I could try to mine. In the story about Norval’s take on what had happened to his father, it was mentioned that the boy stood outside his house with his mother, his sisters, Jean and Millie, and his best friend, Ava MacMasters, as he told his story. Gavin had mentioned to me that Millie was still alive, and though a long shot, maybe Ava MacMasters was too. Best friends from their childhood would be a long time ago, but it was the only lead I had.

  I found plenty of Millie Frasers in and around Edinburgh, but none that I could pinpoint as someone who might be Norval’s sister. Surprisingly, Edwin’s card file held no cards with the name Millie Fraser. My theory about him knowing everyone was debunked. I’d ask Inspector Winters if he’d talked to her.

  I moved on to Ava MacMasters, predicting I’d run into another road with too many forks, but this search proved easy. I found her. Again, nothing in the card file, but I found Ava MacMasters Keaton, a resident of Wikenton. And, there was a phone number.

  It was at least worth a try. I grabbed my phone and dialed.

  “Hello?” the voice, tinged with both age and impatience, said.

  I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Keaton?”

  “Aye. What do ye want?”

  “My name is Delaney Nichols and I’m a friend of Norval Fraser’s,” I began.

  “Who?”

  “Nor-val Fra-ser. You were childhood friends.”

  “Och, wee Norval? I ken him.”

  “Oh good!” That was easy.

  “Is he dead?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then why are ye calling me?”

  “I wanted to ask some questions about when you were children.”

  After a beat of silence, Ava Keaton laughed a gravelly snort. “Well, lass, ye’re a wee bit late. I dinnae remember back that far, and I hate these infernal telephones. Come talk tae me in person and we’ll have some tea, but I’m not going tae talk tae ye anymore on the telephone.”

  Then, true to her word, she hung up. She didn’t slam down the handset, but she didn’t hang up gently either.

  I looked at my watch. Today wasn’t a good day to make the trip. I had other commitments, and I would want Elias to drive me there. It wouldn’t be fair to ask him to do so on such short notice, even if he would be willing.

  Besides, I had another idea, another time in mind, and as I thought about it, it seemed like a good plan. Or good enough.

  SEVENTEEN

  My throat was so tight that I had no choice but to let tears fall down my cheeks, or I might completely cut off my oxygen. I could honestly say that I had never, ever been happier to see Gregory, Sylvia, and Wyatt Nichols. Not at my high school graduation, college graduation, not even at the goodbye party they held in their Kansas farmhouse the night before I left for Scotland.

  They were, suddenly, the most beautiful people I’d ever seen. And, perhaps, the most ruffled. And the most exhausted. But still, the best ever!

  Before moving to Scotland I’d never been out of Kansas. My parents had been to Missouri and Florida a few times, but the flight across the ocean was sure to have been a challenge, even if exciting. My brother had been to Iowa and Missouri, but most of his time had been spent in Kansas too. We were an educated bunch, but I suspected my family’s horizons were going to be tested and stretched over the next week or so.

  At least after they’d had a chance to rest a little. Unfortunately, rest wasn’t on my immediate agenda.

  My parents held hands as they walked toward me, though keeping a good distance from each other. It was as if they didn’t want to lose each other, but still didn’t want to participate in even a small public display of affection. My brother tailed behind but since he was so much bigger—taller and filled out like a good farm boy should be—than the rest of us, he stood out the most, particularly when he sent me the widest, weariest smile I’ve ever seen. I smiled back and sniffed and blinked away the tears.

  Since they’d met, my parents had been inseparable, in that “I adore you but I need my own space for a while” way. The flight, with the two of them crammed right next to each other in close seats, might have tested their love a tiny bit, but they’d get over it.

  My dad, in jeans and a lumberjack shirt, his thick hair now gray but at one time red, puffy, and unruly, looked just like he always had, except for the off-kilter glasses on his nose. He’d worn the same gold frames for so many years that his nose and the sides of his head had permanent imprints.

  Mom, in cuffed jeans and tennis shoes I was sure she’d thought long and hard about (must wear the proper shoes for the proper occasion) looked just as strong and beautiful as I remembered. Her jet-black hair might have gone a little grayer, but she still wore her long ponytail tied low and with the smooth grace of a movie star. She also wore glasses; today’s had bright pink frames. She was stepping up the style and I knew she would get along great with Rosie. She wore a denim jacket too, and it was something I recognized quickly. She’d worn the same jacket, even in brutal Kansas winters, for as long as I could remember.

  Wyatt was also recognizable in his jeans and rock and roll T-shirt, this one emblazoned with artwork from the 1975 Led Zeppelin tour. I’d know that winged man and colorful background anywhere, including in the Edinburgh airport. He swiped his hand through his short curly hair; he was the only blond relative in the pack, even when we came together for large family reunions.

  “Delaney!” Mom said as she let go of Dad’s hand and hurried to me.

  We hugged and cried and looked at each other a minute, before it was Dad’s turn. He held his hugs a little tighter than Mom did, but usually, not as long. Not the case today.

  “My girl,” he said when he finally pulled away. “You are a beautiful sight.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing about you three,” I said with a sniff. “Oh, we’ve got to stop crying—there’s so much to do!”

  “Hey, sis,” Wyatt said as he gave me one of his characteristic bear hugs.

  “Where’s Tom?” Mom asked.

  “I told him I wanted to come alone. Well, my landlord is waiting for us outside the airport, but I … well, I have an
idea and Tom has to work.”

  “Your landlord? Elias?” Dad asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t wait to meet him,” Dad added.

  “Good, good, yes. I want to meet Tom as soon as possible, though,” Mom said with a somewhat forced smile.

  “You will. Soon. And he can’t wait to meet you.”

  Though my parents were thrilled by my happiness, it was all a little too good to be true for them. A little too fairy-tale. It was still hard for them to believe I was marrying a pub owner in Scotland. How was this man with his perfect kilt knees and amazing eyes so interested in me? I wasn’t offended, and it wasn’t that they didn’t think I deserved the very best. They were just concerned something other than simple romance was going on, something that included a handsome Scot with some sort of ulterior motive. But soon they would meet him and feel better about the whole thing. I hoped.

  I hooked one arm through Dad’s and one through Mom’s and led everyone to the baggage claim.

  We chatted about the long flight, the Kansas summer weather, my parents’ neighbors—who weren’t actually right next door because of all the farmland in between—and the runaway cow that had somehow found its way onto my parents’ porch, waking them up with some panicked mooing.

  My brother sprung the news that he was planning a move to Detroit, where his mechanical engineering skills had gotten him a position with one of the big car companies.

  “It’s a big job,” my mom said to me with raised eyebrows. “We’re very proud.”

  Wyatt laughed. “Yeah, I know none of you thought I had it in me, but, well, I got this.”

  “Son, we’ve always believed in you,” Dad said. “Just maybe not as much as you did. We like the pleasant surprise, and we don’t mind being proven wrong.”

  My family didn’t believe in blowing smoke. They were very honest, maybe sometimes too honest.