The
Siamese Suicides
Book Six of the Duncan Dewar Mysteries
By Victoria Benchley
Copyright
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without prior written consent of the copyright holder. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Although some locations and businesses named may be real, any events involving them are fictional.
Copyright © 2016 by Victoria Benchley
For Scottish detective Duncan Dewar, do bad things really come in threes? People connected to the investigator keep dying, and he has to wonder. Will the past drag him from the promise of a bright future?
Offered a chance to consult with his former employer, Duncan investigates the apparent suicide of an art dealer in Edinburgh. In a case right out of today's headlines, he learns that the art business has its shady side. Professionally successful once again and engaged, he's finally ready to move on to the next chapter of his life. However, the past has a way of haunting the Scottish detective, and things aren't always as they seem. Explore Old Town and see if you can solve the case of the Siamese Suicides. This stand-alone story is book 6 in the Duncan Dewar Mystery Series.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 Saying Goodbye
Chapter 2 A Dinner Date
Chapter 3 A Convenient Job
Chapter 4 Antiquities & Curiosities
Chapter 5 More Bad News
Chapter 6 Never a Dull Moment
Chapter 7 The Grand Affair
Chapter 8 Another Tragedy
Chapter 9 Do You Ever Really Know A Person?
Chapter 10 The Truth Always Comes Out
Chapter 11 Fiancée Envy
Chapter 12 Cat and Mouse
Chapter 13 A New Plan
Chapter 14 Subtle Changes
Chapter 15 Confrontations
Chapter 16 A Recipe for Murder
Chapter 17 Déjà Vu All Over Again
Chapter 1
Saying Goodbye
Bad things always come in threes. The thought raised an alarm as it rattled through Duncan's brain like a freight train rumbling over track switches at full speed. He and his fiancée had been hit with two terrible pieces of news in as many weeks. He wondered what would come next, when the other shoe would drop.
He watched as Angela rubbed her ring absentmindedly, tears streaming down her face. She had a habit of spinning the slightly too large band around her fourth digit with a swipe of her thumb. Now, the twirling became almost manic. As she sat on his desk gaping out the window upon a rainy Edinburgh afternoon, whirling the engagement ring around her finger, she didn't even notice him enter the office. The large diamond refracted light from an early twentieth-century reproduction desk lamp, creating a miniature disco ball effect on the ceiling.
"I'm sorry, Darling. I came as soon as I heard," Duncan said with care, approaching the desk.
Angela didn't budge or even shift her gaze. He reached out and gave the lass a gentle touch on the arm, then brushed a lock of her auburn hair aside. He'd never seen her like this, and it unnerved him. Several seconds went by as large raindrops pelted the glass, creating a blurred view of the city and a sound akin to the snare section of the drum corps in a military tattoo.
"Are you, Duncan? Are you sorry or just relieved?"
He drew in a breath, ignoring the sting of her words. He filled his lungs with oxygen then lifted Angela from his large wooden desk, placing her squarely in front of him. He stared down into her eyes, trying to read her feelings. The color of her irises seemed to change depending on her mood and, to some degree, her attire. Instead of the normal violet, they appeared almost grey to him now, but he could decipher nothing else. She returned his searching gaze, looking into his dark eyes, matching his intensity. Duncan's instincts took over as he enveloped the lass in a bear hug, attempting to comfort her.
He whispered, "I can't suffer anything that pains you."
* * * * *
The three months of their engagement had been wonderful, tempestuous, amazing, stressful, magnificent, and more. He learned Angela had a mind of her own and would not budge on issues about which she felt strongly.
He'd wanted to marry as soon as possible. After all, he wasn't getting any younger. She'd insisted on enough time to plan a proper wedding, at least twelve months. He'd asked her to move to Edinburgh at once and act as his assistant at Dewar & Associates. She'd contended she must earn her promotion to full investigator at Lawful and General first. He desired to settle in Scotland, while she asserted London made more sense. Duncan argued she should distance herself from Sunny Bentwell, a rather disturbing woman from one of his past cases. Angela vowed to remain faithful to her friend. He admired her loyalty but felt it was misplaced in this instance.
While some issues remained unsettled, the couple managed compromises on immediate questions. They arranged to spend most weekends in the same city. He learned to tolerate the flights between metropoles, staying at his London flat in Cumberland Terrace. She made the trek to Edinburgh once a month, working from her firm's office there and landing at his parents' home. Duncan then shifted between his brother's flat and the Dewar house. In spite of their adjustments and challenges, he found himself deliriously happy. His love and appreciation for Angela seemed to grow each day, and he couldn't wait to make her his wife.
Duncan purchased a cottage in need of repairs in Taye with the royalties he'd received from sales of reproductions of the artifacts he'd helped discover on Lindisfarne. For now, the house represented a future vacation home. Drawn to the land of his ancestors, he wanted to put some roots down in the tiny village.
It was near the end of one of her visits when they'd received their first bit of sad news. The office furniture Angela helped Duncan choose had been delivered, an eclectic grouping of mid-century modern pieces mixed with more traditional fittings. Together, it all created an ambience of professionalism and prosperity with a dash of wisdom thrown in—just the image for his new firm.
Now, Dewar & Associates was poised to receive clients and the couple wanted to celebrate. They climbed the narrow steps at the back of the building to the roof and waited to enjoy the sunset. It proved an unseasonably mild, calm day, but they still needed their coats to stay warm. Duncan had brought a bottle of champagne, and Angela toted plastic flutes.
He'd leased this small office space in a tony area of Old Town Edinburgh on Grassly Close. Located up a flight of carpeted steps from the ground floor, the two-room workplace with storage area impressed. The small cobbled lane near the Royal Mile, between Saint Giles Cathedral and Edinburgh castle, whispered professional success. The flat's large windows provided partial views of the fortress and the spire atop the High Kirk. A brass plate etched with Dewar & Associates at street level marked his new place of business. Other tenants included a barrister-at-law, financial adviser, and psychologist. He appeared to be in good company.
Constructed of yellow and pink sandstone with a large, arched entryway and a turret capped with a copper onion dome, aged to a respectable green patina, the building looked the picture of history and bespoke elegance. Three carved crests, embedded by the builders, hovered in a wall above the casements framing the entrance. Behind the crests, a large balcony conne
cted to Duncan's unit. The four-story structure had a peaked roof and one large dormer window, but the investigator had discovered a flat area between the turret and the chimneys from which to view the city.
He admired the way a sudden gust blew his fiancée's hair away from her heart-shaped face and how her cheeks and the tip of her nose turned rosy in the crisp air. How had they worked together for years without him noticing her beauty? He had just proposed the first toast when his cellular rang. Angela gestured for him to go ahead and take the call, and he obliged. After all, it could be a new client.
Pulling the phone from his pocket, he saw his friend's name, Donald Merriwether, on the screen. Donald had suggested the investigator buy his share of the Blue Bell Inn in Taye, Scotland, but he had let the subject drop in recent months. His purchase of the cottage had renewed hope in the older man that Duncan was warming to the idea of taking over his share of the business.
"Hallo, Donald. How are you?"
"I've some bad news, I'm afraid," Donald replied without any salutation.
"What's happened?"
His face showed alarm, and Angela responded with her own worried look.
"Our vicar has passed away. He was like a grandfather to me Skye, and she's beside herself."
Duncan mouthed the vicar to Angela and pointed at his mobile, continuing to listen to the innkeeper describe the village's loss. Taye's cleric had been kind to Duncan on many occasions and held a soft spot in his heart. After discussing the particulars and time of service for the rector, the two men signed off.
"What happened?" she asked, concern evident on her face.
"He had a major stroke. One of the villagers found him in the graveyard, of all places. Must have died on his way out of the kirk."
"Oh, poor Skye! They had a special bond," Angela exclaimed.
Amazed at how quickly his fiancée connected with his friends and her in-depth perceptions of them, he felt proud and grateful— thankful he'd finally recognized what a gem he had in Angela—as well as sorrow for the vicar, all at once. The two cut their celebration short as they discussed the circumstances and when the memorial service would be.
Three days later, they arrived at the new kirk of Taye, the old church deemed too small to hold the large crowd gathered to pay respects. Abigail Neward, the owner of Cat's Books in the nearby village of Tyne, saved a space for them in the pew next to her nephew, Inspector Jimmy Smythe. Packed with people, the venue lacked the charm and history of the ancient church where Duncan had held his meetings with the vicar. It seemed odd for the old saint to be eulogized in these modern surroundings.
After taking his seat, he scanned the crowd for people he knew, spotting the Charmicles, Robert Abernathy, the village baker, Susanne Wallace, the current object of Donald's affections, the Alyns, and other familiar faces.
His eyes fell on a modest wooden coffin, topped with an arrangement of white roses and Scottish thistles. Placed upon a rectangular pedestal to the right of a contemporary pulpit, the simple pine box appeared to be from a different time. Apart from the people gathered in the place, the kirk seemed sterile and lacked the feeling of spiritual power Duncan always felt in the centuries-old village stone church. The humble pastor must have chosen his casket under the assumption it would be displayed in the historic chapel. He'd probably be stunned at the great number of people who turned out for his funeral.
Glancing about again, he locked eyes with Chief Inspector John Wallace, no relation to Donald's friend, Susanne. The policeman gestured to let him know he had something to discuss, and Duncan replied with a nod. They could meet up at the reception in the village's community center following the service.
"Good afternoon," a sharp looking gentleman who appeared to be in his early fifties, dressed in a black suit, shirt, and white tab collar, greeted the mourners from the podium. "I am the Very Reverend Hugh Beaton and I want to thank you for coming to honor your beloved vicar."
The man's voice boomed forth with a confidence and deep tone that proved hard to resist. Everything about his appearance and manner stood in sharp contrast to the unassuming, elderly village pastor for whom they'd come to pay their last respects.
Duncan glimpsed Angela to his side and shot her a look conveying he was impressed. The title, Very Reverend, meant Mr. Beaton served at Saint Giles, Edinburgh's High Kirk. His fiancée's raised brows indicated that the moniker remained lost on her. She knew nothing of the hierarchy in the Church of Scotland. The speaker continued with a short tribute to the vicar. Apparently, he had known Reverend Ferguson for many years and regarded him as a mentor.
The very reverend led the congregation in singing A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. Then, he shared a personal anecdote regarding the deceased before beginning his sermon with a reading from the book of Revelation.
"And I heard a loud voice from Heaven saying, 'Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people. God Himself will be with them and be their God. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.'"
He paused to describe how Ferguson must be rejoicing in the presence of his savior, free from earthly concerns and ailments. He described the vicar's dedication to his flock, the community at large, and any who crossed his path. Duncan could certainly attest to the latter.
The very reverend continued with another Bible passage, "And he said to me, 'It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the End. I will give of the fountain of the water of life freely to him who thirsts. He who overcomes shall inherit all things, and I will be his God and he shall be My son.'"
Hugh Beaton halted, scanning the congregation with eyes that displayed a poignant expression. "I think we can all agree that Reverend Ferguson overcame all obstacles in this life and held true to his calling. He didn't allow his failing health to keep him from serving others. The day before he passed, he visited a home for the elderly in Tyne, delivering a sermon and providing fellowship to those in need. May his memory continue to inspire us all to strive to overcome, so we can all hear the words, 'Well done, good and faithful servant; you have been faithful over a few things. I will make you ruler over many things. Enter into the joy of your Lord.' "
The distinguished speaker nodded towards the front pews to his right, and the congregation watched as Donald Merriwether and five other men of various ages rose, approached the wooden coffin, and lifted it from the plinth. He wondered if his friend's knee would survive the trip. With much effort, these pallbearers carried the vicar from the kirk and into a waiting hearse. During the procession, a piper played Flowers of the Fields from outside the church, drowning the sounds of sniffles within the sanctuary.
Behind the old kirk, in an area designated for new graves, a minister from the parish local court committed the faithful Christian's body to the earth, stating in a strong local brogue, "Ay now commit yer servant Alun Feruhghusun in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life." He called out a series of names, as was the local custom, and the corresponding villagers came forward, taking their turns at lowering the casket into the ground by ropes previously secured to the coffin. All the while, the piper played a stirring rendition of Amazing Grace. A cold breeze kicked up, cutting the mourners to the bone. Attendees hurriedly took turns tossing handfuls of earth into the grave as they departed. Duncan couldn't locate a dry eye in the entire churchyard.
The community center's main hall quickly filled with folk milling about. Ladies from two villages had provided food for the occasion, and their dishes lined a long table on one side of the room. The scent of roasting meat filled the air. The investigator glanced to the other side of the area, where he spotted none other than Armondo Berluca, dressed in full chef regalia.
"What's he doing here?" Duncan asked Angela, giving her a nudge with his elbow, a note of derision filling his voice.
She turned to see who the fuss w
as about. Her fiancée sounded annoyed.
"I think Mondo grew close to the vicar over the holidays. He came to help," she replied, offering a soothing smile.
"He should be in Edinburgh, helping Mum get the restaurant open! Besides, he looks ridiculous in that high hat. Aren't those reserved for medal-decorated French chefs?"
"Now, Duncan, let the man pay tribute as he sees fit. I'm sure your mother has everything under control back in the city."
He gave Angela one of his looks. He didn't have much patience with Armondo.
"Let's say hallo," he suggested, his tone too eager for her liking.
Before Angela could protest or even drag her heels, Duncan had her by the hand, advancing on the unsuspecting cook. Mondo moved between several large electric roasters, opening and closing their lids, while his huge, free hand waved through the air above each pan as if bidding a subject to enter his throne room. His head tilted slightly towards the ceiling so his nose could capture each whiff of the meat's aroma. His nostrils appeared large, and displayed from that angle, they dominated his face.
"Hallo, Chef! Surprised to see you here."
"Ah, Duncan and the lovely Angela. So glad you both came." Mondo's left brow arched when he looked at the investigator, but upon glancing at Angela, his countenance relaxed into a pleasant expression. "The service, it was good for the priest?" he asked.
"We're the Church of Scotland. We don't have priests, Mondo," Duncan said with an impatient tone, as if he'd explained this to the chef on numerous previous occasions.
Angela interjected, "Yes, it was a lovely service. Very touching, very appropriate."
Armondo narrowed his eyes, ignoring the lass's soft response, and tucked his lips inside his mouth.
"He was my priest, Duncan. I had great love for the man. He understood the turmoils of the artist and prayed with me when I needed the guidance. Now, go back to your seat" —he gave a curt nod towards the tables and chairs— "and let Mondo finish the main course."
The Siamese Suicides: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 6) Page 1