The Witch's Stone

by Dawn Brown

  “You don’t really believe he would have killed her?”

  “No,” he said with a sigh. “No. He’s far too civilized for that. I just…” He trailed off and shrugged.

  “Bristol said everything about her death was consistent with a fall down the stairs. The time of death even lined up with a storm that had made the power go out for a few hours.”

  He nodded, but his eyes narrowed the longer they stayed fixed on her. “Ye’re no’ telling me something.”

  Had she given something away in her expression?

  “Out with it,” he demanded. “What havenae you told me?”

  “It’s nothing, really. What do I know about dead bodies?” More than she wanted to, unfortunately.

  “Tell me.”

  Hillary sighed. “She was so broken. And the amount of blood. I wouldn’t have thought that a fall down the stairs could make someone bleed so much.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I was surprised when Bristol told me that Agnes’s death had been accidental. You asked me what I thought when I first walked in and found her? I thought she’d been murdered.”

  With an angry sigh, Caid threw back the covers, climbed out of bed and started pacing the length of the room. Cold, damp air dotted his bare skin with goose bumps, but he barely registered the chill.

  Last night, his overactive brain had kept him up making lists of what needed to be done and the cost of each project until he could literally see years of his life being sucked into the same void as his dwindling bank account. The sound of Hillary’s soft cries had almost been a relief.

  Tonight, though, he was tired. He’d worked himself physically in the morning, painting the study, then wrote most of the afternoon. With his brain like mush and a good solid ache in his muscles, he should have been asleep in no time.

  Oh, he just had to wonder about his father having a role in Agnes’s death. What the hell did he care for, anyway? He hadn’t seen either of them years. It wasn’t his problem. The police thought the whole thing was an accident and if that was good enough for them, it would just have to be good enough for him, too.

  He grabbed the battered paperback he’d been reading from the bureau and crawled back into bed, settling in with a caper about a bunch of bumbling would-be criminals who couldn’t get anything right.

  At last his eyes grew heavy and he started to doze.

  A loud creak followed by a heavy thud yanked him awake. Caid sat up a little. The book, still open on his chest, fell onto the mattress next to him. He reached for his watch on the bedside table. Good Christ, he hadn’t been out for more than two hours.

  Cursing, and with an unfortunate sense of déjà vu, he rolled out of the bed, then dragged on his jeans. What was that noise? A door? Maybe he’d dreamt the whole thing. But if it was another break in…

  As he stepped into the hallway, Hillary’s door, slightly ajar, caught his eye. He pushed it open the rest of the way. The lamp next to her bed burned softly, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  Where was she? His heart rate picked up, beating hard against his chest. Maybe she’d gone downstairs for something. She’d probably been the one to wake him.

  He wrapped his arms around his bare chest and rubbed his upper arms as he started down the hall. With only the pale light spilling out from both bedrooms to guide him, he made his way to the top of the stairs, but hesitated before descending into the pitch black of the lower floor.

  If she were down there, wouldn’t she have turned on a light? What if she sleepwalked? As he reached out for the switch to the ugly chandelier dangling over the foyer, he hesitated. A door at the opposite end of the hall was open and a weak light glowed just beyond the threshold.

  Inexplicable anger shimmered just below his skin. Annoyance mixed with something a little deeper, a little frightening, an emotion he couldn’t name and definitely didn’t want to examine.

  He marched down the hall through the open door, coming to a narrow stone staircase. Dirty wall sconces glowed dimly, and combined with the thick cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, cast strange fluttering shadows up the wall.

  Good God, what had she been thinking, coming up here? He rested his hand on the wood banister and something scurried under his palm. He snatched his arm back and rubbed his hand on his jeans.

  Despite the shudder running along his spine, he continued up the stairs. At the top, Hillary sat with a book open in her lap in the middle of a long, rectangular room made smaller by the clutter of furniture hidden beneath ancient dust covers.

  “Hillary, it’s one a.m.”

  She looked up, her dark eyes unusually bright. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

  “Aye, you did. What are you doing up here in the middle of the night?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she told him.

  “And the obvious solution was to wander a dank, cobweb-filled staircase?”

  “Something like that. I kept thinking about the key and how it was too big for any of the doors in the house. How all the other doors had the same size lock. Then I remembered that the door at the end of the hall had a different lock. I remembered because at the time I thought that was kind of strange and I wondered where the door led. If the lock was different, chances were it wasn’t just another bedroom. Then I thought the reason it was different was because the lock was bigger, big enough to fit the key we found. So I tried it and found the stairs to the attic.”

  He couldn’t help but gape. She had managed to say it all in a single breath. “And a room full of junk.”

  “That’s just it. This isn’t junk, none of it. This room is like a pharaoh’s treasure room. This is where Agnes kept anything of value. She thought someone was stealing from her, right? She must have locked these things here with the idea of protecting her valuables. This,” she held up the book on her lap for him to see, “is Roderick’s journal. I’ve found it, Caid.”

  Caid turned slowly, really seeing just what made up the clutter in the room. Silver serving dishes and tea services, tarnished, but solid silver. He pulled back some of the dust cloths, revealing smooth dark wood pieces unlike the scarred and chipped furniture downstairs. Boxes of china so thin the plates were nearly translucent.

  “I just can’t figure out how a frail, old woman like Agnes managed to get all of this up here,” Hillary said.

  “She probably had the lad who managed the garden bring it up for her,” he replied absently. Could he sell some of this? Even if it brought him just a few thousand pounds, it would help with the house. Maybe it would even be enough to hire a builder to do some of the work. That would hurry things along. Get him out of this place sooner, and off to Spain.

  “There’s all kinds of family photos in the box where I found the journals,” Hillary said, setting the books down next to her. “You look like your grandfather. It’s strange, when I saw your parents I thought you looked like your mother, but I guess you just have her coloring.”

  “I guess,” he murmured. He would have liked to use the whole box for kindling.

  “Do you remember him at all?”

  Caid shook his head. “He died shortly after I was born.”

  “Joan told me he and Agnes were quite close. Maybe that’s why she left you the house, because you reminded her of him.”

  “More likely to spite my father.” He should invite an appraiser to the house and find out what this lot would be worth. “We should keep this door locked until we’re certain that our intruder is no longer getting in.”

  She nodded, but he could tell she wasn’t really listening. She sifted through the photos until she came to his grandfather’s wedding picture. “This is your grandmother?”

  “Aye. Perhaps we should go back down, it’s the middle of the night.”

  “They look so happy together. When did she die?”

  “I dinnae know. Long before I was born.” What was her preoccupation with his family? There he was in the blasted middle of the night, sitting in a cold attic while she analyzed phot
os of a family he cared nothing about.

  “Did he remarry?”

  Caid sighed. “No.”

  If she detected his impatience, which he made no effort to conceal, she didn’t show it.

  “Look, he kept her wedding ring.” She held out a small wood box. Inside, a thick band with tiny grooves and swirls etched into the gold sat atop a few folded papers.

  He plucked the ring from the box. “I wonder how much I’d get for this.”

  “You can’t sell it!”

  He stood rigid against her emphatic response. “Aye, I can.”

  “He kept that ring all these years. He never remarried. He must have loved her a great deal.”

  “You can tell that from a wedding ring and one photograph, can you? Maybe his marriage was such a horror show he vowed to never make the same mistake twice.”

  “You’re a cynic.”

  “And ye’re a romantic. I never would have expected that of you.”

  She snorted. “I know, especially being divorced.”

  “Ye’re divorced?” Why the idea that she would have a past surprised him so much he couldn’t say. But worse was the idea that she might have a present. Was there someone waiting for her at home?

  “Yeah.” She shrugged and put the pictures back in the box.

  “How long?”

  “The divorce became final a couple of months before I left Canada, but we’d been separated for a while. We should probably go down.”

  He knew evasion when he saw it. He excelled at it, after all. “What happened?”

  “Are you trying to ask if one of us had a torrid affair?”

  Perhaps she’d been trying for humor, but the hitch in her voice ruined any chance of that. How could she appear both vulnerable and strong at the same time? Perhaps it was that bizarre contradiction that fascinated him so much.

  Bloody hell, fascinated? Not likely, she was merely the only woman at hand. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Is that what happened?”

  “No.” She held out the small box that had contained the wedding band, but frowned when he took the box from her instead of dropping the ring back inside.

  “You’re not really going to pawn that, are you?”

  A tiny twinge of guilt tugged at his conscience. “This house is a tip. It’s falling down around my ears. I need to pay for the repairs somehow.”

  Her lips thinned. Her obvious disapproval fanned the guilt already wriggling inside him as well as his annoyance. Bloody hell, why should he feel bad selling off heirlooms from a family he’d never felt a part of?

  “Do you want to leave the box of photos or bring them down?” she asked.

  “I dinnae care what happens to them.”

  A challenging grin lifted the corners of her lips and she crossed her arms over chest. “Why don’t you get along with anyone in your family?”

  “I get on with Alex.”

  “But not your parents. Especially not your father.”

  “You’ve met him, I would think that explained everything.”

  “You pried into my life.”

  He chuckled. For some reason, her questions eroded some of his irritation. “Hardly. I know ye’re divorced, which you let slip all on yer own, and neither you nor your ex was unfaithful. No’ exactly a wealth of information.”

  She scooped up the journals from the floor, holding the books against her chest like a child with a favorite Christmas present. “We should go.”

  He nodded and started to follow her to the stairs, but she stopped and turned. Her eyes, dark like a summer lake, bored into him. “We’re not that different, you and me.”

  “No,” he agreed, meaning it. “We’re not.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunshine streamed through a narrow gap between the heavy drapes. The thin band of light stretched over the flattened rug, up the side of the bed and across Hillary’s eyes. She squinted against the brightness and rolled over, pulling the covers over her head. Her whole body ached from spending most of the previous day crouched on a dirty floor. She willed her sore muscles to relax so she could sleep some more.

  Then she remembered the journals.

  With renewed energy, she flung back the blankets and sat up. The three thin volumes waited on the corner of the bureau where she’d left them. A combination of excitement and relief filled her. They were her hope. Her career. Her reputation. Through them, she would find some semblance of the woman she’d once been. And they waited for her.

  What if there was no mention of Anne Black and the events that had lead to her death? Her parents’ basement and the vast world of internet chat-rooms awaited her. Perhaps she was being melodramatic, but the idea of finding nothing and ending up right back where she’d started left an icy dread in the pit of her belly.

  She climbed off the bed and pulled back the faded green drapes. Outside, the morning sun cast a golden hue over the jungle-like garden and the patch of trees hiding the road. She pushed open the window and the warm rays fell on her face. The air was cool, but without the usual damp chill she’d become accustomed to.

  Maybe she’d walk, first. Days like this had been rare since she’d arrived. Some time outside might prove inspiring. Okay, she was procrastinating, avoiding the possibility that the journals would prove useless, but no one needed to know that.

  She dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of blue jeans and a fitted sweater. When she left her room, Caid’s door was closed. Likely still asleep. Once in the kitchen, she fixed herself a cup of terrible instant coffee. Thick like sludge, the bitter black liquid tasted worse than it looked, but caffeine addiction cared nothing for texture or flavor.

  Caid drank mainly tea and had no real appreciation for the importance of decent coffee--and he called himself a writer.

  A coffee maker.

  Today she would buy a coffee maker. There, now she was no longer simply shirking work and avoiding potentially bad news. She had a purpose, a goal. And such a purchase was a show of faith. An investment. She had no use for a European coffee maker in Canada, so buying one was a symbol of her confidence in old Roderick Douglas and his journals.

  She scribbled a quick note for Caid on the off chance he actually noticed she wasn’t there when he woke, then scooped up her purse and jacket and started for the door. Outside, she slid her arms into the sleeves as she walked.

  The air smelled fresh and clean. Birds, perched on the budding branches of the misshapen hedge and tangled bushes, chirped and twittered. She opened the car door and had almost climbed into the seat when she realized she was on the passenger side. After tossing her purse inside, she walked to the other side. At least no one was there to see.

  As she drove, she reminded herself to keep to the left. Fortunately, the road wasn’t busy, probably due to the early hour.

  Hilly pastures hemmed in by ancient stone fences stretched out on either side of her and again she was taken by the beauty of the country. And the history. How many hundreds of years had these fields been farmed? And how many generations of people had done the work? Who were they? How had they lived? The questions filled her with restless awe. She was merely a tiny speck along a great timeline.

  The village was a quaint mix of cobblestone streets and old shop buildings, leaving her feeling like she’d stepped into a Dickens novel. She parked her car in a public lot near the middle of town then started walking along the sidewalk, peering into store windows.

  Culcraig was a charming village with a strong tourist trade. The shops sold everything from souvenir plaid ball caps and Scottish flags to expensive silver jewelry with Celtic inspired designs.

  But none sold appliances.

  As she peered through a store window at a collection of tiny silver figurines set around a display of Scottish history books, the door next to her burst open. She jumped and turned, coming face to face with the woman she’d knocked down in the woods. The memory made her face hot.

  “I thought that was you.” Sarah smiled brightly from the do
orway. “So, you’ve decided to stay on, have you?”

  “Yes, Caid, Agnes’s nephew, is letting me view the journals.”

  “Oh, well that’s brilliant, then. Are you coming in?”

  Actually, she hadn’t planned to. Judging from the pretty ornaments in the window, she doubted very much she’d find a coffeemaker inside. Still, after sending the woman sprawling in the mud, turning her down seemed rude.

  “Yes, of course. Is this your store?”

  “My Gran’s, actually.” Sarah let the door close once Hillary was inside. “But since she’s been ill, I’ve taken over for her.”

  “I’m sorry. This is lovely.” She meant it. The shop wasn’t large, but deep blue carpet and light pine shelves cluttered with ornaments, books and art gave the small space an eclectic charm. Enya played from a small CD player on a shelf behind the counter and the spicy scent of incense tickled her nose.

  “Thank you. Have you had much success with the journals?” Sarah asked.

  “To be honest, I just found them yesterday.”

  Sarah’s fine, red-gold eyebrows lifted. “Had Agnes hidden the books?”

  “Yes, and that combined with state of the house…” Hillary shrugged.

  “A bit of a mess, was it? Well, Agie was a little off her rocker. Such a shame when the mind goes.”

  Hillary opened her mouth to defend Agnes, but stopped. Who was she to contradict Sarah? She’d only spoken to Agnes over the phone off and on for a little over a month. Sarah had known Agnes better than she. And even Hillary had to admit the old woman was a touch…eccentric.

  “I’m surprised ye’re out today,” Sarah said, interrupting her thoughts. “And no’ at Glendon House, poring over your treasure.”

  Hillary smiled. “My treasure?”

  “Well, the books must mean a great deal to you if you were willing to stay after that nonsense with Willie Innes.”

  Heat crept into Hillary’s cheeks and her stomach dropped. “You heard about that?”

  “Aye. Culcraig’s a small village. There are no secrets here.”