* * * * *
As I left by the front walkway, Robbie MacBane, now wearing formal shoes and a well-pressed kilt with his tuxedo jacket, offered me a ride. He tossed a violin case into the backseat of an old Fiat. “I’m on me way to town. Me and my mates are playin’ for a big dance.”
In all likelihood, Robbie had been dressing in his formal attire when he discovered his kilt was wrinkled, so he ironed it while wearing his jacket, shirt, tie, and undershorts (unless it’s true what they say about what Scotsmen wear under their kilts). When I had come knocking on his door, he’d slipped on his cut-offs before answering it.
There’s a logical explanation for everything.
* * * * *
I should have taken Robbie MacBane up on his offer of a lift. By the time I got to the middle of the sheep pasture, my heart was racing; I had broken out in a cold sweat, and I began seeing spots before my eyes. Low blood sugar. I didn’t even need to test it. Fortunately, there was a big boulder to sit on while I unzipped my insulated bag, pulled out a little carton of orange juice and jabbed a straw through its foil hole.
I had to rest a few minutes while the juice worked its magic. From the rock on which I sat, I had a perfect view of the castle. I made a mental note to bring my camera out here, preferably early, when the morning sun would light the new tower and south wing.
Two police cars sat in the parking lot, along with a truck that seemed to be always there, the Lipscombs’ BMW, and John Sinclair’s black Jaguar convertible. Fallon Sinclair dashed out the big front entrance. She scrambled through her purse as she ran to the Jaguar, lowered its top, and accelerated down the road, her light brown hair whipping around her face.
Soon after Lettie and I had arrived, William Sinclair had told us about the castle’s history. I sat on the boulder now, recalling all I could. Castle Dunlaggan was built in the fifteenth century and rebuilt in the sixteenth, seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth. It had, over the centuries, been a fortress, a prison, a family seat, and a bed-and-breakfast. It was one of the few castles in all of Scotland with absolutely no claim to ever having given refuge to either Bonnie Prince Charlie or Mary, Queen of Scots. It had borne witness to the Jacobite Rebellions and the Highland clearances, not to mention countless wars and petty squabbles.
The front of the castle, which faced south, was mostly gray Aberdeen granite, except for the new tower (brick) and the square tower (sandstone). The west wing, where all the guest rooms were, was white stucco and granite, and the round tower, granite again. The north wing, having been cannibalized to repair other parts, was granite rubble and ruins. The east wing, completely rebuilt in the mid-twentieth century, had expansive modern windows set in mellow sandstone. It was a Rube Goldberg castle in every style from the medieval to Charles Rennie Mackintosh.
Maisie Sinclair backed out the east door of the kitchen with a large metal bowl, the contents of which she tossed onto the compost pile behind the parking area. She bent over and picked something from her herb garden which was beside the compost pile, then straightened up and waved, not at me, but at someone to the east.
I saw that she had waved to Boots, the handyman, whoan was b T P wanding on the near side of the woodland where, I had heard, the Sinclairs had a shooting hut on a small lake. They owned all the land from about a half mile west of the castle to the public road on the east. I made another mental note to explore that woodland and the one across the field behind me when I got a free day.
The sheep in the pasture around me had all turned their backsides toward me. Sheep, being not the smartest of mammals, apparently think if they can’t see you, you’ve gone away. Boots and Maisie, I was sure, could both see me if they looked my way, because, with my yellow shirt and sun shade and the sheep arrayed, butts inward, around me, I imagined we looked, from a distance, like a big daisy.
A long black car rolled down the road and around the circular drive in front of the castle. The right front door opened and a bald man with a long scarf got out. He strutted around the car and opened the opposite door for a woman wearing a large red hat which had to be readjusted immediately and held down with a white-gloved hand. Uh oh, new guests, I thought. That’s all Maisie needs today.
William Sinclair opened the big front doors and greeted the new arrivals as magnanimously as he had done for us five days ago. He extended a hand to the woman, who placed her own gloved one in it and … curtsied! Not simply a quick little bob, either. A full knee-to-the-pavement-meet-the-queen curtsy! The bald, bescarfed man bowed deeply and said something to William, who gestured toward the trunk of their car.
The new man lifted seven large suitcases out of the trunk. Seven. I would have loved to hear what William was saying as he picked up the first two and headed for the door. The red-hatted woman, the wife, I assumed, posed on the front steps while the man took her picture. Then she took one of him with his hand on the brass doorknob.
Lettie pulled into the parking lot in her tiny little rented Nissan Micra, a car so small they don’t even market it in the U.S. I did worry about her driving that car around Inverness and the winding road between here and there. She had already had two accidents that she admitted to, and I feared there would be more. Lettie saw me as soon as she popped out, and she yelled, “Come on, I’ve got stuff to show you!”
Chapter Seven
Lettie failed to see the significance of the gold coin I’d found. She listened to my story politely, stifling a closed-mouth yawn that made her eyes water.
“That’s nice, Dotsy. Do you think they’ll let you keep it? I have a gold coin my grandfather gave me. I had it made into a pendant and sometimes I wear it with—”
“You’re missing the point, Lettie! This has nothing to do with jewelry or the price of gold. This has to do with the fact that it was there, beside an eleventh-century wall. In undisturbed soil.” How could I possibly make her understand? “Look. There were no coins, gold or otherwise, minted in Scotland before the reign of David the first, in the twelfth century.”
“What did they use for money?”
“Nothing! They used the barter system. You know, one chicken for a sack of wool. They traded stuff.”
“Oh.” Lettie looked at me as if to say, “You don’t have to bite w1y head off.”
“Sorry, Lettie, I’m just trying to explain why this find is so important. In the eleventh century, when that coin was left there, this part of Scotland was practically no-man’s-land. There were Vikings to the north, Picts and Scots were scattered around, but Scotland was hardly a country yet. Not like we think of a country, anyway. Few of them could read or write, so we know very little about them. That’s why this dig is important.” I paused for breath. “Where was that coin from, and why was it there?”
“I see,” she said, but I don’t think she did.
* * * * *
John Sinclair had apparently recovered from whatever had been ailing him. I found him at the sideboard in the anteroom where we always had cocktails before dinner. He gave me a cheerful nod and lowered his tumbler of straight Scotch as he waved me over. “My girl, my girl! What can I say?” He hugged me, transferring his glass to his other hand before doing so, thank goodness, because a large schlopp of whisky flew out and onto the floor.
“Have you seen it yet?” I asked.
“Of course. Tony? Everyone? May I have your attention, please?” John put his glass down and raised both hands. “I have an announcement. Whether it’s beginner’s luck, or talent, or serendipity, or whatever, Dotsy Lamb has discovered a gold coin at our dig site that may turn everything we thought we knew about the Scottish Highlands in the eleventh century upside down.”
I heard some applause and blushed modestly. John was exaggerating a tad, but archaeologists and paleontologists are, as a breed, addicted to hyperbole.
“I haven’t had a chance to study it sufficiently, and I don’t claim to be an expert numismatist,” he continued, “but I’ve determined that the coin is Byzantine and that it was minte
d somewhere around 1050 a.d.”
“Good,” said Brian Lipscomb. “With all that gold, you can buy the next round, Dotsy.”
The Sinclairs used an honor system for drinks. Spirits, mixers and a couple of wines were put out in a silver tray on the old oak sideboard each evening so we could serve ourselves. We were supposed to write our names and our consumption on the tablet of lined paper they left beside the tray. Maisie always put a stack of paper cocktail napkins on each end of the sideboard and in several other spots around the room, but some people, most notably John Sinclair, dripped all over the wood, anyway.
I fixed myself a gin and tonic.
It was an oddly uncomfortable time, and I wished we could get on with our dinner. Tony Marsh, standing by the wall, had been excluded from the limelight. It seemed inappropriate for any of us to be laughing and applauding with poor Froggy in the morgue, barely cold, and then there were the new people, introduced to us by William as Alf and Eleanor Downes of Houston, Texas. They knew nothing about any of this.
The Downeses were way overdressed; he, in a tuxedo, and she, in a long black sequined job that looked as if it weighed a ton. Eleanor’s champagne-beige hair was anchored on top with a large jeweled comb that, if it had been any bigger, could have qualified as a tiara.
After William’s introduction, Alf Downes held up his glass and thanked “Lord William” for his kindness and hospitality.
/font>Lord William? It seemed to me that we all developed a sudden interest in our feet. Anything to avoid making eye contact lest someone crack a smile and break the rest of us out in laughter. William pretended not to hear that, but then Eleanor came out with, “How long has Castle Dunlaggan been in your family, Your Lordship?”
“Eleanor, you flatter me, but I cannae lay claim to ‘yer lairdship.’ I’m just plain William.”
“Oh, but there you’re wrong,” said Alf Downes. “In Scotland, any male landowner can lay claim to the title of Lord, or, as you say, ‘Laird.’ ”
“We dinnae pay heed to such anymore,” William said.
“Are the police still here?” Amelia threw the question out to the group in general.
John answered, “They’ll probably be here until after dark, and they’ll be back tomorrow morning. They’ll be here several days.”
“Have Froggy’s parents arrived yet?” I asked.
“They have,” John said. “I met them in town this afternoon and brought them out to the MacBane house. They aren’t emotionally ready to come to the castle yet.”
“Certainly. I would imagine so.”
I turned to Amelia Lipscomb. “What about you, Amelia? You said, this morning, that you know his mother.”
Amelia pursed her lips and wiped the edge of her glass with her finger. “Yes, slightly.”
Slightly? I had gotten the impression they were good friends.
Lettie said, “Do the police have any leads yet? Who do they think did it?”
John, Tony, and William all seemed to wait for someone else to answer. Lettie has a gift for throwing stuff like that out when a room is dead quiet and the question can’t be ignored.
John said, “They can’t be convinced, as I am, that it was someone local. A simple robbery gone wrong.”
Tony added, “They’re concentrating on the students at the dig. They’re looking for a motive one or the other of them may have had.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” I said. “They all liked Froggy.”
“You’ve only known him four days, Dotsy,” said William. “I believe the police are concentrating on that roommate of his.”
I got a rush of irritation that made the back of my neck itch, but I held my tongue.
“Why?” someone asked.
“Froggy was wearing his roommate’s shirt when he was found,” said Tony. “Apparently he was stabbed several times in the chest with a knife, but there are no holes in the shirt.”
As we pondered that in silence, William changed the subject. “Alf, is this the first trip to the U.K. for you and Eleanor?”
“No, Your … sir. This is the—what did we say, dear?—eighth time we’ve visited your lovely sceptered isle.”
“I assume you like it here?”
“We’re royal watchers,” Eleanor said.
“You’re what?” This, or something similar, came from all Huf us. I entertained a couple of fleeting images of what a royal watcher might be. A person who is a member of royalty, but watches? Watches what? Maybe it’s a poker hand that beats a straight watcher.
“Royal watchers,” Alf repeated. “We like to watch the royals, especially British royals. We have a Web site, www-dot-royalblood-dot-com. It’s our hobby.”
Silence.
At length, Fallon Sinclair spoke up. “Balmoral Castle is not too far from here.”
“Oh, indeed, and the royals are in residence there now. Eleanor and I have taken rooms in Braemar, near the castle, for four nights next week.”
Taken rooms? Taken rooms? Nobody has said “taken rooms” for the last fifty years!
Christine, the kitchen helper, stuck her head out the dining-room door and shouted, “Let’s eat and get it over with.”
Apparently she had recovered from her traumatic morning. This was normal Christine.
* * * * *
Lettie and I sat with John and Fallon Sinclair at dinner. Christine filled our water glasses while Maisie brought out our starters: a lovely vegetable pâté garnished with a sprig of lemon thyme, probably the herb I had seen her picking an hour ago.
Fallon held up her water glass. “Maisie, my glass isn’t clean.”
“I’ll get you another one.” Maisie left with Fallon’s glass.
“Oh, John! And William, too! Guess what?” Lettie bounced in her chair and turned to find William. He sat with Tony at a table next to ours. “I was looking for information on my father’s great, great—two greats, I think, but it might be three—grandmother, Flora Hynd, and her husband, Robert Hynd. So today I discovered that her maiden name was Sinclair. She was born Mary Flora Sinclair and she was born in Aviemore in eighteen twenty-one. Her parents were Hamish and Eliza Sinclair.”
Lettie put the back of her hand up beside her mouth. This was a unique little Lettie-gesture. It was as if she was telling a secret, but she always did it while talking in a normal voice.
“So, boys,” she said, “I might be related to you!”
“You’re definitely related to us,” said William. “Hamish Sinclair of Aviemore was our three-or-four-greats grandfather.”
Lettie’s eyes widened and she clapped her hands. “How amazing! I’m your American cousin! Wait. Wasn’t that the name of a play?”
Everyone in the dining room heard her exclamation, but I doubted any but the Americans among us would know that was the name of the play during which Lincoln was shot.
“Oh, but maybe you don’t want to be related to me,” Lettie continued. “If so, I won’t tell.”
John said, “I’m delighted to be a cousin of yours, Lettie, but I don’t know if you should be so gleeful. William, do you think it’s possible she’s inherited the family curse?”
“What family curse?” Lettie went rigid, bracing herself with both hands on the table. “What family curse?”
John shook his head. “I don’t know if we should tell you or not. You’re so happy now …”
I glanced toward William. He was biting his lip to keep from laughing.
Maisie and Christine brought out the entrées. My salmon looked wonderful, but Lettie turned sad when she saw her rabbit. Instead of the rabbit stew she was probably expecting, this was a whole hind quarter and rather rabbit-like in appearance.
“Do you suppose this is wild rabbit?” Lettie asked.
“Probably,” John said, and called across to the next table, “William, is this wild rabbit or did you buy them?”
“They’re our local rabbits. Trapped or shot personally by either me or Boots,” William answered. Boots, their ancient handyman cum hunter/f
orager, brought great volumes of plants and animals from the fields and forests nearby and stocked the castle larder with everything from fiddlehead ferns in the spring to rowan berries and deer in the fall.
I imagined Lettie was wondering if this was the bunny that had dashed across the road in front of our car the day we arrived. She sighed and shook her head, then dug in.
“You went to Oxford, didn’t you, John?” I asked.
“Is there any other place? Balliol, seventy-four,” John said in a loud voice. Balliol, I recalled, was one of the oldest colleges at Oxford University. He sat back and swallowed a gulp of his whisky.
Fallon rolled her eyes, “There is another place; they call it Cambridge. I went there, but in John’s book that makes me an illiterate.”
“What about William?” I asked. “Did he go to Oxford, too?”
John snorted. “William? At Oxford? No, no, no.” He paused. “No, William got the castle, and I got the education.”
I know William heard him, and it made me feel uncomfortable.
Christine interrupted us with a loud announcement. “I’m gettin’ the desserts ready now and I want to know if anybody wants theirs with no cream. It’s real cream, and it’s full of calories, so tell me if you don’t want any. I don’t want to ruin a nice raspberry tart with cream if you don’t want it, bein’s I’ve got barely enough tarts to go round!”
This was an annoying habit of Christine’s that Maisie apparently hadn’t been able to program out of her. Rather than softly inform diners about menu items, she would stand at the kitchen door and yell like a fifth grade teacher on a field trip bus. Maisie invariably cringed, and the rest of us lowered our heads in what might be either embarrassment or amusement.
* * * * *
I escorted the Downeses to the library after dinner, explaining along the way that this is where we always had coffee in the evenings. Our path took us through the Great Hall, the ancient and gloomy square tower, and down the somber ground floor hall of the west wing, straight out of Hound of the Baskervilles. Alf and Eleanor Downes, obviously enveloped in a mutual fantasy of another century, had to be prodded along.
Death of a Lovable Geek Page 5