“Is that them?” I said, nodding to the couple pacing around the dig.
“I believe so. They told Siobhán they’d need to take photos and make some castings. Once they’re done she should be able to get on. Can’t be soon enough, as far as she’s concerned.”
Patrick stood up and extended a hand to Grant. “Thanks for agreeing to host this event at the Glen. It means a lot.”
“I’m doing this for Abi.” Grant frowned. “Next time, ask before you commit my distillery.”
Patrick had the grace to look awkward, but not for long. “We’ll need to go over some details when you have time.”
“Aye, well, Louisa’s getting some fresh salmon in from the ghillies on Saturday,” Grant said. “Come for dinner, both of you, and we can talk.”
“That’d be great,” I said. The housekeeper at the MacEwen estate was one of the best cooks in the region and a lovely young woman. Dinner would be a treat, and a chance to show that I don’t always look like a mud-covered child.
Grant walked off in the direction of the High Street and both of us watched the movement of his hips in appreciation. I gave Patrick a backhanded slap on the arm. He winced. “Hey! He may be on your team, but you can’t stop me from admiring the talent.”
“Just get me what you can on Rory as soon as you can.”
We finished lunch and Patrick headed out to do the hour-long drive back to Edinburgh. I should’ve headed straight home to do some background prep for the show tomorrow, but my head was whirling with all I’d taken on in the past twenty-four hours. Opening the doors of the Glen to a group of foreign competitors, setting up the Bennett Logan Memorial Trust, shepherding a small flock of jumpers on the hoof, and last but certainly not least, finding out who was knocking off the Rebels one by one.
I looked across the village green at the solid angular face of St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, and in spite of having no appreciable spiritual leanings, I found myself inexorably drawn to the open door. Liam and I stepped into its cool, dark interior and stood there for a moment as I waited for my eyes to adjust.
The Norman church was simple yet elegant, and the light coming through the stained-glass window at the far end of the nave cast jeweled tones on the walls around us. The pews were made of meticulously carved solid maple, each end cap adorned with a cross entwined with climbing roses.
One of Floss’s tidbits of news from yesterday was the arrival of a new minister. The last one, a fusty old bird named Wharton, had retired shortly after the unpleasantness following Ben’s death. The new chap was a real breath of fresh air, according to Floss. I was curious to see what that meant. We made our way up the side aisle toward the altar, the clicking of Liam’s claws echoing through the silent space.
“Hello there.” A voice reverberated from the transept and a man appeared, carrying a flashlight and a bag of tools. “Craig Andersen,” he said, tucking the flashlight under his arm and extending a hand. “But I’m fine with Reverend Craig or just Craig.”
I introduced myself and tried not to appear too surprised. Our new vicar looked to be in his late thirties at best. His hairline was beginning to recede ever so slightly, but he was trim and the bounce in his step gave the impression that he was bursting with barely repressed energy. Dressed in an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt, he looked more like a handyman than a man of the cloth.
“I’ve heard tales of our wandering sheep,” Rev. Craig said with a smile. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, both of you.” He leaned down to greet Liam with a scratch under the chin.
Definitely a welcome change of pace, but I wondered how the flock felt about this new laid-back approach to clerical relations.
“I was just passing by,” I said lamely. I couldn’t say why I’d come in. Perhaps I was simply seeking a balm for the tumult of thoughts ricocheting around in my head.
Rev. Craig smiled at me softly. “We welcome all wanderers.”
“What’s with the crowbar?” I asked.
He colored slightly. “I’d like to say I’m doing some repairs on the church, but truth be told, I’m knocking the place about a bit. I’m a history buff, you see, and one of the things I’ve learned since I arrived is that Balfour and St. Jude’s were once part of the valley’s thriving web of smugglers.” An undisguised enthusiasm resonated in his voice. “The construction at the Stag unearthed part of a tunnel that leads toward the church.” Rev. Craig looked like a kid confronting the Chocolate Bar for the first time.
“Why would the church need a tunnel?”
“In the dark days following the failed Jacobite rebellion in 1745, the villagers relied on illicit distilling and smuggling to keep food on their tables. The churches in the area generally turned a blind eye to such activities, but St. Jude was more complicit than most. My predecessor was known to drape the cross in the yard with red cloth when the king’s gaugers were spotted in the hills. It was a signal for all to lie low.”
“Gaugers?”
“Revenuers sent in by the British to collect unpaid taxes and ferret out illicit stills.”
I was well familiar with the caves and tunnels above Balfour that served as hiding places for illicit distilling. I tried not to shudder remembering the small, dank hole back in the hills where I’d been left to die, but I had to admit I was fascinated by tales of the smugglers. As Patrick said, secrets would abound in the village given its lineage. “And you think the tunnel started here?” I asked.
“I know many a barrel of whisky was transited through the church. Now, based on the opening across the green by the Stag, I think I’ve found what I’m looking for.” His blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.
“Can I get a look?” I asked.
“By all means, come on back.”
Liam and I followed the vicar past the altar into the chancel, where a shop light illuminated the stone wall on the left-hand side.
“It was easy enough to find the trigger once I knew where to look, but after all these years the stones are a bit recalcitrant.” Rev. Craig slipped the crowbar into a narrow crack between two of the largest stones, muscles straining as he exerted force on the massive old slabs. After several attempts, a grinding noise echoed through the church as a small section of the wall recessed slightly before sliding off to the side, revealing an opening just large enough for a grown man to pass through.
Chapter 5
I felt a thrill run through me like a treasure hunter finding a buried chest. I stepped closer, peering into the dark space behind the wall, and was met with an icy draft that blew through the opening and made me shiver with cold as well as anticipation. “Wouldn’t have done to have been large back then, would it?” I noted.
Rev. Craig brushed stone dust from his clothes and watched it settle like snow on the floor around him. “Our eighteenth-century brethren tended to be a bit smaller.”
“If smuggling was so prevalent, do you think the remains they unearthed this morning could be the bones of a murdered whisky runner?”
“It’s certainly possible, but we may never know unless he was buried with something that might help to identify him.”
The remains at the Stag had been driven from my mind by the intervening events, but now my thoughts turned back to village legends Brodie and Angus Fletcher. The brothers were two of the most infamous whisky runners in Scotland, and founders of the local distilleries that eventually became Abbey Glen. Brodie operated a still that was hidden in a barn down by the river roughly on the site of the present-day Stag. One night the barn mysteriously burned to the ground, taking the still and the whisky with it. The fire could be seen for miles around. As the locals tell the tale, Brodie publically blamed Angus for setting the fire. Angus denied the accusation, but Brodie was bitter and sought revenge. One week later he followed Angus up into the hills where Angus had his own competing still. Brodie returned the next morning, but Angus was never seen again. No body, no conviction, and Brodie managed to escape the hangman’s noose.
Could the
remains at the Stag be those of Angus Fletcher after all these years? Did Brodie murder his brother, then bury him in the ashes of the barn as an act of revenge?
Rev. Craig pulled the shop light down from the wall and I peered over his shoulder as he shone it into the empty space. Liam nosed his way in first on the scent of some small rodent. Rev. Craig followed close behind, with me bringing up the rear. We emerged into a claustrophobia-inducing rectangular room roughly five feet by eight. Cobwebs dripped from the ceiling in long sticky strands and our feet left scuff marks in the thick dust on the floor. It looked as if no one had set foot here in decades.
The room was empty except for a stone cross above an ornately carved granite plaque. Rev. Craig took out a handkerchief and rubbed the dust and grime from the face of the carving, revealing:
Angus Fletcher
Husband, father and beloved brother
1777–1814
Nae forgotten
“Is that the Angus Fletcher of the Fletcher brothers?” I asked. “Or would it be the boys’ father?”
“Dates wouldn’t be right for their father,” Rev. Craig replied. “And his name was Daniel, not Angus.”
I reached out and traced the name on the plaque with the tips of my fingers. “I don’t understand,” I said, genuinely perplexed. “I was told over and over again that Angus’s body was never found. I used the legend as a bit of local color when I put together the Photographic History of Abbey Glen.”
“Looks like you may have to update that section.”
“No body,” I mused, “that was what saved Brodie Fletcher from the noose. Why would Angus’ve been interred here and not placed in the churchyard if they eventually found his remains?” It made no sense. Surely his family would have insisted, or were they hiding a deeper secret here beside the church?
Now, in the space of twenty-four hours, two bodies had been discovered lying at either end of a smuggler’s tunnel. One that was supposed to have been missing and one that was clearly not meant to have been found. Was there a connection between them, or was it merely a coincidence?
I never bet on coincidence. There was something more to this story than met the eye. Something that needed investigating…when I could spare the time.
Rev. Craig turned his attention to the steep flight of stairs descending from the back corner of the room.
“Be careful,” I said, nudging Liam ahead of me into the dark hole.
“It’s in remarkably good shape considering it must be nigh on three hundred years old.” Craig’s voice echoed back in the tight quarters.
The tunnel we emerged into was narrow, but it had a hard sandy floor and the sides and ceilings were supported with brick and wooden crossbeams. It was a structure built to last. We continued down the passageway until we could see a dim light penetrating the darkness ahead from a small hole in the rubble that led out to the hole at the Stag where the bones had been found. The backhoe had disturbed the integrity of the tunnel’s framework and there was now a pile of dirt and rock blocking our forward movement.
We couldn’t fit through the hole, but Liam could. He was not happy in the dusty underground tunnel. Too many memories of our last underground adventure, no doubt. Before I could stop him he’d wriggled his way out into the muddy pit and was excitedly sniffing around the bones.
“Damn dog. Sorry, Reverend,” I said, putting a hand to my mouth. “I’ll have to go.” Rev. Craig gave a cheery wave and moved aside to allow me to race back out of the tunnel, through the nave, and across the green to reclaim Liam. Mercifully the site was being attended to by a young man in a University of Glasgow sweatshirt. He grabbed Liam by the collar and looked around expectantly.
“I am so sorry,” I said, clipping the leash back on Liam’s collar. “Bad boy,” I added, thinking it was probably expected.
“ ’S alright. The bones are gone. The paleoanthro department took them already, but they’re letting us archaeology folks sniff around a bit.”
“Wouldn’t think this would be a prime site from an archaeological perspective.”
“That’s why they’re letting a grad student poke about. Good practice, though. I’m just sifting through to see if there are any other items of interest.”
“Found anything?”
“Not much. Couple of bits and pieces.” He held out a plastic bag with two round brass buttons in it. The buttons were stamped with a military crest. “Standard British military issue. Looks like they came from a fusilier’s waistcoat.”
“Why would they be here?”
“Plenty of British soldiers in these parts. Some here to stamp out the rebels, others here to hunt the smugglers. No doubt more than a few passed this way.”
“I’d love to find out what else you learn,” I said. “I’ve been exploring a little local history myself.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. Here’s a card for our department. Shoot me your email address and I’ll see what I can let you have.”
I thanked the young man and left him to his work, bundling Liam into the car and beating a hasty retreat before either of us could land ourselves into yet more trouble.
—
Back in the relative quiet of the Haven, the concert tomorrow loomed large in my mind. Finding a killer in a crowd that size would be like finding a Tory in Brixton and I could feel a sense of panic taking over. What if I ended up filming Rory’s demise, not his comeback? The thought made my blood run cold. I decided to do some prep.
With no resources to speak of except Patrick, it didn’t make sense to try to tackle Rory’s entire list of suspects. I’d leave that to the police. My focus would have to be on the highlighted names. The people that hated Mickey the most. Former manager Bruce Penrose, ex-wife Tina Doyle, and the man with the big question mark Simon Moye.
I searched my emails for the backstage pass list Rory had promised and found nothing. I wasn’t sure if my thoughts of him somehow resonated across the psychic plain, or whether it was just chance, but the next thing I knew there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find the man himself on my front step, his Mustang parked next to Hope. If cars could swoon, she was. I knew how she felt. I opened the door wider and gestured inside.
“I have the pass list you wanted,” he said.
“Thanks.” I scanned the sheet. There were more than fifty names on the backstage access roster. It looked like it was going to be chaotic behind the scenes, and that certainly wouldn’t make my job any easier, or the police’s. But Rory was right, if someone was targeting the reclusive “Mickey Dawson,” this event would be too tempting to miss.
“Can I get you a drink?” I offered.
“Wouldn’t say no to an Abbey Glen fresh from the cask.”
I poured us both a drink, then joined Rory at the kitchen table scanning the list of names and birth dates. “A lot of young people on here.”
“Rock and roll is a game for the young,” he said, tilting his glass in my direction.
I struggled with the idea of trying to make contact with all these people. It was too many to work with. “No offense, but I can’t imagine the under-thirty crowd remembers much about the Rebels, nor are they likely to have been nursing a grudge for over fifteen years.”
“True enough,” Rory conceded. “If you take the under-thirties away, what do you have left?”
I did a quick scan. “Looks like less than a dozen, including Tina Doyle and Simon Moye.”
Rory moved closer and looked over my shoulder. I felt an inconvenient warmth spread up my body. Could he tell? Was he toying with me or was he oblivious to his continued appeal?
“I know most of these folks,” he went on. “Patty Waters is Ian’s wife. These guys are senior tech and video crew,” he said, gesturing to a group of six names. “Shouldn’t have an issue with any of them, but I’ll make sure you get to meet them all.”
“No sign of Bruce Penrose.”
“Doubt he has the connections to get passes anymore.”
Rory finished his drink and
I offered him a second. He seemed to have something on his mind. He could’ve easily emailed the pass list, and yet here he was beside me for a second time today. I didn’t kid myself that it was my magnetic personality.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked, giving him another double.
“That obvious?”
“You hired me for my observational skills,” I noted.
“That I did.” Rory took a contemplative swig of the drink in his hand. “It’s Summer. I invited her to come stay with me while the gallery’s being sorted. She’s arriving tomorrow, and now I’m worried I did the wrong thing.”
“Why?”
“It’s going to be bloody awkward. I mean, she’s twenty-six and we’ve never spent more than an hour or two together at a time. I have no parenting skills and no idea what to do with her.”
“From what I’ve seen, parenting seems to be something you kind of make up as you go along. You’ll figure it out, and the fact that she’s willing to come up here at all has to be a good sign.”
“Willing would be a stretch. It took some convincing from me and her godmother. But I want her away from London.”
“Are you sure she’ll be safer up here?” I said pointedly. “If someone’s really after you, bringing her to the Farm may be a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire, and I doubt that the gun in your hallway will be enough protection.”
“That’s the other thing that’s been worrying me. What if the police can’t catch this guy at the concert tomorrow? What if he’s still on the loose and now knows that I’m up here? It will put Summer at even greater risk.”
Rory looked suddenly older. The strain reflected in the crow’s-feet around his eyes and the tight compression of his lips. He was silent for a time before continuing. “I was only nineteen when me and her mother met. Bonnie was like me, a kid from a counsel estate. My talent helped me escape. She landed a few modeling gigs when she left school, but ended up working at Ravenscourt Studios as a scheduler.” Rory traced the edge of his glass with a fingertip callused from years of guitar playing. “When I found out she’d got knocked up I wanted to do the right thing, but the management at the record label went nuts. A baby didn’t fit the Mickey Dawson image they’d created, and there was no way they were going to let me screw up their big plans for the Rebels. They had Penrose step in and clean up the mess. Just like he always did.”
Death Distilled Page 5