“What’s that?” I said, pointing to a large building to the south of the house.
“Stables. Not much left there now.”
“And this,” I said, pointing to a path that led from the stable and seemed to run under the house.
“Priest’s tunnel,” Grant replied. “One of several. That one went from the back of the cloakroom in the front hall to the stables.”
“Hunter’s full of tales about the days of the smugglers and the gaugers,” Patrick said. “This place must have been riddled with passages and hidey-holes. I can’t see your ancestors depriving themselves of a wee dram when needed.”
“There were a fair number,” Grant said. “Used to know them all when I was a kid. My brother and I played in them for hours on rainy days.”
Summer came in at that point, dressed in a pair of butter-soft, cream-colored jeans that clung to her pert little butt and an oversized sweater that looked suspiciously like one I’d seen Grant wearing earlier in the week. The rich shade of dark green served only to accentuate the rose gold hair that fell in loose waves around her shoulders.
She approached us and laid a hand on Grant’s arm. “Sorry to steal you away, but the window’s stuck open in my room. Could you come help me close it? Louisa’s busy in the kitchen, and it’s really cold up there.” Summer shivered delicately.
Grant opened the door, then followed her from the room, his hand lingering on the small of her back. It was a tiny gesture, but it spoke volumes.
“You wouldn’t be so bloody cold if you weren’t so skinny,” I muttered.
Patrick smirked. “The green-eyed monster rears its ugly head once more.”
“I’m not jealous,” I retorted more sharply than I intended. “It’s no business of mine what he gets up to in his own home, but I can tell you Rory won’t be happy to hear that the laird is having it off with his daughter.”
“Perhaps Grant thought you were keeping Rory too busy to notice,” Patrick offered mischievously. “Anyway, you can’t push Grant away and expect him to not look elsewhere. It doesn’t work that way.”
“Shut up. I’ve had enough of a day as it is. I was dragged down to the police station and formally interrogated by Michaelson in Stirling this lunchtime.”
“Why?”
“He wanted a wee chat with me about finding the murdered body of Bruce Penrose.”
“Penrose? Good God. You’re just a walking war zone, aren’t you?”
I filled Patrick in on the details.
“Cracked on the head with a guitar. Where was your friend Rory this morning?”
“You sound like the police,” I said stiffly. “Blame the victim, why don’t you.”
“If not Rory, who?”
“Simon Moye. He’s off vacationing somewhere with his family, and I’m betting it’s somewhere nearby. According to Michaelson, the note found on Penrose’s body said, ‘Broken hearts will never mend, a broken head the quicker end.’ A lyric Simon wrote with Rory back in the early days.”
“Is Michaelson looking for Simon?”
“He is now, but he’s still fixated on Rory. I have to go down to London tomorrow to sign some documents finalizing the trust setup. Thought I’d take the opportunity to stop at Ravenscourt while I’m there. Maybe someone there will know where Simon takes his vacation.” Not only that, it would give me a chance to look up Tina Doyle’s friend Jai Kapur and a chance to check on Patty and Ian. Maybe I could find something to help me make sense of this mess.
—
I helped for as long as I could, then left to head home and check on Trish. I wasn’t optimistic about her ability to cope by herself for too long. The weather had improved dramatically while we were inside. A warm breeze was blowing through the trees and the late-afternoon sun had moved below the hill line but was still casting a golden glow all around. I decided to have my first go at using the convertible. The instructions seemed straightforward enough, and as claimed, in less than seven seconds the top was folded away and Liam and I set off down the drive, the wind blowing in our ears.
We rumbled through the village, waving to Rev. Craig and Fiona coming out of the library. Past the Stag, with its new concrete footings for the expansion, and over the bridge to join the road out of town. Liam was enjoying himself to no end. I could almost see the smile on his doggy face, but suddenly he stiffened and began to bark at an object on the side of the road ahead of us. As we drew closer, I realized that it was a sheep trotting along with grim determination in the direction of the village.
I pulled to the opposite side of the road and Liam leapt from the car to greet Oscar, who had stopped with the look of someone who has reached his intended goal. He’d been bleating madly when Liam and I left earlier, but I never expected he’d manage to escape and follow us. It was actually rather sweet, but it did rather beg the question of how to get him home. He already looked exhausted. Funny how quickly I’d learned to recognize a tired sheep. My shepherding skills must be improving.
Spatial dynamics had never been my strong point, but even I could tell that one Mini Cooper convertible and one sheep did not an ideal match make. Sadly, Liam did not share my view. He nudged Oscar toward the back door of the car and looked at me expectantly. “No way,” I said. “This is a brand-new car.”
Liam gave a low growl in the back of his throat and looked back at me from beneath his lowered brow.
“Besides,” I argued, “Oscar will not be happy riding in a car. It is not a sheep’s natural habitat. See—” I opened the rear door, and Oscar peered in at the backseat without enthusiasm.
Liam gave a sharp bark, jumped into the back, and scrambled across the gearshift into the passenger seat. Oscar seemed to decide if it was good enough for Liam it was good enough for him and he followed suit, jumping easily into the back of the car. He settled himself on the backseat and rested his chin on the window ledge.
If anyone saw this I would never live it down. I slammed the back door in resignation and climbed in on the driver’s side. I looked back at Oscar and said, “Absolutely no release of bodily fluids of any kind. Do you hear me?”
He looked back at me with an expression that could only be described as condescending, and we set off for home, looking even more ludicrous than I felt. We were fine until we turned up the drive to the Glen. Too late I realized Cam and Hunter were standing outside the old stable. There was nothing for it but to brazen it out. I held my head high and gave a cheery wave as I zipped through the yard.
In the rearview mirror I could see Cam standing with his hands on his hips, and Hunter scratching his head before they both dissolved into hysterics.
Chapter 20
Back at the Haven I found Trish had all Ben’s files spread across the floor in the library. It looked like a tornado had moved through, but she assured me there was a method to the madness. I’d have to take her word for it.
“Oh, but I did get this done,” she said, waving an index card in my direction.
I’d written, Where is Simon Moye? and she’d scrawled Llandudno in green ink across the bottom.
“I’m sorry. Llandudno?”
“Aye, you were askin’ where Simon Moye was. I figured it was the bloke in the picture you’d attached. I found him on Facebook and then linked into ’is Twitter and Instagram.” Tina beamed. “Did I mention I’m a whiz with social media? It’s me second passion, after hairdressin’ like.”
“What makes you think he’s in Llandudno?”
“I don’t think, I know.” Trish confronted me, hands on hips, her painfully tweezed brows knit together in concentration. “See, I watched his tweets for a bit. He posted pics from several places today. One of him on a beach with some weird rocks stickin’ out of the water. Looked a bit like the place me gran used to take us in Wales when I was small. Then he posted a picture of the fish he had for lunch. Never have much patience with people who ’ave to photograph their food. I mean, for God’s sake, just get on and eat it.”
“There are a lot of be
aches in Wales,” I pointed out as patiently as I could. “And most of them look a lot like Llandudno.”
“Sure they do, but it’s the restaurant, you see. The restaurant had the most god-awful orange plastic tablecloths with huge purple flowers all over. You don’t forget a thing like that. I’d seen ’em before, see. At a place we used to eat along the shore. Used to be a basic chippy, but it’s gone all upmarket now. Website and everything. I checked and, sure enough, today’s special was branzino in tequila sauce.”
“Could be another restaurant with the same cloths,” I pointed out.
“Not bloody likely,” she said with a snort. “Those were enough to give you indigestion. But if you don’t believe me, here’s ’is latest tweet.”
Trish turned the phone around and displayed a picture of Simon Moye and a dark-haired woman boarding the Great Orme Tramway. “Only one of them, right?”
“In Llandudno,” I conceded. “Well done, you.” I’d have to be more careful in the future about what I left lying about the place, but already Trish had made herself invaluable.
With the Japanese arriving the day after tomorrow, I had no time to trail off to Wales in search of Simon Moye. After I’d scooted her out the door, I took a screen shot of the photo Trish found and sent it on to Michaelson. He’d get his people on it quickly, and hopefully we could find Simon and some answers. Preferably before Saturday.
—
I poured myself a drink and started to fix some dinner, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. I peered cautiously through the peephole, not wanting to throw the door wide to an unwanted press invasion, and I saw Rev. Craig standing on the doorstep.
“Hope this isn’t a bad time?” he said. “Fiona and I’ve been wading through the rest of the translations. Some really amazing tales in there from the village’s past. This is the last story, and we thought you should read this one yourself.”
“Great, come on in.” I needed a break from the contemporary Rebels, and the historic kind were just the ticket. I grabbed another glass and a bottle of Abbey Glen from the bar and poured the vicar a drink. Rev. Craig eagerly pulled up a chair and accepted a glass.
“Is this going to tell me what happened to Angus Fletcher?”
“Sadly no, but it will flesh out another village mystery.”
Rev. Craig sat at the kitchen table nursing his drink and waiting expectantly, so I drew out the paper and began to read.
Abi,
There are a number of pages missing between this section and the last. Sadly the story of Angus’ death is nowhere to be found. We did learn that in the years following Daniel’s death Jack Gordon’s son Russell returned to the region and the fight between the whisky runners and the government revenue men raged on. He earned himself the nickname Red Russell. I looked it up in some of my books. He was merciless and arrogant, continuing to wear his father’s red military vest. Not even attempting to hide his presence. He left a trail of bodies in his wake and he and his men were the scourge of the region.
The Fletcher boys and their supporters continued to fight the good fight as best they could. Fascinating stories to read when you have a chance. In the meantime, hope this section answers at least one of your questions.
Fiona
NOVEMBER 1814
Without your father, Cooper, it was as if a part of me was missing. I could feel his presence still, like the ghostly tingling of a limb that’s been lost in battle. His passing left a hole in all our lives, but yours and your mother’s especially.
Your father was a good man. It’s important you ken that in your heart and soul. All his life he was willing to sacrifice his own wants and needs for the good of his neighbors and friends. There is no sacrifice more honorable or more brave.
For years we suffered under the evils that Red Russell visited on this valley. We could’ve killed him many a time, your father and I, no doubt ye wondered why we dinnae. I can tell you it was sore tempting, but we would’ve hung for it—one or both of us. We hated Russell with a passion, but we loved our people more. And we had a responsibility to the village and the people that lived in it. We swore to each other when your grandfather died that we would continue his legacy as long as we had breath in our bodies. That meant swallowing our pride and putting the needs of the many ahead of the few. We provided for you and for your Mam. We cared for those who were injured running whisky for us and the families of those who lost their lives. It was a dangerous living we’d carved out for them and it was our job to provide for them as best we could.
But it was always your da and me. Together. When he was taken from us, things were never quite the same. No one else worked with me as Angus did. We could function without words, our thoughts and rhythms like one. With his loss I was bitter and angry. Visions of revenge haunted my mind by day and my dreams at night. I knew Russell was waiting, always waiting for the chance to have me. A chance I swore I’d never give him until that fateful day. When all is said and done, that passion that riles the blood and drives a man to kill is not possessions or land or money, it is the heartrending loss of kin. The pain that never heals. I sought vengeance on Russell not for the lost lands or the whisky he’d stolen, but for my father and for yours. Vengeance may be the Lord’s, but the Lord wasn’t punishing the evildoers. They just seemed to flourish. I could wait no longer. It was time for Russell to pay.
Your mother pleaded with me not to. She was sure I’d be killed. I waited enough time after your father’s death not to raise suspicion that there was a connection twixt the two events. But as I waited the venom in my heart grew stronger and more potent. The village kept their word to a man. The story of your father’s death and where he was laid to rest would go to the grave with every one of them. Russell could torment them all he liked. Their allegiance was to us.
Knowing that as I do, I see now that I was reckless. I was blinded by the fury that burned in my heart. The hideous injustice of it all. When the time was right I knew it. Russell had been seen in the area with his men, camped in their usual spot north of the village. They’d raided three stills earlier in the day, smashing the crocks after carting off what they wanted for themselves, and the men’d been drinking the spoils by the river all evening. They were heedless and brawling amongst themselves. Russell was alone in the camp. Smoking his pipe, wearing his father’s red vest as he always did. A tribute to the man that raised him and wrecked such horrors on our people. I lured him away and led him on a chase up into the hills. He was cocky as always. Sure of his own skills. Sure enough to not summon his men.
We fought with knives just as our fathers had done.
He was an unforgiving opponent, but my footing was sure. I knew the land far better. We each drew blood slashing at arms and legs. In the end Russell stumbled and I looked him in the eye and drove my knife into his heart, for Angus, for Daniel, for Cora, and for all the lives he and his father had ruined down the years. The scourge might not end, but tonight he would.
When the thundering in my ears stilled, my blood ran cold. I knew there would be hell to pay for this when the body was found. No one would be safe. I tried to move him, but I was hurt myself and losing blood fast. I made my way slowly down from the hills and met Billy Mann and his son on the path. Your mam had sent them after me.
Between us we managed to get the body back down to the village without being seen. We were doing our best to regroup after the fire that had torn through my barn by the river and destroyed one of our best copper stills. Billy and I were in the middle of rebuilding.
We buried Russell under the foundations and tried to move on, but it was a bleak few months. The British kept searching for Red Russell. They would show up in the village every few days and beat the life out of someone new, hoping to loosen our tongues. I had to live with the guilt of it every day. But as always man, woman and child, they remained silent and unwavering.
This is your legacy, Cooper. Your father’s legacy and your grandfather’s, too. Honor, loyalty, compassion. I tell you th
ese stories because they are not here to share them with you. I tell you even though I have not always done the right thing myself. I want you to learn from their example, not mine. To show you the importance of doing the right thing even when it is nae pleasing nor convenient. When you show honor and compassion you will earn the loyalty of your kin, your friends, and the men who work for you. Do these things and you will make your father proud and you will stand tall as a man among men.
“So the body by the Stag was Red Russell’s,” I said. “That explains the military buttons. Certainly a better burial than he deserved, but we still don’t know how or why Angus died. From the tone of the stories, I’d lay odds it wasn’t Brodie’s fault, but why was that section removed from the book? Or was the story never written down?”
“Interesting question. Either way it seems that the village kept the Fletcher boys’ secret from that day to this.”
“But how could that many people keep a secret without someone slipping up?”
“Loyalty,” Rev. Craig said with a smile. “Like respect, it’s hard-earned and, once won, virtually unbreakable. Don’t forget, Brodie was still playing Robin Hood to the villagers, keeping their ‘restitution’ beneath the floor in Angus’s croft. They owed him their lives and their livelihoods. That’s motivation enough.”
I saw Rev. Craig out, but couldn’t stop the word loyalty from echoing around in my head. Loyalty. A powerful emotion. Husbands, wives, lovers, friends. Was Simon Moye’s wife covering for him? Could he have been in Stirling this morning? I’d have to rely on Michaelson’s resources to track him down, but at least I could see what the guys at Ravenscourt had to say about their missing colleague.
Chapter 21
I wouldn’t win friends by hightailing it down to London for the day, but it was now T minus two to the Japanese incursion and preparations had reached a frenzied pace. I was secretly thrilled to get away from the frenzied activity. I caught the milk run from the airport in Edinburgh and was in London by nine-thirty. I stopped in at Ben’s solicitors and signed the necessary trust documents before making my way across town on the Tube to the far side of the city.
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