The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  “You’d better let me carry my own bag,” I offered, after watching his first attempt to juggle both cases up the tightly-spiraled stairs. Even with one, it was a challenge, and I was glad to reach the top and wide hallway with a red, tiled floor. Josh pushed open one of a half dozen dark wood doors. “Your room, ma’am,” he said with an extravagant sweep of his hand.

  Inside, a four-poster bed draped with dark blue curtains stood against one wall. Heavy wood dressers and a massive armoire provided far more storage than my one carry-on held, and a red Persian carpet covered most of the uneven oak plank flooring. Threadbare blue curtains hung on either side of limestone-framed windows with thin, wavy glass, hazy with old age. The view Mrs. Dunsmore had promised was currently lost in the mist.

  Josh left to put his case in his room. I thought it was quaint that we were to be separated even though we shared an apartment in London. Knowing Josh, though, only his suitcase would spend the night next door.

  I shivered, cold in spite of a cast-iron radiator hissing and clanking under the window. The chill of hundreds of years of fog, rain, wind and snow was enmeshed in the walls, seeping up through the floor. Despite the lingering damp, I was entranced. I was staying in a medieval tower where soldiers had fended off the armies of their enemies, where noblemen and ladies had lived and slept. History swirled like smoke through the wooden beams in the high ceiling. I was disappointed when Josh came back in and clicked on a table lamp— candles would have been the perfect way to illuminate this ancient room. I was so glad now that we’d decided to take two days off work for our trip. It was Thursday, and we didn’t need to leave until Sunday, which meant I had plenty of time to explore the castle and the grounds.

  “So, what’s bothering your uncle?” I asked as I dug in my case for something more appropriate to the Scottish weather. All week, London had basked in the heat of a late Indian summer and, even at the crack of dawn this morning when we’d left Heathrow, there had been a hint of warmth in the air.

  Josh’s brow creased. “I’m not sure. He didn’t mention anything when I talked to him last week. I hope he’s not ill.”

  We were here for Fergus’s sixty-fifth birthday celebration, a party to be held on Saturday night. Apparently, many friends and family members were coming. I’d never met Fergus, but I knew that Josh and his uncle had always been very close.

  “Well, let’s go find out,” I suggested, shrugging on a long, grey cashmere cardigan and wrapping a matching silk scarf around my neck. Warm, but still presentable, I thought. We retraced our steps down to the travertine-paved landing and along the portrait gallery. After crossing the landing at the top of the grand staircase, we turned into another long corridor with deep green walls.

  A man emerged through a door at the end and hurried towards us, his heavy leather brogues hammering on the floor. “Josh, my boy!” he yelled. “It’s good to see you!”

  I stopped in mid-stride, horrified.

  I knew, from Josh’s description of him, that this was Uncle Fergus. He was tall and wide-shouldered with cropped silver hair that stuck up in spikes.

  But, above that hair, an aura hovered. The sight of it was like a kick to the stomach. Mrs. Dunsmore had intimated that something was wrong, but I hadn’t expected it to be anything life-threatening.

  I had no time to think before Fergus reached us and enveloped Josh in a bear hug. Although my boyfriend was tall, Fergus towered over him, and his hands on Josh’s back were massive. He finally stepped away and shook my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kate.” He had a faint Scottish accent, more like Josh’s than Mrs. Dunsmore’s. I remembered Josh saying his uncle had worked in Oxford until he inherited the estate ten years ago. I’d hoped for a kilt, but Fergus wore a heavy Shetland sweater and brown cord trousers tucked into thick woolen socks.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. MacKenna,” I said.

  “Call me Fergus. That’s what the boys call me. I’ve never been one for formalities and being called ‘uncle’ makes me feel old. Now, come with me. Mrs. Dunsmore has made her famous scones.”

  Soon we were settled in his office, which was in fact a comfortable den with wood paneling and tartan-covered sofas pulled up close to a log fire. What I first thought was a shaggy grey rug suddenly moved, and I realized it was a huge dog. Josh bent over and cupped its face in his hands, stroking the animal’s white beard. “Arbroath, you old mutt,” he murmured. “How are you doing, boy?”

  “Arbroath is a Scottish deerhound,” Fergus told me as I patted the dog’s coarse slate-colored coat and tried to avoid its long pink tongue.

  On the coffee table, a silver tray held fine china cups and platters of scones and smoked salmon sandwiches cut into delicate triangles. Fergus picked up the teapot. “I’ll be mother, shall I?”

  While Josh brought his uncle up to date on family news, I tuned out, contemplating that aura and what it meant. Nothing good, that was certain. When I saw that halo of moving air swirling over someone’s head, it meant that death could come soon, within a week or two at the most, unless I did something to avert it. Josh would be devastated when I told him.

  I focused again on the conversation, wondering if I could pick up any clues to the nature of the threat to Fergus’s life. Bad health seemed the most likely, yet he appeared to be strong and hearty.

  “I thought we’d give Kate a tour of the house once we’ve had our tea,” Fergus said. He turned his blue eyes on me. “If you’d like that? Josh told me you’re a history lover and a connoisseur of old buildings.”

  “I love looking at period architecture,” I replied. “But I’m just an amateur admirer and certainly no expert.”

  “She’s being modest,” Josh said. “Her knowledge far surpasses mine.”

  The two of us worked for an architectural firm in London. We’d joined at the same time four years ago, but Josh had made junior partner already, and he deserved it. My own career, however, had nearly come off the rails a couple of times since I’d started seeing the auras. They had proved to be a major distraction. My attempts to save people consumed both time and energy, and I’d taken more time off work than I should. My dad thought that my efforts to thwart death had become something of an obsession. I thought of it as a responsibility. Still, so far, I’d managed to hang on to my job and I intended to keep it that way.

  Mrs. Dunsmore’s scones were delicious. I was on my second one when Fergus drained the last of his tea and stood. “Shall we go? I thought we’d start with the south wing and work our way back here.”

  “Before we head off, I have a question,” Josh said. “Mrs. Dunsmore mentioned you’ve been worrying about something, but she wouldn’t say what it is. What’s going on?”

  Fergus raised his thick white brows. “She said that, did she?” he asked with a grin. “Well, you know my housekeeper. She’s easily agitated and quick to assume the worst. Now, let’s go show Kate the place.”

  Josh flicked a glance at me and shrugged. I was sure Mrs. Dunsmore wasn’t imagining things. Fergus’s aura provided ample evidence that something was amiss. Perhaps we could coax more out of him as we toured the castle. I needed to tell Josh about the aura, but that would have to wait until later, when we were alone.

  Away from the warmth of the fire, the corridor felt even colder than before, and I was glad of my cozy cardigan.

  “Our ancestor bought the castle in the early 1700s,” Fergus said. “He was a Scot by birth but he’d made his money as a sugar importer in Liverpool. He moved in here when he retired, first renovating the tower and the sixteenth-century hunting lodge and adding a mansion alongside. Subsequent generations expanded it further, so it’s a bit of a dog’s breakfast now, with its muddle of hallways and staircases. Still, it’s a grand old building.”

  “It is,” Josh agreed. “I love this place.”

  Fergus frowned, and I wondered what that meant, but he strode off, leading us along the green corridor, with the dog padding behind us. On the landing at the top of the grand staircase
, he stopped and opened a set of double doors to reveal a room the size of a football pitch, with a high, vaulted ceiling and twenty-foot-tall arched windows.

  “This is the Great Hall. When it’s clear, you can see the gardens and Loch Awe in the distance.”

  Even though the mist still hung outside, the room was bright and cheerful, with creamy white walls rising to the ceiling where hand-sawn wood beams were decorated with painted medallions of red, blue and gold. Vases of yellow flowers sat on dressers and coffee tables, while comfortable chairs strewn with tartan throws hugged an imposing carved limestone fireplace. At the far end of the Hall, across a wide parquet floor with geometric inlays, was another matching fireplace and more seating. The symmetry of the room was perfect.

  “It’s stunning,” I said, almost speechless with admiration. This was a marked contrast to the somber tones of the gallery and the tower bedrooms.

  “It was the first room I refurbished,” Fergus said. “When the sun shines, it’s like heaven in here. My favorite place.”

  Mrs. Dunsmore appeared at the door just then. “I’m sorry to disturb you. If you don’t mind vacating the Hall, sir, the volunteers are here to set up the tables and decorate for the party.”

  “No problem, Mrs. D.,” he replied. He led us from the Hall, lengthening his stride so I had to almost trot to keep up. He slowed to a more sedate pace through the gallery, where he and Josh pointed out some of the characters in their family tree.

  “That’s Rannulph the Black,” Fergus said. “A nasty piece of work, little more than a thug, although he called himself a warlord. He killed and pillaged for ten years before a rival clansman stabbed him to death.” He glared at the portrait. “But here, this is my namesake.” He jabbed a finger at a picture of a fierce man with a bristling mustache and a deep scar that ran from his left eye to his chin. “He fought and died for Bonnie Prince Charlie at the battle of Culloden in 1745.” He sighed. “That was a terrible time for Scotland.”

  This review of his history seemed to be making Fergus so despondent that I thought we should move on. Josh had noticed too and suggested we take a look downstairs. “It’s fun,” he told me. “A rabbit warren of kitchens, sculleries, laundry rooms and wine cellars. The castle used to have a staff of fifty. Not any more, of course.”

  We descended to the grand entrance hall, crossing the black and white tile floor under the stags’ fixed stare, to a narrow flight of stone stairs that wound down to the basement. Expecting a cramped, old-fashioned space with a spit turning in a fireplace, I was surprised to see an immense kitchen lined with stainless steel counters and state-of-the art cooktops and ovens. A young man in a chef’s coat and blue trousers chopped vegetables on a massive butcher block island in the center.

  Fergus introduced us and explained that Pierre was a classically-trained French chef.

  Pierre wiped his hands on his jacket to shake hands with us. “Enchanté,” he said.

  “And where’s Nick?” Fergus asked him.

  “In the meat locker, arranging supplies for the party.” The chef had a charming accent. “Shall I get him?”

  “No, no. We don’t want to disturb your preparations,” Fergus replied. “We’re having the trout for dinner tonight?”

  Pierre nodded. “Fresh from the loch this morning.”

  Fergus rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. We’ll get out of your way then.” He took a step and then turned back. “How’s it working out between you and Nick?”

  Pierre gave an expressive Gallic shrug. “He does as I ask. He is polite. We get the job done.”

  “I see.” Fergus hesitated as though intending to say more. Then he pressed his lips together and nodded.

  “I didn’t know you had a chef on staff,” Josh said once we were out of earshot. “And who’s Nick?”

  “Nick’s a local lad and a competent cook. He’s been here for a year, so he wasn’t happy when I brought in Pierre to run the kitchen. That was about four months ago. I thought things had settled but, obviously, I need to investigate further, to make sure Nick’s doing all right. His father is a local farmer. Nice family, nice kid.”

  “So why do you need a French chef?” Josh asked.

  “It’s a money-making venture,” Fergus said. “Gourmet dinners, cooking classes, that sort of thing. I’ll tell you more about it later on.”

  “But—” Josh started, and Fergus held up his hand to stop him. “All in good time. Let’s take a quick peek at the rest of the downstairs, and then you’ll probably want to clean up before dinner?”

  “I should take a shower and change,” I agreed. It had been a long day since our early taxi ride to the airport— but what I really needed was time alone with Josh. I dreaded having to tell him about his uncle’s aura.

  “Then we’ll meet in the living room for drinks in an hour or so,” Fergus said.

  “And perhaps then, you’ll tell me what’s worrying you,” Josh said.

  Fergus shook his head. “We’ll enjoy dinner first. Your cousin Duncan is coming in late this evening. When he arrives, I need to talk to you both. There are serious matters to discuss, I’m afraid.”

  2

  Back in my room, Josh sat and bounced on the four-poster bed. “Do you really need to shower? You look squeaky clean to me.” He patted the mattress. “We’ve got time before drinks and dinner…” He wiggled his eyebrows, which made me smile, although only for a moment. I had to tell him about the aura.

  “I don’t need to shower. What I needed is some time to talk to you.” Pulling at the sleeves of my cardigan, I lined up the cuffs to the exact same length. “I’m worried about Fergus. I don’t know him, but he seems a little down. Is he usually like that?”

  Josh leaned up against the pillows. “No. There’s obviously a problem. If he’d just say what it is, I’m sure we’ll be able to sort it out.”

  After kicking off my shoes, I sat on the bed, facing him. “There’s something else.” I said.

  “What?” His eyes widened when he saw the expression on my face. “Please don’t tell me—”

  “Yes,” I interrupted, wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible. “He has an aura.”

  Josh sat up straight and muttered a few expletives. I took his hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry.”

  I was. Auras distressed me at any time, even more so now, with Josh’s beloved uncle as the victim. “What do you think?” I asked. “This serious talk he wants to have later— perhaps he’s very ill? A health issue might be the reason for the aura.”

  “God, I hope not.” Josh swung his legs over the edge of the bed and leaned his elbows on his knees, chin in hand. “This sucks.”

  I scooted over to sit close to him. “I know. But maybe we can make a difference.”

  For once, my boyfriend’s habitual optimism seemed to have crumbled. “How? If he’s ill, we can’t make him better.”

  “We’ve saved people before,” I reminded him. “We just have to identify the source of the danger, and then… who knows? I realize that if he is sick, we may not be able to do anything, but the threat may not be that. We have to try, at least.”

  I stood up and walked to the window, staring out at the grey fog that blanketed the landscape. It was like looking at an aura, inscrutable, revealing nothing. I pressed my forehead to the cold glass. I’d first started seeing auras three years ago and had learned that it was sometimes possible to change the fate of the victims. Occasionally, it was as simple as cancelling a trip or rushing to an Accident and Emergency. Once or twice I’d prevented a murder from taking place. With an intervention of some kind, the victim didn’t die, and then the aura disappeared.

  Of course, it didn’t always work out that way. The muscles in my jaw clenched as I tried to suppress the memory of those I hadn’t been able to save. But they were always there, lingering at the fringes of my consciousness, pale wraiths hiding in dark corners.

  Behind me, Josh murmured to himself. I hurried over and wrapped my arm around his shoul
ders. When he turned his head to look at me, I put my fingers on his cheek and gazed into his troubled eyes, as light as blue-washed sea glass.

  “You’re sure?” he asked, but in a tone of resignation. He knew I was never wrong about auras. I’d never imagined seeing one that wasn’t really there.

  “I’m sorry, but yes.”

  “And how fast is it moving?”

  I hesitated before answering, not wanting to make things worse than they already were. “Fast,” I said finally.

  “Damn.” Josh buried his face in his hands. This thing I called an aura manifested as air swirling over someone’s head, like air rippling over hot asphalt. The faster the air moved, the more imminent the danger. Fergus’s aura was spiraling rapidly, which meant he might die within days.

  We sat in silence. There wasn’t much to say that would make Josh feel better. And I was wrestling with my own emotions. Anger, fear, anxiety— they all came bubbling up when I saw an aura over someone I knew. I’d learned through hard experience to ignore auras I saw over strangers on the street, on the Tube, in the supermarket. There’s no way to walk up to a man you don’t know and tell him he’s going to die very soon. Even close friends and relatives often reacted badly to my revelations. My dad didn’t want to discuss it at all. My friend, Anita, who was a doctor, had initially refused to listen to me, believing my visions were caused by a medical condition, probably in my brain. I’d even submitted to a battery of tests: MRIs, CT scans, bloodwork. Nothing unusual had showed up.

  “See, I’m perfectly normal,” I’d told her, with a laugh. She hadn’t smiled back.

  “I wish to God you couldn’t see these wretched things,” Josh said. It was unlike him to make that sort of negative comment, a sign of how worried he was for Fergus.

  “Me too.” I pulled one of his hands away from his face and gripped it firmly. “Believe me, if there was a way to stop them, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I wish I could roll back time. Things would be very different.”