The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  “That’s the lochan,” Josh said, spreading his arms wide as though to embrace the view. The water was slate grey, reflecting the iron sky and, beyond, rose a series of low hills covered with heather and gorse. “We should come up to see the heather blooming next year,” Josh said. “The colors are spectacular.”

  Maybe, but today the moors were dark and dull. Goosebumps prickled my skin. The vista of the vast empty space was somehow spectacular and disturbing at the same time.

  He pointed to the far end of the loch where, at its narrowest point, rose a spire of black rock. “That’s the Brynjarr Stone. They say it was once part of a small henge, and it’s reputed to have magical properties, but that’s just local superstition. Past that are miles of moorland with nowt but grouse and deer to keep ye company.”

  I smiled at the verbal reminder of his northern heritage. If he stayed long enough, he’d start sounding like Mrs. Dunsmore. He led the way down a winding path to the lochan, which lapped on a thin rim of beige sand. We found a flat rock at the edge of the water and settled there together. I was glad to feel the warmth and weight of his shoulder against mine and, for a while, we sat quietly, absorbing the scenery and the stillness. But when a breeze came up and ruffled the surface of the lochan, I thought of Fergus’s aura.

  “We need to talk about Fergus,” I said.

  Josh sighed. “I know, but I have no idea what to do. We believe he may have a medical condition, but how do I persuade him to make a doctor’s appointment?”

  “I’d say it’s impossible, at least for now. That American, Knox, is arriving today and then there’s the birthday party. There’s no way your uncle will take time to visit a doctor he doesn’t even know he needs.”

  We lapsed into silence again. A tenacious plant clung to the edge of the rock, and I leaned over to break off a tiny bell-shaped flower, running my finger over its soft, white petals.

  “Why did your Uncle Hamish will the estate to Fergus instead of Duncan?” I asked the question I’d started earlier in the day.

  Josh shifted, making himself comfortable. “Duncan studied law at Cambridge but, after he graduated, he changed his mind about his career and took a job with a trading firm in the City. Apparently, it had something of a dodgy reputation, and Uncle Hamish didn’t approve. My mum tried to patch things up between them, but that didn’t go anywhere. Duncan succeeded though, in his new profession, and made a lot of money, which I have to say infuriated Uncle Hamish even more. But what really got my uncle’s goat was that Duncan developed some very expensive spending habits.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “I don’t know all the details, but he bought a couple of flashy cars, started wearing custom-made suits and eating at ridiculously expensive restaurants. I heard he rented a private jet a few times too. It all added up quickly.”

  “So he didn’t trust Duncan with the estate?”

  “No. When Uncle Hamish found out he was dying, he changed his will to make his brother heir to the estate on condition that Fergus leaves it to Duncan after his death.”

  “Duncan must have been furious.”

  “He was. I thought he’d calmed down over the last few years, but now I’m not so sure. Not that he’d want to live in Scotland anyway. I don’t understand what he was going on about over breakfast. There’s no way he’d want to saddle himself with running a failing country estate. I don’t see him as the laird of the manor type, do you?”

  I smiled. “Not exactly. What about you? Aren’t you in line to inherit?”

  Josh laughed. “I suppose I am, after Duncan. He’s only eight years older than I am, though, and unlikely to kick the bucket any time soon. I’d probably be an octogenarian, and much good would it do me then. Besides, there won’t be an estate to inherit. The castle and land will be sold, Fergus will live on the proceeds and, if there’s anything left over, Duncan will almost certainly spend every penny he can get his hands on.”

  “Unless…” I stopped.

  Josh tilted his head to one side, his dark hair flopping into one eye. I reached out to smooth it away. “Unless what?” he prompted.

  “Unless Duncan tries to prevent the sale from happening. What if Fergus dies before the contracts are signed?”

  “You mean that Duncan is the threat to Fergus? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?”

  “Kate, please. I hope you’re joking.”

  “Well, yes, sort of. But we should consider the possibility that someone intends harm to Fergus. He said there had been threats, that people are unhappy.”

  Josh bit his bottom lip, a sign that he was thinking hard. “It’s possible. We should ask Fergus for the names of anyone who’s been making noise about the estate sale.”

  “Should we tell the police?” I asked. “That we’re concerned for Fergus’s safety?”

  “But tell them what? That always gets tricky.”

  It was true. It was hard to enlist the help of law enforcement when I couldn’t explain the real reason why I knew someone was in danger. In general, policemen and auras didn’t mix well. A London inspector on a case two years ago had suspected me of murder because I had warned him there would soon be another victim. When I came clean about the auras, he changed his mind. I wasn’t a killer, but I was insane.

  “Should we tell Fergus?”

  Josh pressed his fingers to his temples. “I don’t know. He’s quite open-minded, but he’s also very practical, very down-to-earth. I’m not sure how he’d react to your ability to see auras. Let me think about it before we say anything to him?”

  “Of course.” I didn’t relish the prospect of describing my bizarre gift, or of telling Fergus he might die in the very near future. I slid off the rock and went to the lochan’s edge. The water was clear and, in the shallows, I saw large round pebbles of different colors. As I leaned forward to examine them, something moved. I saw a flash of amber as it glided past. When I screamed and leapt backwards, Josh came running. He began to laugh. “It’s just a fish,” he said. “A brown trout to be precise.”

  “Well, I knew it wasn’t the Loch Ness monster,” I said, irritated that I’d overreacted. “It made me jump, that’s all.”

  Josh crouched down and dangled his fingers in the water. “When I was a kid, the groundskeeper, Lachlan, taught me to tickle the trout so we could catch them without a line and hook.” He sighed and stood up straight. I was beginning to realize how important Castle Aiten was to him.

  “Let’s walk to the end of the loch,” he said. “We can circle round to the house over the moors from there, without having to go back through the passage between the walls.”

  “Good idea,” I said, linking my fingers with his. When we passed by the Brynjarr Stone, I ran my hand over the smooth, black rock. My palm tingled, but perhaps it was just from the cold. Beyond the spire, the land opened up, moors stretching into the distance as far as I could see. Paths barely as wide as a sheep cut through the heather, so Josh let go of my hand and walked in front. We’d gone a short distance when I heard an engine and then the distinctive whump-whump of a helicopter blade. Seconds later, the chopper came into view and passed over us, flying low before disappearing over the roof of the castle.

  “That must be Knox,” Josh said. “We should head back.”

  The path led us past the walled vegetable garden and, as we rounded the corner of the house, we saw the helicopter, a glossy black shape crouched on the wide stretch of lawn near the front gates. We hurried to the house and into the entry hall to find a gaggle of people already there, including Fergus and Duncan. There was no sign of Lucy, and I remembered she’d planned to take a nap. Fergus introduced us to Knox, who was probably in his early thirties. He was skinny and of medium height, with light brown hair cropped short. In spite of the chill, he wore shorts, a short-sleeved T-shirt with his company logo emblazoned across the front, and flip-flops.

  “Call me Stanton, please,” he said, with an American drawl. “This is Anthony, my personal assistant an
d Maya, my lawyer.” The two people with him nodded at us.

  “And this is Robert Dunne, my legal counsel,” Fergus said. “He’ll be assisting us with the negotiations.”

  Dunne was white-haired and red-cheeked, his ample figure straining every seam on his navy-blue suit. He smiled, shaking everyone’s hand in turn.

  After the introductions were completed, we heard the helicopter engine rumbling in the distance. “Carl will take the 'copter to the airfield in Oban, so he can do some sightseeing there,” Knox said. “He’ll come back when I need him. I guess we can get started, right?”

  “I’ll catch up with you later,” Josh whispered to me, as he pulled off his wellingtons and coat. He put on his shoes and followed the group as they moved off to start the meeting. The aura still rotated over Fergus and, worse, it appeared to be moving more quickly. I wished I knew what threatened him. For now, I had nothing specific to do, and no one to do it with, so I decided to take another walk. Perhaps a little time alone in the fresh air would help me organize my thoughts and come up with a plan to save Josh’s uncle.

  5

  I walked back past the walled garden and took the path that circled around to the moors. The fog had drifted in again, softening the edges of the granite outcrop to my left. I kept my eyes on the track in front of me, watching my feet to make sure I didn’t trip over stones or roots in my cumbersome wellingtons.

  Lost in thoughts of Fergus and the estate, I didn’t see the man until he was an arm’s length away. I jumped, scared out of my wits by his sudden appearance. Tall, wide, and clad in green tweed, he wore a deerstalker hat jammed down over his broad forehead, revealing thick black eyebrows. His skin was tanned, which surprised me, given that I didn’t believe the sun ever shone in Scotland, and his chin was stubbled with grey hairs. More alarming than his stature and appearance was the rifle that he carried in one hand. The other held a dead rabbit by its feet.

  He eyed me suspiciously. “And who might you be?” he asked. I thought I could ask him the same question. He looked like a poacher to me, but I answered politely. “Kate Benedict. I’m a guest at the castle.”

  “Oh aye,” he said. “For the party.”

  He held out his hand as if to shake mine, but then remembered the rabbit. “Lachlan McDermott,” he said. “I’m the groundskeeper here.”

  So this was the man who’d taught Josh how to tickle trout. “Josh says you’ve been with the estate for a long time?” I said.

  He nodded. “Fifty years in December, or it would be if the place isn’t sold by then.” He drew his heavy brows together and glared at me as if the upcoming sale was my doing. “It’s a terrible thing, it is.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I can imagine that it will be hard on some people here if the sale goes through.”

  He snorted. “Hard? That would be the understatement of the century, lassie.”

  “Fergus said some people are quite angry, that there have even been threats?”

  “Nay,” he said. “Only a few drunks getting their knickers in a twist. There’s no one who’d harm the chief, except for…” He stopped. “Anyway, I have to get on.”

  “Except for whom?” I asked. I stepped closer to him. I knew it might be risky to talk to Lachlan about my concerns. He had to be on the list of potential threats, given his situation. But time was short, and I needed to gather information where I could. “If you’re aware of anything, please tell me. I’m worried for Fergus.”

  Lachlan narrowed his eyes at me and shifted the rifle across his arm. I stepped back, wary. For at least thirty seconds, he gazed at me but his eyes were unfocused as though he was actually looking past me. I shifted, uncomfortable with his scrutiny.

  “From London, aren’t you?” he said finally. He managed to make it sound like an insult.

  Feeling the need to establish my credentials, I responded tartly. “Yes. I’m Josh’s girlfriend.”

  His features relaxed. “I’ve known Josh since he was a bairn. He’s a good lad.” He glanced upwards at a sky that was invisible in the mist. “Mind how ye go,” he said. “And get to the house before the storm rolls in.”

  I looked up as well. How could he tell there’d be a storm?

  With that, he stepped off the path, trampled through the heather to get past me and headed off. I turned to watch him stride away, thinking he was an odd duck, hard to read. He seemed angry about the sale, but he’d denied that anyone seriously meant Fergus harm.

  Still mulling over our encounter, I trudged on through the drizzly fog, hands in my pockets to keep them warm. I’d walk for thirty minutes, I decided, and then head back and hope that lunch might be ready. The bracing air was making me hungry, and, besides, I wanted to tackle Mrs. Dunsmore next, to see if she could cast any light on potential troublemakers in the village.

  A few hundred meters further on, I noticed a number of tan-colored stones scattered across a stretch of rough grass. Curious, I stopped to look around and noticed the remains of a wall, an uneven line of blocks, like a row of broken teeth. Crossing the weed-strewn ground, I saw more rubble, a trail of broken rock and crumbling mortar. I bent to pick up a fragment and ran my fingers over the beige sandstone. It was the same material that had been used to construct the castle’s main building, unlike the ancient tower. That had been built centuries earlier with a different rock, a rough greenish-grey metamorphic stone.

  Clutching the fragment, I followed the line of the ruins, tracing the outline of a rectangle about fifteen meters long and ten meters wide. I wondered if it had been a barn or a crofter’s cottage, yet the quality of the stone made me think it was unlikely to have been a simple rustic structure. I’d have to ask Fergus whether there had ever been another house here.

  Was it my imagination or had the mist thickened? Although there was no breeze, the vapors swirled, obliterating my view of the moors beyond the ruins. It felt colder here too, a cold that sank into my bones, jabbing gelid needles into my skin. As I dropped the fragment and turned in the direction of the path, something flickered in the corner of my eye. A shape, dark in the murky gloom. It moved towards me. Transfixed, I waited as the black form approached and then breathed out when a deer appeared, a doe with soft brown eyes and black-tipped ears. She looked at me and I looked back, admiring her smooth coat, the color of milky coffee. My heart rate settled as we gazed at each other in silence. And then her ears twitched, and she leapt away, galloping into the mist as though being pursued.

  I squinted into the fog, wondering what had scared her. Perhaps it was nothing. Deer are notoriously skittish. Still, I shivered, feeling alone after the doe’s sudden disappearance. Stamping my feet to warm them, I pulled the hood up on my jacket, preparing to return to the castle. But just then, another dark silhouette loomed in the mist. I stood still, expecting to see a second deer. As the shadow moved closer, though, it took shape as a human figure, an auburn-haired woman, wearing an ankle-length leaf-green dress with a high waist. Her hair was piled up on top of her head with curly tendrils hanging at her cheeks. I thought her fashion style was a little unusual, but I’d seen weirder outfits on the streets of London. Maybe she was from the village.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  When she came closer, I saw that she was very pretty and quite young, probably no more than twenty. She was clutching a small book with a brown cover. I retreated, suddenly unsure. The air around her coiled and churned. My heart pounded against my ribs. With a glance behind her, she took another hurried step and, stretching out her arms, she thrust the book at me. As if of its own volition, my hand reached towards her, palm up, prepared to accept it.

  Behind her, in the eddying brume, an arched door appeared, framing the figure of a man in a black robe. His hair was tonsured and an iron crucifix swayed across his chest. In his bony white fingers, he gripped a knife, long and brutal with a sharp point. I watched, horrified, as he rushed forward. His footsteps were muffled on the grass, and the young woman didn't seem to realize he was almost upon her. I
shouted a warning that she made no sign of hearing. My knees turned to water when he arced the knife downward, thrusting the blade deep into the woman’s back. Her eyes opened wide and she crumpled to the ground. Blood drenched her green dress and puddled on the soil around her. Her auburn hair quivered like curled autumn leaves. The book fell from her hand, and the killer bent over her to retrieve it.

  I screamed, my whole body shaking. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t cooperate. I had frozen in place, and it was impossible to think clearly. Time seemed to stop.

  A second passed, or a minute, or an hour, I couldn’t tell. A flight of geese passed low overhead, their raucous calls bringing me to my senses. My eyes focused again. The woman still lay on the ground, the book inches from her fingers. The man continued to lean over her, reaching for it.

  And then they were gone.

  The shock forced me to my knees, and nausea cramped my stomach. Panicked, I struggled to regain control. It was an effort to clamber to my feet, to walk to the place where the woman had died. There was no evidence of the atrocity that had taken place there, no flattening of the heather, no blood on the soil. The arched door and stone wall had disappeared. It was as though the fog had absorbed them whole. As though they’d never been there.

  Sinking to the ground, I tried to rationalize what had happened, but found no plausible explanation other than one I was reluctant to accept. Giving into my weakened limbs, I lay down on the heather, which was soft and bouncy under my body. I felt I was floating six inches above the earth.

  My breathing gradually slowed, my heart stopped thudding, and some clarity returned to my brain. I’d seen a vision, obviously, but was it a reenactment of a murder already committed, or a premonition of a future crime? The man, I thought, must have been a monk. The woman’s dress had been more ambiguous, but I realized now that it wasn’t contemporary. My skin prickled from head to toe. I resisted the idea that I’d seen ghosts, spirits from the past, but the evidence was irrefutable. Or I was losing my mind and I had imagined the whole thing.