The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  Finally, Fergus closed the codex and wrapped it in the handkerchief. “I’d be grateful if you’d talk to your contact at the British Museum as soon as possible,” he said to Alistair. “I won’t sleep easily until this is in a safe place, with people who know how to care for it.”

  “More than happy to.” Alistair jumped to his feet. “I’ll get to work on that at once, if you’ll excuse me?”

  “I think we should tell Inspector McMahon that we’ve found the codex,” I suggested when Alistair had gone. “It’s probably relevant to his murder investigation.”

  Fergus nodded. “Aye, it will be. Poor Duncan.”

  “What about Stanton Knox?” Josh asked. “Even if he wants to proceed, we won’t sell the castle to him, knowing what we do now.”

  “Absolutely not,” Fergus agreed, hugging the book to his chest. “That scheming Yank probably intended to put his own sorry little signature on one of these blank pages.”

  With his other hand, he patted the dog’s massive head. “Not on my watch, he won’t. Arbroath and I will see to that.”

  38

  Six weeks later, Josh and I sat with Fergus and Alistair Ross on a flat-topped rock overlooking the lochan. It was our second trip back to Scotland, this one a month after Duncan’s funeral, which had taken place on a cold, rainy day with a blustery wind that blew our black umbrellas inside out.

  Today, the rock was warm under my legs, and the lochan sparkled in the sunlight, even though it was late October and winter could roll in at any time. It had been Fergus’s idea to eat lunch by the water. We’d brought a rustic picnic of cheese sandwiches and apples, with bottles of locally brewed beer. A bird sang overhead, a light trilling that reminded me of summer.

  Fergus raised his beer in a toast. “To Duncan and to Nick,” he said. As he lifted his bottle to his lips, I saw the white scar on his neck, a reminder of Lucy’s assault with the carving knife. Memories of that attack, the fire, and the loss of Duncan and Nick flooded back, chilling my skin. But we were here today to try and put some of it behind us. Earlier, we’d stopped at the spot where Nick had died, and Fergus recited a lyrical Celtic poem that I had to admit I didn’t understand.

  “Is there any update on the investigations?” Alistair asked.

  Fergus took a swallow of his drink. “DCI McMahon told me that the preliminary hearings are scheduled for next month. Lucy’s still insisting she’s been wrongfully charged with murder, although of course she can’t deny the charge of assault.” He ran his fingers over the scar. “There were too many witnesses for her to get away with that one.”

  Although Lucy had told me, the day she fell through the east wing floor, that she’d killed Duncan, so far she was refusing to confess to McMahon, insisting that I was making it up and that she’d been in bed when Duncan was killed. Fortunately, McMahon had followed up on my observation about Duncan’s missing shoes. His men had searched every inch of the castle and had found them in a dusty cabinet in the old scullery in the east wing. Complete with bloody fingerprints, they were wrapped up in the cardigan she’d been wearing that night. The cardigan had blood stains on it and one button was missing. McMahon believed the prints were enough to convict her, despite her claims of innocence. Meanwhile, she was being held in a prison cell from which she’d sent me several letters, accusing me of betraying her, claiming that my recounting of the events of that Saturday night was pure fantasy.

  Josh had made me tear the letters up. “Don’t dwell on it,” he’d said. “You spoke to McMahon on her behalf and gave him her side of the story. You did what she asked you to do, but self-defense isn’t going to stand up in court, and she knows it.”

  Fergus shifted his weight on the rock. “Remy Delacroix, on the other hand, has agreed to plead guilty to Nick’s murder,” he continued. “He wants to serve his time in a French prison. It’s complicated, but McMahon is working on it.”

  “It’s too bad that McMahon can’t charge Knox with anything,” I said. “If it weren’t for him, Lucy might never have got involved. But he seems to be getting off scot-free, if you’ll forgive the Scot pun.”

  “His intentions were all bad,” Fergus agreed. “McMahon talked briefly about charging him with conspiracy to commit murder. But, while Lucy initially claimed Knox told her to get rid of Duncan, she keeps changing her testimony. It’s unlikely any charges against Knox will stick.”

  For a few minutes, we all sat in silence, finishing our sandwiches. I closed my eyes and turned my face up to the sun, feeling its warmth on my cheeks. I felt sad for Lucy and angry that Stanton Knox had dangled the twin stars of money and fame over her head. In all likelihood, she would be convicted and spend time in prison.

  A cloud passed over the sun, leaching the warmth from my skin. I sat up straight and packed the rubbish from our picnic into a small rucksack. Josh slid the straps on to his shoulders before jumping down from the rock, and we all walked together to the head of the lochan. When we passed the Brynjarr Stone, I paused to trail my fingers along the smooth black rock. I noticed that Alistair didn’t touch it. In fact, he gave the magical spire a wide berth. I thought I felt a faint vibration under my fingertips, but perhaps I imagined it.

  A light breeze ruffled the heather, carrying a scent of damp grass, as we walked the narrow trail that led to the remains of the former priory. I stepped off the path and led the way into the center of the rectangle of broken walls and scattered stones. There, I braced myself, waiting for the vision to appear. Alistair came to stand next to me and grasped my hand. “Anything?” he whispered.

  “Nothing.” No swirling mist, no monk in black robes, no blade glinting in the thin light. I was relieved not to have to endure the sight of the murder again, but disappointed too. For weeks, the vision had haunted my dreams as I replayed the images of the knife wielded by the monk, and like a grim parody, Lucy brandishing her knife and threatening Fergus.

  Today, the ruins were quiet.

  I crouched and ran my hand over the ground that had once been drenched with Agnes Fenton’s blood. From my bag, I lifted out a small posy of white carnations, a token of recognition for her courage, and laid it on the pristine grass. We could never know the whole truth of the story, but Alistair’s research strongly suggested that Agnes had died while trying to protect the codex from Hubert, the Frenchman who’d masqueraded as a monk with the objective of stealing the codex. No one knew how Agnes had discovered his intent, but when she attempted to rescue the book, he killed her. He was never caught and charged. He ran away, probably back to France, where the codex reappeared three years later. From there, the strange book had journeyed thousands of miles over hundreds of years.

  And now it was back home. I thought of the twist of fate that left it undiscovered in a secret drawer, lost when Fergus’s grandfather died suddenly without revealing its existence to anyone. If not for Lucy, it might have remained there for another eighty years. Or maybe Knox would have taken the castle apart, one piece of furniture at a time, until he found it.

  Alistair held out his hand to help me to my feet. “Agnes Fenton can rest in peace now,” he said. “The codex is in safe hands. Her part is done.”

  For the rest of the day, Mrs. Dunsmore and I cooked and baked, producing a feast worthy of a gathering of clan chiefs. Josh and I would fly home in the morning, so this was our last night at the castle for a while. At eight that evening, we gathered in the formal dining room. Alistair and Mrs. Dunsmore joined us, but Lachlan had requested a reprieve, saying he’d rather eat alone and read a book. Fergus poured champagne for everyone.

  “I have received a signed letter of intent for the purchase of the codex,” he said with a wide smile. We all knew that there had been something of a bidding war for the codex. Following an evaluation by the British Museum, Fergus had worked with Christie’s in London to catalogue and promote the book. There had been a huge response and, within a very short amount of time, a number of collectors, both individual and institutional, had submitted bids.


  “One of the bidders, an American, turned out to be representing Stanton Knox,” Fergus told us, as we sipped our champagne. “It seemed that even though Knox failed to buy the whole estate and the codex for just under four million pounds, he was determined enough to get the book that he put in a bid for thirteen million. That’s a million more than the bid I accepted. I just couldn’t bring myself to let the codex end up with Knox. The buyer is an English collector, and the good news is that he has agreed to loan the book to the British Museum for one year. The museum is planning a special exhibition, but first they’ll carry out an extensive analysis of the contents. They have access to advanced scanning and digitization technology, which preserves the integrity of the book. That’s what they told me anyway. I don’t really understand most of it. But the important thing is that the codex will be well looked after, and shared for a while with the public. After the special exhibit, the collector will be free to do with it whatever he wishes.”

  “To the codex,” Alistair toasted. We all clinked our glasses together.

  “Of course, that money means I can keep the estate and make all the necessary repairs.”

  Fergus was looking far younger than his sixty-five years, I thought. The prospect of saving his beloved castle had given him new energy.

  “I’ve already chosen a contractor to work with. It will take time but the old place will one day be restored to its former glory. We’re going to remodel the east wing too, and set it up as a small museum showcasing the history of the castle. Alistair has agreed to train the docents.”

  “It’s so exciting,” I said. “You can bring school groups through.”

  He nodded. “And, as long as Josh doesn’t mind my spending some of his inheritance, I’m planning to set up a foundation to provide scholarships for needy students in the area. Aethelwin possessed a prodigious mind, and he shared his knowledge by creating the codex. It seems right to honor him by encouraging learning and providing education opportunities for kids. What do you think of naming the foundation after Duncan?”

  We were silent for a moment, acknowledging that, in spite of the happy discovery of the codex, Nick and Duncan had been killed in its pursuit.

  “That’s a great idea,” Josh said finally.

  I squashed the first thought that popped into my head. Duncan wasn’t exactly the role model I’d choose for any child of my own. But I kept my mouth shut.

  “And I still want to talk to you two about that thing we discussed on the phone.” Fergus put down his fork. Earlier in the week, he’d rung Josh to say he wanted us to have some of the money from the codex sale. We’d refused, of course. The proceeds would save the estate, and that was sufficient reward for us.

  “Nothing to discuss,” Josh said.

  His uncle shook his head, picked up his fork and speared a piece of salmon. I guessed we hadn’t heard the last of it. Josh, I knew, still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that he was now next in line to inherit the estate, but we all hoped that would be far in the future. Fergus would live for many more years yet.

  Mrs. Dunsmore took a sip of her champagne, coughing when the bubbles tickled her mouth. “First time I’ve ever tasted the stuff. I think I’d like a drop of sherry better.” She put the flute down on the table. “I’m confused by one thing, though. Whatever happened to the Fabergé egg that Lucy was looking for?”

  “There never was an egg,” I explained. “That was Lucy’s smoke screen, intended to conceal her real search for the codex, and throw us off the scent. She almost succeeded. I was so distracted by the egg story that I really didn’t pay enough attention to the vision on the moor and the book.”

  She leaned over and patted my hand. “Well, it all worked out for the best. And that horrible Knox chappie doesn’t get to take away our lovely castle. That’s the important thing.”

  The following morning, I lifted my bag into the boot of the car and hurried around to get in the passenger seat. We were running a little late, and I was anxious not to miss our plane back to London. Our boss had approved a half-day off on Friday, and I had no intention of pushing my luck by inadvertently extending our trip. I shivered in the chilly mist that had gathered overnight and hoped it wouldn’t affect our flight.

  “Miss Kate!” Lachlan strode across the driveway, rifle in his arm. I was still amazed by the revelation that the dour and taciturn groundskeeper had seen the vision of Agnes Fenton being killed and was even more surprised that he was addressing me directly. I’d had the feeling he was going out of his way to avoid me this past weekend.

  Standing by the open car door, I waited for him to reach me. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  Eyes on his feet, he dug the point of his boot into the gravel, pushing the stones around to reveal the bare earth underneath. It seemed he couldn’t bring himself to look at me.

  “Lachlan?”

  He raised his eyes then, which were dark green, I noticed, matching the olive-colored field jacket he always wore.

  “I just want to thank ye, for saving the master’s life.”

  “Thank you, Lachlan,” I said, making an effort to hide my surprise that he was talking to me. “Did you ever, you know, see any sign that Fergus was in danger? Mr. Ross said you have the second sight.”

  Lachlan shook his head slowly. “Alistair’s imagination runs wild on occasion. I saw that vision of the murder at the priory, it’s true. And don’t ye go blethering about that to anyone. But predicting the future, seeing when someone’s going to die. That’s…”

  “Weird?”

  “Aye. Now get along. Ye’ll not be wanting to miss your flight to London.” He made it sound as though we were traveling direct to the underworld.

  Before I could answer, he turned on his heel and stalked off around the side of the house, disappearing into the swirling mist. After watching him go, I slid into the passenger seat, glad that Josh had the heat turned up.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. Lachlan was just saying goodbye.”

  Josh cast me a skeptical look. Lachlan rarely engaged in such mundane niceties of life. “And making it clear that he doesn’t hold with auras and all that.”

  Josh grinned as he pushed the gearstick into first. He paused, peering through the windscreen at the castle. “I, for one, am very happy you can see auras. Fergus might not be here—”

  When I put my hand on his, he stopped talking and turned his head to look at me.

  “Drive on, Macduff,” I teased. “We don’t want to miss our plane.”

  THE END

  Dedication

  For James, Madeleine and Charlotte

  With Love

  Acknowledgments

  With many thanks to my Scottish expert, Paul Mitchell, for all your help with geography and single malts.

  I am deeply grateful, as always, to Susan Garzon, Maryvonne Fent, Diana Corbett and Gillian Hobbs for reading and improving this book. Your insights and comments are invaluable. And I am especially grateful for the expert guidance of Julie Smith and Mittie Staininger. It’s such a pleasure working with you, thank you.

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  Also by Carrie Bedford

  NOBILISSIMA: A Novel of Imperial Rome

  The Kate Benedict Paranormal Mystery Series

  THE AURA

  DOUBLE BLIND

  THE FLORENTINE CYPHER

  About the Author

  Born and raised in England, Carrie Bedford is the author of the award-winning Aura series of mysteries, along with the Nobilissima histo
rical novels set in Ancient Rome. After a long career in Silicon Valley in California, she is now fully dedicated to writing fiction. She lives in Italy with her husband and their aging yellow Labrador.