A Sweet Life-kindle

by Andre, Bella

  ” Oh, by the way, Angela,” Logan said, “I also sent a few essays on ‘The Burning Day at Ravenscroft.’ Apparently, there was only one occasion in the history of the area when ‘witches’ were executed. I believe there were a few other scares, a few other accusations.”

  “I read about it all last night,” Angela said. “Very sad.”

  “Very sad, and yet a stand that did well for the area. In Ravenscroft, after the witchfinder was killed in retaliation by the son of the then laird, the people refused to succumb, and it’s impossible to have a scare or craze if people refused to be involved and accuse their neighbors. There’s a memorial in the old church graveyard to Laird Brian Montfort—the laird’s son who came back too late to save the condemned—but in plenty of time to avenge them. Due to the distant relationship of the witchfinder to King James, Brian fled to the New World and became lost to history. Gotta remember, the colonies were still under British control until the American Revolution, so he most probably took on a new name and disappeared the best he could. Oh, he was heart-broken as well—the love of his life was one of the women condemned and she died just as he reached the tor. Don’t forget—hanging and burning witches went on for more than a hundred years after what happened there. But, not in Ravenscroft.”

  “And there’s something more to it,” Angela said. “Logan, what was her name?”

  “The woman who died? Mary. Mary MacIntosh,” Logan told her.

  “It’s a sad and intriguing history,” Logan said. “But, it’s over. Angela, you and Jackson should head on out—and I’m sorry, I know that Conar and Jackson are old friends. But go to Edinburgh—head to the Orkneys. You’ll be back here in another week. Take some time now; you know that basically, man’s brutality to man never ends—and you’ll be after the next killer soon enough.”

  “Thanks, Logan,” Angela said.

  Jackson discussed a few other matters of business with Logan and they ended their video conversation.

  He looked at Angela and she realized that he didn’t believe it, either.

  “I’ve got to go to the station; I want to talk to Finley McConnaugh myself,” he said.

  “I’m ready when you are,” Angela told him. “I’ll let you do the talking to McConnaugh; I’m going to take a visit to the cemetery.”

  ***

  Finley McConnaugh sat in a cell in a jail jumpsuit. He looked clean and neat, well-fed and well-rested.

  “Mr. McConnaugh, I don’t understand,” Jackson said. He stood in the cell along with Conar Martin. “You say that you killed these women. Why?”

  “They were filled with evil and ego,” the man told him, nodding gravely. “They didn’t understand that it was love and kindness and youth—a breath of the fresh spring air—that made one a May Queen.”

  “Where did you meet up with the girls?” Jackson asked him.

  “The lasses were sashayin’ on the street,” McConnaugh told him.

  “And you killed Brenda and set her in the basement—and then killed Cindy and went through the elaborate trouble to set her on the stake?” Jackson asked.

  “Aye,” McConnaugh told him gravely. “If was fittin’.”

  “Where’s your mask?” Jackson asked.

  “Eh?”

  “The mask you used before the camera,” Jackson said.

  “I threw it away, of course. I thought I might not be done with it,” McConnaugh told him.

  Conar asked, “Mr. McConnaugh, where did you throw the mask? Where did you throw it?”

  Jackson looked at his friend; Conar was frowning. He seemed perplexed and ill at ease himself.

  “In a bonfire; the kids be lightin’ ‘em all down by the rocks,” McConnaugh said. “Don’t know where, exactly. Burned it.”

  “Mr. McConnaugh, why did you confess?” Jackson asked him.

  “Well, you had me,” McConnaugh said. “I was there, you know. At the museum. You had me, right?”

  Jackson didn’t answer. He motioned to Conar and they left the cell. Just outside the door to the jail area, Jackson asked, “Conar, was he forced to confess somehow?”

  “Jackson, what the bloody hell?” Conar demanded. “You think that I’d torture a suspect?”

  “No—but I don’t believe he did it; not with the way the bodies were posed and displayed. You didn’t ask him about the mask?”

  “Jackson, I got to the station and my officer told me that he wanted to confess. He poured out his confession—he told me that witch girls deserved to die. He was passionate—I believed him.”

  “Here’s another question—if he was so down on the pageant girls, why did he leave the receptionist alone. Elysse was part of the pageant, too. She was right there—for his taking.”

  “He told me he was going to kill her last; he was bright enough to realize that it would be noticed if the lass at the vestibule wasn’t there. Jackson, he’s sincere—you saw it.”

  “And we’ve both seen dozens of false confessions, though God knows why some men seem determined to make a name in history as a deranged killer.”

  “His confession was seen and recorded,” Conar said. “The mayor is under pressure and he has me under pressure. But, you’re right; we can’t just accept his confession.”

  “I need your permission to pursue this, Conar.”

  “You have more than my permission; you have my full cooperation,” Conar assured him.

  Jackson was glad to hear the words; he couldn’t believe the old friend who had been so diligent and determined just years before could have grown so lax—especially where lives were concerned.

  “I want to see Althea Toddy,” Jackson said. “And then, I’d like to visit the professors or whoever is in charge of the dig that Cindy Sweeney was working on.”

  “We can head to Mrs. Toddy’s school now,” Conar said. “Then I can take you out to the Viking dig.”

  ***

  The Presbyterian Church was at the foot of the green, the great square in the center of the village. A marker dated the structure back to the 1300s. It had been built as a Roman Catholic Church but had become the Reformed Church of Scotland during the bloody years of religious upheaval that had swept through the British Isles during the late medieval ages.

  The graveyard surrounding the stone edifice was a mixture of funerary styles that spanned centuries. Crooked stones lay in a jumble around fine tombs; simple markers stood next to elaborate angels. Time had grayed and faded most of the etching on the graves except there were newer plaques in bronze and metal that reminded a visitor that this graveyard still welcomed the recently deceased—yes, indeed, all men would die.

  It wasn’t at all difficult to find the memorial to Brian Montfort; even among the grander tombs, it was easily found in its place of honor near the rear of the low-walled graveyard. The memorial was an impressive equestrian statue. A knight on a great steed holding a sword and shield reared handsomely in life-sized marble. A plaque at the side of the first high pedestal on which it sat honored, Brian, Laird Montfort, who rid the land of the wicked witchfinder, Justin Stuart, a man born of ego and evil, and thru his act of bravery, saved many a life.

  There was a small paragraph beneath the platitudes, remembering those who died during Stuart’s five day reign of terror—Hamish, Laird Montfort, father of Brian, Genevieve Magruder, Ethan Grant, Lainie Bothwell, and Mary MacIntosh.

  Angela admired the monument; it was a nice acknowledgement. There could be no grand tombs for any of those honored; Brian had fled and died elsewhere and the victims had burned in the great conflagration on the tor.

  She turned from the graveyard by the centuries-old Presbyterian Church and looked toward the tor. It might be coming on May 1st with the promise of spring, but there were dark clouds raging over the tor—casting it into shadow again.

  She chaffed, turning to look down the street to the sheriff’s office, police station, and jail. She hadn’t cared about seeing the janitor because she just didn’t believe—no matter how the interview went—that M
cConnaugh had committed the crimes. And she wasn’t sure how going to the tor was going to help her.

  “Mrs. Crow!”

  For a moment, Angela didn’t really hear the summons; she hadn’t changed her name when they had married because Jackson was Agent Crow and she had remained Agent Hawkins. But it was only a matter of seconds before she realized that yes, someone was talking to her.

  She turned around and saw that Mayor Ragnor McPherson was coming toward her from the church. He walked with an easy stride and his expression was a mixture of gravity and welcome.

  “Mayor,” she said in acknowledgment.

  “Ragnor, please,” he told her. “We’re not very formal here.”

  “Ragnor, then, please, I’m Angela.”

  “Angela it shall be,” he said. “You heard, of course? We’re tremendously relieved. Such heinous crimes—and yet, thankfully, so quickly solved.”

  “Are you so certain?” she asked.

  His handsome face hardened in a frown. “What do you mean? The bugger admitted all last night—he was eager, so it seemed, to tell us of his deeds. Now, it is still weary on the soul to have lost such promising young women, but it’s a sincere relief to know that the culprit is in custody.”

  “Do you really believe that the man had the wits to manage the display?” Angela asked.

  “I know that he worked there and that he knew the place as few others might. And I have a law degree, Angela. I studied criminology as well as criminal law; it does not take much brilliance for a man to catch a young woman unaware and strangle the life from her.”

  “What has the doctor had to say—has autopsy proven sexual assault in any way?” she asked.

  Ragnor McPherson sucked in his breath and let it out. “We’ve not yet received the doctor’s full autopsy reports. But, I don’t understand your refusal to accept a full confession. We were incredibly lucky to have the killer succumb so quickly; there were no witnesses and as of yet, we have no evidence with which to work.”

  Angela decided not to mention that no one had really allowed the sheriff or his officers to question a number of people who should have been questioned—those who might have seen the young women last, those who might have known with whom they were spending time, where they had been, what they had been doing.

  “I’m sorry, Ragnor,” she said. “It seems strange to me that so much might be accepted so easily,” she said softly.

  “We don’t accept the loss easily. You mustn’t think that,” he told her. “But, I believe we all want more to justify death. It couldn’t have been a humble man, perhaps made crazy by his lack of success in life, by his circumstance. Or perhaps those who could do such things are born with something awry in their minds. We want mystery; we want to tear down great men or ideals. Jack the Ripper must have been an heir to the Crown—not a humble butcher or meat packer. Believe me, we will mourn our losses. But, as always, those left behind must survive. And tradition is how we survive. It’s not such a bad thing, is it?”

  “No, Ragnor. I didn’t mean that.”

  He nodded and looked up at the statue. He offered her something of a weak smile. “I see you’ve come to admire our local hero.”

  “It’s a magnificent statue,” she said.

  “For a man determined to defy the incredible superstition of his day; he was a hero. I love the story of the way that he rode in and triumphed—even though he did not ride in with time to save the condemned. At least, in loss, he changed what might have been in the future. Well, then, I will leave you to explore. And, I hope to see you at the service tonight.”

  “Of course,” she told him.

  He wasn’t wearing a hat; had he been doing so, he would have tipped it to her.

  “Well, then….” he murmured, his words and manner a little uncomfortable.

  “You must be so busy,” she said. “Please, go about your business.”

  “Of course. And I hope that you will not judge Ravenscroft by this; we are mostly good people, kind and welcoming.”

  “I believe that with my whole heart,” she assured him.

  He smiled, turned, and left at last.

  Angela glanced at her watch; Jackson was still not coming from the sheriff’s office. She started to call him but then hesitated; she saw a sign down the street for the doctor’s office.

  Determined, she started walking in that direction.

  Chapter 5

  “Distressed! Despairing and despondent!” Althea Toddy said dramatically. She was a woman of about forty or forty five, petite, and very pretty. Her mannerisms with her hands and her body were pure showmanship. “Two of my lasses, my lovely, lovely lasses! Such harsh cruelty to touch the beauty of the occasion. That wretched man—that wretched, wretched, beast of a man. I wish we remained a bit more barbaric—like you Americans. I wish we could hang him by the neck or fry him upon a chair—of shoot the bloody bastard!” she added.

  “We don’t necessarily execute killers in America, Mrs. Toddy,” Jackson told her, but he decided it wasn’t worth much of an argument. “I was hoping you could tell me a little more about the young ladies. Were they seeing boyfriends? When were they last with you?”

  “Well, you see, that was it,” Mrs. Toddy told him. “They missed rehearsal. And they had been giddy and laughing and seemed to have a secret between them. There’s a lovely dance before the final crowning of the May Queen, and the two of them suddenly seemed dis-interested. Oh, they gave me lip service, of course, the lovelies did so! But…once in a while, it seemed that they were trying to on up one another, and yet…they shared something. That I know. Some piece of gossip. And now, of course, it won’t be at all what it should be—there should be the five lasses—four ladies of the courts, and the Queen. Now, it shall all be quite off; we have but four girls and therefore a court of three when the Queen is crowned. Not at all what it should be.”

  “Yes, well, two young women are dead,” Jackson murmured.

  “I don’t understand why you’re asking me questions at all,” she told him. “I gave the sheriff all the information I could, which, of course, isn’t much—they missed rehearsal. Where they were when they happened upon that wretched man, I do not know. And one was an American. Is that your interest?” she asked him.

  The horror of the crime and justice are my interests, he thought.

  But that was something Mrs. Althea Toddy wasn’t going to understand. It was almost as if 56the two girls had been murdered just to mess up her aesthetic values.

  “Yes, one girl was an American,” he said.

  “Well, as I told Sheriff Martin, I last saw the both of them at the last rehearsal, day before yesterday. They did not show up yesterday morning as they were supposed to—I had quite decided to tell the judges that they were not to win. Well, I suppose that’s a moot point now,” she said.

  Jackson thanked her and decided to take his leave. He was tempted to tell her that she was sadly something completely un-aesthetic herself in a village where people tended to be polite and helpful, charming and welcoming.

  He kept that opinion to himself. He didn’t like her one bit.

  ***

  The village spread out from the central green or square. As one went in any direction, the homes became farther apart—the land became farm land. It was spring and lambs—like little dots of white clouds from a distance—seemed to blanket the green and mauve of the pastureland.

  The dig at the recently discovered Viking site was about a mile to the west from the center of town. It was beautifully lain out already—rope grids setting up areas, wooden plates and markers in place, work tents spread across the terrain of the low-lying valley.

  Jackson asked to see Ben Jameson, director of the site and head of archeology at the university. Cindy Sweeney had been working directly under him.

  Jameson was an older man. Several of his students or co-workers looked curiously at Jackson as he passed them by; he knew that his Native American heritage was clearly visible in his bone structure�
��probably his pitch dark hair as well. He nodded to them politely as he made his way to Jameson.

  “Sit, sit, please,” Professor Jameson told him. “I’ve heard that they caught the man; it was quick, of course. We heard about Cindy last night…and then first thing this morning, we received the call that her killer had been caught. It’s a relief—and yet…we’re all still reeling here. Cindy was a live wire, a beautiful girl. She was so in love with being in Scotland, so in love with tradition! She loved the stories here, the history. She was wonderful, honored to be working on a Viking dig. Time and weather of are the essence here, but I can tell you, we’ve all been shaken to the core.” He frowned suddenly. “I am deeply grateful, naturally, for your concern, Agent Crow, but I must admit that I’m surprised that the American FBI is involved—so quickly, at that.”

  “I happened to be here, on vacation,” Jackson explained.

  “We’re sincerely grateful here that you made the trip to offer your condolences,” Jameson said sincerely. There was a sheen of tears in his eyes; it seemed that emotion here for Cindy Sweeney was real.

  “Miss Sweeney was an American,” Jackson said. “But, forgive me, I didn’t come out just to offer condolences. I need to ask you some questions about Cindy if I may.”

  “I thought that—“

  “Yes, a very viable suspect is in custody,” Jackson said. “But there were two women murdered and while Cindy was a student, the other young woman—Brenda Ahearn—worked in a florist shop. They were both candidates for May Queen, obviously knew one another, and yet, I’d like to find out more that they shared.”

  The professor stared at him a little blankly and shook his head. “I didn’t know Brenda Ahearn, so I couldn’t say. As for Cindy,” he said, pausing, his voice husky, “she was hard working. Pleasant to everyone. She was young, of course, vibrant—she loved to enjoy a pint or two in town at the pubs. She was lovely and well liked.”

  “Was she seeing any of the local boys?”