The Burning Glass

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  “You’re not thinking that Wallace meant his remark as blackmail, are you?”

  “No, I’m not. He was just trying to get Ciara, and by extension himself, some respect. He must have thought there really was some sort of proof, a map or something, in the dungeon.” Jean fluttered her hand as though she could shoo the dank prison darkness away. “The point is, what if Minty took his remark as blackmail? That’s why she killed him. Derek’s testimony isn’t much of a threat to her, but Wallace’s would have been.”

  “Ahhh.” Alasdair leaned back against the bench.

  “What if I tell Minty that Gerald left a complete inventory of the jewelry and Wallace had it. That Wallace himself wrote out a full confession. Because, it doesn’t make any difference whether Exhibit P actually exists or not, so long as Minty thinks it does. Perception is reality. Is it ever.”

  “It matters to Ciara’s publisher whether there’s actually a map,” Alasdair pointed out. “I know, I know, that’s not the problem just now. What you’re suggesting is . . .”

  “Leaving the window in the Laigh Hall open and seeing if Minty climbs in, metaphorically speaking. In other words, I’ll blackmail her. I’ll tell her we’ve found Exhibit P, and if she doesn’t pay me, I’ll publish it. In the scummiest tabloid I can find to boot.” They’d come to the bottom line. Jean straightened, folded her hands in her lap, and said, “And with any luck, that will get her to come after me.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Alasdair sat up with a jolt and his face went askew, his studied expressionlessness ruptured by a tremor of emotion. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’ve got—how’d you put it? You’ve got no dog in this hunt.”

  “Sure I do. I have you.”

  “Jean!” He bounded to his feet so abruptly that Freeman looked around from his post by the gate. “Jean, no.”

  She stood up and tucked her hand beneath his arm. “If you or Delaney or any of the cops mention you’ve got Exhibit P, Minty would probably expect a trap. Same thing with Val or Derek. She might believe Roddy, but good luck getting him to cooperate. As for Ciara—well, she already tried to kill Ciara. Let’s leave Ciara out of this.”

  He watched her, shadows moving in the deep places of his eyes like leviathans in the sea.

  “But I’m a journalist. Everyone knows journalists are unethical, right? Maybe she’d think I’m stupid enough to try blackmailing her. If she doesn’t take the bait, we’re no worse off than we are now. If she does—”

  “You’d be putting yourself in danger. She knows you’ll not be drinking a cup of tea or the like with her. She’ll try something a lot less subtle.”

  “That’s just it. She’ll make an attack that isn’t circumstantial, that she can’t explain away.” Jean saw Minty slicing the eggplant, her knife flashing, and her mouth went dry. She swallowed what felt like glue. “Let Delaney ransack Glebe House and the school. Then he and his people can walk away. I’ll call Minty and tell her to meet me out here. You could hide twenty witnesses in the flat and the castle.”

  “She’ll wonder why Delaney’s giving up so easily.”

  “She’ll figure he’s giving up because she’s won. She’s used to winning, isn’t she?”

  Alasdair’s arm quivered like a tuning fork. “Why, Jean? Why are you after doing this? Justice? Or are you after proving something to me—especially after my threatening Derek?”

  She rested her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes, and breathed in his scent, wool, soap, an elusive salt-smoke like fine whiskey. The tickle of his sweater against her cheek was nothing compared to the friction of his personality against hers. Friction could be inspiring. It could create fire. Fire could warm you, or it could hurt. “All of the above,” she replied. “None of the above. I don’t know. It’s just—what needs to be done.”

  He took her hand in his and for several minutes said nothing. Then he pulled her into a walk, down the path to the chapel. “All right then. I’ll talk to Delaney. But Jean . . .”

  “If I get hurt you’ll kill me. Yeah, I know.”

  With a squeeze of her hand, Alasdair released her and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. She strolled on into the roofless nave of the chapel. There was the memorial to Henry Sinclair, ravaged by time. There was Isabel’s grave, ravaged by man. The carved stone pillars stood aloof, no longer resonating to plainchant and harp.

  She heard Alasdair’s voice. “You’ve got three choices. You can go ahead with charges and see what happens. Maybe you can push through to a trial. But if the jury returns a verdict of not guilty, and likely they will, there’s no trying her again. Or you can give up the case as a bad job and walk away, never mind Angus and Wallace. Or you can try Jean’s daft idea.”

  Silence, except for the ripple of the river and whisper of the trees. The dappled shadows seemed fluid, a mingling of elements. People came and went, buildings rose and fell, but water and wind and growing green things, they were eternal.

  “Oh aye, I’ll be taking a black eye from Protect and Survive if the case goes unresolved—give over, Gary, you think I’d be sacrificing my . . . my own . . .”

  He still didn’t know what to call her, did he?

  “Stage a diversion. Make your search and then call everyone away, as though after someone else. Let her think she can get herself to Ferniebank and back again with no one noticing.”

  Jean considered the ancient well, Mary’s well, Mary the Queen of heaven, Mary the Queen of Scots, Mary the beautiful sinner, friend of God.

  “All right, then.” Alasdair stared at his phone, then thrust it into his pocket and turned to Jean. Clasping her shoulders, he jiggled her around, either shaking her up or settling her down. “You’re on. Delaney will be here straightaway.”

  Oh. She had convinced Alasdair, and through him Delaney. Well, she could still change her mind. But then, nothing would change Angus’s death. Or Wallace’s. Still trying to catch her breath, she walked back up to the castle with Alasdair’s arm around her and her arm around him. They barely had time to go into the flat, find Dougie asleep on the bed, and make a pot of coffee before Delaney pounded on the door. Alasdair waved him and his shadow, Kallinikos, inside.

  “What the hell’s all this?” Delaney demanded of Jean.

  “The case is solved. The problem is bringing the killer to justice. I’m suggesting a way.” She poured milk into her coffee and sat down, leaving the others to fend for themselves. You’d think Delaney could at least have brought elevenses, doughnuts or cream scones or something, but no. Not that pastries wouldn’t have turned into paste in her throat. She took a deep drink from her mug and juggled the hot liquid around her mouth so it didn’t burn her tongue.

  Delaney helped himself to a cup and plopped down in the decrepit chair, which creaked beneath him. “You’re telling us our business, are you? You’re thinking you’ll have yourself a fine behind-the-scenes story for your rag?”

  “Great Scot,” said Kallinikos, “is no rag. Even Minty knows that.”

  “Minty. Queen Minty, the first and only.” Delaney drank and then choked. “Is this her coffee?”

  “We’ve been drinking it all along,” Alasdair told him.

  Kallinikos sat down at the table with a cup, his notebook, and several file folders. “We’ll have Glebe House clear of our folk by mid-afternoon, assuming they’ve found nothing. If you’ll ring Mrs. Rutherford, Miss Fairbairn, and set up the appointment. Use the telephone on the desk.”

  “In case she has caller I.D.?” asked Jean.

  “Aye,” Alasdair replied. “And because that phone’s been tapped since early on the Sunday.”

  Jean wasn’t in the least surprised, either about the tap or that Alasdair hadn’t bothered to tell her. Why should he? She set her cup on the table and stood up.

  “Minty’ll not take the bait,” said Delaney.

  “I reckon she will,” Alasdair said. “She’ll be taking a chance, but she’s been taking chances for years now, ever since the excavation. With th
e excavation itself, for that matter. Every choice she’s made has brought her here. She’ll keep on fighting to the bitter end.”

  Thanks, Jean thought toward him, even though she knew what he meant. Telling her heart to back off from her throat, she picked up the telephone on the desk.

  “Her number’s on the speed dial,” said Alasdair. “First one.”

  Three pairs of eyes watched her punch the button. Three sets of breath went shallow and surreptitious. One ring, two, and she heard the clicks of a forwarded call—to the cooking school, no doubt. “Stanelaw two-four-seven,” said Minty’s rich, cool voice.

  “Minty,” Jean said, hoping her own voice clung near its usual register. “This is Jean Fairbairn. I need to talk to you privately.”

  “Let me guess. You’ve remembered that you’re a journalist and not a police auxiliary.”

  “You could say that, yes.” Jean paused, not for effect but to breathe. Come on, you’re telling a story here. One of those stories that’s a lie. “I have a business deal for you.”

  “My story, exclusive for Great Scot, is that it?”

  “Not exactly, no. You see, I don’t work only for Great Scot. I have connections with the Sunburn in London. And with several similar papers in the US. Americans, they just love scandals in the British upper classes. You’d think we never fought a revolution.”

  “And?”

  “Alasdair’s gone off with his police friends—they’ve taken Valerie and Derek Trotter to Hawick for questioning, maybe even charges of some sort. They’ve closed down the incident room. I’ve got the place to myself.”

  Minty’s voice chilled even further, like vodka kept in the freezer, icy but still pourable. “Please get to the point, Jean.”

  “The point is, I’ve been looking through Wallace’s personal effects. I found a sketch he did of the dig here at Ferniebank, like the one P.C. Logan took away, except it’s Valerie holding the little chest like Angus was holding it in the other sketch. And that’s not all. On the back is an inventory of a collection of jewelry—some very impressive pieces there. I wonder what happened to them?”

  The line rang hollowly.

  “Plus, I found an envelope marked, ‘To be opened in case of my death.’ Since Wallace died, I opened it. It doesn’t look like a will so much as a, well, confession of sorts. Answers to what happened to that jewelry.”

  “What are you implying?” Minty enunciated.

  “I’m not implying, I’m telling you right up front. If you don’t make it worth my while to keep quiet, I’ll take the story about the jewelry to the Sunburn and the American tabloids as well. They’ll love it. It’ll go on their front pages, along with photos of you and your school. And then, once the story is out, Inland Revenue’s going to be only one of the groups that will find it inspirational.”

  Jean thought she could detect a long, aggravated breath, unless it was one of the men behind her keeping himself from breaking in and telling her what to say. “And what,” asked Minty, “would your paramour think of your indulging in blackmail? We are speaking blackmail here, aren’t we?”

  “Blackmail is an appropriate word. It comes from here in the Borders, did you know that?”

  “Yes.” The word came across as a sibilant, squeezed between Minty’s teeth.

  “What Alasdair doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Behind her, he smothered a scalded snicker.

  “I see we’ll have to have ourselves a chat,” said Minty. “If you’ll bring the papers here late this afternoon, after my class—”

  “No way am I removing the papers from Ferniebank. You can come here. Shall we say six? I’ll meet you in the Laigh Hall, where Wallace’s things are now. Bring money, dollars, pounds, euros, your choice. As a down payment.”

  Again the line echoed. Panic spilled through Jean’s chest. Minty’s not going to bite. She is going to bite. Either way . . .

  “Very well then,” Minty said. “Six p.m.” The line went dead.

  So did Jean’s knees. She dropped into the desk chair, said, “We’re on. Six p.m.,” and watched the room shimmy. What was I thinking? What have I done?

  Alasdair pressed a hand down on her shoulder, steadying the sway of the room. “Well done.”

  She managed to suck down a full breath. “Right.”

  “Her agreeing to come, that’s incriminating.” Delaney hauled himself to his feet. “Let’s get to it, then.”

  Kallinikos turned to a fresh page in his notebook and started jotting notes as Delaney spoke. Alasdair interjected, “If Val can describe a few bits of jewelry, we’ll genuinely have an inventory. We’re needing the sketch from the harp book. Jean, can you copy Wallace’s handwriting?”

  “Sure. I’ll rig up a confession—I bet there’s paper in the desk here.” She pulled open the drawer and dug through some odds and ends, including several Ferniebank pamphlets and a small paperback titled Rocks and Minerals of the Borders. “Here’s some blank typing paper and envelopes. I could plug in his typewriter, but something as personal as a confession . . .”

  Alasdair handed her a folder of papers from the cardboard box still sitting on the coffee table. “Here you are.”

  “And here,” said Kallinikos, putting a file folder into her other hand. “The two drawings that Logan pinched. I’ll have a photocopy made of the one with Valerie.”

  Jean pulled out the sketches. The top one was of Angus contemplating the money chest. Had it ever occurred to him to just hand the jewels over to the museum, without giving Minty the chance to decide their fate? But that would have meant revealing Gerald’s follies.

  And there was Wallace’s drawing of the complete inscription. He had carefully cross-hatched the missing pieces, including the one that had been in his pocket when he died. All were accounted for except the one with the harp, and that was long gone . . . Another cockroach scuttled through the back of Jean’s brain, only to slip into the crevice beneath What was I thinking? and disappear.

  Somewhere beyond a thrumming in her ears, Delaney was talking. Alasdair opened the door and he and Delaney walked outside. Kallinikos followed. Feet double-timed it across the gravel.

  Just keep busy. Even if it was with busy work.

  All right then—what if she were an eighty-year-old scholar, what if she’d lived for years here, in this flat, alone . . . Jean went through several sheets of paper, taking her time, and finally produced a confession that she could live with. Or so she intended, anyway. Just as she folded it into an envelope and wrote in her newly acquired and suitably shaky hand, “To be opened in case of my death,” Alasdair appeared with parcels of food. He stood over her until she’d forced down a cheese and pickle sandwich and a bottle of water, and then he vanished again. The clock read two.

  Don’t think about it.

  Dougie wandered in from the bedroom and toured the room, leaping from couch to shelf to windowsill, there to settle down for a bath and a meditation. A few minutes later, Kallinikos arrived with a photocopy of the sketch from the flyleaf of the harp book, made on thick drawing paper, and a scribbled list of jewelry. Jean limbered up her old scholar’s hand once again and on the back of the sketch started writing: “An enamel locket decorated with small rubies and emeralds. A diamond ring. A necklace . . .” Some of the pieces sounded Victorian, and maybe had belonged to Gerald’s wife or mother. Others were very old. Thanks, Gerald. His hand certainly extended from beyond his grave.

  The clock on the desk read three-forty-five. Jean finished the list, then got up to look outside—for what, she didn’t know, perhaps to compare the angle of the westering sun with the time on the clock—and her phone warbled. Where was her bag? Oh, behind a throw pillow on the couch. Miranda Capaldi. “Hi Mir—”

  “So Ciara’s been cleared, and her architect as well! Well done Jean and Alasdair! What’s happening now?”

  “Ah,” Jean stammered, “things are going on—I’ll have to call you back.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Ring me when you can talk.” Miranda’s speedy exit
, Jean only realized when she closed her phone, probably meant she’d conveyed the impression that she and Alasdair were engaged in a moment of Monday afternoon delight. Oh well, she and Miranda would have plenty of time to laugh over it all later on. So would Hugh. And Michael and Rebecca.

  Don’t think about it.

  But she had thought about it, in outline form, with footnotes, by the time Alasdair ushered Blackhall and Kallinikos into the flat. Kallinikos hoisted the box of papers and sketches. “I’ll put this with the others.”

  Alasdair announced, “We’ve got body armor for you.”

  Blackhall held up what looked like the bastard cousin of a straight jacket, without sleeves. “It’s mine, the only female one they could turn up on short notice. I’m taller than you, though.”

  Jean retired to the bedroom, there to feel like a knight being girded by his squire—two squires, as Alasdair duplicated Blackhall’s every tug and squeeze. The vest was stiff, heavy, smelled like chemicals, and was, as predicted, too big. “You’ll be obliged to wear something over it, hiding it,” Blackhall commented at last.

  Alasdair pulled off his sweater and dragged it down over Jean’s head, almost taking her glasses with it. She settled it around her, then looked in the mirror over the dresser. She saw a blobby blue body with spindly arms and tiny white face. “Good thing it’s dark in the Laigh Hall or she’ll wonder why I’ve bloated up like a tick since this morning.”

  “You’ll do fine,” said Blackhall. “That’s Kevlar, likely to stop a bullet.”

  “A bullet,” Jean repeated. Despite all her cogitations, the possibility of Minty having an illegal gun hadn’t occurred to her. At least the cops would have legal guns, although Alasdair had handed his back to the Northern Constabulary.

  He waved Blackhall out of the room and rolled up his sleeves. “Everyone’s left Glebe House save one lookout, lying in the churchyard with binoculars.”

  “This is going to work,” Jean stated, as much to herself as to him.