Of Books and Bagpipes

by Paige Shelton

  “Delaney?” Tom said.

  “I’ll just have a pint,” I said.

  “I’ll have the same,” Tom said.

  “Aye. It will be right over. I willnae be yer waitress, so I’ll bid ye a good evening. I suppose.”

  “Thank you,” Tom and I said together.

  After she made it back to her spot behind the bar and my tensed shoulders relaxed, I said, “That wasn’t terrible.”

  “I knew she’d gotten married or I’m not sure I could have come in tonight. It was an ugly breakup. I’m sorry tae rehash it even in that wee way in front of you.”

  “That wasn’t much rehashing. I can’t decide if I want to know about all your breakups or if it’s just better to stay in the dark about them.”

  Tom smiled and then looked down at the tabletop a moment before he looked back up at me, his eyes prompting the butterflies in my stomach to flap their wings.

  “They’re not all as bad as that, Delaney. I have dated a few women. I can only wish I would have met you sooner, then the list wouldn’t be quite so long.”

  I smiled, and blushed.

  “Now,” he said as he nodded toward the group of big men that seemed to have convened their meeting, “let’s see what we can hear.”

  One of the older gentlemen in a thick white sweater began. “We have serious matters tae discuss this evening, lads, and I’m pleased with the turnout. Thank you all.”

  He glanced at the men, at Tom and me, and then out to the rest of the pub before angling his body as if to cut off everyone but the reenactors from hearing what he had to say next.

  “This was the best we could do for privacy, considering the request from the police came just yesterday. Some officers will be here soon and there are rooms in the back that can accommodate private interviews. I’m sorry, but it was either this or the police station, and we chose this.”

  Tom leaned over and said quietly to me, “They must all know about Billy, huh?”

  “Carl knew he was dead, but wasn’t sure it was murder.”

  “This is much less intimidating than a police station.”

  “It makes me think that the police might not be truly suspicious of anyone here though.”

  “You never know,” Tom said.

  The younger men, all (I counted in my head quickly) twenty-three of them, listened intently. I spotted Carl; he caught my eye and nodded before he turned his attention back to the gentleman at the front.

  Another older man, this one in a plaid shirt, stepped up and continued.

  “As you all probably now know, Billy Armstrong was killed. We haven’t shared the other part because the police asked us not tae until this evening—we were told that he was hit over the head with a blunt instrument, murdered. That’s all we know. We are sorry for his loved ones.”

  The men’s faces showed their disbelief and confusion, but unless one of them stood up and confessed, there would have been no way to pinpoint any of them as suspicious.

  The man in plaid continued. “You don’t have tae talk tae the police if you don’t want tae. None of you are under arrest, which is a part of why we’re here, not the police station, tonight. They asked us tae do this, but we didn’t make any promises on any of your behalves; neither did we vouch for any of you. It’s your choice.”

  None of them stood up to leave.

  “We’re getting company,” Tom mumbled as the man in the white sweater approached us.

  “Hello,” he said as he pulled out a chair and sat. “Name’s Dodger. The young lad, Carl, told us that we’d probably have a redhead from America come tae see us. You set off his alarms if you know what I mean. We have nothing tae hide, but I guess I’d like tae know why you’re interested in us, interested in asking Carl about Billy.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have come and talked to you when we first got here. Yes, I am interested, but the reasons are difficult to explain.”

  “Please try.”

  With an encouraging nod from Tom, I continued, “It begins with an old friendship, a secret, and then the murder of Billy Armstrong. All of this involves people I know and care about, but I don’t feel at liberty to tell you their names. I wondered if anyone knew much about the man who was killed, but it’s mostly because my boss knew his father years ago. My boss is mourning this loss deeply. He would like some answers but isn’t spry enough anymore to gather them on his own. Are you their supervisor?” I asked as I nodded toward the reenactors.

  “I’m one of the board members. They’re volunteers. Myself and a few others work together to keep things organized. We’re part of a Scottish Arts board and we were assigned this task about ten years ago. We’ve enjoyed it so much and our tourist numbers keep increasing so we’re still here.”

  “Sounds like you enjoy it.”

  “Aye. Very much so. It’s mostly a group of good lads who enjoy what they do.”

  “Was Billy a good guy? I heard about … his argument with the woman with the bagpipe shop, Grizel.”

  Dodger rubbed his chin. “Aye. Well, I can’t tell you much about Billy. He was a strange lad but not in a fearsome way. He was quiet. He loved being William Wallace. We thought sometimes a wee bit too much.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “We wondered if he had a job outside of volunteering for us, but he would never tell any of us. We worried about his real self sometimes. How did he behave outside the skits? Billy was a loner from what we could see. The incident with Ms. Sheehy was beyond unfortunate. She says he didn’t hurt her, but that was behavior we couldn’t tolerate even if she didn’t want the police tae know about it. Billy seemed to understand we couldn’t have him stay. I’m sorry he was killed. He will be missed, but I can’t believe that anyone from this group had anything tae do with his murder.”

  “You don’t think it devastated him, being told he couldn’t do the thing he loved to do any longer?” I said.

  “If it did, I didn’t see it. He knew there was no negotiation. He didn’t argue.”

  “What about Oliver, or Carl?” I asked.

  Dodger looked over to the man in plaid, who was talking to only one of the reenactors now.

  “What about them?”

  “Carl reported the incident to Oliver, right?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Could that have caused them all some bad enough feelings to bring about something violent?”

  “Lass, not that I could say. I still don’t know all the details of Billy’s murder, but I can’t see how either Carl or Oliver would have wanted Billy dead. They might have been angry at him, embarrassed by him, but not filled with murderous intentions.”

  None of the reenactors, including Oliver, were paying us any attention. I wanted the chance to talk to all of them individually, but that seemed an unreasonable request. Even asking to speak to them as a group seemed too weird, and somehow a giant overstep.

  “There are three of you who run this group. Where’s the third one?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure, lass, but I don’t think he’s a killer either. We don’t always all make it tae the meetings.”

  “May I ask his name?”

  Dodger thought for a good long half minute before he said, “Ryan is his first name.”

  I nodded, knowing I wasn’t going to get a last name. “Did you ever see Billy with his father?”

  “Not that I remember. Lass, I’m sorry I don’t have more tae tell you. Tell your boss tae talk tae the police. They might be sympathetic regarding his old friendship. I think I need tae be with the lads. I suppose you could stay for the police, but that might be odd. Up tae you.” Dodger stood so Tom and I did too.

  “Yes, it might be odd,” I said, but my attention was on Oliver, as he had moved next to a table against the far wall and studied a piece of paper he held.

  Dodger shook Tom’s hand, my hand, and told us to have a good evening before he walked back to the others.

  “What are you looking at?” Tom asked me.

  “T
hat piece of paper looks important,” I said.

  “Oh, aye, maybe.”

  One of the reenactors approached Oliver. All I could see were the reenactor’s jeans and red sweater from behind, but I could see Oliver’s face as he looked up at the reenactor. Something was wrong, upsetting.

  I stepped away from the table, but I still couldn’t see the front of the reenactor as he guided Oliver toward a back room.

  “Looks like the police are here,” Tom said.

  I looked toward the three approaching officers, who were serious in their demeanor. They spoke over the bar to Kate, who sent them a disappointed frown before she reached to a bell nailed to a post and rang it.

  “We’re closing early tonight,” she announced. “See ye all tomorrow.”

  The officers seemed to know who they needed to keep in the pub, and the three of them lined up as if to form a barricade to keep the reenactors from leaving. I couldn’t think of anything to say to them other than the fact that Gordon was alive, and I still hadn’t talked to Edwin.

  Besides, I was beginning to think that Gordon being alive had nothing to do with his son’s murder. Too much had happened at the William Wallace monument over the last week of Billy’s life, and I thought that somehow his dismissal from the role he so loved must have led to his murder. The facts as I knew them didn’t make a lot of sense, but it was likely that the police had done their job well, and they were on the right track.

  I hoped.

  As awkward as it was, Tom and I both sent parting nods to Kate as she stood behind the bar, fists on her hips, the frown on her face even deeper.

  I was glad when we were out of the pub, and I took in the fresh, cold air.

  “Did you see Oliver go to the back room?” I asked.

  “No, I saw him looking at the paper,” Tom said. “But then I noticed the police. Did I miss something good?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t tell who he went into the back room with. They all looked so much alike.”

  “Important, you think?”

  “I have no idea,” I said as I shook off the wonky feeling that had come on when I saw the look on Oliver’s face. “No more murder investigation tonight though. How’s that sound?”

  “I like that. I have some ideas how we could fill the rest of the evening.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  THIRTEEN

  Unfortunately, things didn’t go as we hoped.

  As we drove toward my cottage, a surprise turn of events that had nothing to do with The King’s Wark, Kate, Billy, or distractions with Tom brought the romance to a screeching halt.

  Tom’s employee Rodger called just as we turned onto my street. A pipe had burst and Tom’s pub was flooding.

  With a quick stop on the street in front of the guesthouses, and an even quicker kiss, Tom let me off at the curb and told me that he was sorry and that he’d call me in the morning.

  It wasn’t even eleven o’clock as I made my way around the guesthouses and Elias and Aggie’s small cottage. Lights were off in the McKenna cottage, but that wasn’t a surprise. They were early to bed and even earlier risers.

  I played over the events of the day and decided that even if I didn’t see Edwin soon, I needed to call him and ask about SPEC.

  * * *

  The bookshop’s Sunday hours were listed on the door sign as: Sunday—sometimes we’re here, sometimes not, but give us a ring if it’s something urgent. And then Edwin’s phone number. There hadn’t been many Sunday book emergencies, but a few over the years.

  I’d go in tomorrow anyway and get some work done, with the hope that Edwin would be there and I wouldn’t have to call him. He sometimes liked to hang out in the warehouse with me on Sundays and share stories.

  My thoughts had moved so far away from the present moment that it took me a long minute to notice the things on the top of the small coffee table only a couple yards inside the cottage’s front door. In fact, I smelled them before I saw them.

  A bouquet of roses.

  “Oh,” I said quietly.

  By nature Tom wasn’t the most romantic guy but he liked to give me flowers. I liked that too.

  I didn’t have to read the card to know the roses were in celebration of the anniversary of our first date, though I had to count back to realize that we’d now been a “couple” for five months. I’d received this same bouquet every month.

  My mobile buzzed.

  The text said: This evening didn’t go quite the way I’d planned. We’ll have a do-over.

  I typed back: The flowers are perfect. Happy Five Months! Hope the pipe gets fixed. We’ll talk tomorrow.

  Practical romance. It worked just fine.

  I was one tired bookshop employee/murder investigator, though I’m sure I was still smiling as I drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  Once I started looking, I was surprised by how many dirks I found on the warehouse shelves. I speculated, backed up with quick Internet searches of their maker’s marks or handle designs, that at least one of them was likely much more valuable than the one I’d found on top of Castle Doune.

  I discovered one tucked behind a torture device known as a heretic’s fork—a wicked-looking thing that was made to force confessions through sleep deprivation. I got sidetracked and spent too much time looking up the heretic fork’s history, but got back on task soon enough. I’d once asked Edwin why he’d chosen the torture devices as one of his collections, but he’d never given me a clear answer.

  I found two dirks behind a stack of old, but not very old or valuable paperback books. And then I found one more under a wooden mug that might have been drunk from by a Scottish noble. I replaced the mug carefully on a separate shelf. My list of warehouse tasks only grew each time I explored.

  My desire to search the warehouse for dirks had surprised me. I hadn’t woken up with the idea, but as I’d unlocked the shop’s front door with the hopes of finding Edwin inside, it seemed like the right thing to do. I found four dirks quickly and didn’t search deeper for others. If there were four, there were probably more though.

  One of them was obviously a replica, something made probably even later than the one I’d found at the castle. Its dark handle felt like plastic and the dull blade might not be strong enough to cut into a watermelon. I set that one to the side.

  I didn’t know how long it was from when they were used as weapons to when they were re-created as souvenirs, but it might not have been a stretch to think that a hundred years or so separated the versions. If a dirk wasn’t something made in the twentieth century, it was probably authentic and a century or more old. If Edwin didn’t realize this—and I’m sure he did but might not have given it much thought, it was my job to research the particulars and let him know.

  One of the dirks had an eleven-inch blade, with a black and gold handle. Its sheath was also black and gold. I concluded that it was probably a piper’s dirk made for the Black Watch, a regiment group that fought against the Highlanders first during the Jacobite rebellion. I could see no mark on it that told me it was a replica; I found no maker’s mark at all. I’d show it to Joshua after I showed it to Edwin, but I suspected it was rare and probably valuable.

  Carefully I held the dirk and wondered whose blood it had shed and why. As had happened with other items, I became overwhelmed by the amount of history each of these things had participated in making.

  A knock sounded on the big red door.

  I jumped up quickly and unlocked the deadbolt. I knew Edwin’s knock.

  “Hi,” I said. “Come in. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Working Sunday again?” Edwin said. He looked less disheveled than when I’d last seen him, but his eyes were weary and rimmed in pink. He hadn’t slept much these last few nights.

  “I am. I like the quiet,” I said as I shut the door and turned the deadbolt.

  “I do too.”

  “Come sit.”

  There was no excited anticipation between us this morning l
ike there was most Sunday mornings. No hope to share a fun memory or old adventure today.

  “Edwin, I’m so sorry for everything you’re going through. I’m sorry for whatever part I played in the terrible and shocking news,” I said after we were both seated.

  “Lass, none of this was your fault. I’m sorry I got you involved. I should have just met with Billy myself.”

  “You couldn’t have predicted how it would go.”

  Edwin pulled an ankle up to his knee, and I noticed his attire. I wondered if he ever wore jeans. Even on Sundays, Edwin dressed to the nines. Today it was pressed tan slacks and a brown sweater.

  I was wearing jeans, which were acceptable on any day of the week apparently, but I couldn’t bring myself to wear them to the shop any other day but Sunday.

  “Oh! Dirks!” Edwin said when he noticed the items on my desk. “How lovely. What are you doing with them?”

  “I found these on the shelves. One seems like a replica, a modern souvenir, but I’m looking into these others. I think this one was used by the Black Watch.”

  I held it toward Edwin.

  “It’s possible. I’m sure I acquired this from an old woman from a Highland village, though I can’t remember exactly where she said she lived. She came tae the shop just tae show this tae me. She said she’d heard about my treasures, but I, of course, wouldn’t confirm or deny. She wanted tae give the dirk tae me, but I insisted on paying her something. I fear I didn’t give her enough if it’s from the Black Watch.”

  “Well, I don’t know for sure yet, and I need to look into these others too, but you might want to consider them all for auction.”

  “You might be right. We have a number of members who enjoy weapons. I didn’t know I had more than a couple.” Edwin leaned forward and looked at the two other dirks on the desk. The blade of the white-handled one was long and vicious. The blade of the mahogany-handled one was partially serrated and just as intimidating.

  “There might be more. I’ll let you know what I find,” I said. “But the thing that sparked my desire to look for these this morning is something else I found. I should have told you about it but … well, I just didn’t. And … I was hoping to see you today.” I lifted my phone from the desk and scrolled to my pictures. “I don’t think it had anything to do with Billy Armstrong’s murder, but I found it near where we found him. I went up later that same night with Tom to look for any sign of the handwritten story that was supposed to be included in the book. This isn’t authentic. It’s a souvenir made about the mid-nineteen hundreds.”