“I’ll be careful.”
Rosie smiled. “Guid, and a wee bit of being scairt will keep ye safe.”
“Edwin’s not in is he?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” she said, her tone having now gone from bitter to sad and possibly hurt.
“It’s going to be okay, Rosie.”
She waved away my concern. “Oh, I ken.”
“What book did the man buy?”
“A copy of The Old Man and the Sea. Not expensive, but in guid condition.”
“The sea again, huh?”
“The Old Man and the Sea,” Rosie corrected.
I listened hard for the bookish voices. I knew I must be missing something important because of the overload of information I was mulling through. I hoped the bookish voices would pick up on anything that might offer clarity. I was befuddled, my thoughts noisy in my head. But the bookish voices responded to my confusion by being stone-cold silent.
Hector barked.
I smiled at the perceptive dog. “I’m going to get to work. I’d like to talk to Edwin. Would you send him over if he comes in, please?”
“Aye. Right away.”
* * *
I first tried to call the fish market. Once connected I could press numbers to hear the fresh catch of the day, get the address or directions to the fish market, but there was no option to talk to a live person. I’d have to stop by to talk to the man who’d come to see me, but I didn’t want to do that, and I wasn’t going to meet Gordon there, no matter the request.
I was grateful that I had work to do, and even though work was usually a good distraction, something in the universe seemed bound and determined to keep me on the trail of trying to find Billy Armstrong’s killer. I pulled out the letter that Edwin’s friend Birk had asked me to try to authenticate as something written by the Scottish historical figure Rob Roy.
Rob Roy MacGreagor was a Jacobite and cattleman who had fought many battles over his lifetime, but ultimately died in his bed at the old age of sixty-three, of natural causes. Birk didn’t want to sell the letter at auction. He wanted to donate it to either a library or some other historical collection, but only if it was a real letter from the real Rob Roy MacGreagor.
I hadn’t done one thing toward its authentication, but I was ready to give it some attention, if only to distract me from everything else. I began with the Internet. I looked up some facts and their historical timing to see if the letter that Roy had allegedly written regarding a question about his cows would jibe with the happenings of the time. The timing seemed feasible.
I looked for Rob Roy’s signature, and found a match—though a quick search-and-find on the Internet wasn’t nearly enough to be completely certain, or uncertain for that matter. More research needed to be done, though I got as far as not ruling out the letter’s authenticity, which was a good step in the right direction. Lots of written documents out in the world were forgeries, and lots could be so determined with a quick Internet search. But some couldn’t. It took a good eye, the ability to dig deep, and then the access to equipment that could tell the age of paper and ink. I still had a couple more steps to go before I’d need to use equipment.
Birk’s letter was sealed in something similar to laminated plastic, but the material was made specifically for document preservation. There were no harmful chemicals touching the almost three-hundred-year-old parchment—if that’s what it turned out to be.
After checking the signature, I quickly came upon a number of mentions about the Stirling Council’s archives and Web site that each month highlighted a document they deemed their “document of the month.” One of the other bits of information I came across on their site also discussed Rob Roy’s cattle—the cattle that were spoken about in my letter and that ultimately led to his downfall. Sometime after the Jacobite uprising, Rob Roy became a cattleman; at the time cattle rustling and selling protection against theft were commonplace. He borrowed money to expand his herd, but when his chief herder, who had been entrusted with the money, disappeared, Rob Roy defaulted on his loan and became an outlaw. His house was burned down and though he evaded capture for a long time, he did spend some time in prison. The information I found was from an original certificate of ownership stating that Robroy’s (as it was spelled on the certificate) cattle belonged to John Oge Campbell, and Robroy’s creditors had no claim to the livestock. It was dated April 5, 1716.
The Stirling Council had a number of offices in Stirling, probably each one manned with someone who would be able to help me with the next step of validation.
Coincidentally, Stirling was right there next to the William Wallace monument, where the reenactors hung out. It wouldn’t hurt to get their take on the conspiracy or curse angle, and ask them more about Armstrong. It all seemed like a valid excuse and a gigantic nudge from the universe that I should go back to Stirling.
However, I didn’t want to bother Elias for another long trip, and Tom was working.
I had yet to ride the train, but I knew how to take the bus that would get me to the train station. I told Rosie the specifics of my plan and asked her to have people call me on my cell phone if any questions arose.
The ride to Stirling did not disappoint. Scotland was not short on pretty views, and the passing sights out the train window only raised the tally on places that made me wish I knew how to paint or had a really good camera.
Once off the train at Stirling I had to break my rule and ride in a cab other than Elias’s. The council office building was three miles away from the train station, and it was more like an American office building than any I’d been in so far, though it still seemed to have a certain style about its angles and corners.
I was directed to the appropriate document room, where I found a short line of people waiting for two patient employees behind the counter. I had the Rob Roy letter in my bag, further protected by a thick cardboard folder. I wasn’t going to show anyone the letter, just a copy of the signature, but I thought I should have it with me just in case I changed my mind.
“Hi,” I said when it was my turn to approach the counter. “I was hoping to see and perhaps photograph an authentic Rob Roy signature.”
“Looking tae forge something, are we?” the ancient woman said as she pushed the glasses up on her nose and pursed her lips. Her wrinkles ran deep, her short hair was as steely gray as it could get, but her blue eyes twinkled with intelligence and playfulness layered with a practiced accusatory glance from behind the modern pink reading glasses adorned with sparkles.
“No.” I smiled and then leaned forward. “Just trying to see if someone who wants me to buy something has been up to no good doing some of their own forging.”
This wasn’t my document to show, and you never knew who was listening or what might happen if you spilled the beans to the wrong person.
“I understand.” She smiled, happy to see I didn’t cower from her accusation or turn defensive. I’d played this game a time or two. I kept on my toes though; she had a few more games under her belt than I did.
“Ye know ye could find one on the Internet?” she said.
“I know, but you can’t always trust what you see there. I want to make absolutely sure, and I heard this is the place to come for that.”
She gave me a nod of respect. I wondered, if I lied and told her I didn’t like Wikipedia, would she invite me over for dinner?
“One minute.” She turned and walked back toward a desk, where her long red fingernails skipped expertly over the keyboard. Without so much as a slight hitch in her step, she walked over to a printer, grabbed a piece of paper, and made her way back to me.
“Here ye go, lass.” She handed me the piece of paper that had a visible watermark to make sure I didn’t try to pass it off as something genuine. “Ye can’t get more authentic than this one.”
“Thank you!” I said. “It looks just like the one that’s being shown to me.”
“Aye?” she said doubtfully. “Just make sure ye look closely at the
Rs. We find the most forgeries in the way the Rs are sloped.”
“That’s good to know. Thanks again. What do I owe you?” I said.
“Nothing at all.” She waved away my question. “Except…”
“Yes?”
“Will ye promise tae come see me again if ye have any document questions? Ye remind me of myself back when I was curious enough to lie about some things I wanted tae know.”
“I will.” I blushed.
“Name’s Audrey Hackburn, like Hepburn, but not quite.” She extended a hand over the counter.
“Delaney Nichols,” I said. “I’m in Edinburgh for a while, working at a bookshop. I hope to see you again.”
“Me too, Delaney Nichols.”
I smiled again and then turned to leave. I heard her say “next” as I went through the document room door.
My task had been accomplished quickly and easily. I could have done the same thing somewhere in Edinburgh, but with my ulterior motive for coming to Stirling in mind, I got back into my waiting cab.
I had to remind myself that it was just a cab ride, not an act of betrayal. Still, I felt myself try not to be too friendly as I asked the driver to take me to the reenactment site.
He matched my unsociable attitude, silent moment for silent moment.
He parked the cab at the top of the hill Elias and I had trudged down when we’d been there before. It was just after three in the afternoon and the sun was low in the sky, casting cold gray shadows over the large crowd below. I saw the group of actors, along with many pockets of engrossed and winter-wear bundled-up tourists.
Amidst the crowd, I was sure I saw Oliver and Dodger. I thought it good luck they were there.
“Could you just wait here again?” I said as I handed the cabdriver two large bills.
“No, lass, I’m off shift.” He handed me back one of the bills. “I have to head back with the cab, but I’ll send another driver out directly. It won’t be long.”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
“Aye.” He looked at the bill he kept. “Thank ye.”
I stepped out into the cold wind and felt a brief moment of regret as I looked down the hill and then toward the retreating cab. In my almost thirty years I’d done plenty of things alone, but I was not only far from home, I was far from both homes; Kansas and Edinburgh. The inside of the cab was warm and could take me back to the train station. I hoped the other one would be there soon.
“Don’t be silly,” I muttered to myself before I moved down the hill.
The skit was almost over; the speech about Wallace’s gruesome death held the audience’s full attention. I caught the eyes of a couple of the actors off to the side, but I didn’t immediately see Carl. However, Oliver and I shared a nod—mine with a smile, his with a surprised smile. Nevertheless, he made his way toward me.
“Hello, lass,” he said as he closed the distance between us. “Dodger told me you wanted tae talk tae me the other evening. I’m sorry I was otherwise occupied. He said you were a delightful lass who seemed tae care about Billy. I’d be happy tae talk tae ye.”
“Thank you. I have even more questions now though.”
Oliver looked back toward his group. Most of the men weren’t looking at us, but a few were.
“I have a few minutes,” he said.
“Can I buy you a coffee or something?”
“I don’t have quite that much time. The skit is almost over and then we’re having a brief gathering in the car park. Are you cold?”
“A little, but I’ll be okay.” I was more than a little cold.
“What questions do ye have?”
I nodded as a gust of wind blew my hair back.
“Did you and Billy Armstrong have any issues, other than the obvious one of him slapping the woman from the bagpipe shop?”
“You do get tae the point.”
“I lied. In fact, I’m very cold.”
Oliver’s eyebrows came together. He glanced up the hill toward the coffee shop and then back at me.
“I suppose I did have issues with him,” he said. “I told the police. But, aye, about a week before he was killed, things got worse. I always thought Billy was a good man, but he took his role so seriously. I had to tell him many times that we weren’t hired tae walk around the grounds and talk tae the tourists in costume, that we didn’t have to tae stay in character after the skits and up by the monument. None of those were angry conversations though, just frustrated on my part, a wee bit stubborn on his part, until the week before he was killed. I talked tae him again, but that time, he didn’t take it well. He was having a rough week, I thought, but then when he slapped Grizel … I could have put up with telling him not tae take his role so seriously forever, but I couldn’t tolerate violent behavior.”
“Oliver, forgive me for sounding uncharitable, but was there something wrong with him?”
“I don’t know about his mental health in general, but he had obsessive tendencies. Here, when he was in costume. I wouldn’t know how he was outside of here. He rarely attended the meetings and the pub social events, and when he did, he was quiet, kept tae himself. I’d heard he didn’t have another job but I never asked him.”
“He and Grizel dated, right?”
“Aye, I believe so. I don’t think it was a good idea. I think he was so used tae being alone, that someone else in his life was too much tae handle. It was when I learned about the two of them that he started to change, brood more maybe, until it got worse.” Oliver looked up toward the coffee shop again. “She just came back today. I saw her a wee bit ago. She’s agreed tae bring back the bagpipes. They’re a nice addition to the skits.”
“She’s here?” I said as I looked up the hill too.
“She was. She might have left by now.”
“Did Billy carry a dirk with him?”
“Oh. Not that I ever saw. We use longswords here, but they’re dulled props.”
I nodded. “Did you know about the SPEC tattoo on Billy’s wrist?”
“No, what’s that?”
“It’s not important.”
“I’ve seen tattoos on the lads, but I don’t pay much attention tae them.”
“Who were you talking to at The King’s Wark? The reenactor who wore a red sweater?”
Oliver rubbed his chin and looked over toward the group of reenactors. “I have no idea, lass. I talked tae many individually, I think.”
“He showed you something on a piece of paper and you looked upset?”
“The complaint?”
“I don’t know.”
“One of the lads showed me a letter. A tourist complained about the lack of kilts on the men here. I didn’t mean tae look upset. It’s a common complaint. Perhaps you mistook my impatience for being angry? It’s a tiresome complaint tae deal with.”
“It’s possible. You know, your group has seen quite a few tragedies in the last ten years. Car accidents, cliff falls. Do you think there might be something up with that and Billy Armstrong’s death?”
Oliver looked at me a long moment, confusion in his eyes. “A conspiracy or something?”
“Yes.”
“No.” He hesitated. “No, I don’t think so. I never thought about it that way. Any tragedy is terrible of course, but I don’t know that our group has seen more than our fair share. I need tae think about that.”
“What do you think happened to Billy?” As I asked the question, I thought I noticed Carl in the group behind Oliver. I hoped to talk to him too, but when I looked again I didn’t see him.
“I have no idea, but he was an odd one, lass. Here at least. Maybe his oddness spread tae another part of his life. I’m sorry for him. I’m sorry for his loved ones.”
“Me too.”
The skit had ended and the shadows had deepened, the sun setting very quickly now and the air cooling even more. The tourists began their quick exit, and the group of actors seemed to move in tandem toward the parking lot.
Oliver looked over toward them, the
n back at me. “Anything else?”
I shook my head. “Could I call you if I have any other questions?”
“Certainly.”
Oliver gave me his phone number and then turned to follow the actors’ path, leaving me a distracted and grumbled farewell.
As he moved out of sight, I realized that everyone else had too; the small valley had cleared quickly. It was far too cold for anyone to have any extra questions. I looked up the hill and saw a few people here and there now mostly in silhouette, but no cab, and no one looking my direction. I saw the silhouette of a woman carrying a set of bagpipes. I was sure it was Grizel, and she was by herself, trudging up the hill.
The wind picked up and was loud in my ears as I moved to try to catch up to her.
The next seconds would forever stretch into something bizarre and slow speed, but I would always think I got the sequence of events correct.
Someone ran toward Grizel, someone big and moving as if he meant to tackle her.
I halted, studying what I thought I was seeing in the shadowed darkness. She held the bagpipes so they blocked her from seeing the force coming toward her, and she seemed totally unaware of any threat.
“Grizel!” I yelled, but I could tell my voice got carried the other direction by the wind.
It wasn’t easy to see the specifics, but I thought the man tackled her and then straddled her a second later, his fist lifted in the air.
My feet flew up the hill and I closed the distance between us quickly.
“Grizel!” I yelled again as I propelled myself at the dark, violent figure. I couldn’t see his face, but even in the midst of the horror I could tell I surprised him by the way his head snapped my direction and his fist moved in front of himself to block my tackle.
I put my head down and rammed into him. We turned into a mess of limbs and curse words as I knocked him off Grizel. He pushed me off him and I landed on my back next to Grizel, air whomphing out of my lungs.
“Mind your own business,” a deep male voice said. I couldn’t see his face, just his outline as he scrambled to stand. He turned and ran up the hill.
I hadn’t caught my breath as I tried to pull myself up to inspect Grizel.
Of Books and Bagpipes Page 20