A Mackenzie Clan Christmas

by Jennifer Ashley

  “No,” Ian repeated. He found he had to say this word many times to Jamie before its meaning penetrated. “They were strong and violent. One almost shot me. I would have died if he had.”

  The nanny, a very proper woman, gave Ian a severe look. “Sir, you’ll upset the young ladies.”

  Megan and Belle, both in dressing gowns at the nursery table, were listening avidly.

  “I’m not upset,” Belle said. “Papa is only trying to explain to Jamie that running off half-cocked after a violent criminal is dangerous.”

  Jamie gave his sister, a year younger than he was, a deprecating look. “’Tis my duty to look after ye.”

  “No,” Ian said again. “He would have killed you too, lad. These were hard men. They did not care.”

  Megan, the youngest at seven years old, left her chair and came to Ian. She laid her hand on his. “Then we are glad you are well, Papa. You are well, are you not?”

  At her touch, Ian forgot all about the missing paintings, the man turning the gun on him, his terrible fear when the thug had run for the stairs.

  He was now with the most precious things in his life, which were far more important than Hart’s artwork or the Ming bowls. Ian had run right past the Ming room to the nursery last night to make certain the children were safe. He hadn’t thought about the bloody bowls at all until Beth had mentioned them.

  Ian lifted Megan into his arms, kissed her hair, and lost himself in the sweetness he’d never realized fatherhood would bring.

  * * *

  By the end of the day, a flurry of telegrams had gone back and forth through the train station at Kilmorgan—to Scotland Yard, Hart, the rest of Ian’s brothers. Ian went to the train station himself to send and pick up the replies, too impatient to wait for servants to do it for him.

  He let Jamie accompany him on the errand, and they walked back together, Jamie carrying all the telegrams after his father had read them. Ian was opening the last two.

  In Edinburgh. Arrive tonight. Fellows.

  Ian folded the missive and handed it to Jamie. The next one was addressed to Lady Ian Mackenzie and was an anomaly among the correspondence today.

  Arrive 8 A.M. on the 7th. John Ackerley.

  Ian folded the telegram but tucked it into his own pocket instead of giving it to Jamie.

  Fellows was Chief Inspector Fellows of Scotland Yard and Ian’s half brother.

  John Ackerley was the brother of Beth’s deceased husband, and was a missionary who’d been absent from England for more than a dozen years. He’d arrive at Kilmorgan tomorrow morning.

  Ian walked in silence while Jamie made observations on everything they passed with his usual verve. Ian wasn’t certain what he felt about John Ackerley’s arrival, but the telegram burned inside his coat, very hot indeed.

  Chapter Three

  Chief Inspector Lloyd Fellows never arrived at Kilmorgan Castle without mixed feelings.

  On the one hand, Fellows no longer entered the house in trepidation tinged with rage. He’d made his peace with the dead father who’d refused to acknowledge him, and reconciled with his half siblings.

  He was invited to—no, expected to—attend all major celebrations at the ducal seat, including this one to acknowledge Hart’s upcoming birthday. Fellows could run into and out of the house anytime he wanted, Hart had told him. Make himself at home. Thus far, Hart had kept his word.

  On the other hand, Hart and his brothers had been raised to luxury and splendor, even if their father had been a brutal bully. While they’d lived in terror of the man, they’d had every physical comfort provided, been given the best education, and had piles of cash settled on them.

  Fellows had grown up in the gutter, raised by a barmaid mother who loved him, and loved him still. Fellows and his mother had worked fingers to the bone for every scrap of food they’d ever eaten. Even now, the lofty title of chief inspector carried only a modest salary that let him live in the middle-class area of Pimlico with his wife, daughter, and two sons.

  The question of where his boys would go to school was starting to become an argument. They were four and six, respectively. When William, the oldest, turned eight, he would be expected to leave his tutors and go to a school.

  Hart had already promised a place for him at Harrow, to be educated alongside the other Mackenzie lads. Fees paid, of course. Hart was anxious to close the chasm their mutual father had created, to give Fellows everything he’d have been entitled to had he been legitimate.

  Fellows, proud man that he was, wanted to send his children to a school he could afford, to be raised with young men of their own class. Fellows would never inherit what Hart or his brothers would, and he did not want to imply that his sons stood a chance to either. The laws of England would never let them.

  Louisa, his wife, was the daughter of an earl. Fellows had assumed Louisa would take Hart’s side—aristocrats together—but Louisa saw the sense of Fellows’s argument and was standing with him.

  There it lay. Fellows knew Hart would begin the debate again this visit, but Fellows would stand firm.

  Then had come the telegram from Ian that Kilmorgan had been robbed. Hard on its heels had come the message from the sergeant in Kilmorgan’s village to Scotland Yard about the robbery. Fellows had demanded to be given the case and had taken the first train north.

  Louisa, who insisted she needed far more time than that to pack, would travel there with her sister and family in a few days, as planned. She’d kissed Fellows and sent him off.

  It was very late when the coach that had been sent to fetch Fellows let him out at the castle. He stepped down from the carriage without waiting to be helped and strode for the front door.

  It was called Kilmorgan Castle, but it was a huge house rather than a crenellated fortress, built in the Palladian style in the middle of the eighteenth century. The original castle from the 1300s was now a ruin, a tumble of blocks on a hill that overlooked the valley. A hundred and fifty years ago, the English army had burned the castle, and later pulled it down. Many of its stones had been incorporated into the new house.

  Malcolm Mackenzie, the current Mackenzies’ illustrious ancestor, had designed the house, including the many wings to contain the large number of children each duke seemed to sire. The house and gardens had been the envy of aristocrats both English and Scottish, which had been the point.

  The man who met Fellows at the massive front door and reached for his luggage was Ian’s valet, Curry.

  “It weren’t me, Inspector,” Curry said immediately. “I ’ad nothin’ to do with it. I was asleep in me room, dreaming peaceful dreams.”

  Fellows swept off his short-crowned hat. “I haven’t started rounding up suspects yet, Curry.”

  “I know. It’s ’abit of mine, the minute I see a copper, to say it weren’t me, don’t matter what’s ’appened. In this case, it’s a pile of artwork been nicked. I wouldn’t know ’ow to sell that on, would I? Even if I would steal from ’is nibs, which I wouldn’t.”

  Curry had been an excellent thief in his time, Fellows had heard. All in the past, Curry would hasten to say. He’d reformed. It was true that since he’d begun working for Ian Mackenzie, Curry had kept to the straight and narrow.

  “You wouldn’t be such a fool as to rob Hart,” Fellows said. “Don’t worry. You’re safe from me.”

  Curry blew out his breath. “Well, that’s a relief. I’ll take these up to your usual. The scene of the crime is down there.”

  Curry pointed down the long gallery that was well lit even this late, and scurried up the stairs with Fellows’s one bag. A footman took Fellows’s hat and coat, and left him to wander down the gallery, taking in the damage.

  “Good Lord,” Fellows said under his breath.

  The villains had done a thorough job. They’d taken what they could carry out quickly, abandoning the rest when Ian had set upon them. Some famous paintings had hung in here. It was a bloody shame.

  Fellows examined the door at the end and saw t
hat it was as Ian had said in his telegrams—the lock had not been picked nor forced.

  A stolen or copied key, Ian had speculated. Or an inside man, Fellows added silently. Someone promised a great reward if he left the door open.

  A neutral investigator would not discard the idea that Hart himself had organized the crime. Many an art collector robbed himself for the insurance money in times of need. Sometimes the paintings had already been quietly sold over the years and replaced with copies. A robbery got rid of the damning fakes, and the unlucky insurers paid out.

  Hart didn’t need the money and had no reason for this fraud, but a good detective would check Hart’s financials and then decide. If Fellows were to conduct the investigation correctly, he’d need to do such things. All must be aboveboard. He knew full well the state of Hart’s finances, however, because Hart hid nothing from him these days. Even if there were a question, Ian would know the answer. Ian carried the all the figures from the entire estate’s accounting ledgers in his head.

  Fellows removed a small camera from his coat. Hart’s wife, Eleanor, had given it to him, for use in Fellows’s detective work. Eleanor loved photography and was quite good at it, and she enjoyed trying out every brand-new photographic gadget invented.

  This camera was quite small, but had a special attachment that would hold several plates at once. The plates then could be developed in a darkroom, which of course Eleanor had set up here.

  The photographs turned out sharper when the photographer used bright, electric lights, which the gallery did not have, but Fellows turned up the gaslights to full illumination and clicked away with the camera. He took pictures of every blank spot, of the damaged frames and canvases, the door, the lock, the dirty boot prints on the carpet. Hopefully some of the footprints were the villains’ and not simply the local constable’s.

  As Fellows lifted the camera from the last shot, he turned to find Ian standing a foot away.

  Fellows had learned not to jump at Ian’s sudden appearances. His half brother could move quietly for a man so large.

  “Ian,” Fellows said, tucking the camera back into its case. “Thank you for the telegrams. Your assessment was helpful.”

  Ian neither acknowledged this nor modestly waved it away. “Can you catch them?”

  Fellows gazed up at the blank walls. “I’m going to have a bloody good try.”

  Ian gave him a nod, as though he approved. “I’ll show you what I found,” he said, and walked away, assuming Fellows would follow.

  Fellows, having learned that Ian was a more thorough investigator than all his sergeants and inspectors put together, did.

  * * *

  The next morning, Beth wanted to go to the station herself to retrieve her first husband’s brother, but there had been too much to do at the house. She hadn’t wanted to neglect Lloyd Fellows, who’d so quickly come to help, so she’d asked the majordomo to send the carriage.

  The man who stepped from the coach upon its return so resembled Beth’s late husband, the vicar Thomas Ackerley, that she paused on the stairs for a heartbeat of astonishment.

  Once the man raised his head, however, after the footman took his hat and his battered satchel, the exact likeness faded. John was slightly leaner than Thomas, more tanned, a bit taller, and had more of a toughness about him. Beth’s first husband had been quite strong in mind—his parish had been in a rougher part of Bethnal Green—but he’d always been soft of face and body.

  Beth had met John Ackerley exactly twice. The first time had been when she’d married Thomas. John had been the admiring younger brother, happy that Thomas had found a wife. The two brothers had been kindness itself, something the very young Beth had been starved for.

  After Thomas’s death, John had traveled to London from his missionary station in Africa to help erect a stone to his brother and make sure Beth was all right. By that time, Beth had been established as a companion to the wealthy woman who was to eventually leave Beth her fortune. John had been married, eager to return to his mission, and satisfied that Beth would be well.

  John had written a few years ago of his wife’s death from a heart ailment, and then again recently when he’d decided to retire and return to England.

  I have moved about the world a good deal as you know, he’d written, and learned many things, some of which might interest you. I would like to visit your husband and your good self, if I may, not to impose my company, but to ensure myself that you are well, and to see if I can do anything to assist you and his lordship.

  Beth had read the letter out to Ian. She’d thought Ian would not like the idea, but to her surprise, Ian had shrugged and said of course John should come. He was of Beth’s family, and there was no reason not to see him.

  Beth had penned a reply, John had said he’d be in England by August, and Beth had invited him to the family gathering in September.

  Now, here he was.

  “John,” Beth said as she stepped off the stairs. She caught the hand he held out to her.

  John smiled, making him look more like Thomas again. “Dear little Beth. My, how good life has been to you. I suppose I must call you Lady Ian now.”

  “Not at all, John. You’re family.”

  “I confess I can think of you only as Thomas’s gentle Beth. I am happy to find you in better circumstances, my dear. And I am looking forward to meeting the brilliant Lord Ian Mackenzie.”

  “Who is about somewhere,” Beth said, waving her hand. “I sometimes lose him in this vast place. Our own house up the road is smaller and more cozy.”

  “Ah, but this is a fine house.” John looked around in admiration. A huge pedestal table stood in the center of the staircase hall, the stairs rising around it. Eleanor always ensured that a giant vase of fresh flowers was kept on this table, no matter what the season.

  The walls rose with the staircase, high into the house. Paintings lined the way, beautiful ones by Mac and other artists, many of them family portraits. Beth was glad Ian had stopped the thieves before they’d reached the stairs.

  Noise erupted at the front door, and Ian Mackenzie himself strode in. He was surrounded by men who worked for him at the distillery, and they were all, including Ian, arguing loudly about something.

  When Ian lost his inhibitions, he could shout at the top of his Scots’ voice as well as any of his brothers. Right now he was in full volume, turning to face the man who managed the Mackenzie distillery.

  “Do it now, man! Before ye lose another forty barrels of the bloody stuff. Shite and fucking hell.”

  Ian’s face was red, golden eyes glittering with rage. Two dogs circled at his feet, peering anxiously up at their master.

  Beth hurried to him. “Ian, whatever is the matter?”

  Ian could curse like a sailor, especially when his shyness deserted him and fury took over. He was seldom enraged anymore, growing angry only at threats to his children or Beth, or the Mackenzie family in general, but it occasionally still happened.

  “Ian?” Beth tried again. “We have a guest.”

  Ian didn’t see John behind Beth—or if he did, the man was of no consequence to Ian at the moment.

  “Forty barrels, ruined from rot that nobody bothered t’ notice,” he snapped. “I didn’t notice. How the bloody hell could I not have? I notice everything.” Ian’s face had gone scarlet, his jaw tight. He brought up his hands and started scrubbing them through his hair. “Everything,” he repeated. “Everything.”

  Oh dear. Ian couldn’t go into what he called a muddle now—not in front of John Ackerley.

  In a muddle, Ian would fixate, either repeating a phrase or doing a task over and over again, as though he were an automaton stuck on one setting. He didn’t go into muddles much anymore, having learned to stop and breathe before emotions overwhelmed him.

  Beth reached up and took his hands, closing her fingers over his. She looked into his intense golden eyes. “Ian. Think.”

  The touch broke Ian from wherever he’d been about to go.
He clamped down on Beth’s hands, took a long breath, and fixed his gaze on hers. For a moment, he was aware of only Beth, his rock in the swirling storms of his life.

  After a few tense moments, Ian leaned down to nuzzle Beth’s cheek, and she felt his lips.

  When he straightened up, his face had returned to a normal color, though the anger in his eyes still sparked as he looked down at her.

  “If I did not notice the barrels gone bad,” he said in a firm voice, “then they must not have been bad. I would have remembered.”

  “Aye,” his steward said, sounding relieved the shouting was over. “Ye do have a way of seeing all things, me lord.”

  Ian didn’t look away from Beth, directing his words to her and her alone. “Someone did it deliberately. Forty barrels of Mackenzie malt, down the spout.”

  “Deliberately?” Beth asked, perplexed. “How could someone do it deliberately?”

  The steward answered. “Or there are many ways, me lady. Insects, certain oils or acids—one man can ruin another’s trade if they set about it right.”

  “But who would?” Beth knew that Scotsmen who dealt in whisky could be competitive, but she couldn’t imagine the boisterous men she’d met from other distilleries destroying another’s yield on purpose. They wanted to best one another, but fairly.

  Ian shook his head, kept shaking it. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think the thieves did this?” Beth asked. “Or their colleagues? They steal the paintings while another group of them spoils the whisky?”

  Ian stopped. She saw the wheels inside his brain begin to move, the anger fade as fascination with the problem took over.

  He lifted Beth’s hands to his lips and kissed them, but absently. Ian was already at work in his mind, on the search for the culprit. “Love, I need to—”

  Ian broke off as his gaze came to rest on John, who was standing quietly at the foot of the staircase. Ian stared at him, becoming more and more focused as he noted every detail about the man.

  “Ian, this is John Ackerley,” Beth said quickly. “My brother-in-law. John, Ian Mackenzie.”