"This is the start of her third year," Ellen agreed quickly. "She knows Macintyre the best. You should talk with her."
Maggie shook her head slightly. "I don't know that Kelly is very interested in talking to me. She barely gave me the time of day just now."
Fionna and Ellen looked at each other. "Don't be too hard on her, Maggie," Fionna counseled. "She's been under, well, under a lot of strain lately. She's just got quite a bit on her mind."
"Sure," Maggie replied, unconvinced.
The three sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments until Fionna asked, "So do the police have any suspects yet?"
Ellen shrugged, "Not according to the papers. It's just a lot of speculation is all."
Maggie looked out at the cold, dark Aberdeen night.
"Ellen, you drove, right?" she asked. "Can I get a ride home?"
"Absolutely," Ellen replied, a sympathetic smile exposing her large teeth. "You too, Fionna," she added—it was a statement, not a question.
Fionna looked out at the dark as well, a shiver running up her spine. "Absolutely."
9. Slow Progress
Inspector Cameron sat at his desk in the Aberdeen police station. It was actually a rather nice desk, for government-issue. Nothing special, but nice enough, with a wood veneer top and sturdy metal drawers. Better than most of the lads got, but then, he was an inspector. In addition to the desk, several metal file cabinets occupied the small office, together with the obligatory two guest chairs and half-dead potted plant in the corner. And of course, as an inspector, he had been provided with a large window overlooking Queen Street. One of the file cabinets was open, the keys still dangling from its lock, and the bottom drawer ajar. Strewn across the rather nice desk were an assortment of manila folders, carbon copy reports and yellowed newspaper clippings. Crouched over this clutter, his elbows rooted firmly to the desk and his hands grasping at the too short white hair on his head, Inspector Robert Cameron sat lost in thought.
There was a knock on his closed door. Looking up he could see Sgt. Willis through the glass. Although Willis could also undoubtedly see the Inspector—the only obstruction was the room number painted in three inch high black letters at the bottom of the two foot by two foot pane—he nevertheless looked away politely as Cameron pushed the various papers loosely into one of the file folders before calling out, "Come in."
"Sorry to disturb you, sir," Willis started.
"What is it?" Willis, a nice enough fellow, still wore on Cameron's nerves. Best to cut to the chase.
"It's the Graham case, sir." Willis stood unnecessarily still. He didn't say anything else, although the Inspector could of course see the document Willis held preciously at his side.
"Yes? What is it?"
"We've got the girl's certificate of adoption." Again, however, Willis made no effort to hand the document over to Cameron. "We're still waiting for the birth certificate."
"Adoption certificate, eh?" Cameron rubbed his chin. "Well, it's a start."
Then after a moment he added, "Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Is that it in your hand?"
Willis looked down proudly. "Yes, sir!"
"Sergeant?" Cameron really didn't have the patience for this.
"Yes, sir?"
"May I see it?"
"Oh!" Thoroughly flustered now, Willis thrust it forward to his superior. "Yes, sir. Here it is, sir. Sorry, sir."
With a gentle wave of his hand, Cameron both dismissed the apology and quieted his subordinate. Then, looking over the adoption certificate, Montgomery read aloud, "'City of Halifax, County of Halifax, Province of Nova Scotia. Certificate of Adoption. Adoptive Mother: Jacqueline Edith Graham. Adoptive Father: Donald Graham. Natural Mother: Destitute.'"
Willis started to offer another 'Yes, sir,' but stopped himself.
After a moment of thought, the Inspector looked up from the document.
"Good work, Willis," he said simply. It was a dismissal as much as a compliment.
"Thank you, sir," Willis actually bowed slightly before turning toward the door.
As Willis stepped into the hallway, Cameron called out, "Willis?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Send Warwick over."
Cameron didn't look up from the document he had returned his attention to, but he could hear the disappointment in Willis' voice. "Yes, sir."
A few minutes later, Elizabeth Warwick stood in the doorway.
"You wanted to see me, Inspector?"
Cameron held up the adoption certificate. "You've seen this." It was a statement.
"Yes, sir," she confirmed.
"How soon?"
"I'm working on it. There's a lot of red tape. I'm hoping a week. Two at the most."
"Good," the Inspector looked down at the document again. "You'll let me know?"
"Of course."
"Good," he repeated. "Good work."
He looked up. Sgt. Warwick was still in the doorway.
"That'll be all, Sergeant," he said in as friendly a tone as the words would allow. "And close the door behind you."
With that, Inspector Cameron ran a hand over his head and once again spread out the reports and photographs and news clippings across his rather nice, government-issue desk.
10. The Book
Two weeks passed and Maggie still had not returned to the historic collections reading room or in any meaningful way begun her research. She had spent the first week unpacking and getting familiar with Aberdeen, touring the city with her Aunt Lucy or strolling through the streets and quays on her own. She also had lunch once with Ellen at another pub near campus, but that was as close as she had come to setting foot on the college grounds.
The second week was The Royal National Mod, or Am Mòd Nàiseanta. This annual festival of Gaelic language and culture was held annually during the entire second week of October, regardless of the academic responsibilities of visiting American students. As luck would have it, the festivities, held in a different Highland city each year, were taking place that year in the nearby city of Ballater. Having missed September's Highland Games in Braemar, there was no way Maggie could pass up the Mòd. Besides, the Mòd's week long celebration of dancing and singing, poetry and prose, games and drama—all intended to showcase the vibrancy of Gaelic culture and language—was not entirely unrelated to her studies. She and Aunt Lucy had driven to Ballater and spent three days attending presentations, visiting booths and generally enjoying themselves. And although she had not brought any real work with her, Maggie did thumb through a different one of her grandmother's books each night in bed by the light of the nearly full moon.
Maggie had hoped that at least one of the books might hold a reference to, or even an actual quote from her mystery dialect, but despite several passing references to the religious ceremonies of ancient Celtic-speaking druids, not one excerpt from their rites was secreted between the covers of any of the texts. The only lead she did find was the fact that all five books made reference to a sixth one whenever they discussed the subject of ancient Celtic religious practices. This sixth book was entitled, simply enough, 'The Religious Practices of the Ancient Peoples of Scotland.' According to the references, it was published in 1689 by Seumas MacAuliffe, and while Maggie had never heard of the volume before, its title held definite promise. As she closed her book and turned out the light next to her hotel bed on her last night in Ballater, Maggie resolved to go to the university library that weekend and see what she could dig up.
Of course, the reading room wasn't open on the weekend. So, by the time Monday rolled around, Maggie had again succeeded in filling her weekend with more sight-seeing and general acclimating, but no research. With the exception of having run across the title of Mr. MacAuliffe's book, Maggie was no further along than she had been when she arrived in Scotland.
And today was her first progress meeting with Prof. Macintyre.
Maggie of course was keenly aware of the impending conference. She had scheduled it herself after receiving a ca
ll from Prof. Macintyre suggesting they meet every other Monday to chart her progress. The fear of looking a complete idiot was the only thing that led her even to drag her grandmother's books to the Mòd. Waking late that Monday, Maggie planned to spend the remainder of the morning rummaging around the ancient book collection, then spend the lunch hour organizing her thoughts into an outline to present to Prof. Macintyre at their two o'clock meeting. This plan lasted exactly halfway through her first piece of toast.
"I thought we could take a walk down by the waterfront this morning," Aunt Lucy suggested, spreading orange marmalade over an oatcake. "It's nice weather for it, and besides," she glanced over her shoulder even though Alex and Iain had left for the store over an hour earlier, "the young men working there are often quite robust. Good scenery down at the docks, eh?"
Maggie laughed warmly at this unexpected display of prurience by her otherwise matronly aunt. 'I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain-check. I really have to get some studying done before my meeting with my professor,' is what she should have said.
"Sure," is what came out of her mouth before the toast went back in. "Sounds like fun."
Lucy let out an approving "Good" as Maggie tried to convince herself she'd have enough time to at least think of something to tell Macintyre between the inevitable lunch with Lucy and her two o'clock appointment.
Not surprisingly, she was wrong. After a pleasant morning of stevedore-watching and a hearty lunch at yet another pub tucked away on some Aberdeen quay, Maggie had had only enough time to swing by the house to grab her backpack before her aunt dropped her off near the Taylor Building. But Maggie wasn't too worried. Macintyre couldn't be expecting that much from her so early in the semester.
"I expected more from you, Margaret," Macintyre leaned back in his leather chair. "Even this early in the semester."
Damn.
"Have you done any research at all?" The afternoon sun slashed across his face, adding somehow to the expression of tired disappointment.
"Well," she ventured with a smile. "I went to the Mòd."
Macintyre's expression didn't change.
"And my grandmother left me some old books in her will which—"
"Your ... grandmother?" Macintyre interrupted, eyebrows raised, "left you some old books?"
He seemed to be trying the idea on for size, but Maggie didn't like his tone. She felt like she was being teased.
"Tell me again," he said at last, raising his hands and clasping them behind his head, "what it is you're researching?"
Maggie could feel her face flush with both embarrassment and anger. Embarrassment because she had not done any work for two weeks. Anger because he knew damn well what she was researching. It was in her application and they had discussed it at their first meeting.
"Something to do with Old Gaelic, wasn't it?"
"Something like that."
"Well, look," he leaned forward. "We do things a bit differently from what you're used to in America. We don't coddle our students. You have to do your own work. And if you persist in lolly-gagging your way through the year, well then, that's your business—but don't waste my time with pointless progress meetings if you've nothing to report."
Maggie bit her tongue.
"On the other hand," he smiled broadly and locked his eyes with Maggie's. "If you do come up with something—something really good—well, then I may be in a position to help you get it published." He raised an eyebrow self-importantly. "Go think it over, perhaps over a hamburger and a Coca-Cola. And when your little mind has settled on an actual topic, maybe then we can have a productive conversation."
"Sure," Maggie replied, trying to control her temper. She stood up. "I guess I'll go. Get thinking and all that."
"Right-o," Macintyre agreed, also standing up. "That's the spirit. Oh, and Margaret?"
She turned from the doorway.
"Don't feel too bad. Most American students don't have any self-discipline. You'll learn it soon enough." He smiled again.
Having succeeded in not giving him the finger, Maggie made her way down the corridor to the stairs.
Well, it's official, she thought, I do not like Craig Macintyre.
Outside she was greeted by the growing chill of the mid-October afternoon. The sun was already approaching the tops of the buildings, beginning to cast a pink glow on the underside of some rather ominous clouds approaching from the east. Although she had not enjoyed her meeting with Macintyre, Maggie had to admit to herself that he had a point: she did need to get moving on her research. She looked from the clouds to her watch. Twenty after two. Elphinstone Hall stood before her, the reading room behind it.
Time to get to work.
* * *
The reading room was as beautiful as she had remembered it. Maggie could feel her heart slow as she glanced around. The two dozen or so wooden tables were covered in a variety of books and lap-top computers over which crouched a wide selection of students. Maggie walked slowly and quietly up to the information desk she had gone to a fortnight earlier. To her pleasant surprise, the same woman who had been there before was again working.
"Hello, Miss Devereaux." The librarian's smile revealed her obvious pleasure with herself at having remembered Maggie's name.
"Hello." Maggie reflected the pleasant smile.
"Have you come to look at the Collection, then?"
"Yes, I have," Maggie glanced around quickly and displayed a slightly distressed expression for the librarian. "How do I get there?"
The woman's smile broadened. "Well, love," she leaned forward slightly and pointed toward a doorway in the far right corner of the reading room. "Do you see that archway there?"
Maggie nodded.
"Right, then. That'll be the stairs. Down to the stacks. There are three floors of bookshelves beneath the reading room. That's where we keep the regular part of the collection."
Maggie nodded again. Nodding seemed the appropriate thing to do.
"Take the steps all the way down to the bottom. You'll be on floor B-3. That's the bottom of the stacks."
"And that's the sub-basement?" Maggie ventured.
"No, child. That's floor B-3."
Oh, of course.
"You'll need to cross over to the other side of B-3 and in about the middle of the opposite wall you'll find a door marked 'Sub-Basement – Ancient Book Collection.' You've still the key I gave you last time?"
Maggie smiled and pulled the key from her pants pocket. "Right here."
"Good. That key will open the door. Then you'll be in the ancient book collection."
"Wonderful." Maggie was excited. The two weeks of frivolity had been nice, but there was a certain pleasurable satisfaction in returning to her studies. "Can I check out a book from there if I find a good one?" No reason to have to keep visiting a volume if she could just as easily take it home with her.
"Aye, lass, some of them, but not all." She eyed Maggie. "You're a doctoral student, in the Celtic Department, correct?"
Maggie nodded yet again.
"Good. Aye, you can check out books. But some of them are just too old and too fragile to allow them to be removed. Those ones we've marked with a small red sticker on the spine. If it has a red sticker, it can't be checked out. But if you find another book you'd like to check out, just bring it upstairs to me. We use a handwritten log, not a magnetic scanner like with newer books. We don't want to damage the books with the new technology."
"Makes sense," Maggie agreed. The clock on the wall showed 2:30. "What time does the reading room close?"
"Half past four," was the reply, as the librarian turned to look at the clock. "You've two hours still. As long as you bring the book to me by four twenty-five, I'll have time to sign it out to you."
"Great. Thank you." And with that Maggie strode across the reading room to the indicated archway, stopping only twice to inspect interesting-looking books on the way.
The stairs were made of the same stone as the walls, with worn foot grooves in eac
h step, making use of the cast iron handrail mandatory. To Maggie's disappointment, however, after the first landing the weighty character of the stone gave way to a rather ordinary tile floor and white-washed cinder block walls, so that the remainder of the descent to B-3 felt little different than any other stairwell one might find anywhere in Britain, or the United States for that matter. Obviously, the lower floors had either been added later or else remodeled at a time of unfortunate trends in interior decorating. Perhaps they had been secreted away from the general public and only recently unsealed and refurbished. Although unlikely, this latter scenario helped to restore at least some of the academic weightiness which the florescent lights and linoleum tiles of B-3 seemed so intent on extinguishing.
No one had passed her on the stairs, so she was a little surprised to see other students among the bookshelves of B-3. As she stepped from the stairwell, she could see a line of study-carrels extending down the wall to her right. There was a young man curled over a book at the carrel nearest her, and she could see the head of at least one other student a few carrels down the row. Blanketed by the silence which filled the room, she could understand why some people might like to study down there. In addition to utter silence, there were no windows to distract one with such things as other students walking by, birds landing on window ledges, changes in the weather, or even the passage of time.
Parallel to the row of carrels were several floor-to-ceiling bookcases, each of which extended the complete width of the room, save for a narrow walkway at either end. As Maggie walked slowly by the rows of books she encountered only one other student, sitting on the ground looking for some volume on the bottom shelf. As Maggie walked by, the young woman looked up at her sharply, obviously startled by Maggie's presence in the otherwise still room. Maggie continued on and, upon reaching the last bookshelf, turned right and walked uneasily down the too-narrow aisle looking for the door the librarian had described.
Maggie spied an opening in the cinderblock wall ahead on her left. Reaching that spot she could see that the white-washed blocks gave way to the original gray stone wall behind it, even if only long enough to reveal a stone doorframe with its heavy wooden door. The door itself was solid wood, with no window and a very odd looking brass doorknob. Painted on the door in simple black letters, the paint cracked and peeling, stood the words: 'SUB-BASEMENT.' The phrase 'Ancient Book Collection' was nowhere to be seen.
Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Page 8