Shadows in Scarlet

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  Scotland! All right!

  “Will a week be long enough?” Cynthia asked, glancing conspiratorially from Amanda to Wayne and back again.

  Wayne was smiling his village idiot’s smile, his eyes glazed, a morsel of whipped cream stuck to his upper lip. Anticipating a honeymoon? Amanda asked him silently. But she wasn’t going to enable either of the Chancellors to spoil her mousse. She dipped her spoon and licked sweet chocolate.

  “We’ll keep the scabbard,” Cynthia went on. “Perhaps Lady Norah will send us the sword for display. We could have a nice little ceremony reuniting the two. Maybe a recreation of the battle of Greensprings Farm for the film.”

  I want my sword. Did it matter whether James was near the scabbard—the real, physical, scabbard—as long as he was near the sword? Probably not. Not as long as the truth came out. I want revenge. Amanda sucked down the last of the mousse, licked her lips, and envisioned the garrets at Dundreggan crammed with family diaries, letters, signed confessions—anything to back up the murder charges. Which Cynthia could then trumpet from the rooftops as loudly as her heart desired. Yes!

  “Is everyone finished?” Cynthia pushed back her chair, rose, and led the way into the living room trailing clouds of glory.

  “Thanks for the chow,” Helen said, “but I have to run. Amanda, Wayne, I’ll come out to Melrose tomorrow for a photography lesson, okay?”

  “I’ll be ready,” Wayne said, rubbing his hands together. With her fingertip Cynthia wiped the cream from his lip. Together they turned to Amanda and smiled, teeth gleaming.

  “Mrs. Chancellor, we need to get one thing clear,” she began. She stepped onto the deep-pile carpet of the living room and turned her heel. Carrie grabbed her arm. “Thanks.”

  “Bones,” said Hewitt. “Thank you, Cynthia—storage box—customs declaration. Bones. Bye.”

  Cynthia opened the door. “Sorry you can’t stay longer. But we’ll get together soon and discuss our plans. How about a television series on historical houses and the people who lived there? I could introduce each episode. I have contacts at WETA in Washington, you know.”

  Hewitt shoved Helen out of the way and ran out the door. Carrie, still grasping Amanda’s arm, scooped both their purses from the floor and headed for open air, murmuring, “Thank you so much for the wonderful lunch, Amanda and I need to put our heads together for that article, so much research to do, what a wonderful opportunity this is.”

  “I always wanted to go to the UK,” added Amanda. “I really appreciate your generosity, even though there’s something you need to know… .”

  “She’ll love Scotland,” Carrie concluded. “Lunch was wonderful. See you tomorrow, Wayne.”

  They were outside. The door shut behind them. The moist sunshine seared Amanda’s cheeks and drew thick beads of sweat from her forehead. She tasted chocolate in the back of her throat, cloying sweet, like Cynthia. That buzz she was hearing was probably cicadas in the shrubbery, not her brain on overload. “Scotland. Wednesday. What’ll I wear?”

  “I’ll lend you a couple of sweaters.”

  “My hair’s a mess.”

  “Go down to Beauty World and ask for Maryann. She’ll give you a quick trim, fix you right up.”

  The sun glinted off the windshield of her car and Amanda winced. “Geez, talk about a Catch-22 situation. Good thing you hauled me out of there before I spilled the beans about the engagement. If Cynthia knew the truth she wouldn’t be sending me to Scotland with Wayne, would she? Or would she?”

  Carrie rolled her eyes. “Here we were plotting an end run around her and she makes an end run around us. By giving you just what you want, the Grant family archives.”

  “Like I’m going to give her what she wants? No way am I taking on Wayne. I mean, now he’s got his mother pimping for him.”

  “It’s not his idea. And Cynthia just thinks she’s being a cool contemporary mom. If the sexual connotations ever even occurred to her, she banished them to the woodshed.”

  “If Wayne wasn’t such a doormat I wouldn’t be getting a cool trip,” Amanda said, shaking her head. “But it’s because he’s a doormat I want to strangle him and feed him to the Loch Ness monster. Geez.”

  “Just don’t do him in until you’ve brought me all the information you can find, including annotated copies and complete documentation. Okay?”

  It was a toss-up between four-letter words and a laugh. Amanda chose the laugh. She groped in her purse for her car keys. “Okay. I resign myself to the whims of fate. Where’s the beauty shop?”

  Carrie gave her directions. “See you tomorrow. Assuming you’ll be all right out at Melrose tonight.”

  “I’d rather deal with James than Wayne any day. I guess he’ll be happy to hear he’s going home.”

  “Uh-huh,” Carrie said cautiously.

  “I did get his picture. I think. I’m not sure just why it’s important to me that I have a picture of him. To prove it to you, I guess.”

  “No, to prove it to yourself,” Carrie told her. “Say hi to the gals at the beauty shop.”

  Amanda unlocked her car and climbed in, wondering whether one or the other of the Chancellors was watching her from the house and gloating. The truth wouldn’t make any difference to Cynthia, she decided. Lady C. moved in mysterious ways, her wonders to perform.

  A quick shampoo and trim did settle her down—women had hairdressers, men had bartenders—and she spent her grocery money on a twill skirt and a waterproof jacket. She checked with her bank and made sure her credit card would work in British ATM machines, just so Wayne couldn’t pick up all the tabs.

  Amanda returned to Melrose late in the afternoon, changed her clothes, and called her parents in Chicago. “Guess what? Mrs. Chancellor is sending me to Scotland to take the bones back—sure, I’ll send you photos—yeah, I have my passport, it makes a good ID.” She didn’t tell them about Wayne, just that a fellow interpreter was going along. She certainly couldn’t tell them about James. I’ve fallen for a ghost—yeah, he’s a bit old for me, but it’s just a Highland fling anyway…

  She returned from her tour of the house and grounds to find Lafayette dozing on her new skirt. She lured him away by spiking his usual dinner with a bit of leftover lunchmeat.

  While she brushed the cat fur from the twill she made a mental checklist. Suitcase. For a week, just one. A carry-on. How big would the box of bones be? She’d need money for porters. And she had to organize her notes. Going away and leaving her thesis in a drunk and disorderly condition was like going out without clean underwear.

  In the gathering darkness Amanda threw together what perishables she had in her refrigerator and ate them, not that she really tasted a thing. Then she checked her e-mail. There was a note from Preservation Imaging with Dundreggan’s phone number, signed, Malcolm Grant. Too late now, she’d be on his doorstep in a couple of days. Not that Cynthia had bothered mentioning her name, it seemed, as Grant hadn’t picked up on it. Either that or he was a total snob. He wasn’t into self-promotion, though—she still didn’t know just what Preservation Imaging, Ltd, did, although it sounded intriguing.

  Amanda was e-mailing her friends with the scoop when the phone rang. “Melrose Hall.”

  “Hi,” said Wayne’s voice. “It’s me.”

  “Wayne, what am I going to do with you?”

  “I’ve got it all figured out. When we get back from the trip we’ll tell Mother we discovered we just couldn’t get along with each other and so we’re breaking up.”

  “That ‘I Love Lucy’ routine is so old it’s got whiskers on it.”

  “It’ll work, really.”

  “Nothing’s working like I expected it to. It’s worth a try, I guess. But Wayne… .”

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, nothing. I need to go. I have to get myself organized.”

  “It’ll be a cool trip, we’ll have a good time, you’ll see.”

  “Good night. See you tomorrow.” Amanda hung up. She was getting more and more cranky wit
h Wayne. She hated herself for it, and she hated him for making her do it. But he’d backed her into a corner. He was probably just stalling her with his “we’re breaking up” plot. He intended to come back engaged for real… . She was not going to let poor testosterone-impaired Wayne ruin her trip.

  This was sweet. A busman’s holiday, a chance to do some significant research, a chance to get out of the heat, a chance to help James. To help him rest. To help him leave her forever.

  This time Lafayette didn’t yowl and scratch. Deeply offended, he marched briskly away and banged through the flap. Amanda felt the sudden chill gratefully—what was a bit of chill outside her body when the inside was flushed with warmth?

  A moment later she was skimming the floor into James’s arms. If he’d been solid she’d have knocked him backward. As it was, he caught her in a deliciously airy embrace, tartan swirling. His kisses were cool, moist, headier than whiskey. She allowed herself a lengthy greeting before trying to speak.

  “James.”

  His lips and tongue caressed her neck, sending shivers down her back. His hair felt like spider webs against her ear.

  “James, I have to tell you something.”

  His right hand dived beneath her T-shirt and cradled her left breast, thumb teasing the hard peak of the nipple. Oh yeah. No wonder the man had risen from the dead. That much testosterone would launch a Saturn rocket.

  “James!” she squeaked breathlessly. “Wait a minute!”

  He looked up, eyes dancing. “Yes, Sweeting? What would you say?”

  “I have good news. I’m going to be able to take you home after all.”

  “Home.”

  “Scotland. Dundreggan. Just like you wanted.”

  “Ah.” He frowned, and she could no longer feel his hand. “How kind of you, to undertake such a perilous journey on my behalf, but I fear I don’t quite …”

  Understand? No, he was much too proud to admit he didn’t understand. “Your sword is at Dundreggan. You’ll be there with it. And after I help write the article about you, everyone will know how Archibald—what Archibald did to you. You’ll be able to rest.”

  “Ah.” His hands fell away, letting her T-shirt fall. “My bones, you mean to say. You will return my bones to Dundreggan.”

  “Yeah, that’s about the size of it.”

  “‘Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbear to dig the dust enclosed here,’” James quoted. “‘Curst be he who moves my bones.’ Not that my bones are similar to those of Master Shakespeare, and they have already been disturbed, have they not, or I would not be …”

  A ghost, Amanda finished for him. She’d done it again, hadn’t she? She kept stepping in it with James like Wayne kept stepping in it with her.

  “Melrose is more vivid in my mind than Dundreggan,” James sighed. “Yet I am called to the land of my birth as Odysseus was called to Ithaca. But his Penelope was faithful and my Isabel was not.”

  “Don’t worry about Isabel. That’s history, you’ll excuse my saying so.” Amanda put her hands on his shoulders, or at least set her hands in the air next to the image of his shoulders, but he had faded so far she had nothing to touch. Maybe she shouldn’t have told him, should simply have packed him up and carried him away. But no, that wasn’t fair. If he woke up in Scotland he’d be more disoriented than ever. He deserved to know what was happening to him.

  If he woke up. Once his physical remains left Melrose, the last place to activate his consciousness, he’d probably be gone for good. Once his physical remains were buried in Scottish soil he’d definitely be gone for good, because he’d have gotten what he wanted.

  James’s eyes shone like a cold northern sea lit by the last rays of the setting sun. “An ciaradh m’fheasgair mo bheath air claoidh,” he murmured, “mo rosg air dunadh’s ‘a bhas gun chli. It is a song the soldiers sing. ‘When day is over and life is done, my eyes closed, my strength gone.’ My strength gone… .”

  He vanished from the circle of her arms. Amanda dropped her hands to her sides. “James, your strength isn’t gone. Not when you’re with me.” She waited. Nothing. “James, we don’t have much more time!” Nothing.

  She punched the back of the couch with her fists. A cloud of dust rose into the air, hardly less substantial than James himself.

  He might soon be at rest, but she wasn’t so sure about herself.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Amanda stood in her usual pose in the entrance hall, but her mind was focused on the night before. James didn’t seem to have much control over his appearances and disappearances. He wasn’t teasing her… . Yeah, right. Most men would love to vanish at heavy emotional moments.

  A tourist group traipsed down the stairs, Wayne at their heels. “Have you seen Captain Grant’s ghost?” a girl asked him.

  “Stories of ghosts and spirits,” he replied with a grave nod of his bewigged head, “are grounded on no other bottom than the fears and fancies and weak brains of men. Belief in ghosts is a sign of ignorance and gross superstition, fitting only for the vulgar classes.”

  Nope, Amanda thought. James wouldn’t have believed in ghosts either.

  “There was an article in the newspaper about that lady having a seance out here,” the girl persisted, “and flowerpots crashing and stuff like that.”

  Wayne had the good grace to look embarrassed. “I’m very much afraid, miss, that no flowerpots were broken. I believe the lady was simply entertaining her friends. Thank you for your visit to my home. Please do us the very great honor of stopping by the gift shop.” The sightseers stepped out the door and were swallowed by the afternoon sun.

  Wayne pulled out a handkerchief, mopped his face, and said to Amanda, “My understudy’s doing great. How’s yours?”

  “Vicky’s a real trouper, picked up the lines instantly. And she looks more like Sally than I do—shorter and rounder in the face.”

  “Not as pretty as you are,” Wayne said gallantly.

  “Thanks.” Another group of tourists arrived in the doorway and Amanda went to greet them. So far no one had taken the tour twice, and been confused by two different sets of Armstrongs.

  When Amanda led this group back down the stairs she found one of Hewitt’s students taking the four morsels of bone from the Lucite box. On the floor beside him sat a light wooden crate lined with stiff foam. In cutout shapes in the foam nestled James’s skeleton.

  The tourists gawked and pointed. The student explained what he was doing. Amanda hung back against the banister, her eyes moving from the portrait to the reconstruction to the mound of the skull peeking from the box. All three were empty illustrations of James, not the real man. The real man was a pattern in light and time. He couldn’t be contained in or defined by wood, or foam, or bone.

  The man she knew wasn’t the same man he’d been in life, Amanda told herself. Her James was a tragic figure, with the appetites of the flesh but not its support. His touch was charmingly delicate because he wasn’t up to anything stronger. His manner was appealingly vulnerable because his self-esteem had decayed with his body. If she’d met him as a living man, either in his era or outside it, she wouldn’t have smiled at his boldness or sympathized with his temper. But she wasn’t meeting him as a living man, was she?

  The tourists were gone. “Here it is,” the student said. “Hell of a long way to go for a funeral.”

  “Better late than never,” Amanda replied vaguely.

  The student unrolled a layer of foam over the bones and put the wooden lid loosely atop the box. “We’ve put some silica gel in there, but still, with this humidity, Dr. Hewitt said to leave the lid ajar until the last minute. Can you screw it down right before you leave?”

  “No problem.” Amanda took the screwdriver and set it on the sideboard. “Thanks.”

  She stood for a long moment after the student left, considering the crate. The oblong box. The coffin. It had handles at either end and a tidy little plastic pouch for the necessary papers. The word “Fragile” was stamped on every sid
e. You’re going home, James.

  The screwdriver rolled clattering across the sideboard and pinged against the Chinese vase. Pleasure, Amanda wondered, or frustration? For a man so fair, James sure could play the brooding Byronic hero.

  She hitched up her bodice and welcomed the next band of visitors.

  At closing time Amanda shooed Wayne out the door with the others and headed back to her apartment pulling off her cap and loosening her gown. She didn’t have to dress tomorrow, just hang around backstage ready to lend a hand if anyone needed her. Wayne was picking her up at two. In a limousine. Was she ever going to enjoy living on the right side of the tracks for a change.

  Lafayette sat on the couch, guarding Helen’s camera bag. The photographer hadn’t tried to teach Wayne and Amanda the subtleties of filters and f-stops. She’d said, “Point there, punch here, wind this. And for God’s sakes don’t forget to take off the lens caps.” She’d left box after box of film, figuring that if the travelers took lots of pictures some of them had to turn out.

  Amanda stowed the film, zipped the bag shut, and patted Lafayette. She made her rounds of the house and the garden and turned off the lights in the entrance hall display, but not before taking one last look at the snuffbox with its relief of Dundreggan. She’d be there herself day after tomorrow. Her nerve endings tingled with anticipation.

  The box of bones still sat beside the sideboard. No sense in leaving it there. All the other luggage would go out the back. Not that she thought of James as luggage. Tucking her clipboard beneath her arm and the screwdriver in her pocket, she lifted the wooden box and carried it back to her living room. It was surprisingly light. But then, there wasn’t much inside.

  Night fell. Dinnertime came and went. Amanda sewed on a button, pressed a blouse, and packed. No James. She made back-up copies of her thesis. No James. She sent off a couple of e-mails and surfed the Web. Funny how studying up on the Scottish ferry schedules didn’t produce any Scots.

  Lafayette seemed kind of restless, she thought hopefully, sniffing at the packing crate by the door, leaping on and off the windowsills. But the air was turgid, not cool. “James,” she said aloud, “it’s our last chance.”