Shadows in Scarlet

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  Okay, so James had deserved a rap over the knuckles. Maybe even a swift uppercut to the jaw. He hadn’t deserved to be murdered. “James and Isabel were engaged when he died,” said Amanda. “That’s in the Balcarres letter—the Museum in Edinburgh sent us a copy.”

  “Oh aye. Bit o’ a soap, eh? James dies, Archibald gets the girl and the brass. Snotty said you were researchin’ a book aboot James.”

  “An article, actually, about the discovery and identification of his body. An exercise in historical archaeology. But it may turn into a book yet, it’s getting more complicated by the minute.”

  “My grandfather, also Malcolm, was plannin’ to write a book aboot the family history. He spent years collectin’ and organizin’ his sources but never put pen to paper. Or type to paper. I’m thinkin’ he hoped to find somethin’ glamorous among the begats and the bequeaths. But no joy. Dead respectable, as I said. You’ve brought us a family skeleton noo, but it’s no the sort that rattles awa’ in the cupboard.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Amanda returned, and at Malcolm’s puzzled look amended, “Sorry, my brains haven’t caught up with my body.”

  They turned down the hallway at the foot of the stairs. Arranged engagement or not, Amanda thought, James really had cared for Isabel. But even in a day and time when many men were allowed full rein and most women wore choke-chains, Isabel might not have been too thrilled about a match with a rogue, no matter how charming. Amanda was surprised James’s ghost didn’t resemble Marley’s in A Christmas Carol, except James’s would drag a chain of playing cards, wine bottles, and petticoats. And stolen artifacts. The scabbard was his, yeah, but he damn well could have trusted her enough to tell her what he was up to. My own, my ass, she thought.

  Malcolm led the way into the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator. “Would you like a piece?”

  “Of what?”

  “Bread and jam, or a bittie cheese.”

  “No thank you, Irene fixed a wonderful lunch for us.”

  “Whilst muggins here is slavin’ awa’ tendin’ to the farm.” Malcolm collected supplies from refrigerator, breadbox, and pantry, and built himself a sandwich. Cerberus materialized from beneath the table, trotting to Malcolm’s side like a shark scenting a disturbance in the water. “Oh it’s you, is it? Okay, okay, here you are.”

  Amanda sat down. The dog ate his treat, sniffed around to make sure there wasn’t any more, and settled down at her feet. She petted his warm, sleek head while his tail brushed rhythmically across her ankles, deciding that if dogs condescended to purr, this one was purring. “Dundreggan seems to be in great condition. It must be a nightmare trying to fight the damp rot. How often do you have to re-point the masonry?”

  “It’s like paintin’ the Forth Bridge—you’re no sooner done than you’re startin’ in again.” Malcolm sat down opposite her and contemplated his multi-layered sandwich, an architectural triumph. “We’re barely keepin’ ahead o’ entropy. The walls shift, the doorframes buckle, the floors sink. One loose slate on the roof and you’ve a wet plaster ceilin’ comin’ doon on your heid. The place is held together by the plumbin’ pipes and the electric flex installed in 1911.” He took a bite, chewed, and concluded, “Last week a stone fell from the dinin’ room ceilin’ slap into Lindley’s soup.”

  “Way to welcome the clergy!” Amanda said. “What did he say?”

  “He was right polite, considering it could’ve bashed his head, and asked for a cloth to wipe the soup off his shirt. Mum said, a good thing he’s no a Calvinist, we can just pour another glass o’ wine for an Anglican and he’ll soon forgive and forget.”

  “Telling tales on me, are you?” Norah walked through the door and helped herself to a bite of her son’s sandwich. “I see you’ve made your own introductions.”

  “It’s a do-it-yourself age,” Amanda told her.

  “Malcolm was hoping to ask you questions about opening the house to the public,” Norah went on, pulling herself up a chair.

  “Theme park Scotland,” Malcolm said. “Tartan dollies. Balmorality.”

  “An educational center,” retorted Norah. Her tone indicated they’d been chewing over this topic for a long time.

  “Williamsburg manages to be a class act,” Amanda said helpfully.

  “But Williamsburg has been restored to one time period,” said Norah. “Which time period do we choose? How much restoration should we do?”

  “Ye Olde Gothicke Victorian crenellations on the south tower have to go,” Malcolm said, “They’re no only unsightly, the mortar’s rotted through.”

  “But even the Victorian renovations are a part of the castle’s history.” Amanda offered. “Williamsburg is one thing. Dundreggan is another. I love the eclecticism, all the different time periods mingled madly together—that’s where you’re unique. You should capitalize on that.”

  The similarly blue eyes of the Grants moved from Amanda’s face to each other’s and back again. “We’ll be havin’ a lot to talk aboot,” Malcolm told her. He popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth and licked his lips.

  “Anything I can do to help …”

  Cerberus leaped up, emitted an interrogative “woof?” and stared toward the door. All three faces turned that way, but no one was there.

  “It’s only Morag.” Norah widened her eyes in mock horror. “Whenever the floors settle and creak or a door goes off balance and closes itself, we say it’s Morag. The genius loci, I suppose, the guardian spirit of the house. We don’t have a real ghost, sad to say.”

  “Grandad’s dad saw a gray shape in the upper hall,” Malcolm said, “but he probably had a smudge on his eyeglasses. We’re sadly lackin’ in permanent bloodstains and walled-up nuns and bumps in the night. Tourists love ghost stories.”

  “Theme park Scotland,” Norah reminded him. He made a face at her.

  Cerberus sat down again, still staring at the door. Ambivalently, Amanda thought. She knew how he felt. She remembered how Wayne had said something about Melrose not producing any ghosts for the tourists. That had helped convince her James’s ghost was real.

  And now she was starting to get the queasy feeling that James’s only-too-real ghost had accompanied his bones across the Atlantic.

  “I’m sorry to have to ask, but my friend and co-author from Williamsburg called earlier, and I really need to call her back. I’ll call collect.”

  “Rubbish,” said Norah. “Phone Virginia all you wish. You’re here on business, after all. The telephone’s on the kist in the hallway.”

  “Thank you.” Amanda collected the camera and headed out the door.

  The phone still sat next to the vase of roses and iris, on top of the carved wooden chest Norah had called a “kist.” Amanda took it up the stairs to her room, shut the door, and dug out the phone number. She put the phone to her ear.

  It was dead. Too far away from its base. Back down the stairs Amanda went, giving James’s portrait an exasperated glance as she passed. She sat on the bottom step and punched in the long strong of numbers. Along with hollow thrummings from the earpiece she heard Malcolm’s and Norah’s voices in the kitchen, talking and laughing. She’d gotten so used to Cynthia and Wayne’s dysfunctional relationship it seemed odd to hear mother and son interacting like equals. Like her own mother and brother didn’t get along just fine… .

  “Carrie Shaffer.”

  “Hi, Carrie. It’s me, calling from the misty isles.” From the open front door a block of sunlight reached almost to her feet, etching sharp shadows in the uneven stone floor. “Well, sunny isles right now.”

  “Did you find the scabbard?”

  “What do you think? Yeah, it’s in the box with the bones. The Grants think I brought it along intentionally. I guess you might as well tell the police that that’s what I did—last minute impulse or something. I’ll bring it back next week. My return ticket’s for Thursday.”

  “You shouldn’t take the rap for James.”

  Like I have a choice? Alou
d, Amanda said, “Oh, now you’re admitting he’s real?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Carrie asserted. “I mean—well… .”

  “I took the scabbard. Mea culpa. Don’t worry, I’ll take lots of photos of it next to the sword, which is where it is right now, and maybe they’ll give me time off for good intentions or something.”

  “I don’t see any other way of handling it,” Carrie said. “I’ll call the police and tell them the news. Maybe I can confuse the issue—oh, look, here’s a memo Amanda left for me before she left—sorry, I haven’t cleaned off my desk. And that’s no lie. How’s it going, by the way? What are the Grants like?”

  The cats ambled through the door. The ginger one—Denis—rolled onto his back and stretched luxuriously on the sun-warmed pavement while Margaret, the tabby, made a good imitation of a sphinx, right down to the supercilious expression.

  “Great people, mother and son both,” Amanda answered. “Wayne and Cynthia should take lessons.”

  “I still haven’t heard anything from either one of them, thank goodness.”

  Amanda made a face. “Listen, Carrie, I’m really sorry to jerk you around.”

  “Hey, I’m a mother, I do a great marionette impression.”

  Malcolm came whistling down the hall, stopping abruptly when he saw Amanda sitting on the steps. He smiled. She smiled and scrunched herself against the cool stone of the wall as he bounded upward. “I’d better go, I’m running up the Grants’ phone bill.”

  “Lots of pictures, now. Letters, diaries, old laundry lists. And don’t worry about the scabbard.”

  “Yeah, right.” It was James’s fault, not Carrie’s. “Yes, ma’am. Bye.” Amanda turned off the telephone and sat with it in her lap, telling herself that if they were handing out blame, she needed to get in line.

  James hadn’t realized what he was doing, she rationalized. He’d taken the scabbard during daylight—he hadn’t been either in a material state or in his right mind… .

  Not that Amanda was in her right mind. She was firmly convinced it was the middle of the night. The sunlight pouring the door seemed as weird as the shadowless light on James’s body. But while sleep deprivation sure wasn’t helping, her big problem was that everything was happening too damned fast… .

  Footsteps, slow and deliberate, came down the spiral staircase behind her. The stone wall she was leaning against went from cool to icy cold. As one the cats leaped up, turned toward the sound, and bristled.

  Well, that answered that question. Amanda scrambled to her feet and walked slowly up the stairwell. James?

  The footsteps were closer, but still around the bend of the wall.

  James?

  One of the cats hissed. Both of them shot out the door. Amanda took several more steps, until she could see the landing where James’s picture hung.

  The footsteps stopped. Nothing and no one was there. The sunlight glanced off the paint-ridges on the surface of the three portraits.

  Amanda hurried upward and looked into the great hall. It was empty. The tapestries, the mounted weapons, the fireplace were unchanged. The wooden crate sat mutely before the display case. Behind the glass James’s sword and scabbard inscribed parallel lines. The sword was a bright streak of bravado. The scabbard was a tarnished and disfigured memento mori, a souvenir less of a fleeting relationship than of death.

  James, please, for both our sakes, let it go… .

  Nothing.

  With an exhalation that was a much a snort as a sigh, she walked over to the display case and raised her camera. Only once did she trip over the crate as she jockeyed for position. The photographs would guarantee the immortality of the reunited sword and sheath. That was the only immortality James would ever find.

  Chapter Nineteen

  By dinnertime Amanda caught herself telling Norah, Malcolm, and the Finlays how Melrose Hall had been built in the seventeenth century. Then she couldn’t remember what year her sister was going to graduate from high school. Hello? Earth to brain?

  She excused herself and went to bed.

  The summer evening lingered outside her window, filling the room with a golden glow. Amanda snuggled into the comforter and slid dizzily down the steep slope to unconsciousness. When she awoke it was to darkness so dense she had to touch her eyelids to make sure they were open. Of course she hadn’t left any lights on. And she hadn’t put her watch with its LED on the bedside table. Not that it mattered, she was just going to go back to sleep… .

  From the hall outside her door came the sound of footsteps. It wasn’t Norah’s “Morag,” the normal creaks and settlings of an old house. The steps were firm and regular—no, they hesitated, like someone was looking for the right room.

  The still air was so cold and damp Amanda was surprised she couldn’t see her breath against the darkness. She blinked her burning eyes. There, a dim rectangle was her window and a shape at the foot of the bed was the wardrobe where she’d hung her clothes.

  The footsteps started again, and paused just outside her door. The knob rattled impatiently, then began to turn.

  James.

  With a plink the knob returned to its resting position. The door stayed shut. The window-rectangle brightened. She began to make out the shape of the bathroom door, defined in the fragile light of dawn.

  She waited a while, the cold prickling between the individual hairs on her bruised scalp. Then with a long sigh she burrowed further into the warmth of the comforter. Of course James was confused and unfocussed. The abrupt change of scene had left her thoroughly out of focus, and she was, most of the time, a conscious human being. But with the funeral tomorrow, he didn’t have much time to collect himself.

  Not that she really wanted him to collect himself. She’d already said good-bye to him, over and over again. It was time for some closure… . Now that was cold. Have sex with the guy and two days later you’re rooting for him to disappear. Hadn’t their brief affair meant anything?

  Sure it had. That was just it. She wanted to lay James safely to rest before he did anything else to make her mad. Before she found out any more about what he’d been like when he was alive. She wanted her memories of him to be like the sword, not the scabbard—brightly polished, not pitted and tarnished. She sure didn’t want to regret having done what she’d done.

  Amanda drifted into incoherent dreams, and woke at last to a brilliant morning. Choirs of birds caroled outside the window. The room was still cold. Nothing supernatural about that.

  She got up, dressed, and only then looked at her watch. It was five-thirty. Good one. Between her scrambled internal chronometer and the early dawn this far north, she was awake hours before anyone else.

  Arming herself with a notebook and a pen, Amanda tiptoed past the other bedrooms and managed to step on each creaking floorboard. It must have been James in the corridor last night, because beneath his insubstantial feet the floor hadn’t creaked once. Not that she’d doubted they were his feet.

  She still had one-third of her promise to him to keep. And he, stubborn as he was, had wanted to remind her. To nag her about it, like she couldn’t be trusted.

  Cerberus met her on the staircase, gladdened by the sight of a human being. He trotted behind her to the library and made himself comfortable in the sunlight flooding through the three tall windows. The carpet where he lay was threadbare, and the easy chairs were somewhat frayed, but all were immaculate. The marble swirls of the eighteenth-century mantlepiece were polished to such gleaming whiteness they looked like a meringue, while the empty grate was an abstraction in Brasso and blacking.

  On the wall above the mantel hung a family tree, meticulously calligraphed except for the names of the most recent generation—Archie, Malcolm, several cousins—which were printed in a different hand. Malcolm’s father Alexander was a second son himself, Amanda saw. His older brother had died in 1940, probably a casualty of war. Norah had been eighteen years younger than her husband and was now only fifty-two. Archie was twenty-seven and Malcolm
twenty-three, her own age. Had she ever been out of it, imagining Norah and Malcolm as doddering old stereotypes.

  Higher up the chart were James and his brother, named Donald after their father. Next to the thick branch of Isabel and Archibald’s seven children, Donald and James were lonely blighted twigs. But their generation was closer to the bottom of the chart than the top. Amanda’s eye moved further upward, tracing the tree back into the mists of time and wishful thinking—Robert the Bruce, Malcolm Canmore, Aidan of Dalriada. Wow, she thought. In the vast lake of history Williamsburg was only a wading pool.

  She petted Cerberus and moved on to the bookcases, pulling out and replacing books. From a high shelf she took a two hundred-year-old copy of Tristram Shandy. The leather covers were mottled, but the pages were clean and dry. She had college textbooks that weren’t in this good a condition.

  On the flyleaf was inscribed, James Charles Edward Grant, 1775. Even his handwriting was bold, a flourish of ink that reminded her of the ink spill on the blotter at Melrose. Maybe his swagger was his reaction to a domineering father. Or to being the younger son. Or maybe he was defaulting to the masculine bottom line—be strong or be ridiculed, a fate worse than death. Not that death had slowed him down much. Amanda closed the book, put it back on the shelf, and moved on.

  Family photographs crowded each surface. Through the mutations of fashion she could trace the history of Britain, right down to a photo of Malcolm standing next to a slightly taller, slightly older man wearing a pilot’s flight suit.

  On the floor beside the desk stood a space heater. Next to the computer keyboard lay a tin whistle. A cross-stitched motto hung above the printer: “These buildings do not belong to us only … they are not in any sense our property to do as we like with them. We are only trustees for those that come after us. William Morris.” Right on, Amanda thought.

  Okay, so she’d killed an hour. She stood in the center of the room, arms braced against her hips. There were cupboards beneath each bookshelf, a filing cabinet next to the desk, and what looked like a medieval chest against the far wall. If I were family papers, she asked herself, where would I be?