Shadows in Scarlet

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  “It didn’t hit me until just a couple of days ago that James might have pushed you. Trying to keep me away from another man. I wish you’d told me.”

  Norah asked, “Would you have believed him?”

  “Well, no, but not for the obvious reason. I believed in James’s ghost one hundred per cent by that time. I just wouldn’t have believed he could do something so malicious. I’m sorry, Wayne. I’m an idiot.”

  “That’s okay, and no, you’re not.” He reached for the whiskey bottle and refilled his glass.

  “You know,” Amanda went on, “I did wonder at the time if James shut Lafayette in the kitchen cabinet.”

  “Who?” Malcolm asked.

  “Melrose’s cat. One night I found him shut in the kitchen cabinet. At first I thought he’d just wandered in there, you know how curious cats are, and then I thought maybe James had closed the door on him, since Lafayette was always hissing at him. Even so, I figured he was just being nervous around cats. Some people are.”

  Margaret flicked her ears—Lafayette had more perception than you did.

  She wasn’t going to debate that one. “I can’t believe this is happening. It’s like when Page dragged Sally off into the night. All she’d wanted was to flirt with James—his flattery must have been pretty stimulating, he being the enemy and everything—but it got away from her. I wonder if she felt a twinge when she heard he was dead.”

  “Never realizin’,” said Malcolm, “how she hersel’ was the indirect cause.”

  “And his body lay moldering beneath her feet as she took tea in the summerhouse,” Wayne intoned. “When I was a kid, I used to think the place was really creepy. Of course it was all overgrown and rickety by then.”

  “There’s never been a woman yet who wasn’t beguiled by a handsome face and a clever tongue at least once,” Norah said, with a crinkle that made Amanda wonder just what she was remembering. “You behaved honorably, Amanda. So did Sally, for that matter. James did not.”

  “Thanks,” Amanda said, not at all sarcastically. She tucked her hand into Malcolm’s and squeezed. Cerberus shifted his weight on her feet. Between the dog, the whiskey, and Malcolm, she was finally starting to warm up. But the night wasn’t over.

  “I wish I’d seen him when he was in a good mood,” Wayne said with a sigh. “Wow. A real ghost.”

  “I don’t know,” said Norah, “whether to ring Lindley and ask for an exorcism, or to ring Denny and ask for a SWAT team.”

  “I’m no so sure either’d turn the trick,” returned Malcolm. “But we’re no goin’ on like this, I’m tellin’ you that.”

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, Amanda heard Carrie saying, Climb onto the bank and walk.

  “Tomorrow,” Norah said, “we’ll be having a council of war.”

  For a long moment the room was so silent the tic-tic of the electric fire sounded like footsteps. Everyone looked a different direction. But the cats were licking themselves clean of occult influences, and, judging by his dead weight, Cerberus was asleep.

  “It’s gone midnight,” Malcolm said at last. “I vote for spendin’ the rest o’ the night in here, all together.”

  “Yeah,” said Wayne. “Better uncomfortable than dead. I bet he’d zap any of us he could catch.”

  “Zap? He’s no muckin’ aboot wi’ a laser gun.”

  Wayne drained his whiskey, smacked his lips, and stood up. “Just a figure of speech. Zap. Exterminate. Obliterate.”

  “Oh aye,” Malcolm said faintly.

  “Come along, Wayne,” said Norah. “Let’s collect some blankets and pillows.”

  As soon as they left the room Malcolm asked quietly, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Maybe not all right, but a lot better than I was,” Amanda replied. “The worst part, beyond being scared, was feeling so helpless. Your line about ‘defenseless woman’ wasn’t just a gimmick to distract him.”

  “You’re no Xena, Warrior Princess, are you noo? The sod had you cornered.”

  She set her palms flat on Malcolm’s chest, letting the beat of his heart flow throw her fingertips and into her own body. “Oddly enough, I like having you protect me. You’re not taking something away from me, you’re giving me something. Like my life. Thank you.”

  “Thank you for havin’ a life I could save.”

  Things were just about to get sappy when Norah reappeared, followed by Wayne, who looked like a pile of bed linen with feet. “Here we are. Pillow, Amanda? And the duvet from your bed, it’s nice and thick.”

  Reluctantly Amanda released Malcolm and let him make himself a bed on the floor between Wayne and Cerberus. Norah chose a reclining chair.

  They left a small desk lamp on, and one bar of the electric fire. Amanda stretched out on the couch cocooned in her comforter. She stared into the feeble glow, at the rounded shapes of people and animals, at the two closed doors.

  From Norah’s shallow breathing Amanda figured she wasn’t asleep either. Wayne snored lustily. Malcolm’s breath was deep and even. Like his soldier ancestors, he must’ve learned how to sleep in the midst of battle. Amanda twisted and turned and dug up one positive thought: from now on she’d identify the flavor of whiskey not with James but with Malcolm.

  At last she dozed, only to be haunted by re-enactments—swords, heights, darkness. By the time night thinned she was aching for action, notebooks at twenty paces, anything that would give James an attitude adjustment and send him to his long-overdue reward.

  Cerberus went to the door and whined. The cats hiked over the supine male bodies and meowed their breakfast orders. Yawning and bedraggled, Wayne sat up and loudly complained he hadn’t slept a wink.

  Amanda staggered to her room, dressed, and joined the others in a quick inspection of the house. Except for Archibald’s portrait, nothing outside Amanda’s room was damaged. Norah shook her head over the ripped canvas, but all she said was, “Breakfast in the hotel, I should think. Shall we?”

  Just to be on the safe side Wayne and Amanda packed the artifacts from Melrose in the back of the Land Rover. The morning was fresh, clear, and cool, the rain clouds only a dark smudge low on the horizon. The thin crescent of a waxing moon pierced the blue arc of the sky. As they drove past the chapel the sun topped the clouds and poured light over the landscape. Every green leaf and gray stone sparkled, washed clean, and the Moriston burbled like club soda in its rocky bed. The white-painted hotel was just opening for business.

  If its owner was startled to see the bleary-looking crew appear at his reception desk he was nice enough not to say so. “Lachlan,” said Norah, “these are our guests from America. Can you lay on breakfast for us?”

  “Of course, Norah, only the best for you and yours.” Lachlan disappeared into the kitchen.

  Norah led the way to a table in a window alcove of the deserted dining room. “Well then. I’ll ring the Finlays and tell them to stay away until we have it sorted. No sense in giving James a go at them, too. Wayne, Lachlan can find you a room here.”

  “No ma’am,” said Wayne with a firm nod. “This is my fight, too. Melrose, you know.”

  Norah may not have followed his reasoning, but Amanda did. He’d found a chance to re-invent himself. To grow up, already. Go for it. “Me, too,” she said. “If I’d just dumped off his bones and left, he might never have bothered you. I don’t know. But now my leaving wouldn’t help. Wayne’s right, James will be after anyone he can catch.”

  Malcolm’s lips thinned, but he didn’t say anything.

  Lachlan appeared with a teapot and cups. The first sip of hot, sweet tea was the best thing Amanda had ever tasted. Unless it was the bowl of oatmeal which followed. Or the eggs and bacon and tomato which followed that. The sun was shining and Malcolm was sitting next to her. It was good to be alive. Very good.

  She was nibbling on her third piece of toast with marmalade when Malcolm opened the meeting. “All right then. James Grant.”

  “We could try shooting him with a silver bullet,”
Wayne proposed.

  “He’s been shot,” Amanda told him. “Through the heart.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  “The sword and scabbard need findin’,” said Malcolm.

  “The only way we’re going to find them,” Amanda said, “is to get James to bring them back.”

  Norah nodded firmly. “Good job the scabbard’s crooked—he fell on it, did he? If he could actually sheathe the sword in it he might be even stronger. Does he realize how much time has passed since the duel, Amanda?”

  “I don’t think so. He always just ignored my computer and the kitchen appliances and stuff at Melrose, I guess because he didn’t want to admit he didn’t know what they were. As for my clothes and the way I talk—well, he put his own interpretation on those. He never appeared while I was playing Sally. I don’t know how he’d take that.”

  “I don’t guess we can lure him into an airport and really confuse him,” said Wayne.

  “He seems to be tied to familiar surroundings like Melrose or Dundreggan,” Amanda told him. “Although he can be confused.” Not so much an idea as the tiny glimmering of an idea circled the back of her mind like a firefly. Sally. Sally caused, however indirectly, his death.

  “What else?” Malcolm asked.

  “He can only appear after dark, but he can move things around any time. Although I’m not so sure he realizes what he’s doing when he moves things—he’s more like a poltergeist then, unfocussed energy. Like when he pushed Wayne. I asked him about playing with the candles at Cynthia’s seance and he didn’t know what I was talking about.”

  “But he came when she called him?” Wayne asked.

  “Something of him did, yeah. I think… .” Amanda frowned. “Maybe he’s like the two-year-old I used to baby-sit. I don’t mean just in the uncontrolled emotions. You could say all sorts of stuff in front of the kid, but he wouldn’t understand unless you pitched it to his level. James is—aware, conscious—only when he’s visible and interacting with someone who’s alive.”

  “Since we’re talking in Freudian terms anyway,” said Norah, “we could speak of his ego and his id. What was that old science fiction film? Forbidden Planet. Monsters from the id. And from the ego as well.”

  “Carryin’ the sword and scabbard aboot, and becomin’ visible and conscious all at once, must be hard work for him.” Malcolm’s brows did a slow wave, registering deliberation.

  Lachlan was hovering with a fresh pot of tea. Everyone complimented him on the food and waited while a teenage girl with a punk hairdo carried away the plates. A few other guests were in the room now, but no one close enough to overhear.

  “James may have been halfway round the bend when he was alive,” Malcolm went on, “but he’s right off his head noo. We have to use that against him. Amanda, he told you he wanted three things.”

  “To go home, to get his sword back—he died with it in his hand—and to avenge himself on Archibald. Not necessarily for killing him, because at first he didn’t realize he was dead. For making trouble for him and Isabel and then adding insult to injury by winning the duel.”

  “He’s home,” said Norah. “And he has his sword.”

  Amanda nodded. No, she wasn’t going to think about the chill steel kiss of the blade.

  “But he canna get revenge,” Malcolm said. “Cuttin’ Archibald’s portrait is no enough for him. I thought at first James was thinkin’ I’m Archibald, or kent I’m Archibald’s descendant. But after last nicht I’m thinkin’ he disna realize who I am at all, just the chap wi’ the house and wi’ Amanda.”

  “And a dab hand with a chair,” added Norah, her voice flat.

  “I never thought that course o’ karate lessons would prove so helpful, especially the series wi’ a bo, a staff.” He shook his head. “Ah well, then, whoever James thinks I am, he’s after doing me noo. I suppose I’d make a fine decoy to lure him oot o’—wherever he is.”

  “And what then?” Amanda asked.

  “Destroy the scabbard. It’s been his—crutch, I suppose?—all this time. You saw how protective he was o’ it last night.”

  Amanda blinked. “But the scabbard’s property of the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. It’s a historical artifact. It’s—it’s …” She knew what it was.

  “You can always blame me,” said Wayne. “I’ll tell my mother I lost it or sat on it or something. Everybody expects me to be a klutz anyway.”

  “We don’t,” Norah told him, and he smiled. “If necessary,” she went on, “Malcolm and I could argue that the scabbard is our property, no matter where it’s been the last two centuries.”

  “We’re no talkin’ aboot the legal details,” Malcolm stated. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. A ray of sunlight made his unshaven whiskers shine reddish-gold. “We’re talkin’ aboot gettin’ the scabbard. What if we kept James busy ’til he’s fair puggled oot, wi’oot lettin’ him disappear.”

  “Well,” suggested Wayne, “you could get fresh with Amanda—not that she wouldn’t want you to, but you know what I mean.” His jowls drooped and then firmed up again. “Anyway, when he starts flailing away at you with the sword I could rush up and grab the scabbard.”

  Malcolm covered his eyes with his hand. “Wayne, you’ll excuse me for no wantin’ to put my life in your hands.”

  The firefly in the back of Amanda’s mind glowed and faded and glowed again. If it was you made him strong… . She leaned forward as well, closer to Malcolm, drawing Wayne and Norah into a tight circle. “James’s weakness is that he’s afraid to look weak.”

  “So we have to be throwing him off his guard by making him appear weak?” Norah asked. “By confusing him?”

  “By confusing him, yes, but we’ve got to confuse him by making him think he’s strong.” She grimaced, the firefly just getting away from her.

  It was Wayne who picked up the dim bulb of her thought and increased its wattage. “He can’t accept he’ll never get revenge. So what if we make him think he can?”

  “Oh aye?” Norah asked cautiously.

  Wayne went on, “Archibald looked like Page Armstrong. I play Page all the time. I’m pretty good at it, too, if I do say so myself.”

  “You’re very good at it,” Amanda stated. “But it isn’t that Archibald looked like Page, but that you look like Archibald.”

  “Really? Cool! I’ll make James appear by playing Archibald. I’ll get him to re-enact the duel, except this time I’ll let him win.”

  The clash of cutlery and crockery swelled and faded in the background. “They dueled wi’ pistols,” Malcolm hissed. “James’s shot went wide. He drew his sword and charged and Archibald’s shot did for him. Assumin’ we had a set o’ pistols—and we dinna have a one—you’re no intendin’ to stand there and either let the man shoot you or run you through!”

  “Oh no, no. I mean, recreate the circumstances of the duel, make him challenge Archibald, but then have Archibald—me—grovel and apologize and act too scared to fight. All I need to do is distract him for a few minutes, Malcolm, and you can grab the scabbard. Simple.” Wayne opened his hands like a magician who’d just produced a rabbit out of a hat. Funny how much the gesture reminded Amanda of Cynthia. “I owe you something, Amanda,” he went on, “for making such a pest out of myself at Melrose.”

  “Yeah right,” she returned. “If you hadn’t been a pest I wouldn’t have gotten to come here, would I? You don’t owe me your life, Wayne.”

  “Which you’re puttin’ in my hands?” demanded Malcolm.

  “That—that’s very generous of you, Wayne,” Norah stammered, “but it’s much too dangerous.”

  “Not if we do it right,” said Wayne, cool, composed, in control.

  Malcolm’s eyes brightened, polished by the reflected glow of the scheme. “It might work at that. We’ve wardrobes o’ old clothes, we could find Wayne a proper uniform.”

  “A kilt? Uh-uh. I’ll wear knee breeches, but not a skirt.”

  Geez, Wayne, Amanda thought. Way to i
nsult the natives!

  Malcolm dismissed the heresy with a roll of his eyes. “What if James disna challenge you? I’m no so sure he’s in a mood for talkin’.”

  “That’s where I come in.” Amanda set her chin. Like getting a flu shot, it was painful but necessary. “To do it up right we’ll need a Sally. That’s me. Maybe I’d remind James of Isabel, too—there’s a description of the dress she wore to their engagement party in one of her letters. Sally may have been the direct cause of the duel, but Isabel was sure an issue. Even if he realizes it’s me, finally wearing what he thinks are normal clothes, it doesn’t matter. Just as long as he’s confused, or tired, or at least lets down his guard long enough for Malcolm to get the scabbard—and maybe even the sword—away from him.”

  Norah gulped, probably swallowing her maternal instincts. “I don’t like this. Not one bit. But I like even less having Malcolm killed, or Amanda killed, or being turfed out of my home by a malevolant ghost. You’re right, the plan might work. But I’m going to be there, too. The more hands the better. And you’ll be needing someone with a clear head as well.”

  “But Lady Norah,” protested Wayne, probably knowing what would happen if his mother got her dainty little hands into the plan—she’d be arranging dance-studio-style footprints on the floor.

  “Ah, Mum, you’re a right Jenny Cameron. The Amazon o’ the ’45,” Malcolm explained to the uninitiated, and sat back in his chair. His brilliant blue-gray eyes moved from face to face, compelling as a blood oath. He didn’t have to say the words: Either we work together or we lose.

  Wayne threw his napkin down with a flourish. “Let’s do it.”

  Amanda was impressed. If only Wayne survived long enough to show off his new persona back home. They could all play their parts, yeah, but James had to play his, too. Not that everyone wasn’t thoroughly aware of that.

  In a tight group they left the hotel, piled into the car, and started back toward Dundreggan.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Amanda twirled in front of Norah’s full-length mirror, flounces rustling. Her bodice was framed with pink and white muslin ruffles, like the ruffles that cascaded over a green satin underskirt. Her three-quarter length sleeves ended with linen frills. Sally would have sold her soul for this dress.