A cold wind seared Rex’s lungs as he ascended the hill, although the sun shone wanly through the dense clouds. The rain and sleet had held off but left evidence of their recent force in the sodden undergrowth and brimming streams rushing down to the loch. By the time the couple reached the top, they were panting and leg sore. Helen leaned against the gnarled trunk of an oak tree to catch her breath, her cheeks a bright pink. After a short break, they set off again to cover the final stretch to the castle.
Assailed by wind gusts, the sixteenth-century ruin stood gray and forlorn on its vantage point overlooking bracken-brown glens and hills patched with the last of the snow. White-capped mountain peaks sparkled in the distance. Rex attempted to picture Gleneagle Castle standing proud and intact all those centuries ago, the high stone walls, stepped at the roofline, culminating in two tall chimneys billowing smoke either side of the tower.
Margarita Delacruz would no doubt have inherited the castle by virtue of being the sole surviving heir of the disfavored branch of Clan Fraser. Perhaps now it would be put up for auction or claimed for conservation by the National Trust for Scotland, or even condemned in the interest of public safety. The stairway spiraling to the top of the tower had crumbled and made climbing hazardous. Whatever the outcome, Rex hoped he would be able to enjoy the tranquility of his country retreat a while longer, or at least until reporters and treasure hunters descended upon the valley.
The ruin was a disappointment up close, both in size and grandeur, lacking the perspective of the setting. He bowed his head beneath the low arched doorway leading into the cobblestone courtyard crowned with dilapidated battlements. Inside the narrow keep the enclosed air felt chill and damp, but at least he and Helen were sheltered from the frigid breeze.
“We could be standing on a fortune,” she said, stamping her booted foot on the large worn flagstones. “I still can’t understand why Humphrey resorted to murder,” she mused aloud, staring at the ground, as though mesmerized by bags of gold coin and bullion. “He would still have managed to get his name in the history books.”
“He wanted to get full credit for finding the gold. According to a letter discovered among Humphrey’s rubbish, Ken and Catriona planned to write a book aboot Gleneagle Castle’s colourful history and the gold supposedly buried here. They’d already found a publisher. Ken was seeking to solicit Humphrey’s permission to use his translations of the Gaelic poem and relevant passages from the priest’s diary that were written in Latin. But there was no mention of a share in the proceeds from the book or joint authorship with Humphrey.”
“And yet it was Humphrey who authenticated the documents and solved the riddle,” Helen pointed out. “Why didn’t he write a book himself ?”
“Ken and Catriona would have beaten him to the punch. They’d already done the research on their ancestors. The Frasers’ account would have had wider appeal. It was their own blood line that was the subject, and they had a direct and personal connection to the famous treasure.”
Helen sighed, her breath visible in the cold air. “Obviously the letter was not well received.”
“Spite got the better of my old friend. As for Margarita, I expect he could have persuaded her to lay claim to the castle and then let him take care of the excavation and publicity while she returned to her adopted home. But he must have thought it was too great a risk to let her live, in case she ever guessed his role in the first two murders and denounced him.”
“But committing the murders right on your doorstep!”
“Where else would he have had the opportunity to murder the Frasers among a large group of people, diluting suspicion on himself ? But for the storm, there would have been more guests at the party. Framing Margarita only adds to the cowardly and despicable nature of his actions. And then to kill her too … It all goes to show how desperate he must have been, or deranged.” Professor Cleverly would likely serve the rest of his days in prison or in a psychiatric ward.
Rex cast his mind back to his student days and shrugged dispiritedly. “I lost contact with Humphrey over the years. I imagine he became bitter, being passed over within the history department and never achieving the recognition he craved. Sad, really. He had no family or real interests ootside his scholarly pursuits. His academic standing was everything and once again he saw his hopes dashed.”
Driven by ambition, Cleverly had wanted to leave his indelible footnote in history. Now he would be remembered more for his heinous crimes than for his valuable contribution. The West Highland Museum in Fort William had acquired the priest’s written collection, including the diary and poem.
“Oh, don’t feel too sorry for him,” Helen said. “You were at university together and had an equal chance at success. You took silk and are now a Queen’s Counsel. He could have made head of department or dean. Well, look at him now. Even obscurity would have been better than notoriety.”
“Aye. Some things are better left alone.”
With a final glance at the weathered flagstones concealing who knew what, they turned their backs on the ill-fated castle and headed home to the lodge.
the end
about the author
Born in Bloomington, Indiana, and now living in Florida, C. S. Challinor was educated in Scotland and England, and holds a joint honors degree in Latin and French from the University of Kent, Canterbury, as well as a diploma in Russian from the Pushkin Institute in Moscow. She has traveled extensively and enjoys discovering new territory for her novels.
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