Bagpipes, Brides and Homicides (Liss Maccrimmon Scottish Mysteries)

by Kaitlyn Dunnett

  “This Sinclair guy is the Scot, right?”

  “Right. And one of his men was named Gunn. Supposedly, Gunn died here. Or rather down in Massachusetts. Maybe killed by local Indians. Maybe not.” Liss paused, trying to think how to simplify something about which entire books had been written. “Maybe I’d better go back to the beginning, but this may take a while.”

  “Knock yourself out.” He gestured toward the cooler. “I’ve got provisions in there for a couple of days.”

  A smile fought its way onto her face. Good grief! She was actually starting to like Murch.

  “Okay, but keep in mind that most of this is what they call speculative history. Some people think it happened this way and others insist the story has no basis whatsoever in fact.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Liss settled deeper into the seat. “The tale starts with a fisherman, around the middle of the fourteenth century.” She slanted her gaze sideways and was gratified to see Murch’s eyes widen slightly at the date. “Yup. Fourteenth. About a hundred and fifty years before 1492 and Columbus and all that. Anyway, this fisherman was shipwrecked somewhere in North America. He survived, wandered up and down the coast a bit, and eventually found his way back to his home, which was somewhere in the Orkney Islands, north of Scotland. The Orkneys belong to Scotland now, but back then they were claimed by Norway and the Scot who ruled them for Norway was the jarl of Orkney. His name was Henry Sinclair.”

  Murch fished a sandwich out of his cooler. “You want half?” The smell of onions filled the cab of the truck.

  “No, thanks. I’m good. Bullet point number two: Sinclair heard the fisherman’s story and decided to explore this new land, especially since it was supposed to be rich in timber and fish, both of which were profitable commodities in those days. He had a fleet of ships already, commanded by an admiral named Antonio Zeno.”

  “Italian?”

  “So the story goes. Seafarers did get around in those days. Anyway, it’s only because of Zeno that we know anything about Sinclair’s voyage. He left letters behind. Now, flash forward. A descendant of Zeno’s finds the letters and publishes them in the middle of the sixteenth century. By then, everybody had forgotten all about Henry Sinclair. In fact, the name of the northern lord Zeno worked for ended up as ‘Zichmni’ in the published book, probably because young Mr. Zeno couldn’t read his ancestor’s handwriting. That version also made Zichmni a prince. It was years before anybody figured out that Zichmni was really Henry Sinclair, jarl of Orkney.”

  “Just what is a jarl, anyway?” Murch interrupted.

  “It’s the equivalent of an earl.”

  “And how in blazes do you get Sinclair out of Zich—whatever it was you just said?”

  “Beats me. The only language I read is English. But somebody better educated than I am apparently figured it out. The argument must make sense, because a whole heck of a lot of people nowadays are convinced that Henry Sinclair was the ‘prince’ Zeno sailed for. Oh, and there was a map in the sixteenth-century book. Unfortunately, Zeno’s descendant decided to update it, which is why, later, some scholars decided it was a fake. And if the map was a fake, they figured that it stood to reason that the entire Zeno Narrative was a fraud, too—just something dreamed up to cash in on the sixteenth-century craze for travel books.”

  Murch paused in munching on his sandwich. “Wait a sec. You said nobody knew Sinclair made this trip? Why not? Didn’t he come back?”

  “That’s a bit of a mystery, but the most logical explanation is that Sinclair himself kept his discoveries secret. He wouldn’t have wanted other people encroaching on those rich fishing grounds. And he may have planned to send colonists over here. Some folks think he did send colonists. I’m not going to get into all the crazy scenarios people have come up with over the years. Suffice it to say that Palsgrave’s theory wasn’t popular with some of those who hold other views.”

  “What idea was the vic pushing?”

  “Palsgrave thought Sinclair explored the coasts of Nova Scotia, Maine, and Massachusetts, lost one of his men to an Indian arrow, and massacred the natives who killed his friend, a member of the Gunn family. The reenactment Palsgrave had planned for the highland games was supposed to recreate that battle.”

  “And Alistair Gunn objected. Why?”

  “Gunn claims he’s descended from both Henry Sinclair and the Gunn who died and he doesn’t accept that one of his ancestors could have killed innocent people, not even in revenge for a kinsman’s death. What did he say when you talked to him?”

  “Nothing that made any sense.”

  “Did you ask him about Gabe?”

  “His grandson? No. Why?”

  “Gabe claims he was hanging out near Lincoln Hall the day of the murder, keeping an eye on the demonstrators. I was hoping Gunn could confirm it.” She started to tell Murch that she wasn’t at all sure Gunn would answer truthfully. She was even ready to confide her theory that Gabe Treat had murdered Palsgrave at his grandfather’s instigation, but the PI cut her off before she’d managed more than a tentative “I think—”

  “Stick to the bullet points, okay, swee—ah, okay, Ms. MacCrimmon?”

  “Fine.” She drank the last of her soda first and tossed the can into the container labeled RECYCLE BIN that shared space with the cooler. “The debate over what really happened isn’t new. The so-called Zeno Narrative has gone in and out of favor with scholars several times over the centuries. And everybody is passionate about it. Mr. Amalfi refuses to accept it as valid at all. Nor does he accept any of the other theories about early visitors to the Americas. His organization is called Columbus First, which pretty much sums up why he was on that picket line.”

  “Wait a sec. There were other early explorers?”

  “Sure. Some of them well before Sinclair. The Vikings. An Irish monk. A Welsh prince. National pride is tied up in support for each and every one of them.”

  “Huh. The things you learn on this job.” With precise movements he neatly folded the baggie his sandwich had been in and deposited it in the trash.

  “Mr. Jones, who refused to talk to me, claims to be upset because the reenactment depicts Native Americans as savages.” She gave him a quick summary of her conversation with him through the door of his apartment and followed that up with an account of her meetings with Amalfi and Kirby Redmond.

  “Your turn. You must have gotten something out of Mr. Gunn.”

  “Not really, but at least part of what he was going on about makes a little more sense to me now. Unfortunately, I didn’t learn anything that’s going to be useful to your father. My guess? Gunn was so completely focused on walking that picket line that he didn’t pay any attention to his surroundings until the cops arrived.”

  Maybe, Liss thought. Maybe not. “What’s next on your agenda?” she asked aloud.

  Murch fished a piece of bubble gum out of a pocket, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth before he answered her. “You say you haven’t yet talked to this Barry Rowse?”

  “He was next on my list, after Alistair Gunn.”

  “What nutty theory is he pushing?”

  “He’s the one who thinks Sinclair had a secret agenda in coming to the New World. It involves burying holy relics and a lot of other stuff that is way too far-fetched for me to make any sense of it.”

  Murch blew a big pink bubble. Liss wondered if that aided his thought process. When the bubble popped, he sucked the goo back into his mouth and nodded. “Okay. I’ll talk to Rowse next.”

  “There’s one more possibility,” Liss said, and told him her theory about a jealous husband or boyfriend.

  “Worth checking out,” he agreed. Then he shifted in the seat so that he was facing her. “Here’s the thing. From now on, you should stay out of this. You’re an amateur. If you’re not careful, you’re going to muddy the waters.”

  “I hear that a lot,” Liss said, “although not quite so colorfully put.”

  “So, let the professionals handle
things from now on, okay?”

  Liss smiled sweetly and promised that she would.

  Liss left when Murch did.

  Then she came back. This time she did park in the driveway, just where it looped back toward the street. Pointing out, ready for a quick escape, she told herself humorlessly as she marched up to the big front door with its ornate clan crest knocker.

  She used the doorbell instead and heard a distant buzzing sound from inside the house. After a short interval, her summons was answered by a tall, middle-aged man Liss did not recognize.

  “Yes?” He looked down his long, aristocratic nose at her.

  The man wasn’t dressed like the stereotypical English butler, but there was no doubt in Liss’s mind that he saw himself in that role. Something about his snooty attitude made her wish she was armored in a dress and high heels instead of wearing comfortable slacks and a casual top, but it was too late to do anything about her clothing now.

  “Ms. MacCrimmon to see Mr. Gunn,” she announced.

  He waited, as if he expected her to hand him a calling card. “And your business with Mr. Gunn?” he asked when she remained silent.

  “Personal.”

  That earned her a disdainful sniff. “You may wait in the entry hall.”

  He strode away, nose in the air, to inform the master he had company. At least, that’s how Liss thought of it as she watched him go. She wondered what Mr. High and Snooty had made of Jake Murch.

  She was still cooling her heels in the entryway, waiting for the butler to return, possibly to throw her out, when a key turned in the front door lock and Gabe Treat entered the house. His eyes widened in surprise when he spotted her.

  “Ms. MacCrimmon! What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting to see your grandfather,” she said, although that must have been pretty obvious.

  “Why?”

  And there, Liss thought, was the problem. She had no good excuse. Gabe wasn’t likely to buy the reason she’d given Louis Amalfi, that she wanted assurance that the demonstrators no longer planned to picket the highland games.

  “I . . . um . . . I . . . well, you know I’m trying to discover if anyone besides my father entered Lincoln Hall the day of the murder.”

  “Sure, but . . . oh, I see. You want to ask Granddad if he saw anyone.”

  “Right. I know it’s a long shot, but sometimes older folks notice more than you think.”

  Gabe grinned, making his freckles stand out. He was like a grown-up Howdy Doody, Liss thought, which tended to cast doubt on the possibility that he’d murdered a man in cold blood.

  “It’s nothing to laugh about,” she snapped. “My father could be arrested at any moment for a crime he did not commit.”

  “Sorry. But Granddad’s half blind. I don’t know what you think he might have seen. He didn’t even notice me dogging his footsteps and with all this red hair, I’m pretty hard to miss.”

  “Humor me, okay. That is, if the guard dog will let me pass.”

  “You mean Henderson? He’s a pussycat.”

  “Sure he is.”

  “Besides, you don’t need to wait if you’re with me. Come on. We’ll beard the lion in his den.”

  He led her deeper into the mansion. They encountered Henderson en route. The butler frowned at Liss, but didn’t seem inclined to get in Gabe’s way.

  “Hey, Henderson,” Gabe greeted him. “How’s it shaking? Where’s the boss?”

  “Mr. Gunn is in the conservatory.” The stuffy formality was still present in the tone of voice, but Henderson’s stiff-as-a-poker demeanor took a blow, literally, when Gabe clapped him on the shoulder on his way by.

  “Good man,” Gabe said, and took Liss’s arm to lead her toward the back of the house.

  “Conservatory?”

  “Yeah. Granddad is filthy rich, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “And yet you’re living in a pop-up camper.”

  “It’s a nice one.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Liss had never been in a conservatory before, although she’d certainly encountered plenty of them as settings in the mystery novels she loved to read. This one turned out to be a medium-sized, glass-walled room—a greenhouse furnished with comfortable furniture as well as an abundance of growing things. It was even hotter and more humid inside than it was outdoors, but Gunn seemed to flourish in that atmosphere. He was happily puttering with his plants, lopping off dead brown stalks, when they interrupted his labors.

  “Hey, Granddad,” Gabe greeted him. “You remember Ms. MacCrimmon, don’t you?”

  Gunn peered at her suspiciously. “Come closer, girl. Let me get a look at you.”

  She obliged, and found her hand grasped by bony fingers that were surprisingly strong. The backs of his hands were liver spotted and blue veins bulged, but he had the grip of a much younger man. Never make assumptions, she warned herself. Maybe Gunn had wielded that sword, after all.

  Then she noticed the cane propped against the worktable. The hands might be strong, but the legs were weak. If Gunn had been behind Palsgrave’s death, he’d had help, and Gabe was the most likely accomplice.

  Alistair Gunn, having acquired a captive audience, gave Liss the grand tour of his indoor garden. Since Liss could barely tell a tulip from a rose, most of it went right over her head. Gamely, she pretended to be interested and bided her time waiting for a chance to change the subject. Gabe trailed after them, paying as little attention to his grandfather’s rambling spiel as Liss did.

  She wondered what Gabe was doing in Three Cities. Then she remembered what Willa had told her, that Gabe made the hour and a half drive from Moosetookalook every day to check in on his grandfather. That seemed to Liss to be taking the role of devoted grandson a bit far, especially when Mr. Gunn had a majordomo and probably other staff, too, to look after him.

  At last the old man wound down. Liss seized the moment. “I wonder if you could help me out with something, Mr. Gunn.”

  “Depends on what it is.” He sounded suspicious.

  “The other day, when you were picketing at the college, were you or the other demonstrators paying any attention to who went into and came out of the building where Professor Palsgrave was teaching his class?”

  “Some reason we should have been?”

  They were back at his worktable. Rather than meet Liss’s eyes, Gunn picked up the gardening sheers he’d been using earlier. He turned them over and over in his hands—hands, she reminded herself, that were stronger than they appeared.

  Liss shook off a shiver, telling herself it was totally irrational to be afraid of Alistair Gunn. She was letting her imagination run away with her. She was perfectly safe.

  “Mr. Gunn,” she blurted out, “a man was murdered in that building while you were only yards away.”

  “Yep. A. Leon Palsgrave.” He said the name with distaste. “Good riddance, I say.”

  “Granddad!”

  Gunn wagged a finger at his grandson. “You didn’t know him like I did, boy.”

  “I’ll level with you, Mr. Gunn. The police think my father had something to do with Professor Palsgrave’s death. I’m trying to discover who else went into that building at about the same time. Can you help me?”

  He pointed to his eyes. “You see these, girlie? Cataracts. I’m half blind.”

  “And the other half?”

  Surprised into a laugh, he nodded. “Got me there. I can see some things.” He jerked his head toward Gabe. “I can see well enough to know that there young fool has been wasting his time watching me every time I walk a picket line. You think I didn’t know, boy? I may be old but I’m not senile!”

  “I never thought you were, Granddad. And if I’m keeping an eye on you, it’s only because I worry about you overextending yourself.”

  Ignoring Gabe, Gunn addressed himself to Liss. “Thinks I’m going to wander out into the road and get myself hit by a truck. There’s nothing wrong with my hearing!”

  “Well, then, did you hea
r anything that day?” Liss asked. “You were right outside the classroom windows and it was warm, so they were probably open.”

  “Oh, you’re a sharp one, you are.” He chuckled and reached out to pat Liss’s hand. “We could hear Palsgrave lecturing, and the racket his students made when they left. We figured he was still in there, though. None of the others saw him leave.” He shrugged. “It wouldn’t have mattered if he had. We planned to picket all morning, so we were committed to staying till noon.”

  “So, you heard the students leave. Anything after that?”

  “Not much, but now that you mention it, there was something.” He frowned. “About an hour before the police came, I heard someone call out, ‘Hello? Is anyone here?’ Might have been inside the classroom. Hard to tell.”

  Liss’s heart rate quickened. “That must have been my father. He was looking for the professor. Did anyone answer?”

  “Nope. Nary a peep.”

  “And you didn’t hear anyone else speak after that? No grunts? No sound of someone falling?”

  “You ever walked a picket line?”

  She shook her head.

  “Thought not. The whole point is to keep moving. We were going back and forth, back and forth on the sidewalk. We walked down to the driveway that leads to the parking lot below the old theater and then back to the entrance of the parking lot in front of Lincoln Hall. At least half of the time, I was out of earshot of anything that went on in that classroom.”

  Liss sighed. Another dead end.

  A short time later, Gabe walked her to her car. His pickup truck was parked behind her in the curving driveway. “It’s too bad Granddad couldn’t help you. Have you talked to the others?”

  “Most of them.”

  “No one saw anything?”

  “I’m afraid not.” She sighed again as she slid in behind the wheel. “It was a long shot anyway. Whoever killed Palsgrave probably used the same shortcut he did, through the art gallery. Certainly, he must have escaped that way.”