by Janni Nell
Lady Justina fidgeted in her chair.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve embarrassed you. I just thought that—um—Sir Alastair, you might have been married before.”
“You’re correct in that assumption,” he said. “But sadly my first wife and I never had children. Flora died some years ago.”
“Forgive me for prying.” I hoped I sounded more sincere than I felt.
“Think nothing of it,” he replied with an equal lack of sincerity. I had the feeling he would not only remember my prying but try to get even with me at some future date.
Casper chose that moment to appear. Looking appropriately angelic he heaped a huge amount of food on his plate, including lambs fry and kidneys. He devoured everything while I finished my second cup of coffee.
After breakfast we once again thanked our hosts for their hospitality and headed back to Furness.
Casper disappeared before we reached the outskirts but I continued down Loch Road until I reached Mac’s. The front door was locked so I headed around the back and into the kitchen.
Douglas was nowhere in sight but Bess was unloading the dishwasher. I picked up a tea towel to help her polish the glasses.
“Thanks,” she said. Her voice was thick with sorrow.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing.” She stifled a sob.
Bess was a strong, tough-as-nails Scottish woman. She wasn’t the type to cry easily.
I touched her shoulder half expecting my offer of comfort to be rebuffed. To my surprise she collapsed sobbing in my arms. I patted her back and let her cry.
When her sobs subsided, I said, “You liked McEwen, didn’t you?”
She nodded and blew her nose on a tissue. She didn’t need any prompting to say, “We’d been very close. I thought he was in love with me. Then Justina arrived and I realized Angus had just been using me for sex.”
I asked gently, “Did he tell you he had fallen in love with her?”
“That’s what he said. But it was more than love. His feelings for Justina were what they used to call a grand passion. He was so besotted with her he dinnae—couldn’t—even make love to me anymore.” She hugged herself, bending forward as though she had a pain in her belly.
“Men can be so shallow,” she continued, “falling for a pretty face when there’s a perfectly good woman—maybe not so pretty or young—but a good woman willing to cook and clean, willing to put them to bed when they’re drunk and never mention it in the morning.”
“Do you think Lady Justina had any feelings for Angus?”
Bess wiped her eyes, smudging her mascara. “I couldn’t say, but she obviously likes older men. Just look at Sir Alastair.”
“I don’t think she likes him very much,” I said.
“Who knows what she likes?” said Bess bitterly. “Justina’s a strange woman.”
“You’ve met her?”
Bess looked uncomfortable. She whispered, “Aye.”
I waited for her to go on. She chewed her lower lip. For a moment I thought she was going to tell me to mind my own business. Then she said, “This isn’t something I’m proud of.”
“It’s okay,” I said encouragingly. “I won’t tell anyone.”
She must have believed me because she said, “I went to Maitland House. They wouldn’t let me see Justina, but as I was walking home, I heard this odd kind of singing. I followed the sound and I saw her. Dancing in the wood. Stark naked.”
So McEwen hadn’t been lying about that.
“I went up to her,” said Bess. “I asked her straight out if she was in love with Angus. You know what she said?”
I couldn’t imagine. So I kept silent and waited for Bess to go on.
She swallowed a sob and said, “Justina asked me who Angus was. I said, ‘Angus McEwen.’ Justina looked at me as if I was raving mad and said, “I’ve never heard of him.”
“I couldn’t believe it,” said Bess. “Angus was in love with her and she didn’t even know he existed. That’s when I knew there was no chance for Angus and me. I broke up with him. He was surprised but he didn’t argue.” Bess slammed a pan onto the bench. “He dinnae even try to change my mind.”
“He didn’t deserve you,” I said sympathetically.
“No he bloody dinnae.” She started to sob again.
I poured her a glass of water. As she drank it her sobs subsided.
When she had regained control I prompted gently, “You haven’t finished the story.”
She shrugged. “There’s nothing more to tell. I left Justina in the wood and came back to the village.”
“What was your impression of Lady Justina?”
“She was just a girl. Nothing special. Och, she was bonnie enough, but I wouldn’t have picked her out of a crowd.”
That description didn’t match the beautiful woman I had met, but I had to make allowances for Bess’s quite natural jealousy.
“You know,” Bess mused, “on second thought, there was something different about Justina. But it was odd rather than special.”
I waited for her to go on.
“All the time I was speaking to her,” said Bess, “she was stark naked. Most people would have covered themselves but she dinnae seem embarrassed at all.”
“Maybe she was used to taking her clothes off,” I suggested, thinking about her penchant for dancing naked in the wood. But Bess had another interpretation.
“You mean like a nude model or a porn star?”
“Maybe.” It didn’t seem likely but I supposed it was possible.
“I’d like to believe that,” said Bess, clearly relishing anything that would blemish Lady Justina’s reputation. “But there was no bravado about her nudity. It was more like—like she was used to visiting nudist camps. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I think so.”
She picked up two stacks of glasses. “I have to get back to work.”
“Don’t go yet. You’ve got some…” Gently I wiped the smudges of mascara off her cheeks. “There that’s better.”
“Thanks. Maybe you’re not as bad as I first thought.”
Gee thanks.
I decided to risk one more question. “What do you know about McEwen’s relationship with Phillips?”
“The butler at Maitland House? Angus hated him. He said Phillips looked down on him. I think it was a class thing. Butlers like Phillips can be such snobs.”
“Did Phillips dislike McEwen?”
She shrugged. “If he did, it wouldn’t have been personal.” Suddenly her expression changed. “You dinnae think Phillips could’ve killed him?”
“Did he have a motive?”
“Not that I know of,” she said.
“Then I doubt Phillips was involved.”
“I really have to get back to work.” Bess headed for the bar.
I did likewise and followed her. We left them for Douglas to put away. While Bess returned to the kitchen, I watched Douglas write the day’s menu on a blackboard.
He gave me a quick glance over his shoulder and kept writing. “Did you have a nice night with Casper?” His sarcasm wasn’t lost on me.
I didn’t bother telling him Casper and I’d had separate rooms. Instead I said, “We spent most of the night searching Maitland House.”
His curiosity overcame any other emotions he was harboring. “Find anything interesting?”
“Nothing that helps the case. But there’s something not right about Sir Alastair’s relationship with his wife. I wouldn’t be surprised if he beats her.”
Douglas thought about that for a while. “I cannae say I like Sir Alastair much. He’s not the most pleasant man and he’s never done much to help the village. But I dinnae think he’s a wife beater.”
“How well do you know him?”
“About as well as anyone in the village, I suppose. He’s always been aloof. Kept himself apart from us. It was different when Lady Flora was alive. She got involved in the village activities. She let us use the grounds o
f Maitland House for the annual fetes. We raised enough money to build the community hall.”
“What kind of relationship did Flora have with Sir Alastair?”
“I dinnae think he beat her, if that’s what you mean. In fact I’d say she was very much the boss in their relationship.”
I tried to imagine a woman bossing Sir Alastair and failed.
“That’s why,” Douglas continued, “I cannae believe he’d beat Lady Justina.”
A thought struck me and I asked, “Did Lady Flora have her own money when she married Sir Alastair?”
“The rumor is she had all the money. Sir Alastair had the title and the stately home.”
“And now he has everything. Absolute power. And you know what they say about absolute power.”
“It corrupts absolutely.”
We were interrupted by the arrival of some customers. They weren’t from the village. They looked like day trippers from the city. I left Douglas to look after them and went for a walk along the loch.
I walked in the opposite direction to the Dedfield Rose and soon I reached Furness Wharf. A couple of small pleasure craft were anchored nearby and there were some boats for hire. I wandered over to the boatshed and the little shop that sold bait and nautical things.
The guy behind the counter was in his thirties. He had longish fair hair, a beard and sea-blue eyes.
He looked me up and down. “Are you the paranormal investigator?”
I told him I was and introduced myself.
“I’m Jason,” he said. “I won’t shake your hand. I’ve been cutting bait. What can I do for you?” He leaned forward and said sotto voce, “Want me to tell you about the ghostly doings on the loch?”
I smiled at him. “Please.”
He laughed. “There aren’t any.”
“No, really,” I played along with him. “You can tell me.”
He shook his head. “I was joking. Whatever you’re looking for isn’t in the loch.”
“Where is it?”
He laughed again. “How should I know? I’m not exactly a believer in this supernatural stuff.” I was pretty sure he was lying but I didn’t call him on it. I wasn’t here to question him…or at least that wasn’t the only reason.
“How much does it cost to hire a rowboat?” I asked.
He named a figure. Then he asked, “Can you row?”
Trying not to be offended at his implication that I couldn’t, I said easily, “I think I might be able to manage it.”
He looked at my shoulders as though assessing my strength. “You want to take a boat out now?”
I shook my head. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Any time,” he said.
I bought a soda and a sandwich and took them outside. Dangling my legs from the end of the wharf, I munched while I stared at the loch. It was dull grey but calm. I thought about McEwen and his bitten body and the pile of fish that had been left in its place. Nothing made sense.
I twirled the facts around in my mind, arranging and rearranging them. But, like a poorly made jigsaw, the pieces refused to fit together.
When the breeze became chilly I left the wharf. I spent the afternoon hanging around the village talking to the people I met in the street, but no one shed any light on my case.
When afternoon threatened to turn to evening I headed back to Mac’s. The bar was filling up when I arrived. I saw Mrs. Ferguson sitting in a corner. Her tiny fingers were wrapped around a half-empty glass. The liquid inside looked like Guinness. She caught sight of me and beckoned me over.
“How are ye, lassie?”
After we had exchanged the usual pleasantries, I asked, “Is something wrong?”
“Why?” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Because I’m drinking so early in the evening? No. But at my age I dinnae feel the need to deny myself anything. By tomorrow I could be dead.” She stared contemplatively into her glass. “I’m the only one left, ye know. Of my friends, I mean.”
“I guess you get lonely,” I said sympathetically.
“Sometimes. Other times I make a new friend.” Her eyes sparkled again. I couldn’t guess who she meant, but I didn’t have to because she couldn’t wait to tell me. “He’s a lovely laddie.”
“Who?” I asked, thinking of Dr. Williamson, a widowed octogenarian who lived in the village.
She surprised me by saying, “Your friend Casper. We took a walk together along the loch. Didn’t he tell ye?”
I remembered Casper’s flippant remark of two days ago. I hadn’t really expected him to join her for a walk but apparently he had.
“Did you have a nice time?” I asked her.
“Yes, thank ye. He’s a fine young laddie, almost angelic. There aren’t many like him.”
She’d gotten that right.
“We had a long talk,” she continued. “About life and death. He promised to be with me when I die.” I spared her the usual protestations that she wasn’t going to die any time soon and she seemed grateful. “I’m quite resigned to it. In fact I’m looking forward. Especially with Casper at my side.”
Had he told her he was a guardian angel? Unlikely as that seemed, the twinkle in Mrs. Ferguson’s eyes told me she knew more than she was letting on. When I raised an eyebrow inviting her to tell more, she held a finger to her lips.
“Don’t ask. Don’t tell.”
So I asked something else. “Have you had any more dreams?”
Immediately the twinkle left her eyes.
“I have terrible dreams,” she said, “but when I wake I can’t remember the details—just a vague feeling that I’ve been kidnapped. It’s as though I am here.” She slapped a coaster onto the table. “And my family is here.” She slapped another coaster on the opposite side of the table. “I want to get back to them and I can’t.”
Remembering her little rhyme—dream times three, true it be—I asked whether she’d had the dream before.
“More times than I can count,” she said. “The details never become clearer but each time the longing for home is greater.” She fixed her sharp eyes on mine. “Of course there’s an obvious explanation for the dream. It’s because I miss my husband so much. But sometimes I think that’s too simplistic. What do you think?”
“It sounds perfectly logical. Did the dreams start soon after he died?”
She shook her head. “They started a few months ago. I don’t remember the exact date.” She glanced over my shoulder. I turned to see Bess moving toward us. “Here’s my dinner,” said Mrs. Ferguson. She leaned toward me confidentially. “I’m giving the brownies a wee rest tonight. Will ye join me for dinner?”
“Why not.” I told Bess I’d have what Mrs. Ferguson was having. Spaghetti Bolognese seemed kind of incongruous in this Scottish village but it tasted like heaven. So did the garlic bread.
When we had finished our meal I asked if Mrs. Ferguson would like another drink.
She had her mouth open to answer, when the banshee’s wail ripped through the room.
Not a soul moved as the mournful sound curled around us. Despite the fire blazing in the hearth, the most dreadful chill seeped beneath my clothes. I could feel it biting bone-deep.
A glass fell from someone’s hands and shattered. The banshee wailed louder. The room stank of fear as rank and pungent as burnt flesh.
Abruptly the banshee fell silent, and there was a collective out-rushing of breath. Douglas bent to sweep up the broken glass. Bess rushed to fill drink orders. The drunken conversation resumed louder than before but it took a long time for the color to return to the drinkers’ cheeks.
Mrs. Ferguson said, “I hope my time has come. I’m more than ready to meet my maker.” She was the only one who had showed no fear of the banshee. Draining her glass, she said, “It’s your round.”
I bought us both another drink and then, leaving her speaking with Dr. Williamson, who had come in for a pint, I worked my way around the pub until I could overhear Stuart MacDuff and Malcolm Melville. Apparently the remaini
ng Two M’s had no intention of discontinuing their nightly visits to the pub out of respect to McEwen. Come to think of it, it was probably a mark of respect that they continued to come here.
As I approached I heard Stuart say, “He was a good mate.”
“Brilliant at darts,” said Malcolm. “He could hit a bull’s-eye even after six pints.”
Well you couldn’t ask for more than that, could you?
“But he was never the same,” continued Malcolm, “after Lady Justina came to Maitland House.”
“Women,” muttered Stuart. “Can’t live with ’em. Can’t live without ’em.”
“I live without ’em,” said Malcolm.
I’ll swear I saw an expression of relief on every female face in the room.
Malcolm drained his glass. “My round.” He turned toward the bar. I was right behind him and he bumped into me, spilling some of my drink. “Sorry. Let me buy you another.”
Glad of an excuse to join them, I asked for a lite beer.
When Malcolm had moved toward the bar, Stuart lowered his voice and said, “The banshee was wailing for one of us.”
“Well I guess it would be wailing for someone local. Mrs. Ferguson thinks it’s for her.”
Vigorously Stuart shook his head. “No I mean one of us. One of The Three M’s. McEwen was taken. MacDuff or me will be next.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Gut feeling.” He patted his belly.
I sensed there was more to it than a gut feeling. Probably he had seen something and didn’t want to tell anyone in case they thought he was crazy.
I leaned toward him. “You can tell me, Stuart. I’m a paranormal investigator. I’ve seen all sorts of strange things.”
He glanced around as though hoping no one would overhear what he said. Then he lowered his voice.
“We saw something. It was just before McEwen died. A woman, bonnie as any lassie I’ve seen and naked as the day she was born. At first we thought it was Lady Justina—she’s known to dance naked in the wood. McEwen wanted to run right up to her but we held him back. Just as well ’cause it wasn’t her.
“Who was it?”
Stuart shrugged. “Never seen the woman before.”
“Where exactly did you see her? The same place Lady Justina was seen dancing?” I asked reaching for my notebook.