I get up out of bed and splash cold water on my face. It’s five-thirty. I would be getting up in thirty minutes anyway, so I don’t even try to go back to sleep. I make coffee and sip it while I look out the window at the school grounds. Ashbourne is a beautiful place, but it has a dark side. I need to figure out a way to help the student that Brigg harassed.
I wish I could just tell Ms. Bowerton what I heard and let her handle it. She knows all the girls well and has more resources than I do to figure it out. But like Freya said, I don’t have any concrete proof except what I heard. And I have no idea who said it. I would be going to the headmistress with gossip.
The only other possibility I can think of would be to ask staff members subtle questions about Brigg and how much contact he had with students. Maybe then I can narrow down the list of possible students.
I head out for a run, turning these options over in my mind. I decide to avoid talking to Ms. Bowerton about this for now. Even if I had more facts, she has a lot going on right now with a murder investigation happening at her school. And I’ve just started teaching here. I don’t want to seem like I enjoy stirring up drama.
Now I have to figure out who I should talk to about Brigg’s students. I don’t think I should talk to Cat or Samantha about it because I don’t want to upset Samantha. Although it’s possible Freya has already told them. I need to talk to someone that can just give me information without getting emotionally involved. I’m just not sure who.
I slow my run when I see Frank, the grounds-keeper, pushing a wheelbarrow ahead of me on the sidewalk.
“Good morning, Frank,” I say, slowing my pace to match his limping stride.
He glowers at me, but still says, “Morning.”
“You’re out working early,” I say. I don’t know what impulse has caused me to stop and try to chat with the man. It seems pointless, but Freya likes him, so I’ll give it a shot.
“I’m fixing the spots the police ruined investigating that damn man’s death.”
“Professor Brigg?” I ask.
“Do you know anyone else that’s died on the lawn lately?” he asks with a snarl. “The world’s a much better place without him in it.”
“That seems to be a common sentiment around here.”
“I thought everyone at this school worshiped the ground he walked on. That’s what he seemed to think, anyway. The bastard,” Frank hisses. Then he seems to come back to himself. “Pardon my language, miss. I might seem harsh, but I was raised never to swear in front of a lady. Even being dead, that man is still bringing out the worst in me.”
“It’s okay. I don’t know why you hated him, but I know why a friend of mine hated him. I never met him, but he sounds like he was a despicable person.”
“You can say that again. And more. I hated the man, and I’m not sorry he’s dead. You have yourself a nice day now, miss,” Frank says, tipping his hat to me and turning down a path to the left. He turns around abruptly. “It might be a good idea to stay clear of the bell tower for a while. Some people might get the wrong idea about you.”
“Thanks for the advice. Bye Frank. Have a nice day,” I say, then run the rest of the way back to my apartment, mulling over my conversation with the man. I guess he saw me the other day when I was searching the tower, but I’m not sure if his warning was meant to be friendly or threatening.
I shower and get dressed, then sit back down with my notebook. I turn to a fresh page and write “Suspects” at the top. I write mystery student. Then, after a long pause, I write Frank’s name down.
For whatever reason, I want to like Frank. Maybe I’m just a sucker for a person who has been hardened by life. Or maybe it’s because Freya likes him. I don’t want him to be the murderer, but for whatever reason, he really hated Brigg. And I just can’t ignore that.
I also add Mrs. Brigg to the list of suspects. I know nothing about her. She might be the nicest person in the world, but I heard the argument she had with her husband at the pub, so I can’t leave her off the list. That was a lot of fire. Maybe they had that kind of passionate relationship with fighting and then making up. I just don’t know. I need to find out if he pushed her hard enough to kill him.
As I walk to my classroom, I’m feeling more sure that the police don’t suspect me. I’m not an expert, but after a couple of days I have a list of likely suspects and none of them are me. I also have to admit that I’m sort of enjoying trying to solve this mystery. I’ve always loved riddles and puzzles, and that’s what this is. Only with higher stakes.
I’m sitting at my desk in my classroom, organizing my day’s handouts, when Freya walks in and completely turns everything upside down.
“Did you hear the latest?” she asks, in a much quieter voice than she usually uses.
I groan. “I don’t think I can handle anything else.”
“Well, this might be a positive since it means we don’t have to wonder who murdered Brigg any more.”
“The police arrested someone?” I ask, heart racing.
“No, they found a suicide note.”
“You’re kidding. Who did you hear that from?”
“Everyone was talking about it at the dining hall this morning. You need to stop eating meals in your apartment. You miss all the gossip.”
“I can’t believe this. Everyone had convinced me that someone did this to him. The police are sure he wrote the note?”
“I guess. I’m not sure about the details. I don’t know how the news got out, but I think his wife told Ms. Bowerton.”
“Did his wife find the note at their house?” I ask.
“She picked up some things from his office and found it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. I’m sure the police searched his office. Why didn’t they find the note?” I ask, my voice getting louder.
Freya holds up her hands. “Hey, I’m just the messenger. I thought you would be relieved.”
“Sorry. I think I’ve gotten a little too wrapped up in all this. It might take me a few days to wrap my head around this recent development. I just… I don’t know. It doesn’t seem right.”
We have to stop talking then because two of my students trot in, chatting loudly. I promise Freya I’ll see her at lunch and we can talk more then.
I don’t know if the students have heard this latest news. No one seems overly upset or distracted. Unlike their teacher. I’m distracted during all my morning classes. Freya’s right. It should relieve me to put this nasty business to bed, but my gut is telling me that the police are wrong about this. If the police found the note in Brigg’s office, then someone could have easily planted it. And that someone is a murderer.
Chapter 7
The staff dining table is buzzing with talk about Brigg by the time I sit down beside Freya.
“Have you heard anything new?” I ask her, sticking a fork in my giant salad.
“Not really. Everyone is just talking about the suicide note.”
“I can’t believe there actually is a suicide note,” Samantha says from across the table.
I look up at her. “Really?”
“Like I said before. The man was in love with himself. I can’t believe he would do anything to harm himself. It’s completely implausible.”
“It doesn’t sit right with me, either,” I say.
“I think we should all just go along with whatever the police believe and move past all of this. Personally, I don’t want to worry about a murderer any more,” Freya says.
“But Freya, if the police think it’s suicide, but it really wasn’t, then there will still be a murderer on the loose. We just won’t know it,” I say.
“But then they will have gotten away with it and can just get on with their merry life,” she says.
“I guess that’s one way of looking at it,” I say with a frown.
“I wouldn’t mind a nice holiday away from all this,” Freya says. “Spain, maybe.”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about going to Edinburgh f
or the weekend. My dad wants me to find some information about our ancestors there. It’s not Spain, but you could come with me if you want to,” I say, not sure if she’ll think this is a good idea.
She gives me a slow smile. “That would be brilliant! We can have a girls’ weekend. Cat? Samantha? Are you in?”
“It’s only be about a two-hour train ride from the Carlisle station,” Samantha says.
“And class gets out early on Friday, so we could leave in the afternoon and be there in time for dinner,” Cat says. “I’m in. I could definitely use a girls’ weekend.”
“Great! We can iron out the details later in the week. I’ve never been to Edinburgh, but I’m sure we can get a hotel for a couple of nights pretty easily,” I say.
“Leave that to me. I’ll find us a flat for the weekend that we can all split. Cool?” Freya asks.
We all agree, and I walk back to my classroom with my head spinning a bit. I may have bitten off a little more than I can chew. I was planning on a fairly quiet weekend in Scotland researching my ancestors, but now I’m not quite sure what to expect. I’m hoping their idea of a girls’ weekend is more visiting historic sights and tea, not clubs and shots.
* * * * *
The rest of the week whizzes by until it’s Friday and I’m packing my weekend bag. I’ve left my door open because Freya keeps popping in to make suggestions about what I should bring or ask my opinion about something she wants to wear. I didn’t grow up with sisters, so this is all a little different for me, but I’m enjoying it.
Eventually, we’re all piling into a cab to take us to the train station. The cab is just pulling away from the curb when Cat screeches, “Wait! I’ve forgotten my purse.” She runs back inside and then finally we’re off.
I’m looking forward to some quiet time on the train ride. I brought a book to read, or maybe I’ll just take a little nap. Of course, this idea ends up being incredibly pointless since I’m traveling with Freya. As soon as we sit down in our seats and the train pulls away from the station, she pulls out four cans of Pimm’s.
“I thought we could all use a little something official to signal the start of our brilliant weekend,” Freya says, laughing at our surprised faces.
We all open our cans and toast to having fun and getting away from school for the weekend. I do not read or nap on the way to Edinburgh, but I do laugh. A lot. The trip flies by and we’re pulling into the crowded station. There are people with bags everywhere, and I wonder if Edinburgh is a popular place for people to escape to for the weekend.
Freya tells us we’re staying right off of the Royal Mile. I have no idea what this means, but apparently it’s a historical area within walking distance to some of the best restaurants and bars.
Freya leads us out of the station and just a few blocks away to an old five-story building. We follow her inside to an ornate metal elevator that we take up to the fifth floor. It’s pretty dark inside, and the elevator creaks as it slowly moves up.
“Are you taking us up here to murder us?” I ask without thinking.
“Ha, ha. No talk of murder this weekend,” Freya says, seriously. “We’re going to have fun and relax. And forget about Ashbourne for a couple of days.”
The elevator creaks to a stop and we follow Freya to the end of the hall to a dark green door. There’s a lockbox on the door. She punches in a code, opens it up, and takes out a key.
So far, I’m not very impressed with our accommodations, but as soon as Freya opens the door, I feel differently. The entire apartment has been decorated in light greys and the same dark green as the door. The living room couch is emerald velvet, with soft grey pillows. The kitchen is modern and compact. There are three bedrooms, each with similar decor and the same color scheme.
It’s exquisite and swanky. My first thought is how much it’s going to cost each of us, but then I tell myself not to worry about it. I have plenty of money saved and I deserve to have a little fun.
“I don’t know what we should do about the bedrooms,” Freya says, lounging on the couch. “You three can have them if you like. I will be perfectly happy sleeping on this glorious couch.”
“Cat and I can share a room,” Samantha says. “There’s no need for you to sleep on the couch.”
“Yeah, that’s fine with me. You’re the one that booked us this amazing place. How did you find it?” Cat asks, opening all the cabinets and the refrigerator in the kitchen.
“You know I have mad booking skills,” Freya answers.
Samantha turns from the window she’s looking out of with a frown. “This place is amazing, but with a view like this it must be very expensive.”
“Don’t worry. I got us a good deal,” Freya says. “It’s just two hundred pounds a night, so fifty each.”
“Wow, that is a deal,” I say, impressed.
“What are we doing first?” Cat asks, sitting beside Freya and bouncing up and down. “I hope it involves a snack.”
“It’s after four, so how about we get changed? There’s an incredible wine bar a few blocks from here. I thought we could start there and then figure out where else we want to go,” Freya says.
“I guess I’ll settle for wine instead of snacks,” Cat says, pretending to pout.
“We’re not going to change our clothes five times a day on this trip, are we?” Samantha asks. “Because I didn’t bring enough clothes for that.”
“You can do whatever you want,” Freya says. “I, however, am planning on taking advantage of being away from Ashbourne and wearing everything I own that Ms. Bowerton would deem inappropriate.”
We carry our bags to our rooms. Cat and Samantha are in the master bedroom with an en suite bathroom. Freya and I have a bathroom in between our rooms we’ll share. I look through my clothes, trying to decide what to wear. I’m glad we’re going to a wine bar, that’s more my speed. I would have no idea what to wear if we were going to a club.
I wear an off-the-shoulder grey sheath dress with pink velvet heels. I knot my hair and then apply lipstick and mascara. Done. I seem to be the first one ready, so I go to the kitchen, get a glass of water and stand, looking out the window.
Edinburgh is a lovely city. So old and beautiful. I can see a castle looming over the city. The streets are cobblestone and old buildings are mostly made of stone, but there are also lots of trees and parks. It looks like an amazing place to explore. I wish I could stay longer than just for the weekend. I’ll have to make plans to come back sometime.
Everyone comes out dressed for a night out and Freya whistles and catcalls at us. Then we have to pose for a few selfies. And then Freya insists on a few more. Finally, we’re out the door.
I’m grateful that the bar is only a five-minute walk as I’m not much of heel-wearer, except for special occasions. I concentrate on keeping up with everyone and staying upright as we walk along the cobbled street.
It’s a swanky wine bar, with shiny cherry wood and red velvet curtains. It’s early for a Friday night, but there are already lots of people at the bar and sitting at tables. We sit at a tall table on stools beside one of the enormous windows. They have a long list of wines and we all spend too long deciding.
“Cheers to a great girls’ weekend,” Freya says, after the server brings us our drinks. We clink our glasses and all take a drink.
We laugh and chat for a while about school gossip, and then we get down to the serious discussion of where we want to eat dinner. Samantha wants Italian, Cat wants to eat a traditional Scottish meal, Freya doesn’t care where we eat as long as there are great cocktails, and I’m happy with whatever as long as it tastes good.
We end up just walking to the restaurant next door. It has traditional Scottish fare, along with pizza, so everyone is mostly happy. Cat completely grosses us out by ordering haggis and trying to convince us all to try it.
I decide on a Scotch pie. It’s less adventurous than haggis, but still Scottish. It’s warm and filling, the perfect comfort food. I’m thankful that the pub we’
re heading to after dinner is a ten-minute walk in the brisk evening air. Otherwise, I might need a nap.
The pub Freya takes us to after dinner is not the traditional, small local pub. It’s huge, with a second-floor balcony, and an antique bar that spans the entire length of the bottom floor. It’s crowded, but the music is subtle and people are talking and laughing quietly, so the atmosphere is not overwhelming.
We order drinks and stand in a huddle, trying to decide if we want to continue standing or attempt to find a table to sit at. There’s a group of guys standing beside us, and when the server comes and tells them their table is ready, they ask us to join them.
“Sure!” Freya answers before the rest of us can say anything.
I’m pretty uncomfortable sitting with a group of men I don’t know, but I suppose sitting down will be better than standing around in my heels. And they all look nice enough.
The server takes us to a giant booth and we all squeeze in. I sit on the end and one of the guys grabs a chair and pulls it over to the table, so we’re not so tightly crammed into the booth. We all order drinks and then Freya introduces us to the guys.
There’s lots of smiling and small talk. I can tell by the way she’s acting that Freya is attracted to one guy in the group. He’s a giant of a man. I suspect he plays rugby. Maybe they all do. Maybe this is a team. I know nothing about rugby and don’t have a clue how many people are even on a team.
I’m pondering this as I sip my drink, when I’m interrupted by the man to my right.
“So, Alice, was it?” he asks.
“Yes, and you’re Malcolm?” I ask back.
“Yes,” he replies, flashing a dimple at me when he smiles. “Do you live in Edinburgh?”
“No, we’re just up for the weekend. We’re a few hours south of here in England,” I answer. Now that I’m giving him my full attention, I can see how attractive he is. His hazel eyes are framed in long lashes and his brown hair is cut short. I can see he has broad shoulders through his sports coat.
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