by Gigi Pandian
I snapped out of my stupor with this detailed reminder of Lane’s past. The recurring unsettling thought crept back into my mind. How could anything like that be completely left behind? He had been paying attention to all sorts of details in the past few days.
“We should go,” he said.
“Finding that bastard Rupert would be a start,” I said.
“The police will do that later.”
“What?” I stared up at Lane. “That’s not what I meant. You can’t really think Rupert did this to Knox. Now that I’ve almost figured it out, with the missing pieces we each have, if we found Rupert, the three of us could figure it out together.”
“Who else is there? Your ex had to be the one who was here digging last night. You admitted that. He got rid of us for that very purpose. He must have tried to do the same thing to Knox. That diversion misfired, and now Knox is dead.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“Will you stop sticking up for him!” Lane yelled. A vein bulged on the side of his temple. He wasn’t any calmer than I was.
I knelt at the edge of the water and washed the blood off my hands. I felt queasy as the lapping water rinsed the blood away.
“Let’s go,” I said. I started back through the cave. Lane fell in step beside me. I could see him seething, but he didn’t speak.
When we reached the opening of the cave, Lane jogged ahead of me. I saw why as I caught up with him. He had located his glasses. He tucked them into a pocket and we kept walking.
Back at the car I tossed my coat into the trunk with shaking hands. I’d gotten Knox alone, but not in the way I ever intended. I tried to suppress the urge to scream. The urge to cry. The urge to throw up.
“We should go back to the Gregor Estate,” Lane said. “It should be opening soon, so we can get those last answers we need.”
I knew he was right. I had to focus. That was the only way I was going to get through this. I got into the driver’s seat and started the car.
The estate wasn’t open yet. Although the sun was now strong in the sky, it was still quite early. The early morning wind whipped around the car. Lane silently removed his coat and handed it to me.
“Chivalry again?” I asked. “I like this better.” I lifted myself out of my seat and onto his lap, and buried my head on his chest. He wrapped his strong arms around me and held me there. Neither of us spoke. Lane’s long fingers stroked my hair as he held me close. I couldn’t push the vivid image of Knox’s lifeless body from my mind, but I no longer felt like throwing up.
Wheels crunched on the gravel drive. The man from our last visit pulled long legs out of a miniature car. I hopped out of our car.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but we’re not open until—”
“We’re catching a train in a little over an hour,” I said.
He smiled down at me. “You’re the lass from the other day. Found our military history interesting after all then?” He winked and beckoned for us to follow him as he unlocked the double doors.
“Ye’ll still need to pay the admission tariff,” he said.
After paying, Lane followed on my heels as I hurried to the great hall. This time, instead of being drawn to the portrait of Connor Gregor that dominated the room, I went straight to dark-haired Elspeth Gregor.
Young Elspeth couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. The fashionable gown she wore suited her petite frame. Her black hair was pulled back from her face, revealing delicate features slightly resembling those of the man next to her.
“She’s Willoughby Gregor’s daughter,” I said, reading from the panel next to the portrait. “Born in 1840. No mother listed.”
“He was in India at that time,” Lane said.
“A merchant for the East India Company—before European women went over to India.”
“Elspeth’s mother was Indian,” Lane said. “That’s why Fergus and Angus saw a slight resemblance to you when they remembered this portrait.”
“Angus confirmed what I suspected,” I said. “This is the portrait that started the local bean nighe legend. Willoughby Gregor fathered a child in India, and brought her home with him when he returned to Britain. She married a local man, and when she died in childbirth, a local legend that she was a bean nighe fairy began—probably because of her small and distinctive looks, since it wasn’t uncommon for a woman to die in childbirth back then. She’d have had a slightly different accent, too. Not quite Indian but not quite English or Scottish either. Adding to her mystique with the locals.”
“You were thinking it was a part-Indian woman who Fergus knew to be a fairy,” Lane said. “That’s why you looked so familiar to him, and why you asked about her name to confirm your theory.”
“When I looked at the timing in history, their actions make perfect sense. With the chaos of the Sepoy Rebellion, the societal rules of the British in India changed. The British Crown didn’t want their men marrying the natives anymore. It was one thing for unorganized merchant sailors to do so, but now they were directly representing the British Crown. Willoughby needed to get his family out. Interracial children were in a bad spot.
“It was the perfect mix for opportunity. A poor British merchant with no ties back at home and no future in India. He could take advantage of the chaos and both save his family and make off with the treasure that you traced to Delhi.”
“But he didn’t save his wife,” Lane said.
“What do you want to bet she told him about the treasure in the first place? The Mughals still had the treasure, Lane. Someone hid the treasure, or at least made very sure it was kept out of the public eye. You said it disappeared not long after 1611. I didn’t put it together at the time, but 1616 was the year Jahangir gave a charter to the East India Company. Someone knew, even then, that a treasure like this needed to be protected.
“But,” I continued, “how could someone get such a treasure out of the country? Even with the bureaucracy less stringent, it wouldn’t be easy.”
“It was his daughter,” Lane cut in. “She could pass as white if she assumed the right dress and mannerisms, and could have dressed up in an appropriately voluminous dress, as was the style. That’s a great way to smuggle jewels.”
Nodding, I continued. “I don’t know what happened to her mother, but it was a time of war. Countless people died. Especially those who took risks, such as removing a treasure. Willoughby Gregor managed to get the treasure and his daughter back to Britain. He needed to come to this bleak region of Scotland to keep his treasure a secret, rather than somewhere like London where people would question his wealth.”
“And because gold is an easy metal to melt down,” Lane said, “he could easily sell as many of the stones and gold as he needed to in order to get set up here, but he’d need to hide the rest somewhere. He didn’t have a fortified castle, so he’d want to hide his treasure somewhere that only he knew about. Like a unique site along the coast, near where he was building his estate.”
“The same type of distinct coastline,” I said, “where people hundreds of years before him thought to put their stone-carved messages as well. So it’s not remarkable that the Pictish stones would be around there, too.”
“Not bad, Jones.”
He paused. “But how did your ex find out about this?”
“As I was starting to explain earlier, Knox….” I faltered. I swallowed and pushed the scene from my mind.
“Knox worked at an auction house in London,” I said, “and that’s the documentation that our trickster used to get you arrested—an appraisal of a necklace with a similar stone—which must be the one in this painting. Sir Gregor had this old family piece of jewelry appraised but didn’t sell it. He didn’t take it to a museum or a scholar, so they wouldn’t have realized its historical significance. You said how obscure it was. But Knox, with all his interest in treasure hunting and his archaeologi
cal training, would have spotted the significance.
“What I’m not sure about,” I added, “is how Rupert and Knox put it together with the cave next to the site of this dig Fiona was on. Even if she mentioned the Gregor Estate nearby and they put it together with Sir Gregor, how did they get the bracelet Rupert sent me, but not the rest of the treasure?”
“The dirt,” Lane said. “There was soil in the bracelet when you showed it to me.”
“Soil like on a dig.” I groaned. “That’s why Rupert called it an artifact. Not a treasure or a bracelet, either of which would have made more sense. They must have found it buried like an artifact.”
“In this region,” Lane said, “the weather is strong enough to reshape stone cliffs. So the bracelet wouldn’t necessarily have been found with the rest of the treasure that was buried for safekeeping.”
“This estate would have used up some of the treasure,” I said, looking around at the heavily adorned walls. “But if what we’re speculating about the treasure is true, there was a lot, so he wouldn’t have had to use much of it.”
“Then why doesn’t the family have more than one piece?” Lane asked. “And where is the rest? It’s not in the cave where Knox and your ex were digging. I don’t know why they thought it was there, but there’s nothing buried in that rock face.”
“Knox and Rupert were digging in the wrong place because they didn’t realize it was Willoughby’s treasure,” I said. “They were only focused on Connor, the son Willoughby had with his second wife. He’s the one who finished building this estate and left his mark.”
I pointed first to the portrait of Willoughby’s sullen-looking Scottish wife Mary, then to Connor’s massive portrait that dominated the room. The artist knew how to capture a personality; I caught a glimpse of a spoiled boy in his large blue eyes. Between those two, I could imagine why Willoughby hadn’t wanted to share his treasure with his new family.
The only other painting close to the size of Connor’s was the landscape painting of seaside cliffs directly opposite the portrait. I walked over to get a closer look.
“It’s our cave,” I said. “It doesn’t look the same, but that’s it, isn’t it?”
“They were looking for a clue from the wrong man,” Lane said. “They assumed it was Connor’s treasure and Connor’s hiding place, for the superficial reasons here in this room. They didn’t realize the significance of the periods when the father and son were in India.”
“Rupert thought he was missing something in a clue left behind from Connor, who worked for the British Crown in India. That’s what he thought I could help him with. But we need to find what Willoughby left behind that points to the treasure.”
Lane began the search in the gun room, where many of the pieces were listed as having belonged to Willoughby. I was drawn back to the room full of haunting portraits. I spent so long examining the rows of portraits that Lane joined me before I was done.
Past the professional portraits, I found something I hadn’t noticed before. An illustration. It wasn’t very large, or even very good. It was a crudely drawn picture of a tree with a young girl sitting in front of it. As a piece of art it was awful. But at the same time, there was care in the charcoal pencil markings. It was a loving piece of work. The lines were carefully drawn if not skillful. She was a girl, not yet a woman, but I recognized her. Elspeth. The landscape was shapeless, but the tree was drawn in detail. It was the early formation of a tree, but already its roots were strong and knotted. Elspeth’s hand was pointing at one of the roots.
I don’t know how long I stared at the sketch. “He meant it to be for her,” I said. “But she died. That’s why the treasure was never dug up.”
“Willoughby’s daughter?”
“This was his own sketch,” I said, pointing at the small illustration. “That’s where it is. Not in the cave. Under the tree.”
“I guess I was wrong,” a voice said from across the room.
A voice I knew.
Rupert stood in the doorway.
Chapter 42
“Jaya, why don’t you come over here,” Rupert said, glaring in Lane’s direction.
In one graceful motion, Lane moved in front of me, blocking Rupert.
“Stay away from her,” Lane said.
Rupert laughed. “Jaya,” he said, and rolled his eyes in the direction of the door. “Didn’t you get my message?”
“Oh, get over it,” I said. “Both of you.”
I stepped out from behind Lane.
“Neither of you is trying to hurt me,” I said, trying to push Lane’s arm aside so I could easily see them both. “Really.”
“But Jaya,” Rupert said through a nervous laugh, “didn’t you listen to—?”
“Jaya, I know you think you know what you’re doing,” Lane said, “but don’t go over there. He’s a murderer.”
“A murderer?” Rupert said. “I know we haven’t officially met yet, but you’ve got your signals a bit crossed. I’m the person who’s supposed to have been murdered.”
“He’s talking about Knox,” I said.
A look of confusion spread across Rupert’s face. “What are you talking about?”
Lane’s muscles tensed as Rupert stepped further into the room.
“Like you don’t know he’s dead,” Lane said.
Rupert looked between me and Lane, then collapsed into a chair. He put his head in his hands and swore. I tried to go over to him, but at my first sign of movement Lane reached out and grabbed my arm too firmly for me to move.
“He’s a good actor, Jaya,” Lane said.
“Ow, you’re hurting me,” I said, even though he wasn’t.
He released his grip immediately, as I knew he would. I went to Rupert.
Lane swore, but I was already kneeling next to Rupert. He put his head on my shoulder and I ran my fingers through his soft, unkempt hair. He needed a moment to compose himself. I wasn’t going to deny him that.
“How did it happen?” he asked, looking up. His face was even more hollow than before. His eyes were moist, but he held himself together.
“Down at the cave,” I said. “He’d been hit with something. Or against something.”
Rupert looked at me, confused. “The cave? But I was there last night.” He put his head in his hands again.
I didn’t look up, but I felt Lane right behind me.
“I told you it was him,” Lane said. “He was the one at the cave. The night before, too. He was the short pale person I saw, who looked familiar because I had caught a glimpse of him following me in London. And that was why he made sure to get rid of us last night, so he could do his digging in peace. Locking me up in a jail cell.”
“Oh, that,” Rupert said dismissively. He wasn’t his usual flip self, though. “It would have been sorted soon enough.” He looked at me. “I didn’t get you arrested, love. You always loved libraries, so it wasn’t such a big deal for me to send you—”
Lane scoffed. Rupert looked up at him. “Like you have any right to complain,” Rupert said to him. “Using Jaya to go after the treasure for yourself.”
“That’s not what he’s doing,” I said.
“You didn’t used to doubt my word,” Rupert said, attempting a smile but failing. “He’s involved in the break-in at your apartment. I swear to you—”
“As if that means anything to you,” Lane cut in.
“I know what I’m talking about, Jaya,” Rupert said. “I spoke with his University’s department secretary. I know what his advisor has been doing with him.”
Silence filled the air.
“Son of a bitch,” Lane said slowly. “I know Michael had been down on his luck, but I never would have suspected—”
“Professor Wells,” Rupert said, “has been having his students make inquiries in the UK about a missing Indian bracelet.”
/> I looked over at Lane. “You told him?” I asked.
“He’s my advisor. The one whom one asks to advise,” Lane said with obvious annoyance. “We ran into him right when you were leaving, remember? I didn’t think he’d do anything crazy like break into your apartment to try to retrieve it. I mean, I knew he was going through a bad divorce, but I didn’t really think—”
“That explains one big mystery,” I said.
“You don’t actually believe the wanker, do you?” Rupert asked.
“Will you both grow up!” I shouted, stepping away from them both. “Rupert did not kill anyone, and Lane is not involved in a plot against me. I don’t care if you don’t trust each other, but trust me.”
“I know you must feel the need to—”
“Shut up, Rupert,” I said. He looked crestfallen. “I’m truly sorry about Knox. He didn’t deserve to die like that. But Lane didn’t kill him.”
Lane opened his mouth.
“And neither did Rupert,” I said. “Now that that’s settled, Rupert, you’re going to pull yourself together and fill in the remaining missing pieces that only you can answer.”
“What—now?” he asked.
“This whole thing would have been much easier to figure out,” I said, not bothering to hide my anger, “and we could even have saved Knox’s life if you’d just told me everything from the beginning.”
Rupert slumped back down into the chair. I might have been a bit too harsh to blame him for his best friend’s death, though it was very possibly true that Knox needn’t have died.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I really was. “But we need to figure out who killed Knox, and also make sure it doesn’t happen to us.”
Rupert looked at me, a hollow version of a smile forming on his lips.
“Well....” he said. He glanced at Lane skeptically before turning back to me. “I suppose—” His voice broke off as two elderly tourists entered the room. I should have figured the estate was now open since Rupert had gotten in. The tourists nodded and smiled at our strange, disheveled group, and proceeded to study the paintings on the walls.