A Dream of Death

by Connie Berry

  Dr. Guthrie had turned a piece of island history into a novel. Good for him.

  From within the pages, papers fluttered to the floor. I picked them up, unfolding a sheet of the hotel’s letterhead. The handwriting was Elenor’s. Kate, I really am in trouble this time. I need your advice, but read this book first. The last words were heavily underlined. Don’t let me down. E.

  Her usual theatrics? I had dreaded Elenor’s phone calls when Bill was alive. There was always some calamity. Like the time she forgot to pay her income taxes for two years. Like the time she had an affair with the headmaster of her school and lost her teaching position.

  The second paper turned out to be a photocopy of two old newspaper articles.

  The Hebridean Chronicle

  9th March 1810

  A shocking double murder was committed on Saturday last, 3rd March, north of Angus Ransom’s tavern on Glenroth. At dawn on the 4th a cabinetmaker on his way to Skye discovered two bodies on the road near the peat bogs. Mrs. Flora Arnott, wife of Capt. James Arnott, lay on the road, her neck pierced by an arrow. The body of her companion, Miss Gowyn Campbell, was found partially hidden in the brush. She had been stabbed in the back with a Highland dirk. How the women came to be there remains a mystery.

  Capt. Arnott’s settlement on the Isle of Glenroth has long been a point of contention with the local clansmen, who claim Glenroth House as sacred to the memory of Charles Edward Stuart. In a related development, an anonymous source reported the disappearance, the very night of the murder, of a young negro in the Capt.’s employ, the former slave known as Joseph. If anyone has seen such a person, he is urged to contact the Sheriff in Inverness.

  Capt. Arnott remains in seclusion, from which he has issued a proclamation offering a reward of £100 to anyone who can shed light on this despicable deed or give any clue whereby the perpetrator or perpetrators may be brought to justice.

  I rotated the page ninety degrees to read the second article.

  The Hebridean Chronicle

  18th January 1811

  News has reached this desk of the tragic death of Capt. James Arnott of Glenroth. Searchers found his body in the woods near his estate on New Year’s Day.

  Readers may recall the shocking murders last spring of the Capt.’s young bride, their unborn child (as was later learned), and her companion. Sadly, that crime remains unsolved. The Capt.’s friends had hoped that his marriage last August to Miss Eliza Brodie would bring him a measure of comfort. They now fear the shock of his first wife’s death may have permanently unbalanced his mind.

  I frowned. No one had ever mentioned the existence of original accounts of Flora’s death.

  Someone rapped on the door.

  “Your Fairy Godmother,” Nancy Holden called out. “Bearing ball gowns.”

  Chapter Four

  I turned up the collar of my jacket and dashed toward the hotel. The temperature had dropped, and the rain had turned to icy pellets bouncing off the gravel path. Another storm was on its way.

  As I neared the house, pathway lighting gave way to flickering gas lamps that washed the facade with liquid gold. Candle flames danced in the windows. Plug-ins, I supposed, but they looked authentic. With a little imagination, it could be 1810. How extraordinary, I’d thought on our honeymoon, to live in a house mentioned in the history books. Bill had treated it with the inconsequence of familiarity. He’d been happy to sell his share to Elenor. I’d been happy, too. His share had paid for our lovely old Victorian in Jackson Falls and was currently putting our children through college.

  Headlights swung an arc across the parking area. I shielded my eyes as a silver sedan careened toward the Carriage House. Someone had missed the speed warning.

  Brakes squealed. A horn blared. Car doors slammed.

  An older couple walking up from the self-park area met me where the paths converged. “Did you see that?” the woman asked.

  “What happened?” I slowed my pace to walk with them.

  “A near accident,” the woman said. “A BMW and one of the valet cars.”

  “BMW’s fault,” added her companion, a man in a dark kilt and hose flashed with red ribbons. “She nearly broadsided him.”

  The woman tsked. “Nasty mouth on her, that one.”

  We’d reached the stone steps.

  “What do you expect?” the man said. “Lady of the Manor.”

  * * *

  The gathering room was a long rectangle, high ceilinged and dominated by the original inglenook fireplace. Tall windows looked out on a formal garden. Stone archways led to the main dining room, added along the rear of the house during Elenor’s renovations.

  Partygoers balanced plates of hors d’oeuvres and gestured with their drinks. I scanned the faces. Some looked familiar, but I’ve always been terrible with names. I plunged into a sea of tartan, avoiding a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes.

  “Kate, over here.” Becca Wallace’s short red kilt showed off a pair of shapely legs.

  “I think Elenor nearly broadsided someone with her car just now.”

  “I’m not surprised. She’s a demon behind the wheel.”

  “But why is she so late? It’s after seven.”

  “Grand entrance. Gets more attention that way.”

  “Is that your family tartan?” I asked, indicating her red kilt.

  “Goodness, no. It’s the staff uniform. We’re expected to wear our kilts to all official events.” She stepped back to look me over. “The dress is gorgeous. Fits you like a glove.”

  “A tight glove. I keep reminding myself to take shallow breaths.” The dress Nancy and I had agreed upon—a strapless black taffeta with a full skirt and deep pockets—belonged to Nancy’s married daughter, currently pregnant and living in Dundee. Nancy had managed to close the zipper on the third try. She’d added a tartan sash and pronounced it perfect. I slid my hands into the pockets and fanned out the skirt. “Makes me feel like a fifties film star.”

  A young man with rimless glasses and a thatch of sandy blond hair joined us. Becca slipped her hand through his arm. “Kate, this is my friend Geoff. Ignore the glassy stare. It’s the dress.”

  Geoff turned pink and shoved his glasses higher on his nose.

  “Kate is Elenor’s sister-in-law,” Becca told him. Then to me, “Geoff is a curator at the West Highland Living History Museum in Fort William.”

  Someone behind me swore. I turned to watch a middle-aged man in a tuxedo struggling to maneuver a wheelchair through the doorway. The occupant of the wheelchair, a silver-haired woman in a tartan shawl, pointed a lacquered fingernail toward the far end of the room. “Bar’s over there.” He bent to flip a lever, and the chair lurched forward. Instantly the man was cornered by two women dressed in matching tartan skirts, velveteen jackets, and black tam-o’-shanters dotted with decorative lapel pins.

  “That man looks familiar,” I told Becca.

  “That’s Dr. Guthrie, our local celebrity. He’s written a novel about island history.”

  I took in the small nose, round pink cheeks, and slanting chin. The photograph on the book jacket had flattered him wildly.

  “The woman in the wheelchair is his mother,” Geoff said. “Closest thing Glenroth has to landed gentry these days.”

  The pompous widow. I remembered the blue eyes and silver hair but not the wheelchair. “Why are the women talking to him dressed alike?”

  “The Arnott twins, Penny and Cilla.” Geoff grinned. “Penny’s the one on the left.”

  Penny Arnott was tall with a square jaw and jutting chin. Cilla was short and plump with a heart-shaped face and dimples. They had identical pageboy haircuts, but while Penny’s hair was a coarse brown streaked with gray, Cilla’s was pure white, fine as corn silk.

  “I remember now,” I said. “Bill pointed them out once. His father bought the estate from their father fifty years ago.”

  “I wonder if the twins realize that.” Becca flashed me a wry smile. “They act as if they still live he
re. One day they’ll probably find a couple of unoccupied bedrooms and move back in. Come on.” She took my arm and steered me toward the fireplace where the twins stood warming their backs.

  Hugh Guthrie had excused himself. Or escaped.

  “Hello, Penny and Cilla,” Becca said. “I’d like you to meet Kate Hamilton.”

  “The sister-in-law?” One of Penny’s unruly eyebrows waggled. She held up two bony fingers, crossing them. “Close, are you?”

  It took me a moment to figure out what she meant. “If you mean close to Elenor, we don’t actually see each other that often. I live in the States.”

  Penny’s mouth turned down, as if she doubted the truth of my assertion.

  It might have been the heat of the fire or possibly my overactive imagination, but I felt as if she’d moved into my personal space. “Tell me about your pins,” I said, taking a step back. The pressure of Becca’s arm told me I’d made a mistake.

  “The red one with the white rose is for the Defenders of Scotland.” Cilla pointed at one of the larger pins on her sister’s tam. “Women’s Auxiliary.”

  Penny closed her eyes as if accessing her hard drive. “Our ancestor, Colonel Abraham Arnott, fought bravely at Culloden. One of the survivors. Returned to the West Indies after the defeat. His son, James, settled here in 1809 and—”

  Penny had a peculiar, elliptical way of speaking. Captain Hook with a Scottish brogue. I stifled a giggle. All she needed was an eye patch.

  It took us a full ten minutes to extricate ourselves.

  Geoff handed us each a glass of champagne. “Another five minutes and I’d have staged a rescue.”

  I sipped my champagne, feeling the bubbles tickle my nose.

  An enormous man with dark, wavy hair circled the hors d’oeuvres table. He wore a tuxedo with a green-and-blue tartan cummerbund and matching bow tie.

  “That’s Jackie MacDonald, right?” I whispered to Becca.

  “Well spotted, Kate, although Jackie is rather hard to forget.”

  I took another sip of champagne.

  Tom Mallory stood in a circle of women near one of the stone archways. Seeing me, he waved. It looked like a come save me wave, the kind Bill used to do when cornered by a pack of academics chasing some theory to ground. More likely, Tom expected me to join his admirers. I gave him a brief smile.

  It was nearly eight when Elenor finally swept in. She wore a blue velvet, off-the-shoulder gown with a wool sash in the soft blues and greens of the Ancient Hamilton hunting tartan. Her hair was gathered at her neck in an elaborate knot. Spotting me, she sailed over.

  “Thank you for the book,” I said. “Where did you find the newspaper—”

  “Shhh, not here.” She flapped her hand as if erasing my words in the air.

  A gong sounded.

  “You’re with me at the head table.” Elenor took me by the elbow and propelled me toward the dining room. I glanced over my shoulder.

  “See you later,” Becca said. “Peasants sit near the kitchen.”

  Fires blazed in huge stone fireplaces at each end of the dining room. Round tables had been laid with crisp white linen and centerpieces of white roses and purple heather. A banner hung over the band platform: WELCOME TO THE TENTH ANNUAL TARTAN BALL.

  I found my place next to a woman already seated, a thin woman with a long neck and dark hair molded to a small round head. The name that popped into my head was Olive Oyl. “Hello,” I said, praying her real name would come to me.

  “Oh, Kate. Remember me? Dora MacDonald, Jackie’s wife. We own the Tartan Gift Shop.”

  Of course. How could I have forgotten? Privately, Bill and I had called them Olive Oyl and Bluto.

  Dora downed her champagne and plunked the glass on the table near several empties. Jackie appeared and handed his wife another flute. “Wee Kate,” he beamed. “Grand to see you again, lass.”

  Across the table, Hugh Guthrie was attempting to position his mother’s wheelchair.

  “You make such a fuss, Hugh.” Mrs. Guthrie grabbed the wheels of her chair. “Now hand me that napkin and sit down.”

  Guthrie sat between his mother and Elenor, looking as if his license to exist had just expired. The remaining two seats at the table were claimed by Penny and Cilla Arnott.

  “Has everyone met Kate Hamilton?” Jackie asked.

  Guthrie rose, holding his napkin. “Hugh Guthrie. And this is my mother, Margaret.”

  “We’ve met,” Margaret said in a rich alto voice. She eyed my bare shoulders. “You must be chilly, dear. Let me know if you need my shawl.”

  Ooo, nasty. “How sweet.”

  Jackie stepped up to the microphone. Tap, tap, tap. His white teeth gleamed in the spotlight.

  Dora leaned in my direction. “Still gorgeous, isn’t he?”

  “Very handsome,” I said truthfully.

  “He got his looks from his mother. She was a MacDonald, too, from another branch of the family. Jackie says we should be living in this house.” She poked me with a sharp elbow. “But not around Elenor or the Arnott twins.”

  Jackie unhooked the microphone. “As president of the Chamber of Commerce, I welcome you to the Tenth Annual Tartan Ball. We have a lot to celebrate. This year’s tourist season has broken all records, and we know who to thank for that, don’t we?” He raised his glass and saluted the head table. “As of October first, The Diary of Flora Arnott has sold more than twenty thousand copies. Our island is quickly becoming a pilgrimage site for the growing ranks of Flora-philes. He raised his glass again. “Sláinte. God bless Hugh Guthrie. And God bless Flora Arnott, may she rest in peace.”

  “Sláinte,” echoed the crowd.

  Hugh Guthrie appeared to shrink in his seat.

  Spoons clinked on water glasses. Jackie MacDonald resumed his seat at the head table between his wife and Elenor, who made room for the big man by moving her chair so close to Dr. Guthrie she could have eaten off his plate.

  Margaret Guthrie scowled.

  Waiters appeared with the main course.

  Jackie tucked a napkin in his collar and turned to me. “I still think of you as a new bride. How are you getting on?”

  “Poor Kate.” Dora’s eyes glistened with sympathy or alcohol or both. “It can’t have been easy, raising those children by yourself.”

  I forced a smile. Why was I always poor Kate? “Eric and Christine are both in college. Doing well. No significant others.” I crossed my fingers under the table. Christine’s history with men ranked somewhere between Miss Havisham and Monica Lewinsky.

  Later, as the waiters cleared the main course, Jackie took the stage again and the guests settled in for the evening program. “Our first order of business tonight is to announce the winners of the Eighty-Second Annual Glenroth Archery Tournament. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our new champions”—the band played a drum roll—“Frank Holden and Dora MacDonald.”

  I blinked as the audience exploded into applause.

  Dora stood and swayed briefly. Stabilizing, she made her way to the podium, where she joined a man with a wrestler’s build and short-cropped gray hair, the man I’d seen working in the planting beds. Nancy Holden’s husband, I presumed.

  Trophies were presented. Speeches were declined.

  “Now please,” Jackie said, “everyone rise for the traditional toast.”

  The crowd, having imbibed freely by this time, stood as best they could, locking arms and swaying together. It wasn’t easy with Dora MacDonald leaning on me.

  Bonnie Chairlie’s noo awa’, we sang. Safely ower the friendly main; Mony a heart will break in twa’, should he ne’er come back again. I knew the words by heart. Bill would sing them after a couple of glasses of red wine. Will ye no come back again? Will ye no come back again? Better lo’ed ye canna be, Will ye no come back again?

  “Raise your glasses,” Jackie said, “to the prince across the sea, Charles Edward Louie John Casimir Sylvester Severino Maria Stuart. Sláinte mhor.”

  Glasses clinked. Eyes
misted over. Sláinte mhor, To the health of the woman, the coded Jacobite toast, referring to Charlie disguised as Flora MacDonald’s maid. Humiliating, I’d have thought, but all accounts said Charlie donned the skirt, shawl, and cap quite cheerfully.

  “’Tis now my privilege,” Jackie said as the audience took their seats, “to introduce tonight’s special guest from the Noble and Sacred Order of the Forty-Five. Please welcome—”

  A woman with bony shoulders and a beaklike nose made her way to the platform. Jackie handed her the microphone. I’d missed the woman’s name. Dora MacDonald had knocked over her glass of champagne and borrowed my napkin to soak up the mess.

  “As you know,” said the woman in a fluty voice, “the Noble Order exists to honor the heroes of Culloden and to cherish in our hearts the memory of our glorious and rightful king. Each year we choose a worthy recipient for our grant program, and tonight we are pleased to present to the Isle of Glenroth Historical Society a check for twenty thousand pounds to be used for the erection of a statue—”

  Cilla Arnott squealed. Penny dabbed her eyes with her napkin.

  “—honoring Glenroth’s illustrious son and savior of this historic house, Captain James Arnott. Not only did Captain Arnott’s father fight with the Bonnie Prince at Culloden, but he himself fought in the war on Scottish shipping interests in the Caribbean.”

  Huh? I had a graduate degree in history. Was the woman talking about pirates?

  Cameras flashed at the tableau surrounding a huge cardboard check.

  “Accepting on behalf of the Society,” Jackie said, “are Miss Penelope and Miss Priscilla Arnott. Ladies? Any remarks?”

  Cilla shook her head.

  Penny leapt onto the platform and pounced on the microphone. “Tonight’s honor—long overdue, I might add—is the fulfillment of a dream conceived by our father more than sixty years ago. To see our esteemed ancestor honored in a way appropriate to his exalted place in our island’s history is entirely—”