by Connie Berry
The memory returned, as vivid as the scent of the musk roses I’d planted near our front porch in Jackson Falls. Bill and I were sitting on the glider. Fireflies winked in the warm July evening. My feet were in his lap. “You will look out for Elenor,” he’d said in his soft Scottish burr, “if anything happens to me.”
I’d pulled away. “What do you mean? Nothing’s going to happen, is it?”
“Not if I can help it. But promise me, Kate. Please.”
So I did, and two weeks later he was gone.
The dryer stopped. The clock on the mantel ticked like a metronome. The bedside clock flipped to 12:50. I should have been sleeping. Instead I was waiting for phone calls from the duty clerk at Mallaig. Oh well. I was never going to sleep anyway.
Hugh Guthrie’s book lay unopened on the bedside table. I sighed and flipped on the lamp. I really must stop making rash promises.
Hazelbank House, Lochweirren, Ayrshire
26th September 1808
To-day is my 15th birthday & Father declares I must marry. He has given Grandmother an allowance for gowns & instructed Mrs. Poole to train Gowyn to attend me. My hair, which he called wild, is to be arranged in the latest fashion. No longer am I free to wander the estate, nor am I to ride Turk without a saddle. I am to be a Lady, groomed, gowned, and paraded about like one of the Duke’s prize racehorses
Father, having no son to take charge of me should he die, pretends to be concerned for my welfare, but I know it is pounds & shillings he wants. Through a series of foolish ventures, Father has lost both his own modest fortune & poor Mamma’s greater one. He paces the house in a black despair while daily the Post brings fresh demands. He is convinced that an influx of cash will set things right & I am to be the means of this happiness, for Father (it is plain) hopes to prevail upon a wealthy son in law. It is hard having no Mother to advise me.
To-night, as a kind of rehearsal, I was dangled before Sir Charles Murray, who is fond of saying he would be 6th Duke of Atholl were several of his relation to perish together. He himself is quite venerable, a widower with several children, the eldest a girl near my own age. At dinner he thought to impress me with tales of his exploits in Malta. He has a long red face & a kind of braying laugh that puts me in mind of a donkey. He also has twenty thousand a year, which makes Father quite in love with him.
After dinner, pleading a sore head, I made my escape & met Gowyn in the garden. She presented me with this diary, fashion’d herself from writing paper & stiff board covered in red calico from my old summer frock. The rest she is cutting up for a pieced quilt, which shall be mine, says she, when I am betrothed. I cannot help wondering how long she has been privy to a scheme communicated to me only this morning.
The next entries concerned preparations for Flora’s debut, a time-consuming affair and an expense her father resented but agreed to on the grounds (as Flora’s grandmother put it) that the first step in making hare stew is to catch the hare. A month after Christmas, Flora made her entrance into society at a ball given by the Murrays of Ashley Park, a fifteen-mile journey from Lochweirren.
21st January 1809
The servants went by Post on Wednesday. Grandmother & I arrived the following day in her ancient barouche, frozen solid, limp as rags & bruised from bumping along the Turnpike, but in state nonetheless, pretending the journey had been pleasant & the shocking fortune spent on my gowns had not reduced Father to the borrowing of a carriage. To-night I wore my ivory silk with Mamma’s pearls. Grandmother says a good figure will go a long way, but I wonder how far a fine bosom & narrow waist can take me in the absence of a dowry.
Sir Charles claimed the first dance but soon huffed & puffed, begging that I excuse him as his new slippers were causing him pain. My other dancing partners were a distinguished lot. Several spoke nonsense. Two trod on my feet. One, the younger son of some Viscount or other, had sense enough but as little interest in the game as I & we satisfied ourselves by saying very little through a Quadrille & a Reel. I fear what Father will say when I return home without a proposal of marriage. If I were to meet a gentleman of sense & character, I would accept him gladly enough.
I marked the page and closed the book. Until tonight, Flora’s story had been no more than a sad tale of long-ago events. People don’t cry over the death of Joan of Arc anymore, do they? But Hugh Guthrie had brought Flora to life. She was now a living soul, a flesh-and-blood girl who’d known loss, who’d coped with her circumscribed role in society with intelligence and humor. Was this why Elenor had insisted I read the novel? Was seeing Flora in this new light a preparation for whatever it was she wanted to tell me? In September 1808, Flora was fifteen, a child determined not to be a pawn in her father’s financial schemes. In September 1809, she stood in what was now the gathering room of Glenroth House and pledged her hand and her heart to Captain James Arnott. Five months later she was dead. Why?
I leaned back against the soft pillow and let my thoughts drift to that woodsy scent and charming half smile. Stop it, I scolded myself. I knew nothing about the tall Englishman with the smooth dance moves—or was that precisely why I had allowed myself to think of him? Our lives were on different tracks, headed in opposite directions. The chance of our paths crossing a second time were slim to none.
Chapter Seven
Saturday, October 29
I flung my hand out of the warm cocoon of the duvet. The shadow of a dream, dark and menacing, hovered beyond reach. My eyelids flickered as the events of the previous night came back with a rush—the Tartan Ball, Elenor’s announcements, the intruder.
I squinted at the clock: 9:12. Yikes. I had to get up and get dressed. The constable at Mallaig had promised to send someone out that morning, rather halfheartedly, now that I thought of it. Maybe I had overreacted. Nothing had been taken. No one was hurt.
I slid out of bed and padded to the window in my bare feet. A fresh layer of wet snow flocked the pines. The turquoise sea had turned the color of oxidized silver. This morning I’d tell Elenor about the intruder. And the note in the pocket of the dress. Assuming she was in the mood to talk. I stretched and stiffened my resolve. In the mood or not, she owed me an explanation.
A waffle-weave robe embroidered with the hotel logo—a thistle—hung on the back of the bathroom door. I layered it over my pajamas and headed for the kitchen. The fireplace was already banked with logs. Removing the spark screen, I struck one of the long wooden matches and turned the starter key, hearing the soft wh-oosh as the gas ignited. When the kindling caught, I turned off the gas, replaced the screen, and sat on the hearth, letting the flames warm my back. I should phone Bo Duff right now, before he headed out for the day. Lunch or dinner, his choice. Unless Elenor had other plans. If so, there was always Sunday. My flight to London didn’t leave till eight PM. I’d spend a few days with Christine in Oxford, then fly home for some time with my mother before she returned to Wisconsin.
Bo’s number was listed in the slim island directory. After ten rings, I hung up. If he didn’t answer, he wasn’t home. Simple.
I poured a cup or so of coffee beans into the automatic grinder and breathed in the rich, earthy aroma. My grandmother used to say Norwegians were born with coffee in their veins. She also used to say, “Only dead fish follow the stream.” I still don’t understand that one, but it reminded me I was starving. I’d barely eaten at the ball the night before. There’d been no room in that sexy black dress. I found an enameled skillet and fried up two thick slices of streaky bacon and two large eggs with deep orange yolks. I was finishing the last bite when the cottage phone rang.
“Mrs. Hamilton? This is Detective Sergeant Bruce of Police Scotland.”
“Oh, yes. I thought you’d call this morning.”
“You did? Why is that?”
“Well, because of the intruder.”
“I don’t know anything about an intruder. I’m calling about another matter. Could you come to the hotel, please? As quickly as you can.”
“Why? What’s happ
ened?”
“I’d rather speak with you in person.”
“Tell me now. I insist.”
“Elenor Spurgeon’s body was found this morning. I’m sorry. She’s dead.”
* * *
Elenor dead? Dead?
I took the steps two at a time, nearly sliding on the slick stone. Had she fallen? Suffered a heart attack? The policeman said her body had been found near the Historical Society. That made no sense.
A howl pierced the air. I pushed open the big entrance door to find Agnes MacLeod sprawled in Becca Wallace’s desk chair. Becca was fanning her with a file folder. Nancy held her hand. “There now, dearie, there now.” Nancy looked up, her face pale. “Kate. You’ve heard.”
A man in a black police uniform leaned against the newel post at the foot of the staircase. His face was deeply lined. “Mrs. Hamilton?” He flashed me his ID badge. “I’m Constable Mackie from the police station at Mallaig. The detective inspector is with someone at the moment. He’d like a word in the conservatory at ten thirty.”
“Of course.” I glanced at the long-case clock. Just after ten. I didn’t know what to do. My tongue felt thick. My feet were rooted to the floor. I made a strangled sound and clutched my throat. Elenor’s really dead.
Nancy rushed over. “Catch your breath now, lass.”
I swiped at my eyes. “I think I’m in shock.”
Constable Mackie stepped forward. “Do you need help?”
“I’m all right. I just need a moment to …” To what? I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Try to remain calm. I’ve asked Miss MacLeod here to have a look at Mrs. Spurgeon’s flat.”
“Why me?” Agnes’s eyes slewed from the officer to Becca and Nancy. “I don’t know anything. How could I? I was in my apartment. I was asleep. I was—” She stopped midsentence, and the effect was like a race car driver slamming on the brakes in the middle of a lap.
“Ready now, Miss MacLeod?” Constable Mackie helped Agnes to her feet. She followed him with the look of a prisoner headed for the gallows. I noticed she was limping.
“Come into the kitchen, Kate,” Nancy said. “Coffee’s on.”
A fire smoldered in the kitchen hearth, filling the room with the distinctive toasty, smoky smell of peat. A carton of eggs and a loaf of bread lay abandoned on the counter near the sink. Becca sat at a long oak table near the fire. I slid in next to her.
“Did that sergeant tell you what happened?” Becca asked. “All we know is that someone found Elenor’s body this morning.”
“That’s all he told me too.”
Nancy reached for a cup and saucer. “Frank’s with the detective inspector now.” The cup clattered on the saucer as she handed it to me.
“Detective inspector?” I was confused. “Do you mean Tom Mallory?”
“Oh, no—this one’s from Police Scotland. Detective Inspector Devlin.”
“Why did they want Agnes to look at Elenor’s flat?”
Becca passed me a pitcher of cream. “They said someone had to do it. To see if anything is missing, I suppose. I’ve never been in Elenor’s flat, so I wouldn’t know.”
“Nor have I.” Nancy took another cup and saucer from the shelf. “Sofia used to clean for Elenor, but she’s”—Nancy and Becca exchanged glances—“well, she’s in no state to be questioned at the moment. We sent her to the Lodge. That left Agnes.”
Why was Sofia in no state to be questioned? I picked up my cup. “Elenor and I were supposed to talk this morning.” I choked on the words and reached in my handbag for a Kleenex. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”
“Nor can we,” Becca said. She seemed unusually calm to me, but I know people react to a crisis in different ways. My son, Eric, goes silent. My daughter, Christine, goes into hysterics. My mother listens. Then she asks questions.
Nancy handed Becca a cup of coffee. “I was afraid something terrible would happen,” she said darkly. “The curse.”
“Really, Nancy.” Becca rolled her eyes. “That’s daft, and you know it.”
Instead of taking offense, Nancy seemed to take heart. “You’re right. Of course you are.”
A curse? I couldn’t let that drop. “What are you talking about?”
“The Arnott curse,” Becca said. “Because of those murders—Flora Arnott and that other woman, Gowyn somebody.”
“Gowyn Campbell,” I said. Bill had never mentioned a curse.
Nancy wrapped the loaf of bread in a tea towel. “People say the house is cursed, Kate. Two murders—three if you count the child—and a suicide.”
“But that was a long time ago. Even if there were such things as curses, would it skip two hundred years?”
“It didn’t,” Becca said. “Not that I believe it, you understand, but the Arnotts have suffered an unusual number of tragedies over the years. Someone made a list once—disease, insanity, freak accidents, deaths in war, in childbirth. Even a duel back in the mid-1830s. It’s a miracle they survived at all, but each generation managed to produce a male heir.”
“Until the twins,” Nancy said. “The last of the Arnotts. Some say it’s revenge.”
“For what?” I asked.
“For taking land that had belonged to the MacDonalds since the dawn of time.”
Becca scoffed. “It’s marketing, Kate. Gives the island a mystique.”
“Not all marketing,” Nancy said. “Stories of a ghost have been around for generations.”
That I knew to be true. “Bill told me about the ghost of Flora Arnott, searching for the nursery that would have held her child. Elenor had terrible nightmares as a child. She said she saw the ghost, and no one could talk her out of it.”
“Oh, aye.” Becca said. Once again, she and Nancy exchanged glances. “Did you know Elenor claimed to have seen the ghost recently, several times? One moment there’d be a dark shape, the rustling of fabric, the smell of wet wool. Then the shape would vanish.”
Nancy turned pale. Did she believe in ghosts? Scotland teems with them. Wee Annie of Mary King’s Close who might take the hand of an unsuspecting tourist. The Warrior of Culloden, the tall Highlander who tramps endlessly through the moors. The Green Lady, harbinger of doom for the Burnett family. Queen Victoria claimed to have seen that one herself.
I figured we had enough horrors at the moment, so I steered the subject away from ghosts. “That police sergeant, Bruce, said Elenor was found near the Historical Society. Why would she go there in the storm?”
“And if she set her mind to go”—Becca set her cup in the saucer—“why not take the car?”
“The Carriage House was locked, for one thing,” Nancy said. “She’d have had to find the key and back the car out herself. Or wake Frank.”
Becca looked thoughtful. “I suppose. And the Historical Society is only a fifteen-minute walk by the forest path. But still—in the snow?”
We fell silent.
Nancy sighed. “Poor wee Agnes is taking it the hardest.”
I agreed. I’d seen the shock in Agnes’s eyes. I’d also seen something that looked a lot like panic.
Chapter Eight
I arrived for my interview with the detective inspector a few minutes early, wondering how he would expect me to react to Elenor’s death. I was shocked, of course, and saddened, the sadness one always feels for the senseless loss of life, but I wasn’t bereaved and couldn’t pretend to be. What I did feel—I’m not proud to admit it—was frustration. Elenor’s hints of danger and secrets had piqued my curiosity. Now I might never know what she’d gotten herself into. All I could do was tell the police everything and let them sort it out.
The conservatory was a large, leafy space made of glass, perfect for catching the afternoon sun. Today the sky was sullen. Three men sat on wicker chairs. One of them I knew—Tom Mallory. The other two, both in dark suits, would be DS Bruce, the man I’d spoken to on the phone, and the detective inspector. What had Nancy called him—Dalton? Davis? The three men acted like old friends, but then p
olicemen everywhere probably have an instant bond, a secret handshake or something. Seeing me, they rose.
Tom crossed the room. “Kate, I’m so sorry about Elenor. Are you coping?”
His kindness touched me. “I’m fine. I just need to know what happened.”
“Don’t worry. They’ll get to the bottom of it.” He gave my arm a squeeze and left.
One of the men in suits stuck out his hand. “Detective Inspector Rob Devlin, Police Scotland, Major Investigations Team.” Devlin had a swimmer’s body with a long torso, broad shoulders, and a bullet-shaped head—shaved, I guessed, to disguise premature baldness. He offered me a chair, perching himself on the arm of a wicker sofa.
He was chewing gum, his speech punctuated with snaps of emphasis. “The police station at Mallaig got the call at seven this morning, when the body was discovered.” Snap. “MIT was called in—Major Investigations Team. Standard procedure for homicides these days.” Snap.
Homicide? The room tilted. I gripped the arms of my chair. “Elenor was murdered?”
“I’m afraid so.”
I swallowed hard. Just breathe.
“Do you need something? A glass of water, perhaps? Take your time.”
“I’m fine,” I said again, forcing a smile.
“You spoke with Detective Sergeant Bruce earlier.”
Bruce nodded, eyelids at half-mast.
Devlin extracted a pair of half-moon glasses from his breast pocket and perched them on the end of a long nose. He consulted a small black notebook. “We’ll start with some basic information. Your husband was Mrs. Spurgeon’s brother. He passed away, ah … three years ago. And you live in Ohio, is that right?”
“Yes, Jackson Falls, near Cleveland.” The information must have come from Agnes or Becca. “My husband was a law professor at Case Western Reserve University.”
“You have two children. Also in Ohio?”
“Eric’s a graduate student at Ohio State, but he’s in Italy right now, doing research. Christine attends college in England.”