A Dream of Death

by Connie Berry

In the end, however, Flora’s grandmother summoned the courage, if not to defy, at least to divert.

  1st March 1809

  Edinburgh

  Father at last has given up hope of Sir Charles, or rather Sir Charles has given me up as a hopeless cause. In any case, Grandmother pleaded with my Aunt Grantley for aid & I am now installed in her townhouse on Queen Street in Edinburgh. This good lady has the distinction of marrying off three daughters to gentlemen of fortune & breeding & is presently waging a campaign on behalf her youngest, Adeline, a sweet, compliant girl of seventeen.

  Last evening we attended the Assembly Rooms on George Street. Among those present was one who claims an acquaintance with Father. His name is Capt. James Arnott, lately returned from the Indies where his own good Father operates a sugar plantation. This I learn’d from Adeline, who says a vast fortune is entailed upon the Capt., but he is considered by some not quite respectable.

  Respectable or not, Capt. Arnott has the very good sense to be both rich & handsome & so made quite a stir among the young ladies who passionately wished him to quit the gambling tables & stand up with as many of them as possible.

  Lady Grantley arranged an introduction. I found him to be perfectly amiable. We danced two dances. I declined a third, reminding him that he was neglecting the other young ladies. ‘And why should I not,’ said he, ‘when you are the handsomest lady in the room?’ He then bowed, quite gallantly I thought, and said that while he did not seek society’s good opinion, he did seek mine & would obey my command. But what do you think? He did not dance after all & spent the rest of the evening standing near one of the chimney pieces, observing me with a look that made me blush.

  My Aunt seems inordinately pleased with herself.

  12th March 1809

  Hazelbank House

  I return’d to Lochweirren five days ago & found Father curiously silent about my prospects. You may imagine my surprise, dear diary, when a letter from Capt. Arnott arrived by post. Having completed his business in Edinburgh, he declar’d his intention to pay his respects to Father & to me. Shall I admit to being flatter’d?

  Yesterday he arrived. Father welcomed him with excessive courtesy & after offering refreshment, gave me leave to show him our garden. I thought this strange as I could offer him only crocus & snowdrops, but the Capt. seemed to take a great interest. As we walked, he told me about the islands where he spent his youth. Flowers there, said he, grow in wild abandon. The breezes are warm & scented with jasmine. Women wear colorful lengths of cloth & adorn their hair with orchids & hibiscus. He took his pen-knife & cut a lavender crocus, tucking it in my hair. I am certain I blushed.

  The Capt.’s connection with Father must stem from some business dealing, for this morning the two closeted themselves in Father’s study. To-night my theory was confirm’d when Capt. Arnott inform’d us that he intends to make his home permanently in the Indies.

  I am heartily ashamed of myself. Capt. Arnott has come to Hazelbank, not because of any special regard for me but to seek Father’s advice. The bitterness of my regret takes me quite by surprise.

  13th March 1809

  I am greatly perplexed. This morning, as the weather is crisp & fine, the Capt. begged me accompany him riding, declaring his wish to admire our lovely hills & woods. Gowyn came along as chaperone altho she is not over-fond of riding. We stopped to rest the horses along the riverbank & the Capt. told me tales of his youth in the Indies & of his mother’s death of fever when he was but a lad. I told him of my own dear mother’s death but a year ago. ‘Our sorrow is a bond betwixt us,’ said he, taking my hand in his & pressing it to his heart.

  This evening we were join’d by the Vicar & his wife. After supper the party withdrew to the music room where Capt. Arnott requested I play for him on the pianoforte. He chose ‘Fairwell to the Banks of Ayr’ by Mr. Robt Burns. I, knowing he is to leave Scotland for-ever, nearly wept.

  I am convinced his feelings for me are genuine, but fate is cruel & I must not allow myself to hope. In two days’ time he will be gone for-ever.

  14th March 1809

  All is changed! This morning the Capt. asked to speak with me in private. Grandmother sat by the fire with a shawl over her lap, but was soon snoring so loudly I wonder’d if the Capt. had slipped a dram of whiskey in her tea. He sat on the rosewood chair & bade me stand be-fore him that he might admire my gown. He made me turn round to show it off & remarked that I had grown quite womanly for one so young. He should not have taken the liberty—indeed he should not!—but I have forgiven him. He has not had the benefit of society.

  Grandmother stirred in her chair & he put a finger to his lips. Then he gave me what he called tokens of his esteem—a fine emerald ring that belong’d to his poor mother & a miniature of himself on ivory surrounded by seed pearls, lest I forget him. Dear diary, can you not guess the end of the tale? We are betrothed! The wedding is to take place on an island west of the Highlands where the Capt. has begun the renovation of a house fine enough, says he, for a queen. We shall make our home there, until we are granted the blessing of a child. Then, when the child is able to travel, the Capt. will take us to live in paradise!

  “You must give me a son, dearest one,” said he. “And if the child is a girl?” I asked, teasing him. But his expression turned dark & so I said, “We shall have a dozen sons if it pleases you. Or perhaps one daughter to keep me company.” Then he smiled again & all was well.

  To-night I showed his likeness to Gowyn. She says he looks like a pirate. I daresay he does, but a bonnie one. Capt. Arnott is the finest & handsomest gentleman I have ever known. I would follow him to the ends of the earth.

  The betrothal was sealed, Guthrie explained in a footnote, when James Arnott was thirty-four and Flora Young fifteen. I think that’s illegal today. Flora was clearly smitten, but what could have possessed her father to allow the engagement? He must have known he would never see his daughter again. Guthrie’s story disturbed me. Maybe it was Flora’s innocence, her naïve assumption that the new life she’d embraced would be an adventure, that marriage to a man she’d known for so short a time would be perfect. But then I—and all Guthrie’s readers—knew the dark thing that was coming.

  I marked my place and flipped off the lamp. Nothing I’d read so far shed any light on Flora’s murder. More to the point, nothing I’d read so far had any bearing on Elenor’s life or death. Had I missed something?

  Start with what you know, my mother always says. Well, nearly a full day after Elenor’s murder, I could say a few things with confidence.

  One. Elenor’s death wasn’t a random act of violence. It was personal.

  Two. According to Agnes, Elenor received a phone call at eleven thirty the night of the ball. She’d dressed and walked to the Historical Society. To meet someone?

  Three. The person Elenor met wore Mucky Ducks, size ten.

  Four. Elenor was alive, if not exactly well, at 12:48 AM. That’s why the twins hadn’t seen a body at twelve thirty. There wasn’t one yet.

  Five. Elenor said someone was coming to help. Who was it, and why hadn’t they arrived?

  Six. Her slurry voice. Was she drunk, or had she suffered one of those ministrokes? The autopsy would tell that, but even if she had, it was an arrow through the throat that killed her.

  Seven. She wanted me to keep something for her. She used the word hidden. Did she want me to hide something, or was it hidden already? If so, where? No answers there either, except that if Elenor had whatever-it-was with her when she died, her killer must have taken it.

  Eight. And here was the cobweb’s connection to Guthrie’s novel. Someone had been threatening Elenor, playing on her superstitions about Flora Arnott and her ghost. The obvious reason was to prevent the sale of the hotel, but who knew a sale was a possibility?

  Nine. The casket and the puzzling notation in Guthrie’s book. No one at the hotel had mentioned the casket, and I wasn’t allowed to bring it up.

  Ten. Only Elenor heard footsteps, and on
ly Elenor saw a ghost.

  I yawned. Eleven … was there an eleven? My brain was getting fuzzy.

  I’d almost drifted into sleep when the phone rang. I rolled over and reached for the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Detective Inspector Devlin here. I’ve sent a car to pick you up. We have Bo Duff at the police station in Mallaig. He’s asking for you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Frank Holden stood beside me in the lobby of the police station at Mallaig. He’d seen the police car arrive and, once he heard about Bo Duff, insisted on coming along. I was glad for his company.

  “We can’t get a thing out of him,” Devlin said. “He asked for you, Mrs. Hamilton.”

  Bo sat between two police constables in the waiting room, knees together, big feet splayed outward. His hair hung in lank strands around a face brindled with a growth of beard. He gave me a wobbly, heartbreaking smile, and I saw that the bridge of his nose was raw. A trickle of dried blood ran toward the corner of his mouth. One of his eyes appeared to be turning a greenish black. I felt sick. This was Bo, the gentle giant.

  I turned on Devlin, furious. “The police did this?”

  Devlin had perched himself on the corner of a gray metal desk. “The deputies found him hiding in his barn. When he saw them, he took off. That’s called resisting arrest. A serious offense. They had to subdue him.”

  “He needs medical attention.”

  “He got it. He’ll be fine.”

  Frank’s hands were clenched. I saw the muscle in his jaw working. “Does he need a solicitor? Is he under arrest?”

  “He’s not under arrest, but he needs to explain a few things. Like, why did he run when the constables came to take his statement? He can talk, can’t he?”

  “Of course he can talk,” Frank snarled. “And he’ll tell you the truth if you care to hear it.”

  Devlin ignored the jibe. “Wait here, Mr. Holden. No, I’m serious. We’ll let you know if you’re needed.” He turned to me. “This way, please. I’d like a moment.”

  He led me down a short hallway to a windowless cubicle with a tiled floor, a metal table, and four molded plastic chairs.

  I straightened my back and put on my best impression of my mother. The angrier she gets, the more dignified she sounds. “I’m putting Bo’s injuries aside for now, Detective Inspector, but I won’t forget them. You can’t think Bo had anything to do with Elenor’s death. It isn’t possible. I’ve never known anyone—anyone—with a kinder spirit. He wouldn’t harm a fly. And Mr. Holden is right. He won’t lie.”

  Devlin regarded me with something like pity. “Before we begin, you need to know a thing or two. Mr. Duff is paid to plow and grit the island roads. If he followed his regular route last night—and everyone we talked to says his route never varies—he would have passed the Historical Society around five AM. No way he could have missed the body. Get it? The question is, why didn’t he call for help?”

  My dignity faltered. I’d asked myself the same question. Was Bo protecting someone? I refused to consider the alternative. “I can’t answer that, but I’m sure Bo will tell you if you don’t frighten him.”

  Devlin bent over the metal table and fiddled with some kind of recording device. Then he stepped into the hallway and signaled to the PCs.

  Bo entered the interview room. His face screwed up. Afraid he might burst into tears, I adopted the super-calm tone I used when my children were overwrought. “The police have some questions, Bo. It’s all right to talk to them. I’ll stay with you.”

  He gave me a nod.

  Bo and I sat on one side of the table. Devlin and one of the constables sat on the other. The second constable positioned himself near the door. In case Bo decided to bolt again, I guessed.

  I took one of Bo’s big, rough hands in mine and held it.

  Devlin pushed a button on the audio recorder and stated the date, time, and names of those in the room. Then he began. “Now, Mr. Duff. Two constables went to your croft this afternoon. Why did you run?”

  He looked at me. “I was scared. Am I in big trouble?”

  “You’re not in trouble,” Devlin said evenly. I could see he was trying. “But we need to know what happened last night. Can you tell us?”

  Bo looked at the floor and began to rock.

  “For the record, Mr. Duff refuses to answer,” Devlin said into the recorder. Then he addressed Bo. “Well, then, why don’t I say what I think happened, and you tell me where I go wrong, all right? That will be helpful. You began plowing around four. Is that correct?”

  Bo gave him a tentative nod. “Aye.”

  “Everything was fine until you got to the Historical Society. You saw something. Can you tell me about it?”

  Bo stared at the table.

  “It’s all right, tell me,” I said, and released his hand so he could turn toward me.

  The corners of his mouth went down. “She was going to yell at me. She was going to say I’m useless again, and it wasn’t right because I was doing a good job. I always do a good job.”

  Devlin almost left his seat. “Are you saying Mrs. Spurgeon was alive?”

  Bo’s arms flew up as if fending off a blow. His face was pinched and white.

  “When was the last time you ate something?” I asked him.

  “Dunno.”

  “He needs a break.” I shot Devlin a pointed look. “You can’t expect Mr. Duff to answer questions without something in his stomach.”

  “Stopping the recording.” Devlin stated the time. Then he addressed the constable at the door, a young fellow with a thin neck. “What do we have?”

  “Tea, coffee, Horlicks,” said the constable.

  “Anything else?”

  “Dougie’s wife sent shortbread. Some left, I think.”

  “How about Horlicks and shortbread, Mr. Duff?” asked the constable.

  Bo brightened. “Is it over now? Can I go home?”

  “Not quite yet,” I said. “But you’ll feel better when you’ve had something to eat.”

  The deputy returned minutes later with a steaming Styrofoam cup and a chunk of shortbread liberally dusted with powdered sugar.

  Bo tested the liquid with his tongue. Satisfied, he crammed the shortbread in his mouth and drained the cup. He looked at me, his mouth rimmed with chocolate and powdered sugar. I fought the impulse to clean him up.

  Devlin was looking at Bo as if he were an exhibit in a freak show. I swallowed the lump in my throat. This couldn’t be happening.

  “All right, Mr. Duff. Let’s begin again.” Devlin pushed the button on the recorder. “I’m going to ask you an important question. We need your help here. We know you saw Mrs. Spurgeon’s body. No sense denying it.”

  Bo nodded his head warily. An icy hand clutched my heart.

  “Mr. Duff indicates agreement. And what did you do?”

  Bo was silent.

  “Mr. Duff.” Devlin’s voice had risen. “Tell us what you did.”

  Bo covered his face.

  “It’s all right,” I said. But was it? An alarm bell went off in my brain. “He needs a solicitor. Why doesn’t he have a solicitor?”

  “We offered—by the book. He declined. And we read him his rights.” Devlin crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Well, he wants a solicitor now.” I grabbed Bo’s arm. “Don’t say anything. Not one thing, do you hear me?”

  Too late. Bo stood, knocking the Styrofoam cup to the floor. His fists knotted at his sides. He took a deep breath, grimacing as he forced out the words.

  “I. Hurt. Her.”

  Then he opened his powdery, chocolate-rimmed mouth and began to wail.

  The cubicle erupted. I shrank back as both constables sprang forward, struggling to force Bo back into the chair.

  Frank Holden burst into the room, shaking off a policeman who was trying to restrain him. “What’s the bloody hell’s going on?”

  Bo’s wails were becoming rhythmic and atonal.

  I pushed my way into Devlin’s
face. “He’s going into shock. Can’t you see that?”

  Devlin stuck his head outside the door and barked, “Call the doc—now. Then Legal Aid. Leave a message. Mark it urgent.”

  “You cannae mean to keep him,” Frank said, visibly astonished as one of the constables fastened a set of plastic handcuff ties on Bo. “Let me take him home. I’ll stay with him. I’ll bring him back first thing in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry.” Devlin looked like he meant it. “I can’t risk it.”

  Frank lifted his hands. “What do you suppose he did? Ran her over with the plow? Beat her with the snow shovel? You cannae be serious.”

  Devlin answered in that soft voice that always gets attention. “Someone shot an arrow through Mrs. Spurgeon’s neck.”

  Frank’s face turned the color of putty.

  The constables led Bo away.

  “Are you charging him?” I demanded. “With what—murder?”

  “We’re holding him tonight,” Devlin said, “until the doc’s seen him and we hear from Legal Aid. Check back in the morning.”

  “He’s not fit,” Frank said. “You can see that.”

  “The doc will make that call. He’ll be treated properly.”

  Frank pushed a finger into Devlin’s chest. “You shouldn’t have questioned him. I shouldn’t have allowed it.”

  “Whoa. Calm down.” Devlin took a step back. “Neither of you has the facts. Mrs. Spurgeon’s body was buried under a mound of snow. Now who do you think did that? The same person who shoveled the walks, perhaps?”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. I swallowed hard. “But Elenor was dead long before Bo started plowing. You said so yourself.”

  “How do we know he didn’t kill her earlier and return later to hide the body? I think that’s exactly what someone like Mr. Duff would do. You heard him. He said he hurt her.”

  “That wasn’t a confession.” I steadied myself against the table. “He’s in shock. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  A woman in a black skirt and a white blouse with epaulets tapped on the open door. She held a leather jacket in one hand and a slip of paper in the other.