by Connie Berry
After he’d gone, I climbed into bed. Had Devlin really asked Tom to give me an update? I had only his word for that. What did I know about him anyway?
Chapter Twenty-One
After settling in for the night—for good this time, I hoped—I picked up the diary and began to read.
From mid-March to July of 1809, Flora’s household was awhirl with preparations for her journey to Glenroth, no simple matter in the eighteenth century. Friends and relatives descended on Hazelbank almost daily to bid Flora a fond farewell. Her father kept out of the way, pretending that his threats of the previous winter had been no more than fatherly concern. Her grandmother alternated between spurts of activity and bouts of depression:
Grandmother is forever calling for my presence, first clinging to me & weeping because I am to leave her & then scolding because I am not as unhappy as she. She says I will break her heart, but in truth I am longing to be away! Dear Gowyn will be my companion. She faces her future in the Hebrides with the courage of a martyr bound for the flames. I wonder what Capt. Arnott will think when I arrive like a merchant ship laden with treasure. He says I am dowry enough, but in that opinion he cannot be entirely truthful.
At last, on the first of August 1809, two months before her sixteenth birthday, Flora Young and Gowyn Campbell set sail from Greenock, Scotland, on the Venture, a three-masted cargo ship bound for Galtrigill on the Isle of Skye. In addition to Flora’s trousseau, the ship carried furniture, tools, whiskey, and molasses, plus eight additional passengers bound for the tweed mills on the Isle of Harris. With rough seas and many stops along the coast to load and unload cargo, the journey took fourteen days. Guthrie’s description was harrowing. All the passengers fell ill. The food, what Flora and Gowyn could keep down, was inedible. Sanitation was poor to nonexistent. I found myself skimming, eager for Flora’s reunion with James.
On the fourteenth of August, the rocky coast of Skye was sighted. On the fifteenth, the Venture docked at Galtrigill.
15th August
We have arriv’d! As our ship entered the harbour, I was giddy with anticipation. Gowyn & I searched the quay & at last we saw dearest James. He bowed, flourishing his hat in the most charming manner possible. He is handsome as ever, tho perhaps not quite so elegant. Gowyn remarked upon it & I was quick to remind her that we are no longer in society. James brought with him six men, four horse-drawn waggons, & a small curricle. We stayed two nights at Castle Dunvegan, a fearsome sight rising from the barren rock. The current Laird extended every courtesy & regaled us with tales of the visit by Dr. Johnson & Mr. Boswell during his father’s tenancy as Chief of the MacLeods. Gowyn vows she will rather die than set foot again on a ship of any description.
17th August
Yesterday we set forth much refreshed. Soon, however, we were overcome by the muggy climate & devilish biting insects. The curricle is open to the weather & the roads, no more than vague tracks marked out by sheep & cattle, shockingly rutted. We make slow progress as we are often requir’d to mend the wheels of the carts or carriage. Gowyn is mute with apprehension & I too am sensible that life in the Hebrides will be quite unlike the one I have resigned.
James is tanned by the wind & sun. He wears leather breeks & a sturdy waistcoat of tweed, eminently practical in this inhospitable climate. His men treat him with a deference that those who do not know his true character might mistake for fear. With one of the men he appears to be on terms of some intimacy. The man’s name is Joseph, a young negro of perhaps 17 or 18, I presume from the Indies.
The Capt. rides a fine horse & keeps near the curricle. Gowyn insists I guard my reputation, so I smile at him from behind my fan like a proper gentlewoman. I shall not take the liberty of calling him James until we are alone, if ever we are to be alone. Gowyn takes her role as chaperone quite to heart. I shall not be surprised if, after the wedding, she follows us into our bedchamber.
We rest for the night at Ullinish, at the inn where Dr. Johnson & Mr. Boswell stopped also. The fare was edible but the beds as rank as the stews in Glasgow. We spread our plaids over the straw & stopped our ears against the scuttling behind the skirt board. The Capt. raises our spirits with the promise of clean beds & a great feast.
18th August
To-day we boarded a barge with 8 oarsmen for the journey along Loch Harport to Drynoch. After our days in the curricle, Gowyn happily broke her vow. Our hearts soar’d, for the loch is very like the Clyde inlet near Greenock. Shall I admit to feeling a wee bitty homesick?
To-night we put in at Bualintur where we shall be met by our horses & waggons. Here we rest at Ian MacKinnon’s Tavern be-fore making the final journey to Glenroth. In four days’ time I shall bathe in a copper tub & sleep in a carved Mahogany bed. Never has the prospect seemed more welcome.
19th August, Evening, Ian MacKinnon’s Tavern
To-night an event of a most disturbing nature occurr’d. Gowyn & I were making ready for bed when we heard below us a fearful commotion. Believing some poor soul was injured or ill, I—being still in my gown—ran part way down the staircase & witness’d a violent altercation between Capt. Arnott & one of his men, a Highlander, judging from his speech. Altho taller than the Capt., this man receiv’d the worst of the blows. His nose gushed blood & one eye was swollen shut. The young negro, Joseph, pulled the Capt. away whilst several others dragged the poor man from the inn. The horror I felt cannot be described. I must have cried out, for the Capt. spied me as I fled to my chamber.
“What has happened, Miss?” Gowyn asked upon my return. “Nothing of importance,” said I. “Only there was a fight among the men.”
I did not tell her about James. Indeed I would not credit it myself had I not witnessed with my own eyes a side of his character so entirely altered from that which I have known. I wish to God I had not seen it.
To-night I shall not sleep.
20th August
Dear Mamma once said that a misty night leads to a clear day. The truth of this I have now experienc’d. As we were making ready to depart, James, comprehending a certain coldness in my address, took me aside & explain’d that what I had witnessed was not as it seemed. It was, in fact, a matter of honor, a matter, dear diary, involving my-self! The Highlander made an ungentlemanly remark & James was bound by honor & sentiment to defend my reputation. “These men are little more than savages,” said he, “unused to the presence of a lady.” At that moment his countenance was seized with some powerful emotion & he grasped my hand, saying, “My darling, you are a perfect angel. Soon I shall be the happiest of men.”
Am I not the happiest of women? To-morrow I shall see my new home!
I closed the book feeling uneasy, as Guthrie had no doubt intended I should. Perhaps the episode at Ian MacKinnon’s tavern was meant to foreshadow some revelation to come in the sequel. Had Guthrie’s research pointed to one of the captain’s own men as Flora’s killer—the Highlander perhaps? It wouldn’t do to ask him. Guthrie insisted he never talked about a work in progress.
How had the real Flora Arnott felt, leaving Hazelbank and everything familiar for what must have seemed a wilderness? Guthrie portrayed her as adventurous and brave. Was that entirely true?
I marked my place and closed the book. Grief and loneliness, always prowling at the edge of my consciousness, had crept in with my thoughts. At home in Jackson Falls, it would be almost six PM. I picked up my cell phone and dialed.
“Hello. This is Linea Larsen.”
“It’s me. Are you in the middle of dinner?”
“Dinner can wait.”
“What are you planning to do tonight?”
“I thought I’d watch To Catch a Thief on Netflix. I’ve always liked that one. Cary Grant reminds me of your father.”
I smiled. My father hadn’t looked anything like Cary Grant, but maybe it wasn’t looks they had in common.
“You called me for a reason,” she said, “What’s happened?”
I told her, taking my time and outlining everything I’d lea
rned.
“Will they charge Bo with murder?”
“If he’s found competent to stand trial, and if he continues to insist he hurt Elenor. Convenient for them.” I heard the bitterness in my voice.
“And if he isn’t found competent?”
“I don’t know. But he can’t—or won’t—defend himself.”
“Whom do you suspect?”
I groaned. “That’s the problem. I could make a case for any of them. The Holdens are hiding something, although I can’t imagine Nancy harming anyone. Then there’s Agnes MacLeod. She gave up everything, believing Elenor would make her a partner. Maybe she’d had enough of Elenor’s mistreatment. Or maybe the sale of the hotel pushed her over the edge. And I can’t stop thinking about Becca. But if Elenor really was her birth mother, wouldn’t she be showing some emotion?”
“How about someone outside the hotel?”
“Well, if the new owners tamper with the hotel’s Jacobite theme, the MacDonalds stand to lose money, but then so do most of the islanders. Besides, the hotel was already sold, so I don’t see what Elenor’s death would accomplish.”
“What about the fiancé? You said he didn’t seem thrilled at the prospect of marriage.”
“He didn’t, but if he killed her, the motive has to be more complicated than ending an engagement. Have you found anything on the casket yet?”
“Still looking. I’ll text you. By the way, what’s this English detective like?”
“Nice enough. Good-looking. I think he’s won a few hearts on the island.”
“Not yours.”
“Of course not, but he could be helpful. He’s working with the Scottish police. They’ve asked him to keep me informed.”
There was an eloquent silence. My mother was wondering if the police really did that sort of thing. I’d been wondering that too. “What about Elenor’s money?” she asked.
“I thought of that. Maybe Agnes was the beneficiary, and Elenor was going to change her will in favor of Hugh Guthrie. But it must have been the first thing the police checked. I’ll find out more when I meet with the solicitor.”
“There are more powerful motives than money, Kate.”
“Like what?”
“Like passion, pride, revenge. Even loyalty. You will be careful, won’t you? I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.”
I thought about those words as we said good night. In all the losses my mother had suffered in her life, I’d never heard her say I couldn’t bear it.
She was right about motives, though. Maybe a connection between Elenor and Flora Arnott was fantasy after all.
Two murders separated by two centuries? A long time to hold a grudge.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Monday, October 31
By Monday morning the news was all over the island.
Elenor Spurgeon had been shot through the neck with an arrow. Bo Duff had confessed to something (exactly what wasn’t clear) and was now in a mental clinic in Glenfinnan. And Elenor’s blood, when she died, had contained enough sedatives to render her defenseless if not actually unconscious. I learned this at eight fifteen when Nancy called and woke me up. Frank had been to Flora’s for yum yums, finding it rife with rumor and speculation.
The collective island consciousness was grasping the unthinkable: Elenor’s murderer had to be one of them. No more speculation about off-islanders and homicidal maniacs. Even Margaret Guthrie would have to give up her gang-of-thugs-from-Glasgow theory.
For once the sea was calm. The trees looked freshly washed.
Today was Halloween. My mother would have a ball, passing out the candy bars I’d left on the kitchen counter. I could hardly believe only two days had passed since we had learned of Elenor’s death. So much had happened.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and called the Munroe Clinic. The nice woman I’d spoken to earlier wasn’t on duty, and the person answering the phone refused to tell me anything, period. Frustrated, I called the funeral home Nancy had recommended and made an appointment to speak with the director the following morning. Finally I phoned Elenor’s solicitor in Inverness. He wasn’t in. Would I care to leave a message?
“My name is Kate Hamilton. I’m Elenor Spurgeon’s sister-in-law. I was hoping to see him today or tomorrow about her will.”
“Good heavens,” said a deeply shocked voice. “If Mrs. Spurgeon has given you permission to delve into her affairs, perhaps she would care to make the appointment herself.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” I said smoothly. “Mrs. Spurgeon is dead.”
Did I mention I can be snarky?
An intake of breath. “I wasn’t informed. Hold, please. I’ll need to check his appointment book.” I heard pages turning. “He has an opening tomorrow, twelve thirty.”
“Nothing today?”
“He’s in court until noon. After that he’s booked solid.” She gave me the address in Inverness. “Tomorrow, twelve thirty. Park in the lot across the street. We validate.”
After ending the call, I noticed a text my mother must have sent the previous evening. She may be in her seventies, but she knows her way around technology: CHECKING 18TH C SCOTTISH CABINETMAKERS. NEED CLOSE-UPS OF THE BANDING AND FEET. I pictured her bent over her laptop, a pencil in her teeth, having the time of her life. If she lived in Jackson Falls instead of Wisconsin, we could run the shop together. I’d asked her to move in with me several times, but she’d always refused. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” was the reason she gave, but I’d always suspected it had something to do with the charming widower she’d met, a retired physician.
At nine thirty I walked to the main house.
Sofia was snapping green beans. Nancy was clearing up from breakfast.
“I can’t understand it.” Lines of exhaustion pulled at Nancy’s face. “Why would Elenor overdose on sleeping pills? It must have been an accident.”
Sofia muttered something under her breath and snapped a bean.
Becca appeared in the doorway. She looked as tiny as Elenor in a fitted black leather jacket, black leggings, and a small cross-body handbag. Family resemblance? Her face wasn’t shaped like Elenor’s, though, and her dark hair was the opposite of Elenor’s white-blonde. Of course she might have taken after her father. Whoever he might be.
“Need anything from town?” Becca asked.
“No,” Nancy and Sofia said in unison.
Frank came through the back door. “Car’s running.”
“See you later?” Nancy reached out to touch him, but he pretended not to notice. Whatever stood between them remained unresolved.
Becca followed Frank out the door. Sofia disappeared into the dining room.
Nancy poured two mugs of coffee and carried them to the table by the hearth. “Come sit, Kate.” She pushed a plate of yum yums toward me, taking one of the sugary twists herself. “They’ve no reason to go into Fort William today, but it gives Becca a chance to meet Geoff for lunch. It can’t be fun for her, stuck out here with no one her own age.”
My thought exactly. “Someone from the hotel goes into Fort William every Monday?”
“Friday, too, if the house is full or we’re having a function.”
“Always Frank and Becca?” I selected one of the yum yums and took a bite. Amazing.
“Agnes usually goes along, but she isn’t up to it today.”
I chewed thoughtfully. That meant someone from the hotel—Becca, Frank, even Agnes—could have mailed those threatening letters, once a week, in Fort William.
Nancy stared at the pastry in her hand as if it had appeared there by magic. She put it back on the plate. “Did you know Geoff’s asked Becca to marry him?”
“She told me. Do you think she’ll say yes?” I polished off the last of my yum yum and washed it down with coffee.
“Hard to tell with that one.” Nancy added a splash of cream to her mug. “Becca reminds me of the pup Frank and I adopted from the shelter when we were first married. Poor wee beasti
e could never trust us. We found out later it had been mistreated.”
“Was Becca mistreated?”
“She’s hinted as much. I’ve wondered about that scar.”
I’d wondered about it too. “How was she orphaned?”
“Her mother gave her up at birth. Without even seeing her, I gather. Becca pretends it was for the best, but rejection and loss leave scars. The invisible ones go deep.”
I thought about my own invisible scars: losing my brother Matt, my hero, when I was five; losing my beloved father when I was in high school; losing Bill, the love of my life, the father of my children. Each of those losses had come like a sucker punch, without warning. I’d never thought of myself as emotionally disfigured.
“What will you do today, dearie?” Nancy blew across her coffee and took a test sip.
“I thought I’d have another look at Elenor’s flat. As executor, I’ll probably have to provide an inventory.” It took every ounce of personal discipline I had not to mention the casket. I’m not good at keeping secrets.
Nancy repositioned the tortoiseshell combs in her hair. “Well, come back later for a bite of lunch. I’m on my own today.”
I stopped in reception for the keys. The drawer wouldn’t close, so I rattled the contents and slammed it shut.
That brought a thud. Followed by the sound of running feet.
I raced toward the east wing, reminding myself that ghosts don’t run.
The door to Elenor’s flat swung on its hinges. No one in sight.
I ran for the door at the end of the hall, finding it firmly locked. I peered outside. No dark figure booking it toward the woods.
Someone had broken into Elenor’s flat—piece of cake, given the slapdash security at the hotel—but how had he managed to disappear into thin air? Other than pushing past me toward the front door (I would have noticed that, right?), the only exit was through the door at the end of the hallway. And that wasn’t possible because, like other doors at the inn, this one had a dead bolt. Whoever-it-was would have had to stop and lock the door from the outside with a key. Even if he or she had a key, there hadn’t been time. But that wasn’t the most important question.