by Connie Berry
What was this person doing in Elenor’s flat in the first place?
As soon as I walked through the door, the answer became obvious. The contents of the cardboard box lay scattered on the floor. I dashed into the bathroom, my heart pounding like a silversmith’s hammer.
As I feared, the casket was gone.
* * *
“I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.”
I stood in the reception hall with Nancy and DI Devlin. “I heard Elenor’s door slam—at least I think it was her door—and then footsteps running. I didn’t actually see anyone.”
“You say the person just disappeared?” Dark circles under Devlin’s eyes told me he hadn’t been getting his full eight hours of beauty sleep.
“In a puff of smoke, for all I know.”
Nancy shivered and wrapped her arms around her body.
“Were you aware Mrs. Spurgeon had a valuable chest in her flat?” Devlin asked her.
It’s not a chest; it’s a casket. Saying stuff like that out loud is about as popular as correcting people’s grammar.
“I didn’t know.” Nancy’s voice quavered. She clasped her hands, flexing and unflexing her fingers. “Elenor was keen on privacy. Only Agnes and Sofia were allowed in her flat.”
“Excuse me,” I said in small voice. “I think I saw someone in the hallway yesterday, too.”
Devlin pressed his fingers to his forehead as if I were purposely giving him a headache. “Would you care to tell me about it?” Exaggerated patience.
“I got here around ten. Becca was at her desk. The MacDonalds came to offer their condolences, but they left pretty quickly. Penny Arnott came shortly after that. She said Elenor had something that belonged to her. A box of kitchenware, I think. But Penny didn’t get inside the flat. After she left, I thought I saw a shadow behind me, but no one was there.”
He scribbled something in his little black notebook. I pictured him writing Completely loopy. Hallucinating.
He snapped the notebook shut. “When was the last time you actually saw the casket?”
“After Penny left. I went in to take photographs.”
At that moment, Tom came through the front door and shook off his jacket. “I reached Frank on his mobile. He and Becca will be back soon.”
Nancy took a breath and blew it out.
Just then Agnes came limping down the staircase. “Sorry,” she said. “Had to throw on some clothes. What’s wrong?”
“A valuable antique is missing from Mrs. Spurgeon’s flat,” Devlin said. “A small chest with inlaid designs.”
Agnes’s eyes flicked. “Well, I never saw it.”
Devlin made another note in his black notebook. “How would someone leave the east wing without going through reception or the door at the end of the hallway?”
“They couldn’t,” Agnes said. “There isn’t another way.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
Devlin looked at me. “And you’re positive the intruder didn’t get past you and run out the front door. Or up the staircase.”
“I would have noticed.”
Agnes glared at Devlin. “I hope you’re not accusing me of stealing the antique.”
“I’m not accusing anyone,” Devlin said. “We’ll notify local dealers and pawn shops, but we’ll have to search the house.”
“You won’t find the thing in my flat.” Agnes shot him a defiant look and hobbled off.
Why was she being so defensive? And why was she limping?
Devlin slid the notebook into his breast pocket and snatched up his jacket.
He was about to leave when Frank and Becca burst through from the kitchen.
Frank took Nancy’s hand. “Tom said there’s been another theft.”
“I must go.” Devlin shrugged into his jacket. “Mrs. Hamilton will explain.”
There wasn’t much to tell. When I got to the part about the intruder vanishing, Frank put his arm around Nancy’s shoulder. “Come on, Nancy. Let’s go home.”
They left holding hands.
Becca pulled her handbag strap over her head and peeled off her jacket. “This disappearing ghost thing is going to frighten Nancy.”
“I never said there was a ghost,” I protested. This was how stories got started.
“They must have been good parents, Frank and Nancy. I envy their daughter.”
Just the subject I wanted to talk about. “It must have been hard, not knowing your parents. Do you have any information at all?”
I followed her into the kitchen. Becca opened a ceramic jar on the counter and pulled out one of Nancy’s homemade biscuits. “Want one?”
I shook my head.
She took a bite and chewed for a moment. “My mother was very young, still in school. That’s all I know.”
That didn’t sound like Elenor. According to Agnes, Elenor would have been in her twenties when the pregnancy occurred. “Do you have a name? A place?”
“The names are sealed. I was born in Ayr. Taken from the hospital to an emergency care home, then to a children’s home run by the church. Later I was fostered.”
“Good foster homes?”
“Not the last one. The social worker had me in counseling, not that it helped. You turn the page and go on, don’t you.” She took another bite of biscuit. “I’ve never told anyone that before, except Geoff. We talked about it the night of the ball, the night he proposed.”
I tried to appear nonchalant. “Did you and Geoff stay on the island the night of the ball? I heard the ferry stopped at eleven.” Subtle as a brick through a window.
“Maybe you’d like to read my police statement.” Becca’s eyebrow arched. “I think I agree with Tom. You should leave interrogation to the police.”
“I’m sorry, Becca. None of my business.”
“No, it isn’t.” She gave a halfhearted shrug. “But I’ll tell you anyway. Neither Geoff nor I had any reason to harm Elenor, if that’s what you’re getting at. We left the island at nine thirty and stopped for coffee at the pub near the ferry terminal in Mallaig. Not the most romantic setting for a proposal, but Geoff said he couldn’t wait. One of his neighbors saw us on the steps to his flat around eleven. The police confirmed it.” She retucked her hair behind her left ear. “We couldn’t have made it back to the island if we’d tried.”
I apologized again. Even Penny Arnott would have handled that conversation with more tact. But at least I knew the truth: Becca wasn’t Elenor’s daughter, and she couldn’t be her killer.
One suspect eliminated. I supposed that was progress.
Outside, the air was crisp and autumnal. The pines cast long shadows on the path. I found my notebook and reread the questions I’d written out Saturday night.
Who knew the casket was in Elenor’s flat? No one, as far as I could tell.
Did Agnes hear footsteps in the night? Agnes wouldn’t hear a fire alarm in a library.
What caused Elenor’s mood to change on Wednesday? No clue.
Is Nancy hiding something? Probably, but no idea what.
Why did Elenor go to the Historical Society, and whom did she meet there? Dr. Guthrie might have an idea about that. I hadn’t had a chance to ask him on Sunday, nor had I asked him about The Hebridean Chronicle.
He’d offered to show me around the Historical Society.
Then again, after my fiasco of a visit to his house, he might shoot me on sight.
Chapter Twenty-Three
With nothing else planned, I decided to risk a visit to the Historical Society. I might learn something helpful. If Guthrie let me in. The good news was he didn’t know I’d found sleeping pills in his desk—or letters from his publisher indicating the draft of the second book was overdue. The bad news was his mother had caught me snooping and had probably told him I was a devious and prying person.
No comment.
Once again, Agnes was hovering at the end of the drive near the letter box. I waved. What was that woman’s f
ascination with the mail delivery?
Since the weather was clearing, I decided to walk to the Historical Society via the forest path, a shortcut that curved through the woods before joining the main road west of the stone bridge—the route, according to Becca, Elenor would have taken the night of the ball.
Walking quickly, I reached the Historical Society in less than twenty minutes. The crime scene tape was gone. The door stood open. Dora MacDonald was wiping down the frame with paper towels and a spray bottle of blue liquid.
“Hello, Kate.” She set down the spray bottle and wiped her hands on the front of her thick corduroy jumpsuit. “Jackie and I are truly sorry about Elenor. We weren’t friends—I must be honest—but we’ve known the Hamiltons all our lives. Jackie and Elenor went out in high school. I had quite a crush on Bill at one time.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, dear. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“I’m not offended.” I smiled. “I didn’t meet Bill till he was in his thirties. I knew he’d had girlfriends.”
Dora relaxed. “Anyway, Jackie came along, and that was that. Everything works out for the best.”
The statement, innocently spoken, felt like a punch in the gut. Bill and I were supposed to travel, have grandchildren, grow old together in our lovely house in Jackson Falls. “Is Dr. Guthrie here?”
“He’s in the office. I said he shouldn’t come in today, but you know men.” She winked.
I did know men. That was the problem. My story about the dovetail joins had been terminally lame. Hugh Guthrie probably wouldn’t shoot me, but he might throw me out.
A bell sounded as I stepped on the mat inside the door.
Guthrie’s arm was inserted up to the elbow in an enormous rolltop desk. He whipped it out, looking as guilty as a teenager caught fiddling with a pop machine.
“Is this a good time to have a look around?”
“Of course. I need a break anyway.” He straightened his back and winced. “Cleanup will take some time. Fingerprint powder is everywhere.”
“I see that.”
“I’m sorry about yesterday.” He took a ragged breath. “Mother.”
“Yeah, me too.”
We let it drop. Nothing like a common enemy to seal an alliance.
The Historical Society occupied a large square room with a high ceiling covered in pressed tin. Oak bookshelves lined three walls. The fusty smell of paper and old leather mingled with a hint of glass cleaner.
“A charming setting,” I said.
“Yes, it’s perfect.” He came out from behind the counter. “The main structure was built in the mid-1860s and used as a primary school until 1932, when a larger, more modern facility was constructed in the village. After 1932, the building was used as a petrol station until 1954, when it was purchased by Dr. Walter Arnott and donated to the newly formed Glenroth Historical Society.”
The canned speech flowed easily. Either Hugh Guthrie had adjusted to the death of his fiancée with breathtaking rapidity, or the difference I saw in him today had more to do with his environment than his state of mind. No mommy around to cramp his style.
I followed him toward a large platform on legs.
“What you see is a three-dimensional map of the island as it existed in 1849.”
The contour map simulated the island’s geography. A narrow blue gash—Burn o’Ruadh—ran crossways from the center of the island to Cuillin Sound, where a tiny boat bobbed in a blue acrylic sea. On the north shore, toward Skye, tiny stacks of fake peat indicated the blanket bogs. A key gave the compass points and identified the major buildings. Glenroth House resembled several Monopoly hotels glued together. Neither the Lodge nor the cottages had existed in 1849, but the Coach House and a building labeled SUMMER KITCHEN (now a storage building) were represented by their own blocks. A rectangular block behind Glenroth House was labeled KIRK. Bill had shown me the foundations of an old stone chapel, incorporated now into the formal gardens. Next to the kirk, a space defined by dotted lines was labeled OLD GRAVEYARD. Bill hadn’t mentioned that. That was probably where Flora and her unborn child were buried, close to home.
“I understand your library has a section devoted to island history,” I said.
“We’ve been collecting resources for a number of years.”
“I’ve always wondered about the island legend—that Bonnie Prince Charlie spent his final night at Glenroth House before sailing back to France. Don’t some history books say he spent that last night in a cave on the Isle of Skye?”
“Elgol,” Guthrie said. “But that was his last night on Skye. Historians claim he spent his last night in Scotland in a cave south of Arisaig on the mainland. I believe that’s true, but if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.” He huffed a laugh. “Local legend insists Charlie had planned to spend that last night at Arisaig, but the Duke of Cumberland got wind of it, so he and his men crossed the Sound in a small boat and made their way to Glenroth House.”
“Owned at the time by the MacDonalds.”
“According to the story, the laird took him in, fed him, and let him sleep in the finest bedroom. At dawn, Charlie and his fellow fugitives made their way to Loch Nan Uamh on the Isle of Skye, where they met the French frigate L’Heureux.”
“Does your library contain accounts of his stay in the islands?”
“We have a copy of Dr. Johnson’s Journey to the Western Islands. He and Boswell interviewed Flora MacDonald. Most of our books belonged to the Arnotts, donated to the museum when the house was sold to your husband’s family. Half the volumes are scientific in nature. Not especially valuable today except as curiosities.”
Several thousand books, I estimated, were shelved there, most marked on the spine with a series of numbers in white ink. “Does your collection include old newspapers?”
“No. Newspapers need specialized care, which we can’t provide. Are you interested in historical journalism?”
“Actually,” I said, pushing the envelope, “I wondered if you had consulted any contemporary accounts of Flora Arnott’s death as part of your research for the book.”
“None exist as far as I know.” He looked like he was telling the truth.
We walked toward a set of double doors, leading to the modern board-and-batten extension I’d seen the day before.
“The Annex houses the museum. Behind that is the Collections Depot. Fancy name for a storage shed with a garage door.”
“Something happened at the hotel today,” I said as we crossed into the museum. “Someone broke into Elenor’s flat. A valuable antique is missing.” I watched his reaction.
“I heard.” He frowned. “Detective Inspector Devlin asked me if I knew anything about a small marquetry casket.”
“Had Elenor told you about it?”
He blinked and rubbed the side of his nose. “I believe she did mention it.”
“Did she say where she found it?”
“No.” He wiped his mouth.
The sound of breaking glass came from the Collection Depot.
Guthrie rolled his eyes. “What’s she done now?”
I followed him toward the sound.
Penny Arnott stood over the shattered remains of a glass vase. “You again,” she said, seeing me. She stepped away from the glass shards.
“Hello, Penny.” I decided not to be offended—you make allowances for loonies, don’t you?—and turned my attention to the museum. No wonder Agnes had called it a flea market. The place was stuffed with items of every description, displayed, as far as I could tell, in no order whatsoever. Suspended from the ceiling was a huge sign that read FILLING UP? ASK FOR ESSO.
“The Esso sign dates from the forties,” Guthrie said, “when the building was a petrol station and garage. We acquired most of the old automotive tools as well. And this”—he indicated a full-size wooden statue of what was obviously meant to be Bonnie Prince Charlie in all his tartan finery—“stood for a century outside the apothecary in the village.”
“He’s wonderful.�
�� I ran my hand over the polychrome surface. The image was cartoonish, but I recognized the source—the romanticized portrait by John Pettie, depicting the Young Pretender emerging from the shadows at Holyrood to set up his court. “You should have him appraised by someone specializing in folk art. He’s solid, hand carved out of a tree trunk. See? You can see a bit of the bark on the base.”
“We need to stabilize him with ceiling wires,” Dora MacDonald said. “Kiddies are tempted to climb.” She began sweeping up the remains of the vase with a broom and dustpan.
Glass display cases on legs filled the center of the room. Atop one, featuring a collection of antique patent medicines, lay an abandoned feather duster.
“You were meant to be dusting,” Hugh said to Penny.
“I was.” Penny grabbed the duster. “Thought I better check the donations. Police might have damaged something, the fools.”
“Looks like you’re the one in danger of damaging things.”
Penny shot him an evil look and attacked an ancient sewing machine with the duster.
One of the glass cases held a collection of vintage pocket watches, none especially old or valuable. I leaned over the case to inspect them.
“Careful,” Dora said. “That one’s got a wonky leg. The one nearest you, on the right.”
“As you can see,” Hugh said, “our displays are in poor condition, and the collection isn’t well organized. Our goal is to pare it down, putting the most important items on display and either storing or disposing of the rest. We’re making an inventory. Jackie MacDonald is putting it all on the computer so we’ll have a database to work with in the future.” Hugh pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “Of course, there’s little of real value here.”
Penny tsked. Loudly.
Hugh sighed. “Our collection has great historical value in regard to the settlement of the island, certainly, but except for Charlie and a few first editions, the only items of monetary value are the weapons.”
Several of the glass cases featured weaponry. In one, flint and bone arrowheads had been mounted on black velvet. Another contained a collection of knives, swords, and claymores—the traditional two-handed Highland sword. The weapons were old but, like most of the items on display, in poor condition. In the center of the case, however, I saw something special—a fine, narrow-bladed dagger, highly embellished. The label read CEREMONIAL HIGHLAND DIRK. CA. 1800. The blade was beveled, about eight inches long and chased with a scroll-like design. The grip was made to resemble a Scottish thistle, carved in an interwoven basket design, adorned with silver brads, and topped with a large faceted cairngorm, the golden gemstone prized by the Scots.