by Connie Berry
Flora set foot on the Isle of Glenroth, according to Guthrie, on the twentieth of August, nineteen days after she and Gowyn had watched the harbor at Greenock recede into the mist. Once they reached the island, it took a full day to travel from the peat bogs on the north to the southern tip of the island and Glenroth House. Flora was filled with praise for the house and the beauty of the lake and woods. Even Gowyn seemed more cheerful, now that the long and difficult journey was over.
With no full-time clergyman on Glenroth, a traveling minister from Inverness was prevailed upon to perform the wedding ceremony. As his circuit schedule did not permit a visit to the island for another ten days, Flora and Gowyn were settled into temporary quarters in the east wing. Agnes’s flat?
The early autumn weather was glorious, breezy, and fair. Flora and Gowyn spent their first days on the island unpacking, exploring the estate, and getting to know the captain’s servants. Besides Joseph and the men—most of whom worked in the fields or with the livestock—there were a coachman, a groom, and a stable boy. The household was managed by a married couple, the Frasers from Aberdeen, who had been with Captain Arnott in the Indies. They supervised two housemaids, a scullery maid, and a boy called “Wee Ian,” whose job it was to light fires, kill rodents, and black boots.
Mrs. Fraser was a sturdy woman, reserved, a wonderful cook. Mr. Fraser was the typical dour Scotsman, his vocabulary limited to “Aye” or “Nae” with an occasional grunt indicating something in between—or more commonly, as Flora put it, disgust. If they ever made that movie out of Guthrie’s book, Frank and Nancy could play the parts to perfection.
Most interesting to me was the reference to Bonnie Prince Charlie.
24th August, Isle of Glenroth
The clansmen remaining on Glenroth, those who have not emigrated to the New World, scratch a living from the sea & the rocky soil. They remain faithful to the Stuarts & revere this house where, they say, the Young Pretender spent his final night in the Hebrides. This morning I found a bunch of wild flowers on the steps. Mrs. Fraser says this is a frequent occurrence, to honor the one they consider their rightful king. Some of the locals, she says, resent the Capt. as he is not a clansman. This is quite unfair as he has done much to raise their lot.
As August turned to September and the wedding day drew near, Flora’s optimism was tested.
1st September, Glenroth House
I am being watched. This, I assure you, dear diary, is no girlish fancy. When I enter a room, conversation ceases. If I go to the yard with apples for the horses, the eyes of the stable hands follow me. The Capt. is as ever, attentive, kind, solicitous for my well-being, but the atmosphere amongst his servants is strained & I cannot make out the cause. Gowyn does not see this & so I say nothing for fear of planting troublesome thoughts in her head. But with you, dear diary, I must tell the truth.
I perceive nothing amiss in the girls Susan & Janet. They are too busy making love to the young Highlanders who have come to help with the harvest. The Frasers are scrupulously civil but regard me with a reticence I find puzzling. Mr. Fraser rarely addresses me & when he must, he averts his eyes. Often I catch Mrs. Fraser observing me in secret. Perhaps she thinks me too young & inexperienced to be mistress of a great house. Or she is concerned for her authority once James & I are married.
There is one other I must mention, the young negro Joseph. At times he appears as if he would speak but does not. He may desire no more than to wish me joy but fears I will not welcome it. I would confide in James, but casting suspicion without cause is unjust. Perhaps I am imagining this after all.
2nd September
I am greatly perplexed & much distress’d. To-night I found an envelope on the table in my chamber. I open’d it and read this: ‘Ask him about his wife.’ There was no signature. Can the author of this letter mean James?
I turned the page, my heart in my throat, when I heard a sound, so indistinct I wondered if I’d imagined it. I sat up in bed, narrowing my eyes to focus on the darkness beyond the circle of lamplight. A small white patch on the floor near the front door appeared to shimmer and float.
Someone had pushed something under my door. Was this a prank? Could someone have guessed I’d be reading about Flora’s anonymous letter and thought it would be funny to spook me?
I flipped off the light and crept out of bed. Snatching the square of paper by an edge, I carried it into the windowless bathroom, where I shut the door, turned on the lights, and stared at the carefully formed block letters.
DESTROY IT NOW OR ELSE.
Or else what? It sounded like a playground taunt. Now that I thought about it, all the threats had sounded childish, as if written by someone playing the part of a villain. One thing was clear: this note was intended for me. But what was I supposed to destroy?
I switched off the bathroom light and made my way in the dark to the nightstand where I’d left my cell phone.
Childish threat or not, my fingers trembled as I punched in Tom’s cell number.
Voicemail. I didn’t leave a message.
I scrolled through my calls and found DI Devlin’s number.
* * *
“You didn’t see anyone?” Devlin sounded sleepy. I’d probably woken him up.
“No,” I whispered, feeling my way around the fireplace. “The thing is, I don’t have anything to destroy.”
“Are you certain of that?”
I thought for a moment. “Elenor mentioned something she wanted me to keep for her. Remember? In that phone message. The note writer might think I have it, but I don’t.”
“Is the cottage locked? Curtains drawn?”
“I just checked.” I climbed into bed and drew up the duvet. “Do you think it could mean the casket? Am I supposed to destroy the casket?” I was still whispering.
“If so, the writer doesn’t know it’s been stolen. Are you feeling safe? I could drive out there. Where’s Tom?”
“I tried to call him. He didn’t answer. Look, the note was meant to deliver a message. I got the message. There’s nothing you can do tonight.”
“You sure? I can be there in forty minutes. If the ferry’s running.”
“No need. I’ll drop the note off tomorrow at the police station in Mallaig.”
“We’ll have it analyzed. And while we’re on the subject of notes, we learned today that the note you received at the ball and the threat letters sent to Mrs. Spurgeon were written by different people. Something about the slant of the printing and the number of strokes on the capital E.”
“Two people on the island are sending anonymous threats? That’s weird.”
“Yes, it is. We also learned Mrs. Spurgeon had a safe deposit box in Inverness. She signed in on the afternoon of October twelfth and then again, for the last time, on the morning of the nineteenth. The box is empty. The clerk remembers her leaving with a small tote bag.”
Wednesday again, the day Elenor had phoned me in a panic. “So the notation in Guthrie’s book had nothing to do with the safe deposit box.”
“No, but there’s more. A boat captain fished something out of the sea this afternoon. Ready for this? A Mucky Duck, size ten. We found its mate near the first pier, weighted down with a rock.”
I’d predicted that but refrained from saying so. I could hear his delight. Rubber wellies were hard evidence, not insubstantial things like theories and impressions.
I heard a muffled yawn. “I’ll try to reach Tom,” he said. “Tell him to have a look around, make sure no one’s lurking.”
“Any news on the casket?”
“No, and I’m not holding my breath. Try to get some sleep now.”
Good advice, I thought as we disconnected. Until I remembered what I’d just read: Ask him about his wife. Man, talk about a cliffhanger. The wedding would take place in four days.
I switched on the bedside lamp and grabbed Guthrie’s book again.
Tomorrow I will find James & ask him what this means. Regardless of the outcome, he deserves an opportunity to explain.
3rd September
I awoke early & dressed as usual, concealing the note in my reticule. ‘Where is the Capt. this fine morning?’ I asked Mrs. Fraser, feigning cheerfulness.
‘In his study, I believe, miss,’ said she.
I walked quickly, my heart pounding, & knocked on the door. ‘Capt., may I enter?’
‘Of course, dearest,’ said he.
A fire blazed in the hearth. He was writing a letter. Without speaking a word I lay the note be-fore him & watched his face turn pale as death, confirming my fears. He stood abruptly, overturning his chair. ‘The devil take it’ he roared, ripping the paper to shreds & casting the pieces on the fire.
‘So it is true,’ I said coldly. ‘Where is this wife you have concealed from me?’
Oh!—the look on his face I cannot describe. ‘She is dead, dearest one. Now come & sit by my side. I shall tell you everything.’
This is the tragic tale: When James was twenty-five, his father sent him from the Indies to Scotland for a bride. There he met & married a distant cousin, Cecily. Twice she was found to be with child but brought to bed early & deliver’d of a stillborn son. Hoping to restore her health, James determined to carry her to the islands, but on the voyage she fell overboard, whether by mishap or design he never knew.
‘I thought to spare you this sadness, my dear,’ said he wretchedly. “I should rather have trusted your strength & sense. Can you forgive me?’
‘With all my heart,’ I said, drawing him to my breast. ‘We shall never speak of it again unless it is your express wish.’
‘You know me perfectly, my love. Now there is nothing betwixt us. And when we have our own son, I shall take you both to the Indies.”
I rejoice, dear diary, knowing I will bring him happiness & if I can give him the son he desires, my joy will be complete. My former complaints now appear foolish and soon mended. I am certain all those in the Capt.’s employ will accept me, even (dare I hope?) love me as I shall endeavor to love them. My handwriting is very ill for I have come to the end of this book. This strikes me as fortuitous, for when next I write, it shall be in a new volume & I shall be the new Mrs. James Arnott.
I’d come to the last page of the book and the final implied question: who in Captain Arnott’s household hated him enough to murder his pregnant wife?
If Guthrie didn’t finish that sequel soon, his readers might storm the publisher.
The wind was picking up. From a distance came another low rumble of thunder. It might rain after all. I switched off the lamp and settled into the downy pillow. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the mantel.
Flora’s life had ended at the tender age of sixteen. The child she carried never took breath, never felt the warmth of the sun or heard the tenderness of his mother’s lullaby. Silly as it was, I felt a pang of sorrow for this girl I never knew. And an equally pointless impulse to warn her: Watch your step. Trust no one.
Two hundred years too late.
Who killed Flora Arnott? One of the local clansmen? Joseph, the ex-slave who fled that night? The Frasers? The writer of the note found in her chamber? Flora’s murder was never solved. Had Guthrie discovered new facts about an old crime, and was that what Elenor had meant by a big surprise?
The thought tiptoed in so quietly I almost missed it. Elenor had tucked the original accounts of Flora’s death in Guthrie’s novel. She wanted me to read them before she told me her story. Could it have been Elenor, not Guthrie, who discovered the identity of Flora’s murderer? Is that why she wanted my advice?
Is that why she was killed?
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tuesday, November 1
During the night, a line of storms passed over the island, clearing the air and bringing the suggestion of Indian summer—Scotland’s equivalent of it, anyway. The islanders were used to the changeable weather. “Winter one day, summer the next,” Nancy had told me.
At six, when I’d woken, I’d had the sense something was missing. Then I’d realized. No wind.
Now, sunlight, the first real sunlight I’d seen since arriving on the Isle of Glenroth, spilled through the French doors and pooled on the kitchen’s wide-planked floor. I dropped my handbag and jacket on the table in Applegarth’s kitchen, ready for the trip into Inverness with Tom.
My early-morning conversation with the funeral director had been less painful than I’d anticipated. Elenor would be buried in the old cemetery, not far from where she died. He’d suggested a simple oak coffin and I’d agreed, although I felt sure Elenor would have opted for the “Regal Bronze” top-of-the-line model.
With no time for breakfast, I grabbed a quick cup of coffee and thought about the idea I’d had the night before, that a long-forgotten injustice could reach out from the grave to take a life today. I supposed Flora’s death could have current legal implications, like the loss of property rights or inheritance issues. That seemed far-fetched, but then I knew nothing about Scottish law. I did know there were other families on the island—not only the Guthries and Arnotts—who could trace their lineage back to those fifteen settlers who arrived in 1809. And then there was Jackie MacDonald, whose clansmen had felt cheated out of their sacred family seat. How would the sale of the inn affect them?
According to the handwriting experts, Glenroth boasted not one but two anonymous note writers. That suggested two separate motives. I pondered the latest note again: DESTROY IT NOW OR ELSE. Did someone believe Elenor had given me proof of some ancient injustice that, if revealed, would spell disaster for them today? Without evidence, or even a place to look for evidence, I wasn’t about to share my theory with Tom or DI Devlin. They’d say I’d gone off the deep end.
Maybe I had.
The note lay on the kitchen counter. I folded it and tucked it in the outside pocket of my handbag next to the baggie of purple wool. I was assembling a little evidence locker of my own.
After changing into black skinny jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt, I checked my cell phone for messages. Still no word from Christine. I keyed in her number and texted WHAT’S GOING ON? PLEASE CALL. But instead of pushing send, I erased the message and wrote another. CALL SOON. NEWS HERE TOO.
Now that might get a response. Christine can’t abide a mystery any more than I can.
Grabbing my handbag and denim jacket, I set off for the hotel. It was almost seven fifteen.
Tom had been right about the weather. The early-morning air was crisp, but the sky was a cut-glass blue and the sea that color of turquoise Bill had always talked about. The gravel path sparkled in the bright sun. I felt a curious mixture of anticipation and apprehension. Among the bare trees along the path, a single beech clung stubbornly to its coppery leaves. A breeze set them fluttering and a few lost their grip, windmilling to the ground. Is that what I’d become—a dormant tree, clinging to the dead leaves of a past season? Bill and I had never talked about the fact that one of us would die first. We’d never spoken about death at all, and we’d definitely never spoken about remarriage.
Reality check. Tom Mallory would return to England in a few days, and I’d return to Ohio. End of story. The outing was no more than a much-needed break from murder suspects and threatening notes. I should seize the day, or at least enjoy it while it lasted.
A small red van with a sign saying ROYAL MAIL circled toward the post box. A hand removed something and replaced it with a thick packet. The driver angled his head out the window. “Early delivery today. Dan’s got the flu.” He’d taken me for an employee.
As he drove off, I heard a voice behind me, calling my name.
“Kate?” Agnes stood on the back porch in her blue working smock. Her mouth turned down. “Postie’s here already?”
“I’ll get it,” I called, but she’d already darted into the kitchen.
The mail packet was bound by a heavy rubber band. On top was a plain white envelope addressed in block letters to Elenor Spurgeon. Someone would have to explain that she—
Block lette
rs? I stopped walking. A fourth threat? I checked the postmark. Like the others, the envelope had been mailed in Fort William. But not on a Monday this time. This letter had been posted on Friday, the day of the Tartan Ball.
Using only my fingernails, I pulled the envelope free and dropped it in my handbag.
A moment later Agnes came rushing out of the house, buttoning up her cardigan. She met me at the foot of the porch steps. “I’ll take that.” She snatched the mail packet, pulled off the rubber band, and sorted through the stack once, then again more slowly. “This is the lot?” Her forehead wrinkled. “Are you certain there’s nothing left in the box?”
“Nothing.” I wasn’t lying. The letter was in my handbag.
“I’ll just have a wee look.” Agnes stumped down the drive.
The truth hit me like a slap in the face. Agnes knew a fourth threat letter was coming. That’s why she’d been hovering over the letter box since Saturday.
I felt for the baggie of purple wool in the outside pocket of my handbag. This time I’d make Devlin listen to me.
A rich, yeasty aroma met me as I opened the back door.
“Morning, Kate.” Nancy was alone, rolling out pastry. Her hands were covered with flour. “Did you get things arranged with the funeral director?”
“What? Oh, yes.”
“You’re getting an early start. What’s on tap for today?” She brushed back an errant curl, leaving a smudge of flour on her cheek.
“I’m going into Inverness with Tom.”
“A grand day for it.” Nancy smiled into her dough. She placed the lump in a large ceramic bowl and covered it with a tea towel. “Come sit, lass. Coffee? Toast?”
“Not today, thanks. Tom should be here any minute.” I moved to the sink and pretended an interest in the garden.
The first three threatening letters had been posted on a Monday, the day the staff of the hotel went into Fort William for supplies. “Nancy,” I said, turning around, “Did someone from the hotel go into Fort William the day of the ball?”
“Aye. Elenor went to the salon, remember?”