by Connie Berry
“The police understand that, Kate, but you said it yourself—there may be two murderers.”
“Maybe there are.” I clenched my jaw. “But one of them is not Bo Duff.”
He stared at me. “What’s wrong.”
Careful. “I’m sick of this. That’s what’s wrong. Bo is being set up, and why the police can’t see that is beyond me.” I gestured toward the door. “Look, I need to finish here. Do you mind leaving?”
He opened his mouth to speak but shut it. Taking his jacket, he left.
I stood at the window and watched him drive away.
A thought danced out of reach. Something about the island and—
No, it was gone.
Speaking to DI Devlin felt more urgent than ever. I left a third message on his cell phone. All I could do.
I started on the jewelry again but found I no longer had the patience.
The only task remaining was the attic. I’d already decided to count the boxes and number them, making sure they were well sealed. Then I’d open as many as I had time for. If any furniture looked valuable, I’d take photographs. Hiring a local appraiser was fine, but if there was anything up there from Flora’s time, I wanted to be the one to find it.
Blast. What was my brain trying to tell me? Something about the past, the island?
Then it came. That book on island history. I’d forgotten about that. Before the Tartan Ball, someone had been looking into island history.
I found Becca’s cell number on a list near Elenor’s phone. When Becca picked up, I asked, “That big book about the Isle of Glenroth—do you remember who was looking at it?”
“Sure. Tom Mallory. He was interested in the families who came with Captain Arnott. I told him there were additional resources at the Historical Society.”
I thanked her and disconnected. Why would Tom be interested in the island’s settlers?
I dialed the extension for Nancy and Frank’s cottage.
Nancy answered. “Everything all right? I sent Tom over to see how you were getting along.”
Thanks a bunch. “Everything’s fine. I was wondering how many of the families who settled here in 1809 still live on the island. I thought you might know.”
“You mean besides the Arnotts and the Guthries? Well, there were the Murchies, but they sold the pharmacy and moved south last year. The Moffatts own a flower shop in the village. They left in mid-October to spend the winter in Spain. There may be others. I’m not sure. Why do you want to know?”
“Curiosity. Probably wasting my time.”
I replaced the receiver, feeling hopeless. I was wasting my time. Family names change with marriage. I hardly had time to trace genealogies. Nor could I ask Tom the names of all the females in his family line. I was missing something, the one puzzle piece that would make the picture clear.
Outside, the storm howled. A downspout rattled. From somewhere above me came the creaking of wood. Just the shifting of an old house, but it did sound eerily like footsteps.
I squared my shoulders. I’d had my fill of ghosts, lies, and attempts to frighten me. I really had.
If someone was up there, I was going to find out. Once and for all.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I scrabbled in Elenor’s hall chest for a flashlight.
Someone had been sneaking into the hotel—I’d witnessed that myself—but how?
The why was easy. Everyone knew the silver tray had been found in the attic. Why not assume there were other treasures up there as well? Had Tom come back to avenge his mother and reclaim some valuable antique that belonged to his family? For a moment I wondered if the attic was where Elenor had found the marquetry casket, but that wasn’t possible. She’d refused to go up there. More importantly, the casket’s condition was too fine to have spent years in a place where the temperature and moisture levels fluctuated with the seasons.
Lightning split the air, followed by the rumble of thunder. Armed with the flashlight, I started up the main staircase. The third step squeaked. Yikes.
If this were one of those B movies, I’d be shouting: “Don’t go up there, you idiot.”
Well, an idiot I might be, but I was an idiot with a bad temper and no other options.
When I reached the third-floor landing, I ran my hand along the right side of the wall as I’d seen Bill do. The fourth panel clicked almost soundlessly and popped out an inch or so. I pulled it open and saw a narrow staircase rising into blackness. I climbed, steadying myself on the wall and praying Becca had told the truth about spider webs. At the top, I paused to listen. The beams and rafters creaked in the wind like the bones of an old woman.
“Who’s there?” My voice cracked.
Good thing there was no response. My only weapon was a mini Maglite.
I shone it in a wide arc.
Oh my golly. Boxes, once neatly sealed and stacked, had been ripped open, their contents strewn over the diagonal planking. Sheets had been pulled off the old furniture and left in piles.
Moving forward, I kept one eye on the floor so as not to trip and the other on the massive hip rafters that slanted downward. I directed the beam of light methodically around the large, open space.
I almost missed it.
Tucked into one of the eaves, partially concealed by a supporting timber, was a small carriage trunk. My flashlight shone on studded leather hide, a high-domed lid, and what looked like hand-forged banding and hinges. Late eighteenth century was my guess. Excellent condition.
Moving closer, I saw I was wrong. Someone had forced the latch, damaging the hide and leaving flakes of oxidized iron beneath the smashed plate and locking mechanism. Recently done. Crouching, I lifted the domed lid, supporting its weight as I swung it back to rest on the attic floor.
Folded inside the trunk was an old quilt, skillfully pieced, a geometric pattern in red and white. That rang a bell. Hugh Guthrie mentioned a quilt in his novel, one that Gowyn pieced, using the red calico from Flora’s old summer dress. Even if the quilt wasn’t connected to Flora, it should be conserved and displayed in the museum. I touched the delicate fabric and felt something solid within the folds.
Propping the flashlight on the beam, I lifted out the bundle and laid it on the floor. Wrapped inside the quilt was a framed portrait about eighteen inches square. I focused the light for a better look and felt an instinctive flash of anger. The canvas had been vandalized, sliced through from corner to corner. But not recently. The torn fibers were stiff and dark with age.
Even in its present condition, the image was compelling. A young woman sat in three-quarter view, her face turned to fix the viewer’s gaze with grave, black-lashed eyes. Her dark hair was parted in the middle. Ringlets framed her face. She wore a pale-yellow, high-waisted dress with a square neckline. A red paisley shawl was draped loosely over her shoulders. One small hand lay palm up in her lap. The other bore a heavy ring and rested on a dark object in the lower left corner. I moved the light closer. The object resolved into a rectangular block, covered faintly with tiny creatures and a checkered banding.
I gasped. The marquetry casket. The woman in the portrait had to be Flora Arnott.
I lowered my other knee to steady myself.
Who hated Flora enough to slash her portrait? Her killer?
My thoughts spun wildly. Flora Arnott. Glenroth. Guthrie’s novel. The link I’d been looking for was the casket. But where was it now, and more to the point, how had the thief spirited it out of the house?
According to Agnes, there were only two exits from the east wing—either through the doorway to reception (I’d been blocking the way) or through the door at the end of the hall (which was locked). Unless—I felt a frisson of excitement—there was a third way out, a way not even Agnes knew about.
I followed the logic, step by step, as my mother had taught me.
The east-wing hallway, like the hallways on the second and third floors, was paneled with oak, installed sometime in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century. The
paneling on the third floor concealed a hidden access to the attic.
Could there be something similar in the east wing? Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
Leaving the portrait, I practically slid down the three flights of stairs.
Reaching the east wing, I began with the panels closest to Elenor’s flat and moved methodically toward the end of the hall. I pressed each panel, finding nothing.
I was a third of the way back, working on the opposite wall, when I heard a faint click. My heart stopped. A panel swung open to reveal a dim passageway lined with shelves.
There, on one of the shelves, sat the marquetry casket.
Following the passageway would have to wait. Puzzling over why the thief had stashed the casket there would have to wait, too.
I’d just had an astonishing thought.
I ran with the casket to Elenor’s flat and set it on the dining room table. I turned the key and opened the lid. Closing my eyes, I ran my fingertips over the faded red leather.
There it was—a blip.
The light was against me. Tipping the casket on its side, I shone the flashlight. A tiny hole appeared in the morocco, the edges slightly worn. I’d seen something like that once in an antique tea caddy with a hidden compartment. The hole gave access to a wooden spring lock, released by a metal bodkin.
Fresh out of bodkins. I looked around for a substitute.
Of course. The paper clip I’d stepped on earlier. Elenor must have discovered the hole, recognized what it was, and used the paper clip as a tool.
I retrieved the clip and, tipping the casket again, inserted the end of the wire into the tiny hole in the leather. I held my breath and pushed. Something gave way. The molding on one side popped, and I caught a musty, slightly fishy odor that reminded me of the cheap leather handbag I’d bought once in an open-air market in Spain.
Fitted within the base of the casket, perfectly concealed by the molding, was a shallow drawer, about two inches deep. The drawer was empty, but it hadn’t always been empty.
Like the main compartment, the hidden drawer was lined with red morocco leather, but here, protected from the light, it was as red as blood. Except for a dark, ugly stain—I grabbed the ruler—roughly rectangular, about eight inches by five.
I sat back and let my brain work.
You put something in a secret compartment because you don’t want anyone to know it’s there. Something important or precious. And unless what you hide is weightless, a shift in orientation would betray its presence, as Guthrie’s book had on Saturday when I tipped the casket to look for markings. Unless you pack the extra space with wadding.
Using my lighted magnifier, I examined the interior of the compartment again.
The first things I noticed were several fragments of yellowed paper that looked suspiciously like newsprint. Could this be where Elenor had found the newspaper accounts of the deaths in 1810? In the absence of a better theory, I’d go with that one.
The second thing I noticed was a shred of buff-colored fiber caught in one of the sliding dovetail joins. Yes! Wadding. I love the antiques business.
Examining the stain more closely, I saw that it was old. The edges were uneven, with the deepest color toward the center and the edges lighter and sort of fluted. I knew from experience that meant moisture, the source of the musty smell. Something wet, or at least damp, had been stored in the compartment. The fishy odor suggested poorly tanned leather.
I’d told Tom on Monday that all I needed to do was connect the dots. Except there weren’t many to connect then. Now, with more dots, a picture was forming.
When Elenor had shown me the casket on Friday, I’d asked her where she found it. She’d said, “That’s the secret.” I pictured her touching the casket.
This is where it all began. I’ll tell you the whole story after the ball.
Elenor’s story began with the casket. She’d found the hidden compartment and something inside more valuable—or dangerous?—than newspaper clippings. In her final phone message, she’d asked me to keep something for her. She’d used the word hidden.
Where would Elenor hide something valuable? Possibly in her flat, except the police had gone over every inch of the place. Short of pulling up the floorboards, there was nowhere else to look.
Where else? The obvious place was her safe deposit box. And, yes, the bank employee remembered Elenor leaving on the nineteenth with a small tote bag. She’d taken something away, and she’d gone from there to the Historical Society.
Light dawned.
That’s what HS meant. Not Hewie Spurgeon—the Historical Society. That’s where Elenor went the night she was killed, the night she left the message on my cell phone.
Need you to keep something … hidden …
My brain leapt from dot to dot like a gazelle.
Elenor had found something in the casket, something she wanted to keep secret until I arrived because she needed advice. She’d hidden it, first in her safe deposit box and then at the Historical Society.
Guthrie’s book lay on the towel-draped table in the bathroom. Retrieving it, I turned to page 112. HS6uprtgrnlft51bluedn3rd.
I copied the code into my notebook. Scooping up my jacket, my cell phone, Elenor’s Burberry umbrella, and the flashlight, I turned out the lights and locked the door.
If you had any sense, you’d call for help, carped the voice in my head.
“Shut up,” I said out loud. What had being sensible ever gotten me? Besides, who would I call? Devlin (even if he answered his phone) wouldn’t believe me. I certainly wasn’t going to call Tom. Nancy and Frank would insist I call the police, and that would take time.
Time was the one thing I didn’t have. If I waited sensibly until morning, the hearing would take place and Bo Duff would be taken to jail or remanded to an asylum.
I couldn’t fail him now, not when the answer lay so close. Rain was falling in sheets, but I didn’t care. For the first time since Saturday morning, I had hope.
I was rushing out the door when Nancy appeared in the hallway from the kitchen.
She stared at the umbrella. “Where are you going?”
I arranged my face in a smile and lied.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The rain came at an angle, soaking my jeans to the knees. I tipped Elenor’s Burberry umbrella forward and felt an icy trickle hit the back of my neck and slither down my spine. I could have taken the car, but the Holdens would have seen the lights and tried to stop me. This was something I needed to do alone and now.
When I reached the stone bridge, I dimmed the flashlight. Below me, the ribbon of Burn o’Ruadh curled, black as old blood. I kept going, following the bobbing circle of light at my feet.
The Historical Society was dark. Good. I felt for the lock, fumbling with Elenor’s key. The door opened and I stepped inside, nearly jumping out of my skin as the bell chimed.
Crap, crap, crap. The last thing I needed was the Arnott twins rushing over to make sure I wasn’t damaging the family treasures. I peered over my shoulder. No curtains twitched. No faces appeared at the window.
The flashlight cast a narrow beam around the room. This wasn’t going to work. I needed to see. I felt for the wall switch and the lights blinked on. If Penny and Cilla came over, demanding to know what I was doing, I’d tell them … well, I’d think of something.
I started with the rolltop desk. Sometimes old desks have hidden compartments, too. I tried all the variations I knew—pressing on panels, feeling for levers, trying to slide pieces of trim to one side or the other. Nothing. I opened each drawer in turn, finding only a box of Kleenex, a half-full bottle of whiskey—Glenfiddich, no less—and a stack of paper cups. Was Guthrie a secret drinker? Dropping to my knees, I checked beneath the desk and behind it to see if something had been taped there. Nothing was.
Pulling out my notebook, I read the code again: HS6uprtgrnlft51bluedn3rd. Several patterns were obvious—a series of numbers (6, 51, 3), what might be orientations (upright
, left, down?), and colors (green, blue, red—or did 3rd mean third?).
That didn’t help.
I decided to write it out another way. Turning to the next page in the notebook, I wrote Historical Society and under that 6 upright green. I looked around for six of anything standing upright, green or otherwise. Nothing. But maybe Elenor meant “up right” instead of “upright.” She hadn’t been careful about spacing. She knew what she meant.
Crossing out 6 upright green, I wrote 6 up right green. Under that I wrote left 51 blue, and then down 3 red. It sounded like a board game, a series of moves you might make with a game piece—places to land and go from there. That made sense.
The contour map table had lots of green and some blue, representing the sea. Maybe the colors led to a certain location on the island. A brilliant thought, except there wasn’t a speck of red on the map.
A green-and-blue vase on the visitor counter held a sparse bouquet of red silk geraniums. I pulled out the flowers, finding a penny and some dust.
What would Elenor have noticed? Well, the books. The room was lined with books, most bound in shades of brown and black but some in other colors as well. I took the notepad and read the numbers again—6, 51, 3. Elenor had written 6 up right green.
A large green cloth book lay flat on the bottom shelf. That didn’t fit. No way to go up to the bottom shelf. But there was another green book near me, at shoulder height. I pulled it out. The title was Latin, something about flowers—Flora, a compendium of the wildflowers of the Hebrides. Coincidence? My heart quickened.
I counted the shelves. The green book was on the sixth shelf from the bottom, on the right-hand side of the bookcase. I fanned through the pages, finding nothing but an old bookplate with the owner’s name written in elaborate copperplate: CHARLES EDWARD STUART ARNOTT, 1889. Some people just won’t let go of the dream.
The next set of directions presumably started from that point: left 51 blue. I counted to the left and—my golly, the fifty-first book was blue. Beautiful bonnie blue. A medical textbook from Doc Arnott’s days at university. I examined it carefully, finding only faded underlining in pencil, and replaced it on the shelf.