by Connie Berry
Following the pattern, the final set of directions read down 3 red. It must mean “down three shelves,” but the books weren’t precisely lined up. I counted down three shelves and—sure enough—a book bound in a sort of coppery red sat just out of line. This had to be the end point of Elenor’s directions.
The Steam Locomotive, Its Failures and How to Deal with Them was a slim volume published in 1927, a primer with questions and answers. What interest could Elenor—or Doc Arnott, for that matter—have had in locomotive steam engines? I turned the book upside down and shook it to see if anything would fall out. Nothing did. I flipped through every one of the eighty-three pages to see if someone had written a note. No one had. I checked the binding to see if someone had slipped something between the backing and the spine. Nope.
I frowned. The book was small enough to fit in the hidden compartment, but it wasn’t old enough, and it wouldn’t have left a stain. Another dead end.
Use that good brain of yours, I heard my mother’s voice say.
Okay, if the book itself wasn’t the important thing, what was? The only unusual feature was the size—tall and slim—but the spine had been pulled forward so it matched the depth of the books on either side.
Leaving a space behind.
I pulled out several more books and bent to look, my heart in my throat.
Something was there. Reaching in, I pulled out a bundle of old and deeply stained homespun fabric, held together by a very modern rubber band. I removed the band and unfolded the cloth. Inside was a small handmade book, bound in split, bark-colored animal hide. A single word had been hand-tooled in gold on the cover.
Diary.
* * *
I carried the diary to the rolltop desk and opened the cover with care, so as not to dislodge the hand-sewn pages. The handwriting alone placed it as early nineteenth century—Spencerian, right-slanted, faded tea-colored ink. The first pages were badly stained and illegible. After about ten pages, I could begin to make out words and phrases.
I knew the voice.
13th November
What I have suspected is now certain! When I think of the joy I shall …
A large stain blotted out several lines.
‘When the child is born, you will sail with me to the Indies’ said he. ‘You must promise me a son, Flora, an heir to …
Flora was pregnant.
The next paragraphs were impossible to read. I flipped the pages, reading what I could.
… confined to my chamber … very ill …
… solicitous for my health. Mrs. Fraser assures him this will pass, but James seems …
Perhaps the deaths of his first sons has …
2nd December
James insists I remain in my chamber. He will not hear of my going … no one is allow’d to visit except Mrs. Fraser. I fear he may be …
… A fortnight has passed since last I laid eyes on him. Why does he not come to cheer me? What have I done to …
The first fully legible entry was dated mid-January. Flora must have been three or four months pregnant.
13th January 1810
James no longer comes at all. Perhaps it is my growing belly that repulses him. For my health he has every regard. I am allow’d dried fruits & vegetables with a thin broth & and an egg every 3 days. Mrs. Fraser makes a kind of tea from chamomile & crushed oyster shells, but I believe this makes my sickness worse. No one else, not even Gowyn, is allow’d in my chamber. Oh! I am lonely & sick at heart. How shall I survive ‘til my lying-in? Perhaps solitude plays tricks with the mind, but I can only conclude James no longer loves me. My hope is that once the bairn has safely arriv’d, he will return to himself.
17th January
At long last I am better. Still James does not come to me, nor Gowyn. I feel like a prisoner.
21st January 1810
Events of such a disturbing nature have transpir’d that I am barely able to hold my pen. This morning Mrs. Fraser brought me tea as usual. ‘Your husband has gone to Glasgow on a legal matter, madam, & is not expected to return ‘til the end of the week,’ she inform’d me.
I thanked her for her kindness & waited for her to take her leave as usual, but she did not. Instead she began to weep.
‘Whatever is the matter, Mrs. Fraser?’ said I.
She merely shook her head. Then, taking a letter from the pocket of her apron, she placed it in my hand. ‘Read for yourself, madam,’ said she, ‘and you will understand.’
The letter was dated a month after the wedding. I shall not reproduce the entire contents, but the final lines are burned on my soul.
‘My darling James, I wait patiently for your return, knowing I must endure our separation a while longer. By summer you will be in my arms again & I promise all will be well. Your little Rosamund sends you a kiss. I remain yr most affectionate wife, Maria Amalia.’ Folded within a twist of paper was a lock of dark hair, tied with a ribbon of palest yellow.
‘What can this mean?’ I cried.
This is the story Mrs. Fraser told: My husband, if that is what he must be called, has a wife in the Indies, a woman called Maria Amalia of mixed Spanish & Arawak blood. She has given him a daughter, Rosamund, who is not yet five years of age. A vast fortune is entailed upon the Capt. with one stipulation: that he produce a lawful male heir of Scottish blood.
I am not the first to be used thus. His cousin, Cecily, unable to bear a living son, was—my hand shakes as I write—cast into the sea, while onboard the ship carrying them to the Indies. He rid himself of her as soon as she was no longer of use. When my child is born, this will be my Fate as well.
‘Do not imagine you will escape, madam,’ said Mrs. Fraser. ‘You may board the ship, but you will not arrive in the Islands. You must leave this house or forfeit your life.’
‘Why do you and your husband not leave him?’ I demanded.
‘Because, I am ashamed to say it,’ she sighed. ‘Mr. Fraser has a price on his head. If the Capt. suspects any disloyalty, Mr. Fraser will be taken up & thrown in prison.’
‘What of Gowyn?’
‘She is banish’d from the house & made to work in the dairy, madam. We send news of you when we can.’
‘And Joseph?’
‘Ah, Joseph. Have you not suspected? Joseph & his sister Rachel are his slaves. Joseph bears a deep hatred for the Capt., but if he takes his freedom, his sister will pay the price.’
‘Oh! Whatever shall I do?’ I cried, throwing myself on her breast.
‘Do not distress yourself, madam. Think of your bairn. This letter must return to its place. After that, we shall see what can be done. I give you my solemn promise. Mr. Fraser & I will not allow you to be harmed.’
I must keep this diary well hidden. My only hope is escape & if I die in the attempt, I shall consider it not loss but gain.
I stared at the page in horror. The handsome Captain James Arnott, soon to be memorialized with a statue on the Glenroth village green, had been a slave owner, a bigamist, and a murderer.
And that wasn’t all. The novel Dr. Guthrie claimed to have so meticulously researched was no work of fiction. It was the actual diary of Flora Arnott, volume one. The crumbling book in my hands was volume two.
I turned quickly to the final entry.
2nd March 1810
Gowyn & I leave at first light under the protection of an itinerant peddler known to the Frasers & paid well for the service. We shall travel north on horseback as far as the turf beds, then by boat toward the Pt. of Sleat & Arisaig. Someone is to meet us on the road near the bay & conduct us from there to a kinswoman of Mrs. Fraser near Inverlochy. From thence I know not, only that we shall reach Gretna in some days. From there the border is but two miles. Gowyn & I shall be in England in a fortnight.
We take only a small valise, my beautiful casket & a few pieces of silver to sell for our bread. How I shall provide for us after that I know not. I only know I shall never return to Scotland. I think now only of my bairn. I feel him move in my be
lly & rejoice that he is strong. He will never know the truth of his father.
Mrs. Fraser has packed a trunk which she will forward to us when she is able. Joseph is to create a diversion so that he (I swear never to speak his name again) does not discover our absence until we are safely away. These friends risk their lives for us.
Flora’s final words.
I held the little book to my heart. Arnott had obviously discovered the plan and pursued them, disguising the murders as a clan attack. Nothing could be proven now, of course. Except one thing. In presenting the diary as a work of fiction, Hugh Guthrie had perpetrated a fraud.
He must have killed Elenor to save his reputation.
I reached for my cell phone, feeling almost giddy. Tom was innocent. Bo Duff would be safe. Everything would be all right.
Wrong.
I wasn’t alone.
Guthrie stood in the shadows near the door to the Annex. He held a tire iron—damn that gas station display. I felt strangely disembodied, as if I were observing the scene from some remote vantage point. We were in a bubble, the two of us, and time had slowed to a crawl.
“Is that the second diary?” Guthrie’s voice was as dry as dead leaves.
“Yes,” I heard myself say. “I found it.”
“I knew it was here somewhere. I couldn’t search with those blasted volunteers poking around. I was afraid one of them would find it first.”
Keep him calm. Keep him talking. Isn’t that what they tell you to do? “So you came back tonight to look. Where’s your car?”
“In the bushes up the road. How did you find the diary?”
“Elenor left directions.” My hand moved toward the notebook but stopped when he visibly tensed. “I wrote them out. Would you like to see?”
“Read it to me.”
I did, explaining the meaning of the code.
His face contorted. “This will ruin me.” He gulped air, staring into the mid-distance. “I don’t think … I don’t think I can handle that.”
“Wouldn’t it be best to admit what you’ve done, pay back the money, and—”
“No.” He took a step toward me, holding the tire iron. “It’s not the money, don’t you see? It’s the shame, the gossip. My academic reputation. That’s all I have left.”
I wanted to say he should have thought of that earlier. “Where did you find the first diary? I’d really like to know.”
He dragged a fist across his mouth. “Four years ago. The twins donated a box of old books to the Historical Society. Not part of the library, just some old books tied up with twine in bundles of five or six. Cilla must have packed them because Penny wouldn’t have been so careless. There it was, the diary, in one of the bundles. The fabric cover was torn. Most of the pages were loose. I recognized the importance immediately.”
“Where is it now?”
“Hidden in my closet. I couldn’t bring myself to destroy it. The curse of the historian.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “At the time, the head of my department was trying to push me out. I hadn’t published anything for years, and the number of students interested in ancient stone circles wasn’t sufficient to justify an entire course. I thought the diary would be a chance to vindicate myself—local history, popular appeal. Originally I planned to edit the diary, get the twins’ permission to publish. When I probed, I realized they didn’t know the diary existed. That’s when it occurred to me I could publish it as my own work, a work of fiction. No harm, I thought. A bit of local history to sell in the island shops. I had no idea it would become so popular.
“You can’t imagine the pressure.” He gestured with the tire iron. “Not only the pressure of producing a sequel, which was never going to happen, but the pressure of interviews, book signings. I never wanted to be famous.” He groaned and slumped onto a battered metal footlocker.
“Why did you agree to a sequel in the first place?”
He looked up. “The first diary ends before the wedding. The publisher said that wouldn’t fly—I had to include the wedding day. I tried writing it, but I couldn’t reproduce Flora’s voice. So I told them I’d planned a second volume, beginning with the wedding day and ending with Flora’s death.”
“You didn’t know there was a second diary?”
“Not until the Tartan Ball.”
How long could I keep him talking? Someone at the hotel would miss me. Eventually. “You found the carriage trunk in the attic, didn’t you?”
“What attic?” The corners of his mouth turned down. “What are you talking about?”
Whoa. Guthrie wasn’t the one who’d done the damage in the attic? “Never mind. Tell me about Elenor.”
He groaned again. “When the book took off, her attitude toward me changed. She asked me to take her to dinner. She started talking about the life we could have together—travel, adventure, a new start. I honestly don’t know how it happened. I know I never proposed, but after a few weeks, it was simply taken for granted we’d get married. I was bewitched, and the best part was escaping from my mother. Elenor promised to handle everything.”
“But wasn’t she expecting a sequel, too?”
“Of course, but I figured I wouldn’t have to deal with that for a long time. I even thought of scenarios—a ransomware infection, losing the entire manuscript and having to start over. I was sure something would come to me.”
“Then Elenor found the second diary.”
He nodded. His face was pale, but his grip on the tire iron looked secure. “About a month ago, Elenor told me she’d found a small chest at the hotel, something special. She was going to sell it in London, so the twins wouldn’t make a fuss. The problem was I’d already seen the chest in the Collections Depot. Bo Duff brought it with some boxes from the Arnotts. I knew Elenor stole it, but I kept my mouth shut, like the coward I am.”
Elenor must have seen the casket and realized its worth. The money she’d get from selling it would tide her over nicely until she got her hands on Guthrie’s trust fund.
His lip curled in disgust. “After that my eyes were opened. Elenor would be worse than my mother. I started fantasizing about disappearing. I even considered faking my own death, but I couldn’t figure out how to pull it off. At the ball, when Elenor told everyone I’d finish the new book soon, I knew it had to end.” He looked up, his eyes blazing. “It will end.” He struck the floor with the tire iron. “Tonight.”
I flinched, imagining what that metal rod would do to my skull. “So you were the one who phoned Elenor that night. How did you get out of the house without your mother hearing?”
“I put a sleeping pill in her nightly drink. Elenor had given me a few of her pills for my insomnia. Once Mother was snoring, I drove to the Gas and Go. Bo Duff was filling up his truck, so I pulled behind the building and waited. After he’d gone, I called Elenor from the phone box and told her we had to talk. She wasn’t pleased, I can tell you, but I insisted. She said we had to meet at the Historical Society so Agnes wouldn’t know. It was after midnight when she arrived. I told her I couldn’t go through with the wedding. She could keep the ring. A steep price to pay, but I needed a way out. That’s when she told me about the second diary.”
“She threatened to expose you.”
“No.” He looked truly baffled. “She said we’d get married as planned, and I’d publish the second diary as the sequel. She joked about the sensation it would create. ‘They’ll think you discovered the truth in your research,’ she said. ‘That ridiculous statue won’t be raised on a pedestal—it’ll be tarred and feathered.’ And she laughed and laughed.
“She told me she’d hidden the diary somewhere safe—I figured it was here—and I could begin work on the sequel as soon as we were married. She even suggested we move the wedding up. She got out the bottle of Scotch we keep in the office and poured a toast. That’s when I knew I was trapped. Either face ruin or spend the rest of my life under her thumb.”
“So the Mucky Ducks the police found in the lake are yours.”
<
br /> He nodded miserably. “One of the toes melted in a bonfire. Mother will recognize it immediately.”
“And Agnes?” I still held my cell phone. I moved my thumb, feeling for the reset tab on the side. Push. Swipe. Find the phone icon. Could I dial 999 without looking? Would he notice?
He groaned again. “Just when I thought I was safe, when all I had to do was find the second diary and destroy it, Agnes phoned. She said she had information that would implicate me. Was that yesterday?” His forehead glistened with perspiration. “I agreed to meet her in the woods near the creek. She told me she’d followed Elenor the night of the ball and heard our entire conversation.”
“What did she want?” I gripped the phone. I’d pushed buttons, but were they the right ones?
“Money, of course. Two hundred thousand in cash to keep her mouth shut. But the more she talked, the more I realized she hadn’t heard anything. When I challenged her, she said, ‘It doesn’t matter. All I have to do is tell the police you were here.’ She was right, of course. And I knew it would never end. She’d demand more and more.” He moaned, covering his face with his free hand.
“Killing me won’t help.”
His head shot up. “What?”
“I’ve recorded everything.” I held up my cell phone, praying the bluff would work. “I recorded your confession, and I’m emailing it right now to my mother in Ohio.” I pushed a random button and tried to look triumphant. “She’ll call the police. You won’t get away with it.”
“Get away with it?” His face twisted. He bent his head, and his shoulders began to shake.
Was he going into shock? Was he falling apart?
No, he was laughing. “You think I killed Elenor and Agnes?”
“You didn’t?”
“Of course not. What do you take me for?”
“Why are you holding a tire iron?”
“For protection. When I saw lights, I thought someone had broken in again.” He wiped his eyes and stood. “Look, I know this has to come out. I must go and prepare Mother.” He dropped the iron with a clang and disappeared into the Annex. Without the diary.