Thistles and Thieves

by Molly Macrae

  “Brilliant.”

  It was easy enough to find the Murray house the next morning—the online British Telephone phone book gave Janet the address. Her thighs encouraged her to skip riding two mornings in a row, and she was tempted to go along with them, but her willpower prevailed. So she and her thighs, with the promise of gentle pedaling through a posh neighborhood and no steep hills, set out.

  She didn’t know what she expected to see when she rode past the house. It looked smaller in the daylight than it had loomed the night before or in her imagination. At the end of the street, she turned around and rode back for another look. A pleasant street, a garden put to bed for winter, a quiet house. She was glad she’d be able to tell Christine . . . tell her what? That she didn’t see anything malevolent seeping out the windows? What utter rot.

  Janet pedaled faster on the way home. Tallie had gone out earlier for a run and hadn’t returned by the time Janet got in. After a shower and change into work clothes, she was glad to be heading for Yon Bonnie Books.

  And there she found a cardboard box—a whisky carton large enough to hold a half-dozen bottles—sitting at the front door, a folded note taped to its lid.

  7

  Janet pulled the note off the box and looked up and down the street, as though whoever had left it on the steps might be watching. She wouldn’t put it past Ian to pull a stunt like that, except she knew he was too cheap to leave a bottle of whisky, much less an entire carton. Who, then? The ghost of Malcolm Murray? Ridiculous fancy. She opened the note and read, “Please look after these books. Thank you.”

  Well, of course it was books. And if she’d looked more closely to begin with, she’d have seen the worn condition of the box, showing that it was probably recycled. She hoped this wasn’t a precedent. While the shop did carry a selection of rare and antique editions, they didn’t accept the bags and boxes and stacks of used books people offered them. Finding books on the stoop, like an abandoned baby, was a first.

  Janet looked up and down the street again and saw nothing more unusual than the third sunny morning in as many days. The harbor was beginning to sparkle with the incoming tide. Seagulls rode the breeze, biding their time for unsuspecting fish to follow the tide. Some mornings she’d see Rab and Ranger sitting on the harbor wall, but only one of the harbor cats lounged there today. Too bad. Rab could have carried the carton inside for her. She unlocked the front door, tested the weight of the box, and hefted it inside herself.

  “I wondered how long you were going to stand out there,” Christine said. Coffee mug in one hand and scone in the other, she stepped out of Janet’s way. “What were you looking for? The long-lost MacGregor?”

  She watched as Janet maneuvered to push the door closed with her backside and then grunted the box over to the sales counter. “Oh, sorry, did you want help with that? Did you get a deal on all that whisky?”

  Janet pulled her glasses halfway down her nose and looked at Christine.

  “Tallie does that with her specs,” Christine said. “But you don’t pull off severe as well as she does. Something to do with her smoother cheeks and lack of gray. You’re so cozy-looking, people want to sit on your lap.”

  When Christine stopped for a breath and a sip of coffee, Janet thought her uncharacteristic prattling had ended. It hadn’t.

  “Of course, I’d have brought it in if I’d seen it,” Christine ran on, “but I came in through the other door and didn’t give this door a minute’s thought. But why wasn’t Tallie here to bring the box in for you? It looked awfully heavy. Oh, right, she probably went running. These young women and their energy. It’s a marvel. Were we like that when we were their age?” She stared, bright-eyed, at Janet.

  “How much coffee have you had this morning?” Janet asked.

  “Mum spent a bad night and I sat up with her, so rather a lot. Why? Have I strayed into small dog territory? Am I yapping?”

  “Rather a lot. To answer one of your questions, it’s a box of books, not whisky.” Janet handed Christine the note she’d found, and then tried to open the box. When she realized the flaps had been glued shut, she complained to the absent donor. “Really? It isn’t enough to be anonymous? You can’t even use tape like a normal person?”

  “Your Anonymous is a Paddington Bear aficionado, judging from the note,” Christine said. “To quote the original, ‘Please look after this bear. Thank you.’”

  “Isn’t that just so sweet.” Janet wrestled to get enough grip on a glued flap to yank it free.

  Christine stopped her. “Frustration brings out your sarcastic streak. Shift over and let me have a go.”

  Janet stood aside and Christine wrenched the flaps open.

  “That’s what a caffeine overload and superior leverage, thanks to my natural advantage in height, brings to the table. I wouldn’t be surprised if I don’t have a bit more brawn, as well. But here, you can have first look.”

  “You’re very kind and oh so strong and tall. Please accept that as a compliment unsullied by sarcasm; I’m much less frustrated now. Oh, well.” Janet lifted one of the books out. Smaller than a modern mass-market paperback, it was leather bound with gilt embellishments—thistles all down the spine. “This might actually be worth the frustration and associated sarcasm. This truly is sweet.”

  “What is it?”

  “An adorable little edition of Kidnapped.”

  As Janet took more books from the box and laid them on the counter, Summer came downstairs from Bedtime Stories. In exchange for being the on-premises host for their bed-and-breakfast guests, she had a gratis bedsit of two small rooms there. Tallie let herself in the front door as Summer began to ooh and ahh over the doorstep discovery.

  “Does anyone have anything more interesting than these books to discuss before we open?” Christine asked.

  “Tell us where they came from and I’m good,” Tallie said.

  Janet told them about finding the box. Christine recited the note.

  Tallie picked up a faded green clothbound book the size of the leather-bound Kidnapped. “The Little Minister by J. M. Barrie. I haven’t read this one. I should get it from the library, though. This one’s kind of fragile.”

  “You’re one up on me,” Summer said. “I haven’t heard of it.” She took the book from Tallie and opened it carefully. “No wonder. Published in 1911. I’d be fragile, too.”

  “The Stevenson and the Barrie might be worth some money,” Tallie said. “How many more in the box?”

  Janet peered in. “At a guess, more than a dozen. Maybe two.”

  “And another dozen on the counter,” Christine said. “But what exactly does ‘look after these books’ mean? Is Anonymous coming back for them? Are we being asked to store them? Indefinitely?”

  “The note might not mean anything more than ‘here,’” Summer said. “But we could look for inscriptions.”

  Janet heard a knock at the front door. “There’s Norman. I wonder what he wants.” She motioned for him to wait a moment. “All right, lasses, enough fun and games, we have businesses to open and run.”

  “Aye-aye.” Christine put her arm around Summer’s shoulders. “If you don’t mind getting the tearoom underway, Boudicca, I’ll have a wee word with the constable and be along directly. And then I’ll tell you all about how lucky you are to have me on top of my game and on your team today.”

  “What’s Christine on about?” Tallie asked Janet as Christine went to unlock the door.

  “Too little sleep and too much caffeine.”

  “Lucky Summer.”

  “Nice to see you, Norman,” Christine said, opening the door. “You’re bright and early. Are you official or un this morning?”

  Constable Norman Hobbs, peaked cap tucked under his arm, greeted the women, and ran a hand over his close-clipped hair. “A bit of both. Making my usual rounds and thought I’d check in, see how you’re faring after yesterday.”

  “Thank you, Norman,” Janet said. “I’m okay.”

  “Brilli
ant.” Hobbs flashed a smile at Janet and then went back to craning his neck for a better look at the books spread across the counter.

  Janet, feeling protective of the foundlings, slid over so that she stood in front of them. “The Road Police—is that what they’re called?”

  “The Road Policing Unit, aye.”

  “Will they be in touch?”

  “They haven’t been?” Hobbs asked. “Och, well, they’re the experts and they’ll have their priorities. I don’t presume to know their methods and how they operate. I expect you’ll hear from them sooner or later, as they’ll want to dot is and cross ts. You’ll be familiar with that kind of thorough work from your experience with the local constabulary.” Norman Hobbs was the local constabulary. “Or not. Depending on what they’ve found, they might not think it’s necessary to interview you further. Unless you have anything to add that you didn’t tell me at the time?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll just make a note to ask them about getting in touch, shall I?”

  “Do you know what they have found?” Janet asked.

  “I’ve not received the latest word from the RPU specialists,” Hobbs said.

  Janet thought he managed to sound both cagey and just the least bit put out that she’d reminded him of that snub. So if he hasn’t heard the latest word, did he hear the next latest? And what isn’t he telling us?

  “Tell me, Norman, are they satisfied Dr. Murray’s death was an accident?” she asked.

  “They’ve made no official statement as I’m aware.” He brought out a sparkly purple notebook and pen.

  “New notebook from your great-niece?” Tallie asked.

  Hobbs held the pen and notebook so they glinted. “She’s a generous wee lassie.”

  “Want me to take a picture so she can see you using it?”

  “Brilliant. I’ll move over here for a better background.” He went to stand beside Janet.

  “To make it look more realistic, why don’t you look at the notebook instead of what’s on the counter,” Janet suggested. “Maybe even write something in it.”

  Hobbs adjusted his gaze appropriately and Tallie snapped the picture.

  “She’ll love it. I probably shouldn’t send it to your work email, though.” She handed him her phone. “Go ahead and send it to yourself.”

  He looked at the photo, smiled, and tapped his number on the screen. When he returned the phone, he moved his tapping finger so that it hovered over the leather-bound Kidnapped. “May I take a wee keek?”

  Janet felt suddenly possessive as well as protective, but made herself say yes. Hobbs picked up the small volume, running a finger down the thistles on the spine. He opened it carefully and turned the first few Bible-thin pages until he reached the beginning of the story. Janet watched his eyes track the lines of text as he read.

  “Will you be selling it?” he asked. He closed the book and held it as though he might clasp it to his heart.

  “We don’t know yet,” Janet said. “The books are a mystery. They were in a box I found at the front door this morning.”

  “Just the box? No note or explanation?” He sounded aghast at such cavalier treatment.

  Tallie handed him the note and he read it.

  “That’s disappointing,” he said. “Raises more questions than it answers.”

  “Book lovers do have their quirks,” Janet said. “Maybe the note’s a riddle or a joke, and we’ll hear from the owner sometime today. If we find out they’re ours to sell, we’ll let you know.” She held out her hand, and when Hobbs put the book in it, she felt just the least bit of resistance, as though he might not let it go.

  “Was it your job, as constable, to notify Dr. Murray’s next of kin?” she asked. “That must be an awfully hard part of your duty.”

  If the resistance had been real, it disappeared at her question and commiseration. Hobbs made solemn noises in response.

  “Did you have trouble locating the brother?” Christine asked. “We saw Gerald briefly last night at Nev’s, and wondered if he’d traveled here after hearing the news.”

  “Had he been away?” Hobbs asked. “I wasn’t aware. He gave no indication of that when I called on him at home.”

  “That’s good, then. It must have made it easier for everyone,” Christine said. “It’s been so long since I’ve thought of him. Is he still out there along the Mull Eigg Road?”

  “You must be thinking of someone else. Gerald has a croft on Achnamuck.”

  “I wonder who I’m confusing him with,” Christine said. “And Achnamuck, you say. What’s that in your road sign Gaelic?”

  “Something akin to field of pigs,” Hobbs said.

  “So he left the Royal Engineers and took up farming. As more of a hobby, do you think?” Christine asked. “Or did he go whole hog and jump into the muck with both feet?”

  “Mrs. Robertson,” Hobbs said with mild reproof. “The man lost his brother yesterday.”

  Christine, smiling and beginning to look glassy-eyed, seemed to have missed the reproof. Janet nudged her and she jumped. “Forgive me, Norman. My remark was flip and insensitive. I’m not quite myself today.”

  “She was up all night with her mum,” Janet said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  “Very kind of you, Norman. I’ll tell her you asked after her. In the meantime, I’m operating in a fog of fatigue and caffeine. Tell me, did you also notify Malcolm’s sister?”

  “Aye.”

  “How did she seem to you?” Christine asked.

  “Much as you might expect.”

  Janet was sure, judging by the twitch at the corner of Christine’s eye, that Hobbs’s circumspect answer hadn’t satisfied her. Before Christine said anything else she might regret, Janet slipped into the gap left after Hobbs’s answer.

  “The alert they sent out yesterday—”

  “Appeal,” Hobbs corrected.

  “Yes, sorry. The appeal is why I asked if you know what they’ve found. They asked for people who saw Dr. Murray, or who’d been in the vicinity of the bridge, Sunday afternoon. That makes it sound like they found something pinpointing the time of death.”

  “As I understand it, the Haggis Half-Hundred took place in the afternoon, and Dr. Murray was one of the riders,” Hobbs said.

  “We know that,” Christine said. “But did Florrie—”

  “Florence,” said Janet.

  “Did Florence not tell you that Malcolm came home after the ride?” Christine made a show of studying his face. “You have the impassive constabulary face down pat, Norman. I hope your superiors are well aware of such dedicated talent. Of course, if this information is new, it might change the course of an otherwise routine investigation. It might possibly do the same for your career.”

  Hobbs took out his pen and notebook again and made another note.

  “So then, Norman, back to Florence,” Christine said. “Do you have any idea how long she’s been living here, or what her situation is? Has she other family? Has Gerald other family? There now, I’m blethering on again. Too many questions. But I’m concerned about her. Do you know what became of her husband?”

  “It’s not my place to spread gossip, Mrs. Robertson,” Hobbs said. He placed his cap on his head, making that an official Constable Hobbs statement. “I’ll let you get on with your business.”

  “Thanks for stopping in,” Janet said. “We’ll let you know about the books.”

  When he’d gone, Christine congratulated herself. “Did you notice how savvy I was asking questions? Testing the Norman waters, as it were, to see how much he’d tell us.”

  “You were very skillful and the picture of innocence,” Janet said. “Too bad he didn’t cooperate better.”

  “And imagine him trying on that rubbish about not spreading gossip. That’s exactly why I called him stodgy porridge yesterday.”

  “Were you watching his face, though?” Tallie asked. “I think he used that line about gossip no
t just because he shouldn’t answer your questions, but because he couldn’t.”

  Christine squinted at the place where Hobbs had stood, as though bringing the memory of his face into better focus. “Very helpful. You’re an astute member of the team, Tallie. Now I’d best go earn my keep. We can’t have our future darts champion overwhelmed.” She waved and headed for the tearoom.

  Tallie squinted after her, the way Christine had squinted at the memory of Hobbs. “What did she mean by ‘very helpful’ and ‘astute member of the team’?” she asked. “What team?”

  “I’m sure that was just the caffeine talking. She might overwhelm Summer before the customers do. Don’t be so suspicious, dear; it does funny things to your eyebrows. Besides, you know how Christine is.”

  “I do. That’s why my eyebrows and I are being so funny.”

  “Put it this way,” Janet said. “While we know that Christine is the opposite of stodgy porridge, we also know that, in the end, she’s eminently sensible. So what do you and your eyebrows even begin to imagine she’s thinking of getting us into?”

  “It’s not our imaginations my eyebrows and I worry about.”

  8

  Mornings that came with spates and splashes of sunshine tended to be quiet ones in Yon Bonnie Books. This one gave them time for the tasks that always needed attention. Tallie went to inventory postcards. Janet rearranged the window displays, a task she enjoyed that also gave her spare room in her head to consider all the questions she planned to ask the Road Police should they come to call. Rather, the questions she’d like to ask, depending on how approachable and responsive they were, and how willing to share information with a concerned, well-meaning, citizen who was not without skills.

  In other words, a nosy, rank amateur, Janet thought. Or did I say that out loud? Oh dear. She went back to composing her questions, addressing the RPU specialists in her mind. How did you narrow the time frame for your appeal? What time did Dr. Murray come home? Aha! Did you know he came home after the ride? Did you ask Florence to make a guess at what time he went out again? Back to my first question about narrowing the time frame, did you find something like a watch broken at the time of impact? Notes to self: Don’t think about the word “impact.” Don’t use the word “interview” about our visit to Florence. Don’t get carried away.