Thistles and Thieves

by Molly Macrae

  “That’s a lesson we have to learn over and over again, aye?” Christine said.

  “And sometimes it’s bloody discouraging,” Janet said. “But I always hope I’ll find more good in people than bad. And more hope than discouragement. If you’d already thrown the zhen xian bao into the burn, why did you call me, Isla?”

  “You were my second choice. Rhona and Lynsey would tell me wheesht for saying that. But I called Rhona, and she was that shattered over Lynsey I couldn’t see adding to her misery. And I thought you might come to save a book. I wasn’t sure you’d come to save me.”

  “Hope,” Janet said, and she and Christine held their hands out to Isla.

  “We got her to call Rhona again,” Janet told Hobbs on the phone as she and Christine drove back to the shop. “Rhona came to collect her and her bike and told Isla she’s staying with them for a few days.” Janet listened for a moment, asked Hobbs to hold on, and then muffled the phone against her chest. “He wants to know why we agreed to meet her at the bridge.”

  “Hold your phone so he can hear me.” When Janet turned the phone, Christine shouted, “Norman, if you trust that your colleagues arrested the right person, then you’ve no need to fash yersel over who we choose to meet and where. Or you could have intervened.”

  Janet put the phone back to her ear. “You’re right, Norman, reporting a welfare check isn’t the same as reporting an emergency. It was a fair question, though. Do you think they arrested the right person?” Janet pointed at the phone and shrugged for Christine’s benefit. “Pardon me, Norman, but we’ve been extremely careful to avoid interfering, and if you want our continued cooperation, you’ll watch your tone.”

  “He doesn’t think it’s Lynsey?” Christine asked after Janet disconnected.

  “He said he hasn’t been privileged to read all the reports.”

  “A stodgy porridge answer if ever I heard one. This outcome, this case, they’re weighing down on me, Janet.”

  “Not on me. They’re making me boil. When I found Malcolm, I didn’t know anything about him. I judged him by his age and his clothes as much as anything, but I can think back and imagine I saw goodness in him and felt sad at his passing. Now, the more I hear about him, the angrier I get. He was a bully as a child, and a mean-spirited man, and instead of compassion for him, I’m angry and I blame him for Lachy’s death and Gerald’s. He’s the villain who limped through life and I want to know why.”

  “What will we do with the thistle pin?” Christine asked.

  “Give it to the lawyer handling his estate. Will you hold onto it for now, though? It makes me angry just to think about him hiding it and teasing with it, and I don’t want to take my anger out on it. It’s another innocent bystander.”

  “What will we do with your anger?”

  “I’m going to take it and those books full of secret messages home. Maybe I’ll find some answers. Maybe I’ll find a more useful frame of mind.”

  Janet sat at the kitchen table with paper, pencil, the Culpeper, Gerald’s The Sword in the Stone, and Malcolm’s Swallows and Amazons. Tallie put a mushroom omelet and salad in front of her for supper, a cup of tea sometime later, and a glass of sherry before saying goodnight and reminding her not to stay up too late. The cats took turns sitting on her lap.

  The coded notes in the novels read like short diary entries. They covered a range of activities—games, hiking, other books, school. There was nothing so neat as a list of mean acts or gloating over clever stunts. Notes in the Culpeper were more like a dialogue between them, but sporadic at best. A message in Gerald’s hand read, false accusation! Below it, Malcolm had added a quotation, Calumny is a little wind, but it raises such a terrible tempest. Hall Caine. There was nothing to tell her, though, if they were real complaints, or brotherly banter, or barbs.

  The lack of context for the messages made Janet angry, too. She wanted obvious clues and a despicable boy, but found neither. She found no mention of Florence, either, and that made her even angrier.

  But there’s nothing wrong with going to bed furious, unless it upsets the cats, she decided. She fell asleep listening to the tempest of Butter and Smirr purring, curled beside her, and a little wind beginning to blow in from the sea to the west.

  26

  The night’s sleep left the cats hungry and Janet feeling resigned rather than angry. “I can’t change the past, lads, but I can look forward and move forward. And you can look forward to a delicious breakfast.”

  Tallie had started the coffee before going out for a run. Janet had a cup with her own breakfast. She put the three books in a backpack, the pack on her back, and pedaled to Yon Bonnie Books, determined to look forward. The wind coming in off the sea made that chillier than she’d expected as she coasted down toward the harbor.

  “You’ve roses in your cheeks this morning, Janet,” Christine said at the morning meeting.

  “The sign of vigor and a healthy attitude,” Janet said. She told them about her evening with the books and the disappointing results. “I thought I could nail the son of a—” She counted silently to five. “I am going forward. Moving beyond my anger.”

  “Good.” Tallie kissed her. “We should find out if Florence wants the books back.”

  “I should give her a ring anyway,” said Christine.

  Summer moved beside Janet when the meeting broke up. “Getting past the anger probably is good, but keep in mind what anger did for my aim.”

  “My aim is to immerse myself in the panacea that cures, nourishes, and brings joy—books.”

  “I thought you meant tea and scones.”

  “They work, too.”

  “Florence rang me before I got around to calling her,” Christine told Janet later that morning. “She invited me round for a meal this evening, along with a few others.”

  “Inviting friends in sounds like an improvement.”

  “Yes and no. She said it’s a way to use up some of the endless parade of indifferent food offerings.”

  “How jolly.”

  Christine left work half an hour early, promising to tell them all about the experience, and threatening to arrive at Janet’s door afterward if indifferent turned out to be inedible. Fifteen minutes later she called Janet. “Apparently I misunderstood the invitation. The others joining us are you lot.”

  “Fine with me. I’ll ask the others.” Janet relayed the invitation to Tallie. “Tallie says yes, and she’s gone to ask Summer.”

  “There’s more,” Christine said, sounding as though she might now be muffling the call behind her hand. “Apparently she ate all the indifferent sweets. She asked if you’re bringing the pudding.”

  “I am now. What should I get?”

  “I’d better ask, in case her definition of indifferent extends to anything else.”

  Janet heard the question and the answer—toffee pudding—and told Christine when she came back on that she would see if Basant had any.

  “Biscuits or ice cream will do if he doesn’t. Oh, and Ian was here yesterday spreading the glory of his crime-solving ways. He told Florence we think we’re super sleuths. She’s quite taken with the idea. Also, she wants the books back. I told her you’d bring them.”

  “You two covered a lot of ground since you got there,” Janet said.

  “She’s rather like the old Florrie, a definite improvement.”

  “Good. See you both soon.”

  Janet rang Basant, who told her he’d have fresh toffee pudding if she didn’t mind waiting twenty minutes. She said she didn’t. When she disconnected, Tallie told her Summer hadn’t made up her mind yet.

  “She’s conscientious about darts practice.”

  “Why don’t you go on ahead with the books, then,” Janet said. “I’ll try to convince her while I’m waiting for the pudding.”

  Summer settled on a compromise—the meal first, and then practice. Janet left her bike in the stock room for the night, and they went together in Summer’s used Mini, stopping first at Basant’s
where Janet ran in. Basant had the pudding ready for her. Janet had a question for him.

  “It’s hypothetical,” she said. “Why does a man keep something in his inner coat pocket?”

  “That depends on how long he’s kept it there. When I’m waiting to board a plane or a train, it’s where I keep my ticket. But I keep two photos there, as well. One is of my sisters and one of my parents. This way they are next to my heart, wherever else they might be. Can I get you anything else this evening?” Basant nodded toward the jars of sweeties.

  “Not this evening, thank you. We might be in more of a hurry than we thought.”

  When Janet slid back into the Mini, she asked Summer, “Can you drive and theorize at the same time?”

  “As long as you can theorize and give me directions.”

  “Go two blocks, take a left, and let’s rethink the theory of mistaken identity. Not two people mistaken for each other, but one person who’s seen two different ways.”

  “Who?” Summer asked.

  “Stay on this street. We’ll turn right in a mile or so. It’s Malcolm. Seen one way, his patients mourn him, Isla loved him, and he took Florence in when she needed him. Seen another way, he makes us angry for the way he treated Florence. He was a mean boy who stole a treasured keepsake, and he was a petty man who kept that keepsake hidden. Turn at the next corner, go three blocks and then left. We know this other side of him because Florence showed it to us. The brothers are gone, so we can’t see it for ourselves. Other people only tell us how beloved Malcolm was. The secret margin notes don’t clarify anything.”

  “But maybe they do,” Summer said. “What if you didn’t find the mean boys because they didn’t exist?”

  “That’s what I’m finally wondering. A couple of the margin notes were about false accusations. What if they were a record of Florence’s accusations? False accusations?”

  “False then and now? But it’s a huge leap from false accusations to murder.”

  “True. So what if Florence has been trying to change the past? It’s her version we’ve been listening to. She told us the zhen xian bao belonged to her mother. Maybe it belonged to Malcolm and Gerald’s mother, and that’s why Malcolm kept it hidden—and next to his heart. Basant said Malcolm looked the same coming and going. Maybe there was only one Malcolm and the wretch I’ve been so angry at didn’t exist. Next driveway on the right.”

  Summer pulled in and shut off the engine. “Wicked stepmother, wicked half-sister? Does Florence seem wicked?”

  “She seems inconsistent.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “Hope I’m wrong and be prepared to face a plate of indifferent food. And—” Janet took out her phone. “A quick text to Christine. I’m saying, ‘just arriving, how’s Florence?’” She hit send and they waited. When the phone buzzed they both jumped and Summer laughed. Janet read out, “‘Florence in fine fettle, see you soon.’ Good enough. In we go.”

  Florence opened the door before Janet knocked. “I’m not sure I expected four of you, but come in, come in.”

  “Florence, this is Summer,” Janet said, but Florence had turned away.

  “Thank you for having us,” Summer said to Florence’s back as they followed her down the hall. “Can I help you with anything?”

  Florence stopped. “Now that’s a good idea. You’re very kind. And you brought the pudding, did you? Take it on through to the kitchen. It’s this way.” She opened the door opposite the library. “Through here and through the pantry. Can’t miss it. Big room with a cooker,” she said with a dimpled smile. “I’ll be in directly.”

  Janet handed the bag with the toffee pudding to Summer. “What can I do for you, Florence?”

  “Not a thing, ta very much. I’ve laid a fire in the library. Go in and sit down. After a long day at work it will be lovely, and we won’t be long.”

  “Were you glad to get the books back?” Janet asked.

  “Books? Och, aye. These mementos mean so much as we get older. You go on in.”

  Janet sniffed the air. “Does your chimney smoke, Florence?”

  “A wee bit when the wind’s out of the west. That’s what you can do for me. Can you get the window open, do you think? Careful of your back.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Are Christine and Tallie—?”

  Florence, already on her way to the kitchen, called over her shoulder, “Fetching the dog from the back garden.”

  Janet could just picture Christine stalking the desultory Tapsalteerie through the garden. She opened the library door and coughed. Good Lord. No wonder Malcolm opened the window. She started toward it, but caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and turned in time to see Florence coming at her with a shinty stick, raised like a club, over her head.

  “What are you—?”

  Janet leapt backward, tripping and falling as she did. But the fall saved her from the stick, and she scrambled like a crab to keep it that way, coughing from the smoke.

  Florence raised the stick over her head again—then she screamed in pain and grabbed her right shoulder.

  “Florence!” Summer stood in the doorway, right arm cocked and ready to throw a dart. Another dart. Janet saw the one already stuck in Florence’s shoulder. “I will throw again, and it will be a bull’s-eye. Drop the stick.”

  Florence whimpered and started coughing. “Let me out.”

  “Absolutely not.” Summer reached behind her and slammed the door. “Do not move.”

  “Eejit!” Florence screeched. “Now it’s locked and we’re trapped.”

  And then Janet heard someone else cough—trying to cough.

  “Tallie!” she shouted. “Oh my God, oh my God. Christine!”

  They lay on the floor behind the desk, bound, gagged, and both of them trying to cough. Janet’s head was beginning to swim. All of them were coughing now. Janet staggered to her feet and went for the window. It was locked or jammed. Break it, she thought. Throw something. She threw the first thing that came to hand—or, rather, the second. The first was an enormous dictionary on a wooden stand. She set the dictionary aside and sent the stand crashing through the glass, letting in the blessed west wind. After taking great gulps of it, she went to Tallie and Christine.

  Florence made her move, rushing for the window. As she threw her right leg over the sill, Summer’s second dart bit into the back of her left calf. Florence howled, slipped, cut her right leg on broken glass still in the window frame, and howled some more.

  “Tell me what you put on the fire,” Summer said.

  “I’ll bleed to death.”

  “I have another dart. What are we breathing?”

  “Wolf’s bane. For Malcolm and Gerald. Not you.”

  “Summer,” Janet called. “Stop the bleeding with these and tie her up.” She tossed Summer the cloth strips she’d unknotted from Tallie and Christine. Tallie and Christine were sitting up now, both dazed. Janet gave them each a hug. Then she called 9-9-9.

  While Janet tried to explain that the police might have to come in through the broken window, that no one was actually dead, and no, she didn’t know what wolf’s bane was, she heard Christine regain enough of her wits to become indignant. Janet told the call handler to listen and held the phone so she could hear.

  “You tried to kill us, Florrie,” Christine said.

  “I’m the one suffering,” Florence said in a pathetic voice.

  Janet wanted to smack her for whining, and then felt bad for not feeling guilty about it.

  “Wolf’s bane,” Summer read out from a search on her phone. “Every part of the plant is poisonous, including the fumes when you burn it. You did try to kill us.”

  “Smother what’s left of the fire with the dog’s bed,” Tallie said.

  Christine felt the back of her head. “You hit me, Florrie? And you hit Tallie?”

  “You’re not the one bleeding and stuck all over with darts.”

  “Two darts,” Summer said.

  “Head injuries ar
e not trifling matters,” Christine added.

  “The last thing I remember is putting the box down and saying hello to the dog,” said Tallie.

  Janet looked at what she’d tripped over. “The Dalwhinnie box. I tripped over it and Florence missed me with her stick. Saved by books and Boudicca. I wish you two had seen her. She appeared in the doorway, rising out of the smoke, dart gleaming like a spear.”

  “Are you sure Florence didn’t hit your head?” Tallie asked.

  “She gave it an almighty try,” said Janet. “Summer, how did you know to come to the rescue?”

  “I texted Christine on my way to the kitchen, to see where they were, and didn’t get an answer. So I texted Tallie, and heard her phone—from the dustbin. Her purse was in the bin, too, so it seemed like a good idea to check on you.”

  “Why, Florrie?” Christine asked. “And how did you think you’d get away with this?”

  Florence looked at the four women staring at her. “You’re ganging up on me.”

  “Ganging up like Malcolm and Gerald?” Janet asked. “Is that how you always saw it? It wasn’t true, though. Almost nothing you’ve told us about them is true.”

  “It’s all true,” Florence said. “Everyone called Gerald Malcolm’s shadow. I was the real shadow. Living in their shadows while they shone. Do you know what else lives in shadows? Hate.”

  “Why did you come back here to live if you hated them so?” Christine asked.

  “Things always work out for some, and for some they never do. I thought phoning Malcolm to ask for a roof over my head was the last humiliation—until Malcolm told me how little he was leaving me in his will. And then Gerald—when I went to see him, he said he wasn’t leaving me much more. How was I meant to react to that? Of course I wasn’t thinking straight on my way back here and saw Malcolm on his bike. I told him a ride like that was dangerous for a man his age. How was I to know he’d panic and go off the road and come off the bike? None of this would have happened if he’d listened or kept his head. None of it. Not to him, nor to Gerald after.”