The Stolen Letter

by Paige Shelton

  Tom smiled. “You’re also adorable.”

  “Thank you, sir. You are not so bad yourself.”

  For a small moment, there was a good chance we’d miss the dinner, but we moved past it. We’d made the commitment and we’d told Rosie.

  Tom sighed. “Shall we go meet the queen?”

  “We shall.”

  Rosie lived in a flat not too far away from the bookshop. She and Hector could walk to work or jump on a bus for a quick ride. She preferred walking, but the bus was a good option for rainy days.

  Tom parked in a spot directly in front of Rosie’s building and joined me as we went to gather her. There were only two apartments above what was most recently a souvenir shop. From what we could discern, it looked like it was about to become a hair salon. Rosie said it had been many different things over the years, but the owner of the building, her landlord, had been very fair as rents had increased throughout the city.

  Rosie had worn a lovely new dress for our wedding, but other than that day, I’d never seen her so dressed up as she was tonight.

  “Och, Tom, marriage looks good on you,” she said as she opened her door.

  “Thank you, and you look lovely, Rosie.”

  “Ta. Come in, say good evening tae Hector, and then we’ll be on our way.” She turned and the pleated skirt of her purple dress puffed as if it wanted badly to twirl. I would have bet she had already twirled, at least once.

  Rosie’s flat was made just for her. A small front room, a small kitchen, two small bedrooms, and one small loo. Her fluffy furniture was covered with bright fabrics and a mishmash of brightly colored pillows. More brightly colored throw rugs decorated the wooden floors. Edwin liked to call Rosie’s flat, the most colorful place in Scotland. Though packed with stuff, it was always clean, tidy, and smelled like she’d just washed dishes—there were never any dishes in sight.

  Hector was napping on his favorite pillow on the couch; a red one with gold fringe. He sat up lazily and looked perplexed at Tom and me. Once he recognized me, he jumped off the couch and ran into my outstretched hands.

  “Hello,” I said. “You don’t see me here very often, do you?”

  He seemed pleased. Once he was done greeting me with his signature cheek kisses, he looked over at Tom. Hector had become used to seeing Tom but hadn’t quite accepted him into the family yet.

  Tom reached over and scratched behind Hector’s ears.

  “Ye ken his weakness,” Rosie said.

  “He and I are going to be grand friends one day, but I don’t think that day has come quite yet. I’m ready, but I think he’s still wondering,” Tom said.

  “Soon,” Rosie said.

  I tried not to laugh at her doubtful tone as Tom and I shared quick smiles.

  Once in the car, I asked her, “Rosie, is there something more going on with the shop? I’ve told Tom all about it, but it seemed like you were trying to tell me something more with your eyes today.”

  “No, lass, there isnae anything more really, but I was trying tae tell ye something maybe.” She paused a long thoughtful moment. Tom and I glanced at each other but didn’t interrupt. “It’s that, I dinnae think that Edwin’s got the fight in him anymore. He kens how much we all love the bookshop, but he’s old, lass. Maybe it’s time for him to retire, at least that’s what he might think. He also has Vanessa now. They seem tae be getting along verra well. I think they might want tae travel.”

  “We’ll let them travel.” I turned around in my seat and looked at Rosie. “We’ll even let him retire. That bookshop can’t close, Rosie, but not just because I don’t want it to. I’ve thought about this all day, and the shop is so much more than Edwin, so much more than all of us. It’s a part of the lifeblood of the city. Edwin knows that, he just might need to be reminded.”

  Rosie smiled a little with her mouth but fully with her eyes. “I was hoping you’d see it that way. It’ll be up tae ye tae figure it out, lass. I’ll help in any way I can, but ye will have tae do the legwork. Hamlet will help too, but he’s so busy with school. Are ye up for the fight?”

  Tom laughed once and looked at Rosie in the rearview mirror. “She’s up for the fight.”

  “I am,” I said. “I’ve never been up for a fight so much in my life.”

  And I was. I would fight to the end, I thought as I turned back around.

  As Tom drove toward Mary’s house, Rosie regaled us with a story about the “old days” with Edwin, one that she’d just remembered today for reasons she would soon illuminate. Apparently, there was a time when Edwin unknowingly befriended a bank robber. There were no cell phones in the 1970s and a storm had taken out the bookshop’s phone. The “friend”—let’s call him Joe—showed up one evening as Rosie was getting ready to close for the day because of the terrible storm and the flickering electricity.

  Joe, drenched and seemingly bothered by something, hurried into the shop with a bag over his shoulder. He asked Rosie if he could keep the bag in Edwin’s secret room. But, though Rosie knew Edwin and Joe were unquestionably friends, Rosie knew Edwin hadn’t confirmed to him about the warehouse’s existance. Back then, Edwin hadn’t told anyone but Rosie about the warehouse.

  When Rosie told Joe no and indicated that he had to go, he became agitated. Rosie, much younger those years anon, didn’t have any patience for Joe and she became firm in her request that he get out of the shop immediately.

  Their confrontation became physical, but even though Joe was bigger, Rosie was a “tough lass” and she punched him in the nose. He dropped the bag and ran out of the shop.

  “Aye?” Tom said as he looked at Rosie in the rearview mirror.

  “Aye, but the rest of the story is even better. I kept the wee bag. Well, I had Edwin put it in the warehouse.”

  Tom and I shared another look. “Was there money in the bag?” I asked.

  “Och, aye. The bag was full of coins with Mary, Queen of Scots, on them. They’re verra valuable, I would guess.”

  “Really?” I said. “What happened to the bag of coins?”

  “Last I heard Edwin put them in the warehouse. He told Joe tae leave town, leave the country, and he wouldnae turn him in.”

  “Why didn’t he just call the police or return them anonymously?”

  Rosie shrugged. “Sometimes Edwin thinks he kens better than the law, than anyone. When he was younger, he was even surer of himself. I do remember we couldnae figure out where they’d come from, and then at some point we just quit wondering, moved onto other things.”

  “Do you think we could find the coins?” I asked.

  “Depends on if Edwin kept them. He might have later returned them and just didnae tell me, and this is why I wanted tae tell the story. Edwin would want the coins returned, even after all these years have passed. Ye and Edwin need tae discuss it. Our visitor and our host this evening made me remember them. If they havenae been returned, Edwin would want that done, as soon as possible.”

  “They must be worth a fortune,” I said.

  “Again, that’s yer job tae figure oot, lass. I’ve done my part,” Rosie said.

  I smiled. “I’m glad you remembered. And thanks for sharing.”

  “Ye’re welcome.”

  Tom turned onto a dark street. “This is Leven.”

  I sat forward and peered out the windshield. “I can barely see the houses.”

  Most of the homes were set back from the road, each of them up a hill or behind a full front garden of trees and bushes.

  “It should be about four or five up, on the left side,” Tom said.

  “Look up ahead. Do ye suppose that’s it?” Rosie said.

  It didn’t take long to figure out which one she meant. Down a bit, along the road, there was something I hadn’t ever seen in a city; torches. Fire torches stood on each side of what I guessed was a driveway.

  “Those can’t be real,” I said.

  When we were closer, Tom said, “No, they’re just made to look like flames.”

  In
side glass cases, fanned material was lit from the bottom, giving the illusion that flames burned inside. The lights were two of the infrequent lights on the street and unquestionably marked the entrance to a driveway.

  “There’s the number,” Rosie said. “That’s the hoose.”

  The driveway was paved with varying sizes of smooth stones. Tom turned in and proceeded slowly.

  “Careful of the moat,” Rosie said.

  “Moat?” Tom stopped the car.

  “I wouldnae be surprised if there’s one up ahead,” Rosie said.

  “Okay, I’ll keep my eyes open.” Tom continued along the driveway.

  The path sloped up and toward the right, and just when I wondered if we’d taken the correct turn, the house came into view.

  Correction, the castle came into view.

  “Ye must be coddin,” Rosie said.

  My Scots translator, Hamlet, wasn’t nearby, but I didn’t think this one was too difficult. “Kidding?”

  “Aye, something like that. That’s quite the place,” Rosie said.

  “Wow,” Tom said.

  It wasn’t the most beautiful castle I’d ever seen—in fact, it might not have been a castle so much as it was a replica of a castle.

  “Hang on,” I said. Tom had already stopped the car.

  It was probably rude to remain parked there for long, but I had to know. On my phone I searched for Castle Loch Leven, and was quickly rewarded. “I thought it looked familiar. It’s a replica of the castle Mary, Queen of Scots, was imprisoned in for a year or so. Well, it’s smaller, but the structure seems to be the same shape.”

  The home before us was made with stone walls and did look like Castle Loch Leven in that it had a tall main building, rectangular with squared off corners, and lower walls surrounding what would have been the keep, if it had actually been a real castle.

  “Weel, if she’s not the auld, dead queen herself, she’s certainly obsessed with her,” Rosie said.

  “Aye,” Tom said.

  “And look, there is a moat.” I pointed.

  A small stream of water ran along the front of the house but didn’t seem to go all the way around. Technically, it was probably just a water feature, but it had been created to look like a moat.

  “I’ll be,” Tom said. “I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

  “She looks just like yer new wife,” Rosie said. “Only older.”

  “That’s what Delaney said. If her husband is an older version of me, I think we’ll have to wonder about more than reincarnation in the works.”

  “Believe it or not, she mentioned that he was bald. The thought came to her too,” I said.

  “Good news. Well, you know what I mean,” Tom said.

  We sat there way too long, but I didn’t push Tom to continue up to the top. A moment later, he did though, slowly and with a few extra glances outside his side window to make sure we didn’t drive over and into any “moat.”

  There were windows on the front of the house—small, as they would have been on the castle, but curtain sheers were on the inside over these. If I’d seen animal skins, I would have rolled my eyes, but I still wouldn’t have been deterred.

  Tom stopped in a paved spot that seemed to have been made specifically for visitors to park their vehicles. I didn’t see a spot to tether horses, but even back in the day, the real castle might not have offered such accommodation. There were three other cars parked in the miniature parking strip.

  “We might not be the only guests,” I said.

  “Or, all of the autos are theirs,” Rosie said. “We will soon see.”

  Tom opened the back door for Rosie, but I was out before he could come around. Tom and I brought flowers, Rosie brought some whisky. Considering Tom owned the pub, it seemed like we should be carrying the whisky and Rosie the flowers, but it worked this way too.

  “Och, I’m so excited tae see her proof,” Rosie said as she led the way to the tall door, her purple pleats poofing again.

  Tom and I smiled at each other and followed behind.

  FIVE

  “Welcome!” Mary said with an arm flourish. She wore a red gown that was tied at the waist, something a queen might wear as a robe back in the day, but of all the things I’d researched over the years, clothing hadn’t been one of my strong interests.

  “Thank ye for inviting us,” Rosie said as she led the way inside and handed Mary the whisky. “Och, t’is a lovely place.”

  “Thank you,” Mary said, but her eyes had stalled on Tom. “Goodness, you look nothing like my husband.”

  “Tom Shannon.” Tom extended his hand. They shook and then he handed her the flowers. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  Mary took the flowers, all the while keeping her eyes locked on him. Lots of people stared at Tom.

  “My goodness, you are … something,” Mary said.

  “And you look extremely familiar.” Tom smiled at Mary and then at me, breaking Mary’s locked gaze. “Delaney told me about the resemblance, but I must admit, I’m a wee bit surprised. You two could be related.”

  “I know,” Mary said as she batted her eyelashes at him. I didn’t hold it against her. “It’s uncanny! Did Delaney tell you the other part?”

  “I believe she did,” Tom said. “You were once someone else.”

  He didn’t sound doubtful in the least, but I knew he was. Tom wasn’t one for any sort of unexplained or unusual phenomena. I’d lived through a strange Christmas, having been visited by what my bookshop friends were sure was a ghost. Tom was still trying to find a reasonable explanation for what had happened, but he didn’t like to talk about it much. I knew he didn’t believe in past lives or reincarnation, but he would be a polite guest. And he was certainly intrigued by someone who claimed to have lived before.

  “I was someone else,” Mary said. “Thank you for the flowers and the whisky. How lovely.”

  “You’re welcome,” Tom and Rosie said together.

  Mary set the gifts on a side table. “In fact, I have lived many lives, but only one other than this one that I remember very clearly.” She winked at Tom. I thought it was interesting to see what I would look like in twenty years when I winked at my husband. Not bad.

  “Mary, Queen of Scots,” I said.

  “Aye. We just call her the queen around here; it saves any confusion regarding which Mary is being discussed.” She waved her hand once through the air. She moved her hands a lot, talked with them, as if they were extra punctuation. It worked for her.

  I looked around the entryway, my eyes growing wider at every blink. The home was set up in a boring square, but there was nothing boring about the rest of it. The bottom floor had high ceilings and a stairway along the right wall. Other than in castles, I’d never seen a stone stairway. Stone used in buildings in Scotland was cold, and never did warm up much. A thick, red carpet moved down the middle of these stairs. Tapestries, much bigger than the ones I’d been looking at in the warehouse, filled the wall along the staircase. If the carpet and the tapestries didn’t actually warm the space, they gave the illusion that they did.

  The floor we stood on was also made of stone—or probably just concrete—but I didn’t crouch to investigate. It was well covered in throw rugs, similar to Rosie’s flat but with fewer colors. Here, there were lots of golds and reds, but not many blues or greens. A large, ornate, dark-wood secretary stood to our side next to the table where Mary had placed the flowers and whisky. A round table took up the middle space. Atop that table, a vase of fresh flowers filled the air with pleasant and surprisingly mellow scents. But it was the fireplace in the middle of the wall on the other side that was the true showpiece. Massive, with high flames inside, the heat reached all the way over to us. But I was most interested in the secretary.

  “That desk is beautiful,” I said as I peered at it more closely.

  Made of what I thought was cherrywood, dragons had been carved onto the closed drop-section. Three drawers, with ornate, brass pulls, lined up perfectly
underneath. I knew it was an old piece of furniture, but it was in mint condition.

  “Thank you. My niece, Dina, gave it to me. She’s an expert on such things. She’s upstairs. You’ll meet her in a moment.”

  I stood straight again and looked at the fireplace. “Is that your only source of heat in the house?”

  “No,” Mary said. “We have a newfangled furnace, but this just … felt right.”

  I translated in my mind: It’s what she “remembered” from her days as the queen.

  “Well, helloo there,” a man said from the top of the stairway. He was bald and just on the verge of having a belly. Mary had already told me she was fifty-one; the man seemed around the same age. “Are you all joining the rest of us for dinner, or shall we come down there and bring some marshmallows, so we might actually do something productive with all that fire?”

  He was dressed like Hugh Hefner, in a paisley robe, with a pipe in one hand. His accent was British—nothing Scottish about it, I realized; I was pleased with myself that I could tell the difference. It seemed as if he was teasing, but I wasn’t sure.

  “We’ll be up momentarily, dear,” Mary said. “My husband, Henry. Henry, this is Rosie, Delaney, and Tom. I’m sure you all are entertaining yourselves just fine up there.”

  From above, Henry’s pleasant twinkling eyes stopped twinkling when they landed on me. He moved down the stairs and toward me so quickly that Tom sidled closer, and I thought I heard Rosie make a surprised noise.

  “Good gracious me!” Henry said as he stopped in front of me. He put the pipe next to the whisky and then took hold of my arms. “Is this really you?”

  “Um,” I said. “Hello, I’m Delaney Nichols,” I looked at Tom. We’d already talked about me keeping my name as it had always been. He hadn’t protested, but I still wondered if it bothered him that I hadn’t taken his.

  “No, I don’t think so. I think you are someone else entirely,” Henry said.