Dispatching the death animation didn’t take long. Vaughn was swabbing up the puddles of watercolours on the floor of the bedroom when Alice showed the doctor and the undertakers into the room to deal with the old man’s body.
‘A fine way to go, working on a picture like this,’ said the doctor, admiring the image of Long John Silver and his rambunctious parrot on Wyeth Corcoran’s easel. ‘It’s what he would have wanted.’
‘Thank you for your help,’ said Alice, looking gratefully at Vaughn as the undertakers started to prepare the old man’s body. ‘Have you far to go home?’
‘Just across the Firth,’ Vaughn replied. ‘We’ll wait for you until Wyeth leaves. Won’t we, Malcolm?’
Malcolm was prowling around the room, turning over papers, poking inside drawers, as if neither Alice Macnair nor Vaughn were in the room. Wyeth Corcoran’s shelves were as choked with collectibles as his walls were with art. What wasn’t part of a mural was hanging from picture rails, or leaning against shelves, beside furniture, even in the spaces between books on the bookshelves. Unframed canvases competed with exquisitely framed ones for open space. Vaughn saw the works of minor Scottish artists, a few masters and other pieces he recognized as Wyeth Corcoran’s most famous book covers.
‘Bit of a mess this, isn’t it?’ Malcolm remarked, looking around.
The events of the day were taking their toll on the elderly Guardian. Her hands trembled when she accepted a ginger snap from Vaughn, who had found a tin in the kitchen. ‘Wyeth collected anything wi’ a connection to the Western Isles,’ she said stiffly. ‘He has left most of this collection in his will to the Scottish National Gallery. A few favourites he’s given to me.’
Vaughn noticed that she kept her eyes on Malcolm, who had shifted his attention to an open jewellery box beside a locked display cabinet that hung beneath the painted curve of dragon’s belly on the wall.
The old Guardian stiffened in her seat as Malcolm peered closer into the cabinet.
‘This is an interesting artefact,’ said Malcolm conversationally. He tapped the glass, pointing at a dull golden medallion within. ‘What’s its provenance, Alice?’
‘I believe it belonged to Wyeth’s sister,’ answered Alice in guarded tones.
Malcolm’s blue eyes were calculating. ‘You’ve really no further information?’
Alice jumped to her feet as the undertakers carried the coffin from the bedroom on their broad shoulders, knocking her cup and saucer to the floor. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she said, as if her clumsiness startled her.
Vaughn moved to help her, but she waved him away and kneeled down to pick up the pieces. So instead he followed the coffin outside, helped lift it on to the back of the hearse, and waited until he saw it safely on its way along the beach road before he stepped back inside.
The main room was empty. The glass case was unlocked. No Alice. No Malcolm.
A horrible scream filled the vast room, full of anguish and most certainly human. Vaughn looked up in shock at the balcony. Alice was splayed on the floor with Malcolm looming over her, his hands gripping her shoulders.
Vaughn sprinted up the ramp, barrelling into Malcolm. The impact sent Malcolm flying backwards, crashing through the wooden rails and out over the edge of the balcony. Reacting in an instant, Malcolm grabbed at the carpet, stopping his fall but leaving him dangling dangerously high above the stone floor.
‘Help!’ he shouted, struggling. ‘Vaughn, get me up!’
Ignoring Malcolm’s cries, Vaughn kneeled next to Alice and checked her pulse. It was strong, but one of her ears was bleeding, the blood trickling down her pale neck.
On the other side of the broken rail Malcolm was trying to haul himself up, swinging his legs like a pendulum. His momentum caused the carpet to tear from its mooring, dropping him further. Vaughn stomped on the runner, slowing Malcolm’s descent.
‘No. No,’ Alice groaned.
Vaughn realized with disgust that Malcolm had inspirited the old Guardian to the point of suffering. Enraged, he took his foot off the runner again. The carpet slipped further. Malcolm howled.
‘What did you do to her?’ demanded Vaughn, stepping back on to the carpet.
‘She was lying to me about that medallion!’ Malcolm’s exertion was reddening his face as he swung, frantically trying to keep a grip. ‘How was I to know how frail her mind was?’
‘By looking at her!’ Vaughn roared.
The carpet gave up, sliding away completely from under Vaughn’s foot. For a beat Malcolm bicycled in the air, grasping at the shifting rug for traction. Vaughn shot out his arm and grabbed Malcolm’s hand. Wordlessly, he dragged his Guardian’s upper body on to the balcony, leaving him to scramble up the rest of the way on his own.