Chapter Twenty-three

Millport Village

The long-brewing storm had arrived at last. Lightning flashed in the window of the pub, and Ian, hearing the rain smashing against the glass and the wail of the wind, took note of the tempest’s severity. He was focusing on the weather as a respite from his argument with Tasha. She sat at a table in the otherwise deserted pub.

At last he turned from the window and shook his head, “Sorry, no.” Mother started to protest, but Ian raised his hand and continued. He couldn’t mask the mocking quality in his voice. “Excavate the ruins on Mr. McGloury’s farm! Dig up a historical treasure on the say-so of some local yarn the ferry captain spun for you!”

“Local yarns may be embellished, but they always have a solid centre of fact.”

“Real? Like that ‘banshee’ you said you saw?”

“I said I saw someone trying to frighten Mr. McGloury by impersonating one.”

“You also said that this here goblin left no footprints …”

“She stood on stone, there are not always marks.”

“And then it just up and …” Ian snapped his fingers. “Vamoosed like smoke!”

“There is a well-hidden entrance to some chamber beneath those ruins.”

“How do you know?” Ian asked with a short laugh.

“Because it must be so.”

Ian shook his head in exasperation. “It was foggy, it—she—could’ve just skedaddled off.”

“Then there would be footprints. There were none. There is also a crack in the stones, very deep and free of accumulated dirt and home to neither insects nor shrubs. In short, a concealed entrance, used recently and no doubt controlled from within.”

Ian shrugged, but before he could speak … “The cult must be under there and I will find the way in,” Tasha said with asperity rising in her voice.

“Ancient cults! Old curses!” Ian flipped shut his notebook. “I can just see handin’ in a report like that. They think I’m kinda loco at the station as it is.”

“Three singularly contented corpses should be conspicuous enough for even the official force.” Mother could spew sarcasm with the best of them. “There is also the connection between the tattoo on my assailant’s arm and the design at the ruins.”

“Everyone in these parts knows those marks—folks here grew up with ’em.”

“Do ‘folks here’ usually die from a death-grin poison? Have you seen reports of any similar deaths in the last several months?”

Ian thought for a moment. “There was one.”

Tasha leaned in closer. “McGloury’s older brother Rupert?”

Ian was startled, his eyes locked on Mother. He contemplated her words then slowly nodded.

Mother quickly continued, “Shall I draw you a picture, Inspector? Every instance of these gruesome demises has been connected with this island and in some way with McGloury’s croft. Rupert died that way—preventing him from selling the croft to the Laird, forcing it to remain in the McGloury family and luring my client back here.”

“What for?” shot back Ian. “What’d they—if there is a they—want?”

“I have several theories …”

“Theories!” he said disparagingly. “Look, just because the Laird’s crazy wife tried to do him in, doesn’t clear him with me. He’s got a motive! It’s real, not a campfire tale.”

“There is something buried deeply here, Inspector. This has scope. There is the work of an artist here, and one with an almost feminine sensitivity.”

“The trail leads back to motive. The Laird—”

“The Laird doesn’t have this kind of imagination,” interrupted Tasha. Her thoughts went back to “Captain Crocker” at the Inn of Illusion. “Take my word for it.”

Ian walked over to her and pulled out a chair, took a deep breath and said quietly, “Tasha, people kick off all the time without dead religions doin’ the kickin’! Now I gotta admit that it’s one humdinger of a story, but this ain’t no storybook country. Glasgow’s just up the firth. And anyway, what about this church with that monk …”

“Not a monk. He wore no cross and the church is an unused ruin.”

“Well, whoever the varmints are, you say they’re spyin’ on the Dreadnought? How does that fit in?”

“How indeed?” was all she’d offer in answer.

He waited for her to continue—but she didn’t. Mother had stated her case. Repetition, which some men called “nagging,” was not her forte.

Ian raised his hands in a gesture of confusion. “Sorry, but if I’m gonna look like a tenderfoot to my boss, it’s gonna be on more evidence than some old salt’s fable.”

“I have only shared this much because I need help from the official force to connect the links of my chain.”

“You dig up some evidence I can use and you’ll get it!”

“If we ‘dig up’ the ruins you’ll have it.”

The back-room door opened and the doctor entered.

In his massive voice, he replied, “Aye! It’s the same wicked poison that killed the wee lassie this morning. I dinnae suppose you’d care to confide what it is?”

“I was hopin’ you’d know,” replied Ian.

The doctor waved him off. “It’s nae good, I cannae hear you.”

Ian opened his mouth for another effort, but Tasha took the stethoscope, put it in the doctor’s ear and said softly. “We don’t know.”

The doctor gave a short laugh. “That wasnae worth hearing.” He tipped his hat and shambled off, when Tasha, still holding the stethoscope, pulled him back and asked, “I want to see the local records, as far back as they go. Especially anything relating to your ancient and infamous cult. Where are they?”

The doctor answered at once, “In the Historical Society, of course. But it isnae open after two.” He pulled the stethoscope from her and retreated. She cut him off, and once more, spoke into the stethoscope.

“I shall go there at once. Please give me the address.”

“But they’re closed! They willnae open!” He had obviously not dealt with Mother before. He tried to pull the stethoscope away but it would not budge from her grip. After he reluctantly gave her the address, she released the stethoscope. The doctor plodded away, grumbling about persistent and irritating women.

“What are you doing?” asked Ian, his irritation barely suppressed.

“You want a motive. I will get you one!”

“You are fearsome stubborn, lady.”

“Thank you, but compliments, while appreciated, are hardly necessary.”

Ian almost smiled at that. A heavy pelting of rain on the window drew Mother’s awareness to the fierce weather. “I suggest we borrow an umbrella.” She picked up his notebook from the table and handed it to him. “To keep your theories from drowning.”