Jean woke suddenly, a ray of sun shining in her eyes and birds singing arias outside. Whatever she had been dreaming sifted through the fingers of her memory and disappeared, leaving only a vague, unsettled, melancholy.
Alasdair was no dream. He was lying beside her, the duvet not quite pulled up to his naked shoulders. His hair was a bit longer than the severe style he’d worn when they first met, and was actually tousled. Once he’d been blond, she supposed, but now those amber waves of grain were touched by frost. She’d never known him without the gray in his hair and the creases beside his mouth and eyes, now partly erased in sleep. His unshaven cheeks and jaw made him look not hard-bitten but tender, taken unawares.
She had only known him for three months. For one of those they’d ignored each other, giving their mutual attraction every chance to wither and die. And yet here they were, coupled, flesh of each other’s flesh—more or less. For all the dithering and all the doubts, sex was the easy part.
The sunbeam faded. Jean wallowed, drowsily replaying the sensations of the night before, and the footsteps, and the music of the clarsach. . . . The clock beside the bed read nine a.m. Where was Dougie? Usually he wanted his breakfast by now. The little cat must be sulking somewhere, his role as the man of Jean’s house usurped by another male.
She climbed out of bed into the cold air, her feet landing on the nightclothes puddled on the floor. The long muscles of her thighs twinged. Wincing, she huddled on her robe and headed to the bathroom, only to discover that muscles weren’t the only part of her anatomy signaling how long it had been since she’d practiced the amatory arts. She and Alasdair would have to work hard to alleviate her condition.
She was still not wearing any makeup, in the full light of day, even. She shrugged. As for her hair, she would probably win a Medusa lookalike contest. There. A wet comb helped.
Back in the hallway she looked around. Still no Dougie. You’ve never been properly snubbed, Jean thought, until you’ve been snubbed by a cat. She walked gingerly into the bedroom and threw open the curtains so that the light fell on Alasdair’s face. He twitched and groaned, and then, with a ghost of a smile, muttered, “Bonny Jean.”
She kissed the top of his head, then found her glasses on the dresser and put them on. A look through the window showed her patches of blue sky between white billows of cloud, the distant green hillside, the gilded trees, the river glittering to another ray of sun. Just because she couldn’t see the main road from here didn’t mean that headlights wouldn’t reflect this way.
Alasdair sat up and gazed at the bedside clock as though trying to remember how to tell time.
“Coffee?” asked Jean. “Tea?”
“Please.”
Smiling, she tottered off to the kitchen and found the packet of coffee inside Minty’s basket—it was like Dr. Who’s Tardis, bigger inside than out. Within moments she had the pot dripping away. The delectable scent alone helped to jump-start her brain. Dutifully she ascertained that both cars were still occupying the otherwise empty courtyard and the piece of inscription was still sitting on the bookshelf. But Dougie was nowhere to be found, not under the couch, not under the bed, not behind the television.
Her smile curdling, Jean rattled the box of kibble and called his name. That produced Alasdair, back in pajamas and T-shirt. “Misplaced the moggie, have you?”
“Where could he have gotten off to? The windows are shut, he couldn’t have slipped out. I mean, y’all don’t have window screens here—I’m always worried about him back in Ramsay Garden. Dougie?”
Alasdair opened the door of the broom closet and flipped on the light. “He’s used his loo.”
“Dougie! Breakfast time!”
Alasdair switched the light off, then with almost a double-take, peered into the shadows. “Well, now, that’s right interesting.”
“What?” Jean tried to peer past him.
“See that bit of light just there?”
She shoved him half a step aside and looked. The far end of the closet was illuminated by a thin strip of, well, not light exactly. Not-darkness. Which wavered suddenly as a small body leaped through it and into the closet.
Both Jean and Alasdair jerked back, then laughed as Dougie came strutting past the brooms and piping, whiskers at full smirk. Brushing by his attentive audience, he headed straight for the kitchen. “Fetch the torch,” said Alasdair, squeezing back into the closet.
Jean got the flashlight and placed it in his outstretched hand, then pressed herself into the closet behind him. The beam of light revealed an opening cut through the thickness of the stone wall, perhaps a foot tall and eight inches wide. At the far end it was partially covered by a broken piece of wood—the paneling in the Laigh Hall. It moved aside when Alasdair pushed at it, opening onto shadow.
“He’s found himself a secret passage. Is that an arrow slit that was once on an outside wall? Or a serving hatch from the old kitchen?”
Jean eased herself back out into the flat. “It’s too small for a hatch, and that was never an outside wall. I bet it’s a squint, a spyhole. The Laird’s Lug.”
“I’ll tack a bit of plywood over it, keep the moggie within bounds.” Alasdair emerged from the closet and switched off the flashlight.
Dougie was sitting next to his bowl, his head cocked to the side, obviously thinking, first they run about looking for me, then they neglect me. Humans!
With a low bow, Jean made him an offering of kibble. Then she poured out two cups of steaming black elixir, handed Alasdair a cup, added milk to her own, and drank. Another brain cell stirred to life. “The Laird’s Lug, or ‘ear.’ The laird would eavesdrop on his guests or petitioners or workers—the people waiting around to see him. The hole was probably covered by a tapestry or something, the equivalent of a secret microphone today.”
“He’d learn a thing or two to his advantage, if not to theirs.” Disdaining the proffered milk carton, Alasdair took a swig of coffee, straight up. “That’s likely listed in the old P and S survey. I’ll have a wee keek after breakfast.”
“Speaking of which . . .” Jean gathered the supplies she’d brought and assembled muffins and eggs. They ate off the ordinary pottery from the cabinet, leaving Minty’s crystal and china gleaming in the drainer. “I’ll take her things back when I go to lunch, er, luncheon. I hope her new creations are as good as last night’s food, and she hasn’t gotten carried away with something weird like anchovy ice cream.”
“The food was good, but then, we had a bit of an appetite.” Alasdair only kept his deadpan lack-of-expression for a few seconds. His grin broke through like sunshine through storm clouds, exposing slightly uneven teeth that just added to the charm. Alasdair. Charm. Who knew?
Jean knew. She grinned back at him. “You did hear the footsteps, right? And the harp music?”
“Obliging of Isabel to play accompaniment—if that’s what we were hearing.”
“I don’t think we were hearing the wind, or anything like that, but no, it might not have been the ghost playing the Ferniebank Clarsach.”
“Usually these things are explained away with, it’s music from a radio, or, it’s someone playing a CD or the like. Though if it’s someone playing silly beggars, I’d like to know how they managed it.”
“And why they bothered.” Jean grinned again. “But what if it was Isabel? We might have been hearing the same music played on the same instrument that Robert the Bruce heard. By the same hands that Mary Stuart heard playing. No matter how you try to un-romanticize them, they’re still important historical figures. Suddenly I’m not so dubious about that dratted paranormal allergy.”
“Even though it was when we found we had the same allergy . . .” He let the sentence trail away into a rueful smile.
He understood. Jean reached over and took his hand. Outside, the gate clanged open. Feet clumped across the gravel. With a quick squeeze, Alasdair released her hand and leaped to the window. “Well now. Roddy Elliot’s got a key as well.” He reached for the doorknob, then spun around and strode back to the bedroom.
No, Jean thought, the P and S caretaker wasn’t going to impress anyone wearing pajamas. Especially not a farmer who’d probably been up since dawn. She peered out from behind the curtain to see a raw-boned man lumbering across the courtyard. His wellie boots were splashed and his pants stained, and his sweater, an intricate Fair Isle knit, trailed broken ends of yarn.
Crows called from the top of the keep. Roddy stopped and looked up, shading his eyes with a knobbly hand. Jean thought he was going to start cawing back.
Then Alasdair brushed by her and through the front door, fully dressed, although, she assumed, still unshaven. Since he wasn’t as dark-complected as P.C. Logan, though, he didn’t appear disreputable, just casual. “Mr. Elliot,” he called.
Roddy looked around, his hooked nose leading, like an accusatory finger.
“Good morning. May I be of assistance?”
“My fishing tackle needs seeing to.” His voice was deep, his words slow, as though he was pulling each one from a bog.
Alasdair waited.
“It’s in the wee shed here.”
“You have yourself a key, then,” said Alasdair.
Lifting his hand, Roddy displayed two keys dangling from a ring looped over his middle finger. In the US, that would almost have been a rude gesture.
“There’s fishing tackle in the lumber room, aye, but it’s listed on my inventory as belonging to Wallace Rutherford.”
“He’s left it to me, hasn’t he?” Roddy was almost a head taller than Alasdair. His face was leathery, weatherbeaten, although Jean suspected that the bloodshot ruddiness of his cheeks and nose, as much as she could see of them above his scraggly gray beard, also signaled a taste for the water of life. He might look nothing whatsoever like Zoe, but the coiled, head-forward stances of grandfather and granddaughter were not dissimilar.
Alasdair drew himself up. “And why’s he done that? You were mates, were you now?”
From somewhere behind her, Jean heard the warble of “Ode to Joy.” Her cell phone. She’d never turned it off last night. She lunged for her backpack, pulled out the phone, and peered at the screen. Miranda Capaldi. “Hey, Miranda.”
“I’m not waking you, am I?” her partner’s dulcet voice asked.
“Heavens no. We’re up and about and Alasdair’s outside having words with the farmer from across the road.” She sidled back to the window. The two men had moved toward the far end of the outbuilding. Even as she watched, Roddy applied his key to a lock and pushed open a door. Both men stepped inside, out of her sight.
“Well then,” said Miranda, and paused delicately.
“No gory details,” Jean reminded her. “No gore. Not in this century, anyway.”
Miranda laughed.
“If you’re calling to tell me that Minty changed the time of her function to noon, you’re too late. The woman herself dropped by yesterday, with the sort of picnic hamper you’d expect to find at Balmoral.”
“Oh aye, that’s one reason I’m phoning. Sorry. The Puppetry show last night was a bit—distracting.”
Jean thought of several double entendres but restrained herself, not wanting to direct Miranda’s attention back to her own night’s activities.
“Also, I’ve got a bit of catnip for you. I met John Balfour—John-the-ledger-book, our accountant—for breakfast and tax strategies this morning. When I told him where you’ve gone, he said he’s strategizing for Ciara Macquarrie as well, helped organize Mystic Scotland some years since.”
Hm, Jean thought. If Alasdair had been married to Ciara before Mystic Scotland . . .
“Mind you,” Miranda went on, “he’s not at liberty to reveal all. Nor should he do.”
“You don’t want him talking about us to anyone else.”
“Quite right. Even so, when I was working on the series about the financial aspects of the tourist economy, he handed me several examples of councils giving tax relief and permissions to create tourist destinations, one of them being Stanelaw and Mystic Scotland.”
“Plus, I hear Ciara bought Ferniebank from Angus Rutherford to begin with.”
“So John was saying. Clever Angus, eh?” Miranda said. “There’s more. John hemmed and hawed, but I finally drew him out. A very large sum indeed went into Ciara’s account this last month, at least a hundred thousand pounds, I reckon.”
Jean whistled. “Did it come from Angus? Or from somewhere else?”
“Not from Angus. He and Minty went into debt to build the cooking school, I’m hearing—though not from John, mind. What I am hearing from him is that Ciara already had the backers for her health center and all before she went to Stanelaw Council, though I suppose the money could have been a late investment.”
“No reason to think something underhanded is going on here. Well, other than the usual conflict of interest or pork barreling or whatever.” Jean strolled into the kitchen and back again. “The Rutherfords got a grant from the Ancient Monuments Commission for the dig and stabilization. Protect and Survive was paying Wallace his salary. Angus and Minty probably never got much income from Ferniebank—these places cost more to maintain than they bring in. No surprise they’d finally sell up.”
“Ah, but John was telling me they’re getting a percentage of future income.”
“That’s a good move, taking profits but not liability. Assuming there are profits, although with Ciara peddling the whole occult thing along with massages and aromatherapy, there will be. Ciara and Minty are stranger bedfellows than . . .” Ciara and Alasdair, Jean finished silently.
Miranda’s throaty laugh tickled Jean’s ear. “Now I’d best be sharpening my blue pencil. One of the free-lancers has handed in an article twice as long as we’ve got space for. No rest for the weary, Saturday or no.”
Jean’s phone beeped. “No rest for the rested. I’m getting another call. Just a minute.”
“No problem. I’ve said my piece. As for you, I’m expecting a report on Minty’s newest concoctions. Cheerio.”
“Will do. Bye.” Saved by the beep. Eventually Jean would have to thrill Miranda with Ciara’s not-so-secret identity as the former Mrs. Cameron, but until then . . . She pressed buttons. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Jean.” Hugh sounded chipper, as usual. Well, it was past ten o’clock now. He was probably making good progress on his first mug of milky tea.
“Hi, Hugh. How are things back at Ramsay Garden?”
“Ah, the music, the singing, the drinking. A proper Festival ceilidh, it is.”
“Just remember to throw out the empties, please. The bottles, although there will probably be people you’ll need to throw out, too.”
“Not to worry,” Hugh said with a chuckle. “I’ve got some eye-opening news for you, although I’m thinking your eyes must already be open.”
Jean had just redirected her eyes to the window. Roddy was exiting the outbuilding empty-handed, while Alasdair locked the door. The farmer stomped through the gateway, hands clenched at his sides, upper body so stiff Jean could almost detect the bolts driven through his neck. Alasdair tossed Roddy’s keys up in the air, caught them, then strolled across to shut and lock the gate once again. Very good, Jean thought. My hero. To Hugh she said, “Sorry. What news is that?”
“The Ferniebank Clarsach. It’s been recovered.”
“Really? Cool! We were just talking about that. Where? When? Who took it? Why?” The door opened and Alasdair stepped inside. Jean waved frantically, stopping him in his tracks. He shut the door slowly, as though wondering whether he should take cover behind it instead.
Hugh was saying, “It’s turned up at an auction house in London. My pal Dominic works for them, evaluating and repairing musical instruments and the like. They knocked him up early this morning, told him to be getting himself to the office quick smart. The clarsach was left on the doorstep in a pasteboard box, like a clutch of kittens.”
“He recognized it immediately, then.”
“Oh aye. The description and photos and all, they’ve been posted on the stolen art and artifact network for days now. Dominic rang me straightaway.”
“Wow. It sounds like the person who stole it had an attack of conscience. Or decided it was too hot to handle.”
“Thanks to modern communications for that,” said Hugh. “Almost makes me feel better about illegal file-sharing and muzak.”
“The clarsach?” Alasdair asked, stepping closer.
Jean gave him a thumbs-up, then turned her thumb warily sideways. “It’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Well,” Hugh answered, dragging out the word, “Dominic’s saying it’s been disassembled. Just as well it wasn’t carved from a single block of wood like many—it could be dismembered without ruining it. Dominic reckons all the parts are accounted for and it can be restored.”
“It was taken apart? Why?”
Alasdair’s brows drew together in a frown.
“I haven’t got a clue. Neither did the villains that vandalized it, apparently,” Hugh stated.
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll tell . . . Well, no, I bet Minty Rutherford was on top of the ‘need to know’ list, being director of the museum.”
“No question of that. Take care, Jean. Oh, and I hope you’re enjoying yourselves.”
“No question of that,” she replied, hit the “end” button, and turned to Alasdair.