Authors: Lillian Stewart Carl
“About the house?” Rebecca asked, smothering a rather warped grin. “The collection is more idiosyncratic than I’d imagined.”
“About the house,” affirmed Michael, settling on laughter. He sauntered down the room, floorboards squeaking, to a semicircular window seat snugged inside a turret. “It’s right mixtie-maxtie. I wager old John didna ken the half of what he had.”
“Do you think he has Admiral Nelson’s glass eye around here somewhere?”
Michael leaned his elbow against the window frame and looked out. “He has the Earl of Montrose’s heart.”
“What?” Rebecca creaked down the room and looked out the other side of the turret. Below the window the driveway streaked the lawn like a line on a map and disappeared into the trees. She felt as if she were in the crow’s nest of a ship sailing a sea of maple leaves.
“Charles II sent Montrose to Scotland in 1650… .”
“I know that. But his heart?”
Michael cocked an eyebrow— squeamish? “There’s a receipt for it among James’s lists, signed by some retired brigadier in Swansea, of all places.”
“Well,” said Rebecca gamely, “people in the Middle Ages used to venerate the body parts of holy men and women.”
“Montrose was hardly a saint. Well kent, aye.”
“Like as not some soldier there beneath the scaffold simply helped himself to a souvenir.”
They considered each other for a moment. Michael essayed, “Rumor has it that Elizabeth Curle… ”
“Mary’s lady-in-waiting who commissioned the portrait downstairs.”
“… rescued Queen Mary’s severed head and took it to Antwerp.”
“Wouldn’t John have loved that? He could’ve carried it around with him like Walter Raleigh’s wife carried her husband’s head in a velvet bag.” Rebecca shivered, a cold draft sliding through the window and tightening her shoulders. “I’ll tell you one thing Forbes doesn’t have: Mary’s death mask. I saw it at Lennoxlove, outside Edinburgh, last summer with Ray.” The name clunked as heavily as the nocturnal footsteps into the silence.
“The bloke in your photograph?”
If she’d peeked into Michael’s room, he’d peeked into hers. “Yes,” she answered. Interesting how her mouth didn’t add, “my fiance.” Michael gazed out the window, Mary and Montrose much more relevant to him than Ray Kocurek. Rebecca rushed on. “Not that the death mask looks much like the effigy downstairs, but I guess that was idealized.”
“Supposedly the one was modeled on the other.”
She crossed her arms. “A sarcophagus in your front hall, even a half-size one. John must’ve been one of the great nineteenth-century eccentrics.”
“Not so much as you’d think. The rich can afford to be slightly daft. In fact, they’re expected to be. John was quite mindful of his social status. I’ll show you some of the newspaper cuttin’s when we go back down.”
There was a distinct draft along the floor as well, wrapping around Rebecca’s ankles like a cold purr of a reptilian cat. She hugged herself. “If I had any money, I’d be glad to act crazy and amuse the peasants.”
“They say money can’t buy happiness, although I’d like to give it a try.” Michael straightened, his fingers rippling the pages in his notebook. The tiny whirring sound complemented the rustling of the trees. “Speakin’ of which, there’s a particularly interestin’ series of cuttin’s about Elspeth’s death. I doot there’s more to that than ever made the dailies. The verdict of the inquest was suppressed for a time, you know.”
“No, I don’t know. The book just said that she died.”
“Oh aye,” exclaimed Michael. “Something you dinna ken?” He paused for effect. “She jumped or fell from this very window.”
The cold in Rebecca’s shoulders wriggled down her spine to splash against the cold in her ankles. “Suicide?”
“Apparently. But John would’ve preferred bein’ up for murder, I wager, than admittin’ his wife killed herself rather than live wi’ him.”
“It wasn’t murder, though?”
“No one else was in this room when she fell, or there might’ve been some suspicion.”
“The young woman married to the old man,” said Rebecca. “A classic story. Poor Elspeth— that was the only way out of her trap.”
“They laid her out on her own bed, there in front of Mary’s portrait. After she was gone,” he concluded wistfully, “there were nae more parties.”
Rebecca remembered how Michael had fluffed the pillow. He wasn’t completely immune to Elspeth’s mysterious charms. “In 1901 James was nine. And he fell down the stairs two months ago.”
“Aye, the family seems to have had a right problem wi’ gravity.” He would have been completely deadpan, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Michael,” Rebecca began reprovingly, and then, “Dr. Campbell… . “Despite herself, she, too, smiled.
“Well then, Miss Reid,” he said, “it’s awful cold up here. We should be gettin’… ” A pickup truck was coming up the driveway, the roar of its engine and the crunch of its tires on the gravel muted by distance. “The Pruitts,” said Michael. “I’ll let them in, shall I?”
Rebecca watched him until he disappeared down the stairs. For a moment they’d almost been comrades, sifting the ashes of old scandals. He knew his history. He’d accepted that she knew hers.
She stepped closer to the window and considered the relentless ground far below. She imagined Elspeth falling, skirts fluttering madly, hair flying from its pins. It had taken courage to step out into the empty air. Not as much courage, though, as it would have taken to stay flat-footedly anchored to the stone and wood of Dun Iain.
Crimson maple leaves whirled across the window. The wind was rising. Maybe there would be a storm.
The sunlight on the floor thinned and faded as clouds raced across the sky, damping its blue to gray. From her sixth-floor eyrie Rebecca looked down at the foreshortened shapes of the Pruitts. The middle-aged man wearing a checked shirt, sleeveless quilted vest, and a baseball cap must be Phil. Therefore the younger one was his son, Steve. He was dressed in black, half his head only stubble and the other sporting a long lock of greasy hair almost covering one eye. The earphones of a Walkman were affixed like the antennae of a sci-fi monster to his ears.
A huge labrador bounded out of the back of the truck and sprinted across the lawn in pursuit of a fleeing wisp of butterscotch and white fur.
Rebecca’s breath fogged the glass. “Darnley! Run!” But the cat was already up a tree, perched on a branch, no doubt wishing himself a leopard as the dog capered beneath. Frenzied barking echoed like gunshots.
“Aw shaddup!” shouted Phil. He plodded toward the front door, lopsided from the weight of the toolbox he carried. Steve ambled toward the shed, his limbs jerking in response to the thankfully inaudible music.
And here came another car up the driveway, a gray Volvo gleaming like mother of pearl in a brief ray of sun. Rebecca glanced at her watch. Noon already. That must be the lawyer.
The window gave abruptly and she jumped back.
Oh, it hadn’t been latched. The top sash had slipped a couple of inches. Shaking her head at herself, Rebecca shut the window, latched it, and rubbed the steamy patch of her breath from it with her sleeve. No screens, she noted, true to British prototype.
Her jaw dropped at the gorgeous figure stepping from the Volvo. He wore a dark blue suit and a maroon tie, and his black hair was trimmed just so, conservatively close to the head. His sunglasses turned this way and that, looking from castle to dog to the ludicrous figure of Steve Pruitt. Not that she was familiar with designer clothing, but Rebecca swore the man was plastered with labels like a steamer trunk after an around the world voyage.
Eric took a briefcase from the car and turned toward the front door. Steve stood clutching hoe and pruning shears, staring after him. Envious, Rebecca thought. Or perhaps scornful of the classy business suit and tie.
The dog was gone. No, there he was, sniffing among the trees like the Hound of the Baskervilles. Darnley was scampering for the house.
A vague fluttering came from the ceiling, blackbirds probably roosting in the chimneys. The wind whined around the turrets and cupolas of the roof. Rebecca seemed to be watching an old movie with the volume turned down, the images moving among eerie suggestions of sounds. Maybe this was how Elspeth had felt, looking down from her gilded cage at scenes irrevocably beyond her reach.
Rebecca walked sedately down to her room and looked at Elspeth’s painted face with new interest. What tragic eyes, contrasting curiously with such a sharply honed chin!
Comb and lipstick— there, Rebecca thought, she was as presentable as she would ever be. In the edge of the mirror she saw the door of her wardrobe standing open. The smell of lavender had ebbed overnight, and she had left the door shut. Surely she had left it shut. A couple of blouses lay draped over the rim of the opening. Frowning, she replaced them, vowing to have a word or two with Dorothy about going through her things.
Voices came faintly from below, Dorothy’s high-pitched yammer, a deep bassoon drawl that must be Phil, and the impeccable baritone, even richer now than it had been over the telephone. Michael’s lilt was clipped of its diphthong extravagances like a sheep shorn of its fleece.
Rebecca passed Phil Pruitt on the stairs, shrinking to the side to avoid being scooped up by his box of tools like a cow caught by a locomotive’s cowcatcher. Dorothy’s voice clung to his heels, “Children have no self-respect anymore, they just can’t be bothered to dress properly.”
“Aw,” Phil shouted back over his shoulder, “leave the boy alone, he’s just playacting with those friends of his. They all look like that. Don’t hurt nothing.” He turned, saw Rebecca, and didn’t startle in the least. “Afternoon,” he said, with a laconic nod, and climbed on by. His back pocket was distended by a can of snuff and a grotesque Grimm Brothers key the twin of the one Michael had used to lock the front door.
Michael was seated at the table in the Hall, his notebook open before him, a porcelain teapot upside down in his hand. Narrowly he inspected its maker’s mark, set it down, made a notation in his book. Eric Adler stood beside him, just slipping his sunglasses into his jacket pocket. “Sevres china? That’s quite valuable. You’ll have to pack it very carefully to get it back to Scotland without breaking it.”
“There’s an allowance for professional packin’,” replied Michael, never raising his eyes from the page.
Eric looked over Michael’s shoulder at the book. “You’re choosing all the best things, I see.”
“That,” said Michael, “is what they hired me to do. No sense in payin’ a fortune to have a bloody jumble sale shipped back to the Auld Country.” His brows tightened over his eyes like the proscenium arch of a theater.
“Yes, of course.” Eric raised his hands as if calming a rabid dog. He saw Rebecca standing in the doorway and his wary expression broke into a smile. His teeth were crowded together awkwardly, an engaging flaw in an otherwise strong, square, classically handsome face. “Ms. Reid? Rebecca, isn’t it?”
Oh my, she thought. She stepped forward, hand extended. “Eric. Nice to meet you.”
He shook her hand. His clasp lingered perhaps a moment too long, but his smile was openly, honestly appreciative. Maybe, Rebecca thought, he’d been expecting the stereotypical dried-up academic with wire-rimmed glasses, just as she’d been expecting someone along the lines of Marcus Welby.
Michael inspected a pewter candlestick and made another note in his book. Dorothy dusted the chess set, every line of her back alert to the conversation taking place behind her. Rebecca was surprised her ears didn’t swivel like a cat’s.
“There are the inventories.” Eric indicated several rusty black notebooks stacked next to his open briefcase. “James typed these up in the forties, and I’m afraid the ink has faded over the years. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get them here any sooner than this.” He glanced across the table.
“No problem,” muttered Michael to the candlestick.
“We appreciate your bringing them now.” Rebecca picked up one of the books and leafed quickly through it. The paper was yellowed on the edges and scalped by erasures. The darkest areas of type were those with overstrikes and crossed out words. She chose a page at random. “Portrait of William, 18th Earl of Sutherland. By Winterhalter. Purchased from Lord Alistair Sutherland-Leveson-Gower, London, 1898.” Yes, she remembered that particular portrait, a lantern-jawed individual wearing a scarlet jacket and kilt. It was in the fourth floor hallway outside the door of Michael’s room.
Eric asked, “Satisfactory?”
“Oh, yes. Very helpful.” She shut the book and laid it back on the table. Bits of the black paper cover stuck to her hand.
They stood smiling at each other; his eyes, she saw, were smoky gray. Michael set the candlestick down with a thunk. Dorothy turned around. Darnley squeezed through the railings of the piper’s gallery, leaped onto the sideboard and then to the floor, landing just beside Eric. Eric jumped.
“Got you, too,” Rebecca laughed. “The house likes to startle people.”
The cat twined around his ankles, sniffing curiously at his shiny shoes. Eric’s face went ashen. Dorothy, puckered with disapproval, seized the little animal and tossed him out onto the landing. “Shoo,” she stage-whispered. “You know Mr. Adler doesn’t like cats.” Darnley trotted away, his tail an exclamation point of disgruntlement.
For just a moment Rebecca thought a cold sweat glistened on Eric’s forehead. Some people had a phobia about cats… . He collected himself and laughed a slightly forced laugh. “Please forgive me. I— I have nothing against the animal, you understand, but I have bad allergies.”
“What a shame.” Rebecca shot a severe glance at Michael’s simpering expression, evidently meant to imitate a Victorian lady having the vapors.
Eric, tanned complexion and equilibrium restored, pulled a long, narrow sack from his briefcase. “Here’s a small housewarming gift. Surely, in your profession, you’ve enjoyed single-malt Scotch.”
Rebecca accepted the bag and pulled out a bottle. “Laphroaig! My favorite brand! What a treat— how thoughtful. Thank you.”
Eric’s smile broadened into a grin, savoring the effect he was having.