The Burning Glass (11 page)

He looked at her incredulously, his eyes
glinting doubly blue and doubly chill in the lamplight. “Eh? What
are you on about?”

He thought she’d changed the subject, and for
once couldn’t keep up with her. Or refused to try. No need to pick
at scabs, after all. Jean called a truce by gesturing toward the
castle. “You were going to lock up, weren’t you? It’s past dinner
time, and when I get hungry I get irritable.”

Despite that opening, all he said was, “Aye.
Time to be locking the doors,” and marched back up the steps. The
harsh yellow light framed by the arched entrance winked out,
leaving only the queasy blue-tinted light caught by the ancient
walls, and a wash of silver on the sky above—clouds were moving in,
seeing off the last rosy gleam of sunset and veiling the stars and
moon. The delectable odor of peat smoke was coming from the farm
across the road. Jean imagined Roddy offering Zoe tea and bannocks,
and she rejecting them for a Coke and a bag of crisps.

With a reverberating thud the thick, wooden,
iron-ribbed door slammed shut. A jingle, like ice cubes in a
bucket, must be Alasdair wielding a ring of keys.

Skeleton keys? Jean imagined particles of
bone, chalky fingertips, turned in the keyholes of walled-up doors.
The facade of the castle looked even darker and more dour, with
only the two dim squares of light in the lower corner, the front
windows of the flat, to indicate that the place was not a natural
cliff face. She thought of all the shadowed rooms behind those
thick walls, and wondered to what sort of step the floorboards
creaked.

Walking rather than marching, Alasdair locked
the door of the shop, too, then returned to her side.

“The kids were going to find their way up and
down those staircases with no more than a penlight?” Jean asked.
“And let themselves be locked in?”

“They were playing at goths and vampires, I
reckon, the way Ciara plays at auras and ley lines. Might explain
the fossilized condom I cleared away from an upper room.”

“Gross! That’s hardly the sort of place I’d
choose for a romantic encounter.” She could sense Alasdair’s wry
gaze on the side of her face. “You know what I mean. Cold stones,
old wooden floors, splinters, whatever.”

“I’m not thinking romance had anything to do
with it.”

“Please tell me it wasn’t those kids. They’re
so young. Sixteen, do you think? I was a lot younger than that when
I was sixteen.”

“As was I.”

She could imagine all sorts of
creepy-crawlies, but not Alasdair as a child. “Were they
eavesdropping on us? I’m not even sure what I said.”

“Nothing incriminating,” he returned. He
didn’t go so far as to stretch, but his carapace had obviously
cracked a bit. A good thing he didn’t realize what the thickness of
that shell revealed about the vulnerable creature inside.

Jean said, “I guess the kids could have let
themselves down from a window.”

“After they replaced the inscribed stone.
Assuming Zoe was not lying about bringing it back. I should have
had Derek turn his pockets out as well.”

“What does he have in his pocketses,
precious?” Jean murmured, evoking Tolkien to drive back the
dark.

Alasdair emitted a dusty chuckle. From the
heights of the castle came not the harsh calls of crows but the
cooing of pigeons, liquid warbles blending with the sough of the
wind.

Jean decided to take the switch in
ornithological commentary as a good omen. “You can show me the
chapel tomorrow. Now it’s time to get, er, cooking.”

He rose to the bait with a thin smile. “The
gate needs closing. Then I’ll cook our dinner.”

“No need, I’ve actually worked out some
recipes.”

Headlights raked the side of the keep like
flares bursting over a battlefield. A car turned in through the
gateway, a tall boxy car that was probably a Range Rover. Where,
Jean asked herself, had she just seen a Range Rover? And as its
lights silhouetted her and Alasdair like soon-to-be highway
hamburger, she remembered. In the driveway at Glebe House.

In the moment before the car stopped, Jean
envisioned their faces screwed into grimaces at the sudden light,
caught in the act. Then the headlights went out and she
blinked.

When she could see again, she saw Minty
Rutherford stepping out onto the gravel, graceful as a mink in the
dim illumination of the car’s dome lamp. Now her tweed jacket was
draped over her shoulders, revealing a string of pearls looped down
the front of her sweater. She pushed the door to, extinguishing the
light, and turned toward Jean and Alasdair with her hand extended.
“Good evening, Mr. Cameron, Miss Fairbairn. Araminta Rutherford.
Minty, to be as casual as most folk feel they have a right to be
these days. Welcome to Stanelaw.”

“Thank you,” said Alasdair, and shook her
hand.

Jean always found Miranda’s designer clothes
to be entertaining. Minty’s impeccable tailoring, though, made her
feel like a peasant clinging to the back of the turnip truck. Even
the woman’s neutral shades—clothing, skin, hair, all in tints of
brown and cream—held their own in the unflattering fluorescent glow
of the yard light, while Jean knew her own complexion was glowing
like fungus.

Fashion inadequacy was her problem, not
Minty’s. “Good to be here,” Jean said, baring her teeth in what she
hoped was a pleasant smile. Changing the stone flake to her left
hand, she grasped the paragon’s smooth, dry fingers, which only
perfunctorily returned her grasp and then wafted away.

“What have you got there?” Minty asked.

“A bit of inscribed rock,” answered Jean.

“We found it in the castle just a few moments
ago,” Alasdair added, his words signaling Jean not to spill the
entire story.

Minty reached for the stone. “Could it be
part of the inscription on Isabel Sinclair’s grave? That’s been
vandalized repeatedly over the years.”

Having no rational excuse not to, Jean handed
over the stone.

“The style of the letters is sixteenth
century,” said Minty, holding the artifact at pearl level.

“You’re well informed,” Alasdair told
her.

“Thank you. My husband, Angus, and I are
antiquarians. He’s responsible for setting up the town museum, as
you probably already know, Mr. Cameron.”

Whether he knew that or not, Alasdair nodded
sagely.

“Angus was hoping the excavations some years
ago would turn up the missing bit of the inscription, a carving of
the clarsach, but, sadly, no.” Minty handed the stone back.

Jean glanced suspiciously at it, but if Minty
had anything up her sleeve, it was more likely to be an extra ace
or two than a counterfeit shard of gravestone. She stuffed the
stone flake into the pocket of her jacket, where its weight pulled
her off-balance. “You’ve seen pictures of the original
inscription?”

“Yes, there are drawings in the museum made
by Angus’s great-grandfather Gerald. Along with, I’m sorry to say,
a copy of Gerald’s epic poem on the subject of Isabel and
Ferniebank, written in the style of James Hogg’s‘The Queen’s Wake.’
” Minty slipped her jacket off her shoulders and put it on. The
scent of what had to be Chanel No. 5 tickled Jean’s nostrils and
was gone. “Your colleague Miss Capaldi tells me you’ll be joining
us for luncheon tomorrow.”

“Lunch?” Jean knew that small black holes
infested her brain, but she didn’t think the time of the invitation
had fallen into one.

“Then Miss Capaldi hasn’t informed you yet.
I’ve taken the liberty of planning a small luncheon instead of tea,
hoping you and the other guests will be kind enough to taste some
of my new creations that are bringing traditional recipes into the
present day.”

“Oh. No problem.” Jean glanced at Alasdair,
who shrugged slightly in response. The castle opened at noon, but
unless a three-ring circus arrived on the doorstep, he could handle
it alone.

“Dr. Campbell-Reid will be coming as
well.”

Rebecca and Michael were both PhDs of
long-enough standing that neither of them bothered answering to the
honorific any more, but Jean assumed that in the ladies-luncheon
context, Minty meant Rebecca. “I’m looking forward to, er, hearing
about the new development in the area.”

“All of which has brought negative
developments as well, I’m afraid.” Minty’s deprecating smile was
just a bit fixed, but her voice, low and mellow as a cello, didn’t
waver. Neither did her dark eyes beneath their heavy lids.

Alasdair said, “We’re very sorry to hear of
Mr. Wallace Rutherford’s death.”

“And the theft of the Ferniebank Clarsach,”
added Jean.

“These unfortunate happenstances do seem to
come in waves.”

Happenstance?
Jean asked herself.
Or even coincidence?

Alasdair leaped boldly onto another item on
the Stanelaw blotter, one that might imply criminal action. “Have
you had any news of your husband?”

“He’ll be returning straightaway,” Minty
replied, her lashes dropping over those cavernous eyes.

Jean darted a glance toward Alasdair, meeting
his glance at her in mid-air. Did that mean Minty had heard from
Angus? If not, why was she giving an estimated time of
reappearance? There might be something to Miranda’s rumor about the
marriage being in trouble.

After a long pause, Jean did the right thing
and said, “Please come in.” She didn’t actually gesture toward the
flat—Minty might see her crossed fingers.

“Thank you, no, I shan’t intrude upon your
evening. I wanted merely to bring you a light supper.” Opening the
back of the Rover, Minty produced a wicker picnic hamper the size
of an ottoman. She handed off the basket like Queen Victoria
sitting down, not bothering to look behind her for a receiver.

Jean and Alasdair both lunged. Jean came up
with the handles of the basket. It was heavier than she’d expected,
and she almost fumbled it. From inside came the clatter of
crockery, hopefully still intact.

“Very kind of you.” Alasdair relieved Jean of
her burden and set it down at his feet.

“Thanks,” Jean added, to him as much as to
Minty. She shook out her right arm, wondering whether it was now an
inch longer.

Minty shut the back of the car and looked
around. “It’s getting on for nine o’clock, isn’t it? I’d expected
the gates to be closed by now.”

“We were delayed,” Alasdair told her, and
when she waited for further explanation, went on, “Two local youths
hadn’t yet left the premises.”

“Zoe Brimberry, I expect. Only yesterday she
was wearing hair ribbons and pinafores, and now she looks to be the
worst sort of guttersnipe. No respect for her elders at all, and
telling the most outlandish tales. And Derek Trotter—he’s a bad
influence on her. No surprise there, his mother Valerie, well, we
all wished her and her child well when she left the area. Pity that
she saw fit to return after all these years. As the twig is bent,
I’m afraid, as the twig is bent.”

Jean thought of Valerie Trotter attempting
twig-bending by cell phone outside the pub, and decided that for
all her demands, little Linda Campbell-Reid was a parenting
pushover.

“Zoe’s sister Shannon, now, is less intent on
playing the toerag, but still . . . Well, poor Noel and Polly,
they’re doing their best.”

Minty was fishing for the identity of the
youths, wasn’t she? Alasdair parried. “Good job the gate wasn’t
closed or you’d not have gotten in.”

“I’ve got a key.”

Jean’s gaze moved from Minty’s serene face to
Alasdair’s lack of expression.
Wait for it
. . .

“That’s right good to hear,” he said.
“Protect and Survive’s after accounting for all the keys. I’ll be
collecting them in good time to turn over to Ms. Macquarrie.”

Minty’s peach-colored lips curved up at the
ends. “Ciara Macquarrie’s your former wife, I believe, Mr.
Cameron?”

“Aye, that she is.”

Minty’s aloof gaze turned toward Jean.
“Changing partners is quite the thing these days. Even without
benefit of matrimony.”

“You’ve been married for a long time?” Jean
tried her own parry.

“Thirty years last spring.”

“Do you and Ang—er, Mr. Rutherford have
children?”

“We have not been so fortunate, no.”

Jean would have guessed that from Minty’s
criticism of the Brimberrys and Trotters. “It’s very kind of you to
take an interest in Zoe, then.”

“Her grandmother Helen was my assistant for
many years. After she unfortunately became ill, Zoe’s mother Polly
did her best to take her place. And her grandfather Roddy”—Minty
gestured toward the farm—“he provides milk, butter, and cream to
the community, although it’s not always of the quality that I
require.”

“I’m hearing that Helen Elliot died
recently,” said Alasdair.

“Such a sad event, but then, the traditional
Scottish diet contributes to coronary disease.”

“Roddy must have been gutted at losing
Wallace as well, so soon after.”

“That’s hard to say. Roddy and Wallace went
on at each other like stags in rut. At their ages! Helen always
said they were harmless enough, but then Helen was often the issue.
Well, it’s all in the past now.”

“Wallace must have been very fit for his
age,” Alasdair persisted.

“Once he was spry as a mountain goat. But,
sadly, our Wallace’s eighty years were catching him up. Another
unfortunate example of our national epidemic of heart disease.”

“He’d worked for P and S since the castle was
opened up.”

“It was very good of Protect and Survive to
keep him on here, even though he should have been retired some
years ago. But he did so enjoy his job. That was one reason we
opened Ferniebank to visitors, to give him useful work after the
death of his wife and his retirement as headmaster of Kelso High
School. The site was becoming a bit of a danger as well, to say
nothing of an eyesore. Much better to tidy it up and allow it
generate income for the community.”