The Mysteries (13 page)

Her words came out with peculiar force and seemed to hang in the air. Martin said nothing, and I drank the rest of my tea-milk like someone taking medicine.

Margaret Campbell slipped off the edge of the desk. “I must go. I have a class,” she said. She looked at me. “I'm sorry, I haven't helped. It probably wasn't your girl at all.”

“You've been very helpful,” I told her. “At least this gives me somewhere to start.”

When she'd gone, Martin wandered over and peered at my empty cup. “More tea?”

I repressed a shudder. “No, thank you.”

“Well.” He gnawed a thumbnail thoughtfully, then went around the desk and took the seat there, directly opposite me, underneath the map of Scotland. “I don't know what else I can tell you. I spoke to all the others, volunteers and staff alike, and no one—except Jasmine—had any ideas. The others hadn't even realized she was missing. For whatever reason, she hadn't made any friends. No enemies either.”

A silence fell.

“If there's anything else I can do to help?” He peered at me over the top of his glasses.

I got up. “I'll let you know.”

A few minutes later I was back in the car, a map spread open on the seat beside me as I made my way slowly through the congested city streets toward the Great Western Road. Every once in a while a shock of astonishment, a tingling thrill, would run through me:
I'm in a foreign country!
But the prosaic need to concentrate (to add to my problems, the car was a stick shift, which I was out of the habit of driving) kept me from getting too carried away.

Once I was out of the city, traffic became lighter and I could relax a little. The rolling countryside, the high hills, lushly green, splashed with purple and streaks of rusty brown against a soft blue sky, made my spirits soar. The light kept changing, and the hills grew higher, the landscape more and more something out of a romantic poet's dream: It was like driving into a beautiful painting. If it weren't for the other cars, hurtling at insane speeds along the narrow, winding road, I could have believed I was traveling back in time. It was all so unlike anything I'd ever seen.

I'm in another country!

Aberfoyle was only thirty miles from Glasgow, but it was another world. It was a little village—not much more than one main street and a few clusters of houses—nestled in the foothills of the Trossachs. The gorgeous scenery was obviously its major asset: there were two hotels on the main drag, as well as a large, modern tourist information center. I followed signs directing me to the free parking lot and got out of the car at last with relief. I took a deep breath of the cool air, smelling woodsmoke and damp earth. My legs trembled and I felt weak and hungry.

Behind me was the Scottish Wool Centre, with a sign advertising the Spinning Wheel Coffee Shop, but I turned my back and made my way to the main street, where I found a pleasant-looking café. It wasn't noon yet, so most of the tables were free. I sat down next to a rack of brochures for the various local tourist attractions and read through them while I waited for my toasted cheese and ham sandwich.

“So wondrous wild, the whole might seem

The scenery of a fairy dream.”

Visitors to the Trossachs are still discovering the truth of Sir Walter Scott's description of the region. Aberfoyle, with the
Trossachs Discovery Centre
and
Scottish Wool Centre,
as well as many pleasant shops, cafés and restaurants, is an ideal place to begin your exploration of this uniquely beautiful area.

I set the brochure aside when my food arrived and stared out through the big plate-glass window at the passing traffic while I ate. There were quite a few people around. I guessed that the ones who walked briskly were locals, and the ones who dawdled were visitors trying to find something to do in this quiet little place. A Japanese family paused beside the window to inspect the menu, then moved on. They were followed by a cluster of blue-haired ladies who decided, after much discussion and gesturing toward the hotel across the street, to come in. A tour bus rumbled past. I saw the Japanese family go into the hotel across the street, then emerge a few minutes later. Two blond, healthy-looking young women wearing tank tops and shorts and hiking boots went striding by.

Before arriving, I'd imagined a young American woman in a small Scottish village would be immediately noticeable, but now, even though Aberfoyle was smaller than I'd expected, I wasn't so sure.

I'd booked myself a room in the bed-and-breakfast that had been Amy's last officially recorded residence, and although it was still early, I thought I might as well go there now. The owner, Mrs. MacDonald, had given me careful instructions on how to find it.

“Go out of the main car park and turn left onto the road to Kirkton. You'll cross a bridge over the river.
Don't
turn off at the Covenantor's Inn—a lot of people make that mistake! Stay on the road until you've gone past the ruined church and graveyard, and when you come to the
second
Y-junction, take the left-hand turning. Our house is the third on the left. It's called ‘The Rowans.' There's a sign with the name on the gate, but you'll probably notice the trees before that. If you have any trouble, ask anyone. Or give me a bell from the village and I'll send my son to fetch you.”

Kirkton—I needed no special fluency in the Scots language to guess it meant “church town”—was no more than half a mile from the center of Aberfoyle, but maybe the fact of being on the other side of the river had made people consider it a separate entity from what in Sir Walter Scott's day had been “the clachan at Aberfoyle.” The name also reminded me that Martin Deere had referred to “the Kirkton dig,” and I realized that, in my fixation on finding Amy, I hadn't asked him anything about it. I still had no idea where it was, or what it was about. I felt annoyed with myself. Although I didn't think it could have anything to do with Amy's disappearance—according to Mrs. Schneider, Amy had only a mild interest in archaeology, it was the idea of a working vacation that had appealed to her, and Scotland had been a second-best choice after Ireland—it had been a stupid oversight.

As I drove past the ruined church I recognized the hill on the horizon behind it and stopped the car.

Today, beneath clear skies and in sunshine, the heavily forested hill was more sharply defined against the sky than on the misty day when Martin Deere had taken his photograph. And, I realized, looking at the low stone wall surrounding the graveyard, this was probably the very spot where it had been taken.

I parked in front of the iron gates and went in to have a look.

The church might be a ruin, but it was obvious that the graveyard was still in use. The grass was carefully trimmed, the gravel paths edged and neat, and a couple of the graves, with newer marble headstones, were decorated with fresh flowers.

Making my way toward the remains of the church, I noticed a couple of what looked like heavy iron coffins, resting above ground on stone blocks. Later, I learned these were mort safes, used to protect against grave-robbing body snatchers.

It was nice to be out in the sunshine and fresh air, in the peace of the countryside. I could hear the faint, distant sound of hammering—maybe, somewhere in Aberfoyle, a house was being built—and from somewhere a bird called; otherwise, it was silent. I gazed across at Doon Hill, so green and soft-looking in the afternoon light, and wondered if Amy could be camping out up there. Maybe she'd fallen in love with this place and decided to stay.

In no hurry to move on, I wandered around the graveyard, the gravel of the path crunching beneath my shoes, pausing to read the occasional inscription.
TO THE MEMORY OF
. . .
IN LOVING MEMORY
. . . The oldest had phrases in Latin, or were illegible after years of wind, rain, and lichen.

I was feeling fine until a wave of weariness flooded me, and it was all I could do not to stretch out and go to sleep on one of the soft, green graves. I hurried back to the car and continued on my way.

The Rowans was just around the bend, out of sight of the graveyard and closer to the foot of the hill. I saw two slender trees, heavy with bright orange berries, and, just beyond, the modest, stone, two-story house named after them.

I parked on the drive and followed the path to the front door, admiring the neat and blooming garden.

Mrs. MacDonald was a brisk woman in early middle age who seemed rather taken aback to find me on her doorstep.

“Mr. Kennedy? Oh, my, you are early! I wasn't expecting you quite so soon—no, never mind about that, it doesn't matter,” she went on, cutting me off. “Just you come in and sit down. You can have a nice cup of tea and put your feet up in the lounge. Your room would have been ready, only the washing machine broke down yesterday, so that put me a bit behind. But don't worry, the sheets are clean, and they'll soon be dry. I wanted to make sure they were properly dry before putting them on the bed, of course. Come in, come in! Is that your bag? Leave it here in the hall, yes, just there.”

She ushered me into a very warm, pink, and fuzzy living room. The walls were cream-colored, but practically everything else, from the thickly napped carpet to the velvet curtains to the soft, plump sofa and matching armchairs was one shade or another of rose or plum or peach. The pictures on the walls were framed reproductions of rosy naked children and half-dressed women washing themselves. A coal fire burned in the gleaming grate, and, sitting as close to the fire as she could get without catching herself alight was a little old lady, who looked up as we came in.

“This is my mother-in-law, Mairi MacDonald,” said Mrs. MacDonald. “Everyone calls her Granny Mac. Granny,” she went on, raising her voice, “this is Mr. Kennedy, come all the way from America!”

She patted my arm. “Sit yourself down, Mr. Kennedy. I'll just make the tea.”

I sat down and smiled uncertainly at old Mrs. MacDonald. She was possibly the oldest woman I had ever met. She was very small and thin, as if she had dwindled with age. Her skin was very pale white except where it was mottled with brown spots, and there was no fat on her; the skin fit tight against the bone. Her eyes were a faded blue-grey behind thick, round glasses, and her fine white hair had been spun into a wispy bun like a ball of cotton on top of her narrow skull.

She stared at me in silence until I began to wonder, nervously, if she
could
speak, but finally she opened her mouth.

“What brings you to The Rowans, Mr. Kennedy?”

I was relieved. She looked and sounded perfectly
compos mentis.
“It's Ian, please. Actually, I'm looking for someone. A girl, Amy Schneider. She stayed here for a few weeks during the summer. I don't know if you remember—”

“Yes, I remember Amy,” she said sharply. “So, she's gone missing, has she?”

I looked at her more closely. “Do you know anything about it?”

She moved her head. Firelight reflected off her lenses, making them flash, hiding her eyes. “Ha. Disappeared, did she? I'm not surprised. I'm really not surprised. Nancy said she'd gone away with the other girls, but I didn't think so. She had that look.”

“What look?”

She turned her head away to stare into the fire. “When you've seen that look, you don't forget it.”

“What look is that, Mrs. Mac?”

“I hadn't seen that look in years. Not since I was a girl. But she was my best friend. Elspeth Paterson. I saw that look on her face, and watched her as she pined away and died.”

I shut my eyes briefly. “I'm talking about Amy Schneider, the American girl who stayed here last month.”

She turned back to me indignantly. “I know fine well who you're talking about, young man, I'm not daft! I mention my friend Elspeth because your Amy put me in mind of her. Not at first. I didn't think anything much of her at first. Not until she came back one evening from one of her walks and she had
that look
. Then I knew it would be the same as with Elspeth. She'd met him out walking, and she'd never be able to rest easy without him.”

“She'd fallen in love? Did she say anything? Mention his name?”

“Oh, no. No, she didn't. But she didn't have to say anything—I could see it.”

“I don't suppose you have any idea who—”

“Of course I do.”

The door opened then, and the younger Mrs. MacDonald came in with a tray, which she set down on an embroidered footstool.

“Here you are, Granny, here's your tea, just the way you like it.” She handed a china cup and saucer to the old woman, who leaned forward eagerly.

“And Mr. Kennedy. Do you take sugar?”

I saw with dismay that my cup held the same unpalatable mixture I'd been given in Glasgow, half milk, half tea. “Um, I'm sorry, but, if it's not too much trouble—could I have coffee instead?”

Mrs. MacDonald stared at me, horrified. “You don't take tea? Oh, dear, why didn't you say?”

“I'm sorry.” I gave her a sheepish grin. “I'm kind of slow today. Jet lag, I guess.”

She snatched the cup back, almost spilling it. “Of course! I should have offered—I'm sorry. My son likes coffee, too. Well. I won't be a minute.”

I stopped her. “And—I'd like it black, please.”

“Without milk?”

I nodded.

“Plain black coffee. Yes, of course.”

I felt bad for flustering her so. “I'm sorry—I don't want to be any trouble—”

“No, of course you're not! I'll be right back.”

I turned back to the old lady. “Did you say you know who Amy Schneider's in love with?”

Old Mrs. MacDonald did not rush to reply. She was deeply involved with her tea, drinking it steadily and with obvious pleasure, like someone forced to go too long without a drink. Finally, with a sigh of satisfaction, she put the cup down.

“I have an idea who she met in the woods, of an evening. Just like poor Elspeth. They used to call him the ganconer.”

“Ganconer,” I repeated blankly.

“Yes.” She gave a birdlike nod. “That's a very old word; I haven't heard it used in years. I believe the English for it would be ‘love-talker.'”