Scots on the Rocks

18

Jimmy Blackwell had disappeared in the vicinity of the dumpster, a few feet away.

Malcolm Ogilvie and his superior, DCI Alpin MacRae, emerged from the gray cloud of fog. “Where’d he go?” Ogilvie asked.

Judith pointed to the dumpster that was almost concealed by mist. “Over there.”

“Go to our car!” MacRae shouted as the policemen gave chase.

The cousins hurried to the unmarked vehicle. “Who gave Jimmy up?” Renie asked after they’d gotten in the car.

“Archie?” Judith suggested, trying to settle into the backseat and ease her tired hip. “Maybe somebody else recognized Jimmy’s disguise.”

Renie had left the door open on her side, but her efforts to see anything were futile. “I thought I heard a car, but I can’t tell where the sound’s coming from. Say,” she said, brightening. “The cops left the keys in the ignition. Why don’t we steal this one?”

“Coz!” Judith looked horrified. “That is a crime!”

Renie’s expression was ingenuous. “Not if you make up a really good fib about why we did it.”

“I’d never do such a thing,” Judith asserted indignantly. “For heaven’s sake, I’m married to a retired policeman! What would Joe say?”

“Why does Joe have to find out?”

“Stop it,” Judith snapped. “Besides, even I couldn’t come up with a story that would keep us out of big trouble. We could be charged with aiding and abetting a fleeing criminal.” She grew silent. “Then again, maybe we should try to find the cops. We could…um…drive,” she added in an uncertain voice. “I mean, I could drive.”

“Okay.” Renie got out of the car and went to the front seat.

Trying to quiet her conscience, Judith also made the switch to the front seat. “I’m serious,” she said. “Jimmy had a car. MacRae and Ogilvie are on foot. We’ll find them and turn the car over.”

Renie stared at the windshield. “Of course we will.”

Demonstrating her good intentions, Judith started the car and backed up slowly along the verge until she could see a patchy grass and dirt surface she thought would lead them to the dumpster.

“Where are we?” Renie asked.

“I think we’re just a few yards from where Jimmy left the Honda.”

There was no car. There were no people, not Jimmy, not the two cops. “Jimmy must have driven off,” Judith speculated. “But where did MacRae and Ogilvie go? They don’t know St. Fergna like Jimmy does. He’d be able to use all sorts of escape routes.”

“It’s been less than ten minutes,” Renie pointed out. “Maybe the cops are lost in the fog.”

“That’s possible.” Judith glanced at her watch. “It’s dark as well as misty. I don’t know where to search.”

“You might try driving on a road,” Renie suggested. “The left-hand side, okay?”

“You’re holding out your right arm.”

“Huh? Oh!” Renie was chagrined. “I can’t see which is which.”

Judith turned the car around to head back to the coast road. “No cops,” she pointed out as they joined the road almost at the same spot where they’d started. “No backup in sight. I’m nervous. We can get into serious trouble for this stunt.”

“You prefer sitting in the mist on a dark night with a murderer loose and we’ve been warned several times that we’re in danger?” Renie shook her head. “It’s harder to catch a moving target. Keep driving.”

“Okay, we’ll keep moving. By the way, I gather Jimmy didn’t know about Chuckie or he’d have mentioned it. On the other hand, he was probably in the area when Chuckie was—” She jumped as a female voice came over the car’s radio. “This is Control. MacRae, please come in.” Judith eased the car to a stop. “MacRae, please come in,” the voice repeated as Judith and Renie stared stupidly at each other.

“DCI MacRae,” the woman said, slightly louder. “Are you there?”

Renie held up her hand for silence and poked several buttons on the radio. “Yes?” she said in her deepest voice, which even normally was a cross between Tallulah Bankhead and a bullfrog.

“Mrs. Marie Fleming of the Priory on Monk Road has reported her husband, Will Fleming, Blackwell Petroleum’s chief financial officer, as missing. Please contact her as soon as possible.”

The radio went silent.

“You just impersonated a police officer!” Judith exclaimed in horror. “We’re going to prison!”

“I didn’t claim to be MacRae,” Renie argued. “All I said was ‘yes.’”

Fingers clasping and unclasping the steering wheel, Judith shuddered. “I can’t believe we’re doing this! What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with me?” She took a deep breath and sat up straight. “And where’s Monk Road?”

Renie clicked open the glove compartment. “Let’s see if there’s a map. This isn’t MacRae and Ogilvie’s usual territory. Turn on the overhead light. Ah,” she said softly, “here it is. You have two eyes,” she added, handing the map to Judith. “You look.”

“It’s west a couple of miles,” Judith said after a brief pause. “It’s not on the water. We go through St. Fergna and then hook left twice.” She handed the map back to Renie. “We aren’t going there, are we?”

Renie shook her head. “Of course not.”

The cousins exchanged rueful glances.

“This is so wrong,” Judith said as she turned onto the deserted High Street. “But it’s possible that somehow MacRae and Ogilvie are at the Priory already. Maybe Marie Fleming came looking for them.”

Renie smirked. “As ever, coz, sound logic.”

“We have to start looking for them somewhere,” Judith retorted. She was almost to the fork in the road and the village green. “What’s that?” she said, espying a big banner stretched across the bandstand.

“Bedsheet?” Renie said. “Clothesline?”

Judith slowed to a stop. “It says ‘Tomorrow is Judgment Day—Inquest 10 a.m. Women’s Institute.’”

“Jocko Morton rallying the troops,” Renie remarked. “He’s certainly got it in for Moira.”

“I suppose,” Judith said slowly as she made a left turn by the graveyard, “there’s a chance he’s right. But I despise his rabble-rousing tactics. Tell me when you see the sign for Monk Road.”

“You’re kidding, of course,” said Renie.

“Oh. Sorry.” Judith slowed down. Visibility on the road west was only about twenty feet, and subject to change.

They’d crept along for less than a mile before they saw a cluster of red and yellow lights up ahead. “What’s that?” Renie asked. “It looks like a traffic jam, which isn’t likely in a village the size of St. Fergna.”

“An accident, maybe?” Judith suggested, slowing down to less than ten miles an hour. “They’re blocking the road.” She frowned, noticing not only cars but bicyclists and pedestrians, some carrying flashlights. At first she thought they were singing, but realized as she rolled down the window that they were chanting in angry voices.

“Can you hear that?” Judith asked.

Renie had also opened her window. “I’m blind, not deaf. Yes—it sounds like ‘Jezebel.’ Isn’t that what the flyer called Moira when Jocko staged his show the other night?”

“Among other things,” Judith said grimly. “They must be marching to Hollywood House. We’re stuck behind them. If I honk, they might take out their wrath on us—and this police car. I wish it were a real cruiser. We could use the flashing lights and siren to get through.”

“We could shoot them,” Renie suggested. “Maybe there’s a weapon in here someplace.”

“You’re kidding, I trust,” Judith said, creeping along so slowly that the speedometer barely registered. “A cop wouldn’t leave a gun in a vacant car. According to the map, Monk Road is about a quarter of a mile from here.” She made a disgusted face. “Damn, this is the dumbest idea we’ve had yet! What were we thinking of?”

“It’s all this fog,” Renie said. “Our minds have gone. Besides, I kind of enjoy a good riot. We haven’t had one at home since the WTO dustup, and I had to watch it on TV. It’s not the same.”

“Sometimes you’re too weird even for me,” Judith muttered. “I’ll bet MacRae and Ogilvie are somewhere along the way, afoot or—” Loud sounds like gunshots interrupted her. “Now what?”

The parade of putative avengers appeared to wonder the same thing. The chanting stopped abruptly, some drivers honked their horns, and the people on foot ebbed and flowed, with a few ducking for cover. A moment later, two more shots were fired. Several people ran, plunging off the road to seek safety.

“Whoever’s firing that gun did us a favor,” Judith said, stepping gently on the gas pedal. “The crowd’s thinned out a bit so we can move.”

“We can also get shot,” Renie pointed out. “Oh well.”

The marchers had lost momentum, though at least forty people and a couple dozen cars were moving, albeit more slowly, along the road. Judith saw a trio of bicyclists, a skateboarder, and several pedestrians heading back toward the village. The cousins had gone about fifty yards when Judith spotted the signpost for Monk Road.

“Maybe we should see what’s going on at Hollywood House first,” she said, “especially if MacRae and Ogilvie might be there ahead of us.”

“On roller skates?” Renie remarked with a sidelong glance at Judith. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve hijacked their transportation.”

“We borrowed it, remember?” Judith snapped. “Besides, it was your nutty idea.”

“At least they’ve stopped shooting,” Renie said. “Hey—listen!”

Judith heard the sound, a faint but angry cry of shrill voices. The car kept moving, following the diehard crowd, which had now reached the gates of Hollywood House where vehicular traffic stopped.

“Damn!” Judith braked, trapped in a virtual blockade of the road. “We can’t turn around. We’re hemmed in on every side.” She stopped, letting the engine idle. “The gates must be locked,” she said, “but it sounds as if most of the noise is coming from closer to the house. The protesters or whatever you’d call them are scaling the walls.”

“Shall we get out?” Renie asked.

“I guess so,” Judith said, turning off the ignition, “if we want to—excuse the expression—see what’s happening.” The cousins got out of the car. “I hate to leave a police car in the middle of the road, but I don’t have any choice.” A whirring sound overhead made her look up. “My God!” she gasped. “It’s a chopper, and it’s practically on top of us!”

“Cops, maybe?” Renie shouted as the helicopter came closer. “With this mist, the visibility must be worse than mine.”

Most of the other onlookers were staring up, too. The copter’s rotors drowned out the voices of the marchers, who apparently had invaded the grounds of Hollywood House. After a final swoop the chopper gained altitude and flew away.

The throng that had just preceded Judith and Renie was at the iron gates. A few persons were trying to climb up the sturdy bars, either to get a better view or to leap onto the driveway. Judith, being taller than Renie, could see some twenty or thirty people in front of the house. They’d resumed their chanting as soon as the helicopter had departed.

“Guilty, guilty, guilty!” cried the crowd. “Jezebel, Jezebel, Jezebel!”

Renie managed to squeeze between a man and a woman who were shouting themselves hoarse. “Blind person coming through!” she shouted, extending a hand behind her to Judith. “Cripple on my rear!” She lowered her voice a notch and turned to Judith. “Do I detect some good old-fashioned John Knox Presbyterianism running amok?”

“What?” Judith responded. “I can’t hear you!” She stumbled and fell against a young man. “Oops! Sorry!”

“That’s okay,” the young man said, turning around. “Mrs. Flynn!”

“Barry!” Judith exclaimed. She noticed that Alison was next to him and offered a weak smile. “What’s happening?”

“Protesters, just like a real city,” Barry said, leaning close to Judith so he could make himself heard. “Never seen the like. I dinna ken half these folk. Auld Jocko got the Highlands riled up, didn’t he?”

“You mean these aren’t all villagers?” Judith asked in surprise.

Barry nodded. “More strangers than locals.”

“Do you agree with Jocko about Moira?” Judith inquired.

He shrugged. “Better than watching the telly on a Monday night.”

“We heard what sounded like shots,” Judith said.

Barry nodded. “It was shots, all right, fired by that butler when some of the mob climbed over the wall. Didn’t do much good, though. Think he shot a duck.”

The crowd suddenly grew silent, all eyes riveted on the front of Hollywood House. Judith stood on tiptoe to see what had captured their attention. A hazy figure on the second-floor balcony was outlined against the light that came from inside the open door.

“What is it?” Renie asked. “I’m half blind and too short.”

Before Judith could answer, a woman’s shrill voice split the swirling mist. “Why? Why? Why? I’m your friend, your neighbor! You know me! I’m innocent!”

A chorus of damning denial erupted from the crowd. “Moira,” Judith said in Renie’s ear.

“It doesn’t sound like her,” Renie said.

“She’s distraught, wringing her hands, pulling at her hair.” Compassion welled up inside Judith’s breast. “She’s…unhinged.”

Renie shook her head in disgust. “As my father would say, that’s ungood. It won’t help her with this bunch.”

Moira was trying to speak again, but the angry mob wouldn’t shut up. A new chant was emerging, though Judith couldn’t make it out. It sounded to her like “Caravan,” which made no sense. On the balcony, Moira bowed her head and gripped the rail. The cries of the crowd swiftly changed to “Jump, whore, jump!”

“Horrible!” Judith exclaimed. “Where are the police?”

“Looking for their car?” Renie suggested.

“Shut up.” More guilt overcame Judith. “What are they yelling besides ‘Jump’? ‘Caravan’? ‘Caveman’?”

“Cameron,” Renie said. “Now they’re shouting ‘Butcher!’ They must think Moira and Patrick conspired to kill Harry Gibbs.”

“I can’t hear you!” Judith cried as the noise grew to a fever pitch and the crowd pressed forward. “Let’s go before we get trampled!”

“How?” Renie yelled. “We’re stuck! Where are Barry and Alison?”

Judith couldn’t see them. She was being pushed closer to the gate, as if the mob intended to crush the iron bars with sheer force. Meanwhile, the driveway was becoming clogged with trespassers who had gone over the walls.

Judith’s view of the house had been blocked for the last couple of minutes, but while struggling to keep her balance, she got a glimpse of Moira. The anguished widow looked as if she was weeping, her head in her hands, her hair streaming around her hunched shoulders.

Suddenly the sound of sirens was heard over the crowd’s relentless roar. “Cops?” Judith mouthed to Renie, who listened and nodded.

It occurred to Judith that the police might use tear gas or some other unpleasant means to disperse the mob. Somehow, she realized, there had to be a way to escape the crush of irate people. “Can you crawl?” she whispered to Renie, augmenting the question with hand motions.

“Uh…” Renie peered down at the ground. “Maybe. But you can’t.”

“If you move enough people, I can stay upright and follow you.”

“Oh…” Renie looked aghast. But the sirens were very close. “Okay, here goes,” she said, digging into her purse and taking out a pair of small but very pointed nail scissors. “Stay close.” She squatted down, got to her knees, and began to crawl toward the road.

As the shouts and jeers became punctured with sharp squeals of pain and hopping feet, Judith was able to squeeze between Renie’s victims, who had been caught off guard by the unexpected jabs with the nail scissors. Mouthing apologies and stumbling awkwardly through the throng, Judith had broken into a sweat by the time she got to the road. Fortunately, the crowd was thinning out as two police vans came toward the entrance to Hollywood House.

“I can’t get up!” Renie cried, sounding miserable. “About a hundred people stepped on me! I’m a wreck!”

Judith gave her cousin a hand and helped her get to her feet. “You do look pretty ghastly,” she said, taking in Renie’s disheveled hair, which sported a couple of candy wrappers, a cigarette butt, and an unopened condom. “Let’s see if we can move our stolen police car.”

The sedan was right where they’d left it, but it wasn’t empty. Judith spotted two figures in the front seat.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “Someone else is trying to steal it!”

“No!” Renie gasped. “What’s this world coming to?”

Wiping perspiration from her forehead, Judith moved purposefully through the gaggle of onlookers, some of whom had lost their steam as the police vans came to a stop nearby. Reaching the car, she looked inside and saw Alpin MacRae in the passenger seat. Recognizing Judith, he rolled down the window.

“I can explain…” Judith began, starting to sweat again.

“Of course,” MacRae said with a grim smile. “But not now. Thank God you were able to get here. We had to borrow bicycles from the village after we lost track of James Blackwell and heard about this mob. Would you like to get in?”

“Oh yes!” Judith was confused by MacRae’s reaction but needed sanctuary, not explanations. She opened the back door and practically fell into the seat. Renie scrambled in next to her.

“Are you all right?” MacRae asked after swiftly surveying the cousins.

“Yes, yes,” Judith replied.

“Speak for yourself,” Renie muttered, raking the detritus from her hair. “I’ve scraped my hands and knees. I’ll have bruises all over…”

Her words were drowned out by a loudspeaker ordering the crowd to disperse.

“Inverness sent a riot squad,” MacRae said. “This is an amazing turn of events, like a rock concert or a football game on a smaller scale.”

“I never saw the like,” Ogilvie asserted, “except at a Dundee United match against Heart of Midlothian. Hearts is bloody vicious.”

MacRae gave his subordinate a faintly patronizing glance. “Aye, lad, but this melee is a wee bit different. I don’t like it. I gather Jocko Morton has been stirring up the local folk.”

“That’s so,” Judith said, watching as several riot squad police spilled onto the road and took up positions. A handful of younger people seemed confrontational, but most of the crowd began to break up. “Have you seen the banner on the village green?”

Keeping his eyes on the situation that was beginning to ease, MacRae nodded. “We walk a fine line between free speech and inciting a riot.” He turned to Ogilvie. “Stay with the ladies. I’ll make sure everything’s under control.”

As soon as MacRae got out of the car, Judith tapped Ogilvie’s shoulder. “Have you been to Grimloch since we found Chuckie?”

“Aye.” Ogilvie’s expression was somber. “A horrible way to kill someone, poor laddie. Mr. Fordyce is offering a million-pound reward.”

“Surely,” Judith said, “he has confidence in the police.”

“He does,” Ogilvie assured her, “but he’s that upset over losing his only bairn.”

“Do you think that whoever killed Chuckie also killed Harry?” Judith asked as Renie made faces and obscene gestures at the people who were staring at her in the police car.

Ogilvie shrugged. “It doesn’t seem like a coincidence.”

“No,” Judith agreed. She poked Renie. “Stop that! This is an official vehicle!”

“These morons think I’m an official prisoner,” Renie declared. “They ought to be cheering me. Why aren’t they getting arrested?”

“Only if they resist,” Ogilvie said. “They’re giving up, it seems.”

“Glad you folks don’t play much hockey,” Renie murmured. “We colonials get kind of fractious at the ice rink.”

MacRae, who had been conferring with a member of the riot squad, got back into the car. “We can leave,” he informed Ogilvie. “The driveway is clear and constables will be on duty. Mrs. Gibbs’s doctor is on his way. She had a fainting spell after her…ah…balcony appearance.”

“No wonder,” Judith said. “From what I’ve heard, Moira’s a very emotional young woman. Of course she’s been through a great deal. Her health also seems precarious.”

“Indeed,” MacRae said as Ogilvie drove slowly to avoid stragglers. “Mrs. Gibbs is the Poor Little Rich Girl personified. She—stop!”

A man had flung himself on the car’s hood. He was facedown, his hands stretched out as if in supplication.

“Don’t move!” MacRae ordered as he and Ogilvie got out of the car.

“Was he pushed?” Judith said to Renie.

“I don’t know. I still can’t see very well.”

Only a couple of people were close by. Judith peered through the backseat window and recognized Barry and Alison. Quickly, she rolled the window down and called to them. “Did you see what happened?”

They both shook their heads. “Too sudden,” Barry replied. “Have you been arrested?”

“No.” Judith waved weakly and focused on the man who was being helped off of the hood. She still couldn’t see his face, but the dark raincoat looked familiar. At last he turned just enough so that Judith could see a bloody gash on his left cheek. When he dug into his pockets to pull out a handkerchief, he turned again.

“It’s Will Fleming,” Judith said softly. “I guess he’s not missing after all.”

A sheepish Will Fleming squeezed in next to Judith. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” he murmured, dabbing at the wound on his cheek with a white handkerchief. “Did the police rescue you, too?”

MacRae spoke up before either of the cousins could answer. “It was the other way round,” he said, twisting in the front seat just enough to look at Will. “Did you get that cut from one of the crowd?”

“I was gashed by a sharp branch while avoiding the mob at Hollywood House,” Will said. “I had to crawl through the shrubbery.”

“Do you need a doctor?” MacRae asked. “Mrs. Gibbs has called in a Dr. Carmichael for her own problems.”

“No,” Will replied. “Take me home. Marie must be frantic.”

“Of course,” MacRae said, then addressed Ogilvie. “Monk Road, the Priory. We reversed for about three kilometers.”

Judith was puzzled. “Why is Marie so upset?”

“We’d been to a…sort of soiree earlier this evening,” Will responded. “After we left, we heard about poor Chuckie Fordyce. I told Marie I’d go to Grimloch to see Philip and Beth. I insisted that Marie take the car and go home. She’s just getting over flu. When I didn’t come home within an hour, she panicked, thinking perhaps that something had happened to me. We live in dangerous times.”

The explanation was smooth. Too smooth, Judith thought. An hour wasn’t nearly long enough to make even the most anxious of wives call the cops.

Will also needed explanations. “I don’t mean to pry,” he said, “but how do you two visitors to Grimloch happen to be riding in a police car?”

MacRae broke in before Judith or Renie could reply. “A coincidence,” the DCI said. “They were stranded and needed a lift.”

“Oh. Of course,” Will said, smiling politely at the cousins.

It occurred to Judith that her fellow passengers were playing a game of evasion, if not outright deception. It was no wonder, she thought, that Renie was looking skeptical.

“I thought perhaps,” Will said to MacRae as Ogilvie turned onto Monk Road, “they had to give a statement about finding Chuckie’s body.”

“They do,” MacRae said easily. “This day has been tumultuous. There’s been scant time for paperwork.”

The driveway to the Flemings’ home was marked by two stone pillars and a discreet wooden sign identifying the property as the Priory. As the mist dissipated, Judith saw a large old house that probably had been built for a religious order. The two-story exterior was gray stone, though obvious additions had been made in various styles. The result was an architectural olio, but the overall effect fell short of being ugly.

Will appeared to have been reading Judith’s mind. “Rather a hodgepodge,” he remarked in a self-effacing manner. “It has its charms, especially the garden. Marie is doing a wonderful job of restoring many original features that had been modernized.”

Ogilvie stopped under a porte-cochere on the south side of the house. “Gothic style here,” Renie noted. “But nineteenth century, right? Monks didn’t drive much before the Reformation.”

“A good eye,” Will said, unbuckling his seat belt.

“One good eye,” Renie responded. “I’m a graphic designer.”

“Ah.” Will smiled. “Perhaps you can visit during your stay at Grimloch.” He nodded to MacRae and Ogilvie. “Many thanks.”

Ogilvie kept his foot on the brake as Will entered through an oak door. Judith tried to see if Marie was waiting for her husband, but the figure outlined by the inside light was male. As Will went in and quickly closed the door, Judith recognized Patrick Cameron in his leather jacket.

MacRae turned to look at the cousins. “It’s almost nine. We do need that statement. Would you prefer doing that at Grimloch?”

“I prefer a restaurant,” Renie said. “I can put my statement on a menu.”

MacRae chuckled obligingly. “That could be arranged. It’s past our dinner hour, too.”

“Speaking of missing husbands,” Judith said to Renie, “we haven’t heard from ours lately. We should call them from the restaurant.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Renie responded, “they’re fishing. You sound like my mother. She always worried herself to a frazzle when Dad didn’t get home when she expected him. I learned a lesson long ago that you never worry about fishermen. They can’t be bothered with any other activity or consideration as long as the fish are biting.”

“Maybe,” Judith murmured, “but Joe always keeps in touch.”

The same voice Renie had responded to earlier came over the radio: “This is Control. Please come in, DCI MacRae.”

MacRae responded immediately. “Yes?”

“Would you stop at Hollywood House?” the female voice said. “Mrs. Gibbs wants to see you.”

“Of course.” MacRae sighed. “Do you know how many men are on duty to secure the premises?”

“Three now from Elgin, two more coming from Inverness,” the woman responded. “Is everything all right with you, sir?”

“Yes, certainly.” MacRae sounded mildly surprised.

“Good. You sounded rather odd when I spoke with you earlier.” The radio crackled once and went silent.

“That’s peculiar,” MacRae said to Ogilvie. “I don’t recall talking to Annie this evening.”

Ogilvie shrugged.

Judith seized the opportunity to tell the truth. “We answered the call,” she said, leaning forward. “We didn’t know what else to do. She was reporting Will Fleming as missing.”

“Ah!” MacRae chuckled. “I’m most grateful. I’ll explain to Annie. I didn’t know about Fleming until I spoke to the riot force. Inverness also got the call. You can’t imagine what a help you’ve been to us, Mrs. Flynn. You’re the best thing that’s come out of America since President Roosevelt’s lend-lease program during the war.”

“Really,” Judith protested, “I haven’t done much of anything.”

“And,” Renie said with bite, “apparently I don’t exist.”

“Now, Mrs. Jones,” MacRae soothed as Ogilvie turned onto the coast road, “I didn’t intend to ignore your contribution. We know how much support you give your cousin.”

“Yeah, right,” Renie muttered.

“Sorry about the digression,” the DCI apologized, “but we shouldn’t be long at Hollywood House. You may stay in the car if you like.”

“Oh no,” Judith said, ignoring Renie’s grumpy expression. “Having a woman…I mean, women there might make Moira feel better.”

As they approached their destination, a handful of people were walking along the road, heading back to St. Fergna. Only one of the two riot squad vans remained, and its personnel seemed to be preparing for departure. A constable stood on guard at the gate. After MacRae identified himself, admittance was granted a few seconds later.

Fergus waited stiffly at the door. “Madam is in her room with Dr. Carmichael,” he said, barely giving the newcomers so much as a glance.

The group trudged up the elegant stairway. Elise met them at the top. “Police?” she said, giving Judith and Renie a quizzical look.

“Yes,” MacRae responded. “Mrs. Flynn and Mrs. Jones are observing.”

Elise’s thin face puckered in confusion. “Observing? What sort of observation?”

“Procedural,” MacRae answered blithely. “Which way to Mrs. Gibbs?”

Elise indicated the correct door. “The doctor is still with her.”

“Maybe,” Judith suggested to MacRae, “we should wait while you and Sergeant Ogilvie go ahead.”

MacRae considered for a moment, and then nodded. He and his subordinate walked toward Moira’s boudoir.

“You know me,” Judith said to Elise. “I was here before.”

The maid looked at Renie. “Not with Madame Patch-eye. Is she a pirate?”

Renie took umbrage. “Ever see a pirate in a cashmere sweater?”

Elise studied Renie’s disheveled appearance. “You are like a tramp. Filthy, unkempt.”

Judith moved in front of Renie to prevent another outbreak of violence. “My cousin was trampled by the mob.” She paused, narrowing her eyes. “Did you put Mrs. Gibbs’s jewel case in my purse?”

Elise looked affronted. “Mon Dieu! Why should I do such a thing?”

“If you didn’t,” Judith said calmly, “who did? Mrs. Gibbs?”

The maid had gone very pale, a hand to one gaunt cheek. “You have the case?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“No,” Judith replied. “It’s been stolen.”

“Oh!” Elise whirled around and covered her face with her hands. “Non, non, non! Impossible!” She started to cry.

Judith put a comforting hand on Elise’s back. “I’ve alerted the police. If you made a mistake and put the case in the wrong handbag, I’m sure your intentions were for the best. Mrs. Fordyce and I both carry large black purses.”

“I must kill myself!” Elise wailed. “I am the fool most large!”

The door to Moira’s room opened and Dr. Carmichael emerged. “What’s this?” he asked kindly, his thick gray eyebrows moving up and down as he spoke. “Elise, your mistress needs you. Are you ill?”

Trying to compose herself, the maid shook her head. “I am upset.”

“We’re all upset this evening,” the doctor said. “Becalm yourself and see to Mrs. Gibbs.” He patted her once. “Go now.”

“We’ll see to her,” Judith volunteered. “Elise needs a cup of tea.”

“Cognac,” Elise said. “Bonne idée.” Rather morosely, she went down the hall in the opposite direction.

Dr. Carmichael’s expression was wry. “The French,” he sighed. “So emotional.”

Judith introduced Renie, who was still looking out of sorts.

“You have an eye problem,” the doctor noted.

“Chronic corneal dystrophy,” Renie said, softening just a bit.

He nodded. “Then you know how to treat it.”

“Yes. I’ve had plenty of practice.”

“Speaking of practice,” Dr. Carmichael said with a faint smile, “I should attend to the rest of mine.”

“One question,” Judith put in. “This may sound strange, but I understand you treated Patrick Cameron the night David Piazza was killed in a car accident. Is it true that Patrick can’t remember what happened and how he got hurt?”

Dr. Carmichael frowned. “So he says. And not unusual, really. Trauma to the head. I’d just come home after delivering a baby. I heard the crash as I was getting out of my car. It wasn’t the first time a driver had gone over the cliff. It’s a treacherous spot. I notified the police and drove to the scene. I could’ve walked, it was so close, but I was tired.” He smiled in a self-deprecating manner. “Not as young as I used to be. In any event, I could see the car upside down against the rocks. It wasn’t easy, but I climbed down to the wreckage.” He sighed heavily. “I had my kit and my torch. When I looked inside the mangled car I saw David Piazza. He was dead. While I waited for the police, I wandered around a bit, not far, since the cliffside isn’t conducive to a late night stroll. About twenty yards away, I found Patrick, unconscious but alive.”

“He couldn’t have been in the car, could he?” Judith inquired as the doctor paused for breath.

“I doubt it, unless he jumped out before it crashed,” Dr. Carmichael said. “Patrick is very fit, but he doesn’t recall anything that happened after he left Hunter’s Lodge on foot three or four hours earlier.”

Judith recalled that Hunter’s Lodge was Patrick’s home outside of St. Fergna. “Were Patrick and Davey friends?”

The doctor glanced at his pocket watch. “Not particularly. I’m afraid Davey didn’t have many friends at Blackwell. Most of the executives were jealous of his intimacy with Moira.”

“Professional intimacy, you mean,” Judith said, noticing Renie, who was studying the ancestral portraits that lined the corridor’s walls.

Dr. Carmichael smiled wryly. “I assume so.”

“Was Patrick hospitalized?” Judith asked.

“Treated and released,” the doctor replied. “He refused to stay.”

Judith frowned as Renie took a pen out of her purse. “I gather his wounds were consistent with an accident injury.”

“Possibly,” Dr. Carmichael said, “but I wasn’t the attending physician at the hospital.” He looked again at his watch. “Forgive me, I must go. I know you’re helping the police with their inquiry, but I do have to call on another patient this evening.”

“Of course,” Judith said. “I’m sorry to take up your time.”

“Quite all right,” he said, and started to walk briskly away just as Judith realized what Renie was about to do. “Stop!” she shouted.

Dr. Carmichael turned around at the head of the stairs. “Yes?”

“Not you. My cousin. Sorry.” Judith marched over to Renie and knocked the pen out of her hand. “How could you? Those pen marks better come off. These portraits must be worth a fortune.”

“I doubt it,” Renie said, studying the mustache she’d drawn on an eighteenth-century lady with a very long nose and slightly bulging eyes. “Most of them are just one step above paint-by-the-numbers.”

“You get worse as you get older,” Judith declared angrily, trying to wipe off the mustache with her finger. “You age, but you don’t act it.”

Renie uttered an impatient sound. “Did it ever occur to you that I get tired of being shoved into the background while you hold center stage? Okay, so I’ve got some ego, but if we were in an opera, you’d be listed as the star soprano and I’d get a small contralto cast credit as Lumpa-Lumpa, Donna Fabulosa’s Drab Companion.”

“For heaven’s sakes,” Judith retorted, “you have your own business, you’re a talented artist, you get plenty of credit for—”

“Not to mention,” Renie broke in, airing yet more decades-old grievances, “that when we were kids, it always bothered me because on the calendar we got every year from church, your October birthday fell on the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary, not to mention you had both Saint Teresa of Ávila and Saint Thérèse of Lisieux bracketing your big day while I got stuck with St. Willibrord and St. Prosdocimus. Talk about obscure!”

Judith couldn’t help but feel a bit sheepish. “How could I do anything about that? Besides, we’re grown up now. As for my sleuthing, you usually encourage me. But that still doesn’t give you the right to vandalize other people’s possessions.”

Renie gazed at the portrait, which still showed a faint trace of pen mark. “Frankly, I think it’s an improvement.”

“I think it’s childish of you, and—” Judith stopped. “Saint Thérèse. The French one, the Little Flower of God. Who mentioned her recently?”

Renie frowned. “One of us? When we were talking about that spooky B&B in Normandy?”

Judith shook her head. “No, I don’t think so, even though my suitcase had mistakenly been removed from the train at Lisieux, but I got it back before we sailed.” She shrugged. “It’ll come to me.”

Before Renie could respond, Ogilvie came out of Moira’s suite. “Come in. We’ve finished our inquiry about the protesters.”

MacRae joined his sergeant in the hall. “Mrs. Gibbs is calmer. Dr. Carmichael’s sedative must be taking effect. She was still quite distressed when we arrived. We’ll meet you out front.” He turned to Ogilvie. “We should speak with the on-duty personnel.” With courteous nods to the cousins, the policemen made their way down the hall.

Moira looked very different from the impeccably groomed, graceful, and poised young woman Judith and Renie had encountered in the graveyard. Her red-gold hair lay in tangles on the lace-trimmed pillow; her fine complexion was ashen and her face drawn; the graceful fingers seemed more like claws as she grasped anxiously at the elegant duvet.

“You must think me an invalid,” she said in a toneless voice. “I apologize for greeting you from my bed again. I was up for a while earlier but that mob shredded my nerves. Except for Will, I’ve made Fergus turn visitors away ever since you were here. Several people have called on me in the past few days, but I simply couldn’t deal with them. Curiosity-seekers, if you ask me, though Seumas Bell had the courtesy to offer apologies for the ruckus with Patrick when you were here. I was still upset, so I told Elise to send him away.”

“Please,” Judith said, sitting in one of the two brocade-covered armchairs that had been pulled close to the bed. “You’ve suffered so many losses. And the scene this evening was really awful.”

Moira nodded once. “I understand you were there.”

“We were,” Judith said. “We got caught up in the traffic jam.”

“You’d come to call on me?” Moira asked.

“No,” Renie put in from where she was still standing at the foot of the bed. “We were going to the circus. I’ve got a gig as a clown.”

“We were headed to the Priory to see Marie,” Judith said, avoiding her cousin’s glare. “We’d heard Will was missing.”

“That’s absurd,” Moira said in a listless voice. “He was here. Marie should’ve known that. Why didn’t she call me? Why didn’t she call Will? Marie’s usually sensible. It must be the flu.”

“Did the ruckus outside disturb your baby?” Judith asked.

“Of course,” Moira answered, displaying a trifle more animation. “He cried for half an hour. My governess had to walk him all over the house. Ah. Here she is now.”

A plump and plain woman of indeterminate age entered the room. “Master Jamie has finally settled down,” she announced, her brown eyes darting between Moira, Judith, and Renie. “Shall I let him sleep through his eleven o’clock feeding?”

Moira gnawed on her thumbnail. “No. Yes! Yes, Euphemia, unless he wakes up and cries for it.”

“Shall I bring him to you?” the governess asked.

“No.” Tears welled up in Moira’s eyes. “I’m exhausted.”

“As you wish.” Euphemia left as Fergus entered.

Moira cast a weary gaze on the butler. “Yes?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs have arrived,” he said in his stilted voice.

Moira waved a frantic hand. “Please. Send them away. I can’t possibly deal with them tonight. Why would they leave the castle?” She put the question to Judith.

“They’ve probably finished serving dinner,” Judith said. “Have you spoken with them since their grandson was killed?”

“No.” Moira turned away. “I don’t want to. Especially not now.”

“Maybe they heard about the riot,” Judith pointed out, “and wanted to make sure you and the baby were okay.”

“We’re not,” Moira declared, still staring off into space. “Send them back to the castle, Fergus.”

Fergus cleared his throat, a dry sound like crushed autumn leaves. “Your visitors didn’t come from the castle, madam. They’re the other Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs, your husband’s parents from South America.”