Duncan's Rose (9 page)

“Ah, I loved that quote at the end of the book.”

She smiled at his interest in her books. Miranda always found it joyful to speak about her work. Some people didn’t really understand why she would rather write nonfiction than fiction. They argued that the latter required more imagination. Miranda always tried to explain her talent was in telling true stories; solving mysteries made her happy.

“May I use my tape recorder?”

“I would prefer not,” the doctor replied, and he flinched. “But you may use your notepad.”

“I guess I could do that.”

“Why you are interested in me in particular?” Dr. Bradford asked as he narrowed his eyes.

Miranda hesitated at first, but she hated to sugar-coat her questions or beat around the bush.

“I saw you in one of the video clips on the news,” she said. “The agony on your face raised some questions. And what you said astonished me.”

“Oh, and what did I say that was so astonishing?” He poured tea for both of them and handed her a cup, then settled back and sipped from his.

“You said, ‘she doesn’t deserve it.’ I assumed you were talking about Mrs. Wardlaw.”

His eyes shadowed with a faint darkness. “I was. I was upset at the news station—which, by the way, covered the incident a week after it took place. Even the investigations of the fire didn’t follow properly.”

“The news clip said the father had gone insane and killed the whole family.” Miranda’s eyes kept drifting to the photo that hung on the wall of the woman and child, then back to Dr. Bradford. There was no resemblance between the child and the doctor.

“No, that’s not true,” he said. “Alfred was a good man—but his brother, Ken, was another matter. Ken claimed that Alfred was insane and had started the fire during one of his fits. The villagers believed him, but I never did. There were a few parts of the story that didn’t make sense.” The doctor leaned forward, watching Miranda’s face. “Ken Wardlaw appeared that night out of nowhere. And the subsequent investigation didn’t confirm the three bodies of victims. Investigators claimed the explosion on the east side of the house had consumed their bodies, or might have thrown some of the body parts into the ocean. I still wonder what they meant.”

“Yes, I was wondering the same. Why do you feel the uncle lied?” The question that played in her mind was about the photograph on the wall. She was aching to ask about who the woman and boy were.

“Ken undoubtedly wanted his share from their parent’s will. I never liked the man.” He snorted.

“Doctor, how do you know all these details?”

“I was a dear friend to Elisabeth, Alfred’s wife. I used to treat her for high blood pressure. She suffered from depression.”

Miranda’s eyes shifted between the doctor and the picture on the wall. The faces of the boy and his mother distracted her. They had the same vibrant, grayish-blue eyes and thick eyebrows. She suddenly remembered Mac, his eyes.

She pointed at the picture. “Your family?” she asked, trying to smile.

“No, I never married,” the doctor said. “This is the only picture of Elisabeth and her son, Marcas.” His gaze lowered, as if he realized he said more than he’d intended.

Miranda’s senses were on alert.
A picture! The first in the collection for my book
. She had never seen any photos of the family during her research. Why was the doctor keeping this photo, unless there had been something between him and the woman? She rose and stood in front of the picture, which was surrounded by a black frame.

The doctor’s voice was earnest but timid. “Miss Blair, in the two books of yours that I read, you kept some names confidential, at the request of people you interviewed. I’m asking you to do the same here. Will you?”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “Dr. Bradford, you don’t know me, and you didn’t ask me to keep anything off the record before this interview began. I could use your name.” She was testing him
. Does he want to give me more gossip, to have his name in the book? Or will he be honest and tell me the truth?
She watched for his reaction.

“You could.” He shrugged.

Miranda knew that, if he asked, she would hide his identity, as she had protected other sources in her previous books. She turned back to the picture. “I will give you my word that I won’t expose you as my source of information, on one condition. May I make a copy of this picture?”

“I have one condition, as well,” he replied

“What?” Her eyes had already widened with joy at knowing she’d have the photo.

“I want you to put her poem beside her picture.”

Miranda was taken aback. “Elisabeth was a poet? And why do you want me to publish her poem in my book?” She paused and asked gently, “Dr. Bradford, did you love her?”

“I respected her,” he said, sighing. “And yes, she did write poems. As I said, she was a dear friend. I also want your book to say what a loving wife and mother she was.”

This man was in love with Elisabeth.
Miranda recognized the melodic tone in his voice. But being the gentleman he was, he hid his feelings, to protect her memory.

“The boy—I don’t want to intrude and assume—was Marcas your son?” She was poking into his private affairs, but she had to know.

“No…no, I wish he was,” the doctor replied. “The poor kid suffered so much from the kids and some of the villagers at the time. He was always a little bit…different.”

“How so?” She sat on the sofa again and sipped her tea. Dr. Bradford would open more doors than she had dreamed for her book.

“He used to speak sometimes in a different language,” Dr. Bradford said. “Sometimes he would predict things that would happen—and when they did, in fact, happen, it made the whole village panic. I told people the boy had a sixth sense, but they didn’t believe me. He had visions, and some of them were very bad. In one of them, he saw himself burn. He told me about it once. He trusted me, because I was kind to him and his mother.”

“Doctor, do you know Mac Wardlaw?”

“I have never heard of that name. Who is he?” The doctor looked puzzled.

Holy cow!
Are Mac and Marcas the same person?
Miranda swung her head to the picture, noting the vibrant, grayish-blue eyes, the burn from the fire, and the whole dilemma of being different and gifted with visions. Mac knew about Duncan and Rose. He had visions. Was he still like Duncan, still carrying the gift of seeing the future? Miranda’s thoughts raced and she felt a renewed sense of urgency, and elation at her revelation.

Miranda’s stepped out of the clinic after she said her goodbyes to Dr. Bedford. She spotted Jack at the clinic front door fighting with an old man about some payment due to the Wardlaws. Then the argument became physical, which disturbed her. She held the barking dogs tight in her grip and yelled at Jack, “I’ll report your action to Mr. Wardlaw, stop at once!”

The trip home wasn’t fun, her frustration reached its limits gazing at the angry Jack, and his uneasy examining looks at her didn’t help the situation.

As they pulled in front of the mansion, she got out of the car and strolled toward the hall entrance as William opened the door. “Where’s Mac?”

“He is attending a business on the east side of the island, Miss Blair. Is everything all right?”

“I need to talk to Mr. Wardlaw, can you take me to him, please?”

“I shall ask him if he is willing to see you, please come with me.”

“I know I should have asked for an appointment, but I appreciate your help, William.” She was infuriated by the way Jack jumped on the old man and engaged him physically. She was determined to report the issue.

They reached the old man’s door. William pressed a button on the wall, and spoke into the speaker. “Mr. Wardlaw, Miss Blair would like to see you.”

“Sure, come in,” an old voice announced through the speaker.

William held the leashes of the two dogs, let her in the room, then closed it behind her. The room’s furnishings were simple: bed, dresser, a single round table, and a wooden chair. Mr. Wardlaw sat on a wheelchair next to the open curtained window.

He turned to face her. “Miss Blair, finally we meet. I hope your stay is comfortable.” His weak voice shook slightly, then he coughed.

“Yes, it is, thank you. Sorry if I’m bothering you.” Miranda suddenly felt foolish to bother an old, sick man. She could have waited for Mac to come home and she would have discussed it with him. This pale man barely had breath in him to speak, he looked so frail and sick. But something struck her from the look in his eyes. In those stormy eyes, there was still a spark of power and strength.

“Please, come and sit beside me.” He pointed with a pale, shaky finger to the chair placed beside a brown round table near the window, which was opposite him.

She sat and gave him a soft smile. “Thank you.”

“Well, it’s good that you came to visit me. I wanted to see you, but Mac wouldn’t allow it.” His voice filled with a sad tone.

“He probably didn’t want to disturb you, that’s all.”

“He doesn’t let me see anyone. Maybe you are right that he cares.”

Not liking what she was hearing, Miranda pushed the notion aside. “Mr. Wardlaw, the reason I wanted to see you is that I was disturbed by what Jack did today to an old man.”

“And what did he do, Miss. Blair?” His eyebrow arched in concern.

“He was fighting about collecting money, and then he shoved an old man and engaged with him physically.”

“That is disturbing, really. I’ll talk to him and see to the issue. Definitely, thank you for bringing this to my attention.” The wrinkles on his face increased with his frown, and he continued, “So how is your stay so far with us?”

“I am grateful for your hospitality…” she trailed, as she was hesitant to bring her research issue to him.

“Miss Blair, I have to say that the reason I brought you here is not what I have conveyed in our phone conversation.”

“I figured that much from Mac.” Not a subject she wanted to bring up. “Why did you invite me here if you and your nephew didn’t want me to publish the book?”

“Oh, well. You’re not going to publish it and we wanted to talk to you about it. You see, dear, the villagers don’t like the Wardlaws and what you will reveal will taint us and bring gossip we don’t wish for.”

“I’m sorry. But I don’t think I’m writing anything about you. The case I’m writing about happened twenty years ago and had nothing to do with you.”

His eyes sparkled with strange power. He straightened in his chair, and his back wasn’t humped anymore. The change of condition amazed her, but still, he didn’t fool her with his fake claim of strength.

“Remember the story you investigated in one of your books, I believe it’s called,
The Haunting
.” His bushy white eyebrow arched. “That lady was curious about the castle and she disappeared because of her curiosity about the unknown?”

“Yes, I’m astonished that you read it,” she said in a very careful, concerned tone. What the old man was aiming at didn’t please her, but she wanted to hear all what he was about to say.

“That’s what happens when one puts their own life in danger for just curiosity—it did kill the cat, after all.” He chuckled harshly and coughed continually to the point she had to grab the cup of water on the table and offer it to him. As he drank his full, he took a deep breath, sighed in relief, and thanked her.

That was an open threat, and she didn’t like it at all coming from a man who was weak and sick. He was about, what, seventy years old—how much harm could he do? But, then again, she was in his nest and out of her element, surrounded by strange men. She wanted to tell him what she thought of him at this moment but chose silence.

“Miss Blair. The villagers hate us for many reasons; one of them, let me tell you, is Mac.” He frowned and gave her a concerned puppy look. “Do you know why Mac has that scar on his face?”

“No, I haven’t asked and he didn’t mention it to me. And I don’t know what that has to do with my book.”

As he ignored her question for the second time, he continued in a soft Scottish accent, but with an intense blue gaze that bore into hers, his expression brooding, “Well, we used to come to the island every year, restoring the mansion. And one day, Mac, in his early twenties, had a fight with one of the villagers. It was ugly. The young man he fought threw gasoline on him, and well, you can imagine the rest. But, my point is since that day we were hated amongst the villagers. Please, don’t let gossip return and ruffle with our lives to an uncomfortable level.”

“That’s horrible.” Miranda didn’t believe him for some reason. For one, why he would tell her that fact about Mac when she didn’t even ask? And what about his threat, and him ignoring her question? “Mr. Wardlaw.” She shook her head. “I assure you my book has nothing to do with you or Mac.”

“I see that you insist. In that case, I have no choice but to wish you a happy stay. You can leave now.” He winced. “I kinda feel tired.” He coughed.

“Of course.”

A nagging thought disturbed her. Ken Wardlaw was up to no good, the old man had a mysterious hidden strength behind his pale appearance. “Thanks for seeing me,” Miranda said, and walked to the door, hesitant to talk more about a subject he dismissed so quickly.

* * * *

Ken twisted his lips in disgust. “Jack,” he called viciously through the phone, then wheeled himself to the bed and reached for his pills.

In a few seconds, Jack entered the room in hurried, heavy steps. “Sir.”

“How many times have I told you to be careful? I don’t like it when you have witnesses!” He coughed and wheezed.

Jack shrugged. “It will never happen again, Sir.”

“Who knows of her visit to the mansion?”

“The pilot, the doctor, some villagers, and other than the servants, Mac, of course. And as for her family and friends from the US, we just don’t know, she might have told them before she left.”

Ken popped two pills in his mouth and gulped some water to get them down his throat. “That’s fine.” he said. “Get rid of the pilot, and then the doctor, the rest…I can manage them later. Make it look like an accident.”