Shadows in Scarlet (32 page)

"James, stop it.” She wrenched away and turned toward him.

His scarlet coat and blue and green tartan were translucent against the shadows. His eyes were cool and expressionless. “Amanda,” he sighed, his voice only a wisp of sound, “my own, you have cut me to the quick."

And he was gone.

Damn it, he made her feel like it was her fault. Well it was, some of it. But only some.

Downstairs, muffled by walls and corridors, the dog barked and then quieted. Amanda lay back down. She'd done what James asked—she'd found the sword, she'd brought him home, she'd told his story. Except the sword was in a display case. His home was in the hands of Archibald's descendants. The story she'd told hadn't been the one he wanted her to tell.

Funny how she was looking forward to tomorrow's funeral like a kid looking forward to Christmas morning.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Lindley Duncan pitched his voice against the wind, and his usually mild tones took on the resonance appropriate to the ancient words. “Man, that is born of woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay."

The open grave was a damp, dark gash in the green grass of the churchyard, a miniature of the excavation crater at Melrose. Surely, Amanda thought, it'd been years since James's bones and James's presence emerged from the Virginia mud like a tormented butterfly from its chrysalis. But it hadn't even been three weeks.

"In the midst of life we are in death; of whom may we seek for succor, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased."

Beyond James's grave sprouted the headstones of several generations of Grants. The older ones tilted wearily to the side, their flowing inscriptions barely legible. The words on the newer ones were cut more sharply, small square letters recording sentiments ranging from sappy to dignified. Just to Amanda's right stood the newest headstone, that of Alexander Grant. Its polished granite surface glowed in the clouded light. Both Norah and Malcolm took more than one solemn peek at it.

"Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not thy merciful ears to our prayer."

Beyond the weather-smoothed stone of the Celtic cross each succeeding fold of land seemed more ethereal, green fading to blue, blue to gray, gray at last blending with the overcast sky. The flush of purple on the nearer hills was a pale reflection of the purple clerical stole fluttering around the neck of Duncan's coat.

The landscape had the soft edges and indirect lighting of a dream. Amanda felt like she'd been in a fever dream—summer in Virginia was pretty feverish, after all—and was only now waking up, numb and bleary-eyed, as the cold wind of sanity slapped her cheeks.

Duncan bent, picked up a clod of earth, and threw it onto the coffin. “Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

The air thickened with a fine mist, not quite heavy enough to fall as rain. Amanda hoped the moisture didn't smudge the lenses of the cameras the way her eyes were smudged by a furtive tear or two, so that the greens, blues, and purples smeared and ran. What hurt most of all was that her tears were more relief than sorrow.

Malcolm switched the video camera to his left arm and briefly squeezed Amanda's hand between the flapping tails of their jackets. Norah stared into the grave. The Finlays shifted from side to side. The older John MacRae, serving as sexton, leaned on his shovel and peered into the sky, probably wondering how long he'd have to fill in the grave before the heavens opened up.

"I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, write, from henceforth blessed are the dead who die in the Lord: even so saith the spirit; for they rest from their labors."

Maybe that was why James had been sent back from the dead, not for revenge but for redemption. He'd done his time in purgatory, paying for his living excesses by revealing the weakness that had driven them. Whether that grudging revelation, soaked in booze and denial, was enough to open the Pearly Gates for him Amanda couldn't say. But she suspected she'd learned more from James's time in purgatory than he had.

"The Lord be with you,” said Duncan.

Malcolm and Norah responded, “And with thy spirit."

"Let us pray. Our father who art in heaven...."

Amanda's lips moved silently with the prayer. She hadn't thought of prayer earlier, in the great hall of Dundreggan Castle, when Duncan shifted the bones from their wooden crate to a small coffin and Calum Finlay screwed down its lid. She hadn't felt any sense of loss seeing James's physical remains for the last time. They were only bones, gnawed clean of passion. The words that had come to her mind were those of the song, “When day is over and my life is done, my eyes have closed and my strength is gone..."

Malcolm threw dirt onto the coffin. The Finlays did the same. Norah threw down one red rose, not the scarlet of James's coat but crimson, like his blood spilled in an alien land. His blood spilled so uselessly.

Amanda reached down, took an icy clod of soil, and dropped it onto the coffin. It made a hollow thunk, as though the box were empty. In spite of everything, she wished James peace.
Good-bye. It was a heck of an adventure. Thank you.

"May almighty God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, bless you and keep you, for now and evermore.” Duncan's voice thinned and was gone. The wind keened a lament through the grass, the stones, and the vacant windows of the ancient chapel. Amanda was cold. She clenched her jaw.

"You may take the photographs now, if you wish,” Duncan said.

"Thank you,” said Amanda between her teeth. She took pictures of the churchyard and the landscape, but she couldn't bring herself to take any of the pitiful hole in the ground. Then she lowered the still camera and Malcolm taped the entire group re-enacting the Lord's Prayer. The whirs and clicks seemed to cheapen the moment. But then, if Cynthia hadn't set up the photo-op trip, James would never have come home and the truth would never have come out. Trust Cynthia to do the right thing, even if the way she did it drove you up the wall.

By the time Amanda and Malcolm had enough pictures the rain was falling in earnest. The Finlays hurried to their car. “Will you be at the ceilidh tonight?” Duncan asked Norah as he folded his stole into his pocket.

"Yes. I promised to bring scones."

"Lovely. I'll see you there.” Duncan, too, drove away.

Malcolm opened the door of his green Land Rover for Amanda, who hung back politely for Norah, who shoved Amanda into the front seat and out of the rain. “What's a—is it a kay-lee?” Amanda asked, fumbling the unfamiliar word.

"It's spelt c-e-i-l-i-d-h,” said Malcolm, “just to confuse the outlanders."

"It's a party,” Norah answered from the back. “Music and dancing. I'm afraid Saturday night is upon us, funeral or no funeral."

Malcolm slammed his door and started the engine. “It's traditional to be havin’ a wake after a funeral, if you'd care to take that point o’ view. If you'd care to come along, we'd be pleased to have you."

"Well, James was a party animal,” Amanda said. “I'd like to come, thank you."

"It's a date, then.” Malcolm put the car in gear and drove jouncing down the narrow track from the chapel.

Amanda glanced back to see MacRae shoveling in the same rhythm as the Land Rover's windshield wipers, brisk and steady. James's parents’ and brother's graves were on the other side of the cemetery. But then, so were the graves of Isabel and Archibald. Not that it mattered. It was all over but the documentation.

James's funeral had been like his lovemaking, brief and to the point. But each experience was what she needed at the time—a skyrocket of passion in the depth of her dream and an elegy in cool silence at its end. So much for illusion, sexual, supernatural, or any other kind. Now she was going to do some serious exploration of the brave and very real world that was opening up in front of her.

Past Dundreggan's antique gate was parked an orange-striped police car. “Well, well,” said Malcolm with a glance at his mother, “and what does the local polis want wi’ us the day?"

"To borrow electric flex for the ceilidh, like as not,” said Norah.

They scurried through the rain into the house. Voices came from the kitchen, Calum's and Irene's musical cadences in harmony with slightly flatter masculine voice. “Denny is Newcastle born and bred,” Malcolm explained. “But he saw the light and moved house to God's country."

Smiling, Norah led the way into the kitchen. Irene was just putting the kettle on. Calum was reaming and stuffing his pipe. Cerberus, Denis, and Margaret waited expectantly in front of the refrigerator.

Against the cabinet leaned a small, slender man in official navy blue, his cap under his arm. The severe cut of his salt and pepper hair didn't tame the exuberance of his gray moustache. When he smiled his eyes and cheeks etched themselves with fine crinkles.

"Good morning, Denny,” Norah said. “Or has it gone noon? You'll take lunch with us, won't you?"

"It's noon, right enough. But as for lunch, no, thank you, I'm needed at the village hall to set up the speakers for the band."

"The extra flex is in the back,” Malcolm told him. “I'll fetch it."

"Thank you, Malcolm, but that's not why I'm here. I need to talk to your guest.” His dark eyes swept Amanda up and down as though assessing her aptitude for criminality. If she'd had an overdue library book he'd have spotted it.

Amanda braced herself.
Incoming....

"Denny,” said Norah, “this is Amanda Witham. Amanda, this is Police Constable Gibson."

"Nice to meet you,” Amanda said politely if not quite truthfully.

"How do you do,” returned Gibson. He pulled himself to attention, reached into his pocket, and pulled out what looked like a fax. “You are employed at Melrose Hall by the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation?"

"Yes, I am.” So Carrie hadn't managed to cover her tracks. But then, she could only go so far out on Amanda's limb with her.

Norah and Malcolm shared a puzzled glance.

"There's been a theft at Melrose,” Gibson said to Amanda.

"I know. My friend Carrie Shaffer called me to tell me. It's upstairs, in the display case with the sword."

"The scabbard?” asked Malcolm.

Amanda didn't know what story Carrie had given the police, but she was willing to bet it didn't include James in its cast of characters. “The scabbard was reported stolen from Melrose. But it wasn't stolen. I brought it here with me, because I decided at the last moment we needed photos of it with the sword, and I'm afraid I didn't make it very clear that that's what I was doing so it was reported stolen.” Having come full circle, she stopped and told herself that every truth was in the open but one, wasn't it?

Gibson was looking at her as though she'd started speaking Sanskrit. No way her American accent was that confusing. He unfolded the piece of paper. “An eighteenth century military scabbard, poor condition, brass oval bearing the Grant crest, no sword?"

"It's upstairs in the hall,” said Malcolm.

"That item was crossed off the list before I received it,” Gibson returned.

"List?” asked Amanda.

"A Paul Revere silver tea service—pot, sugar bowl, creamer, and tray."

"What?"

"A brass inkwell. A Chinese vase, Ming dynasty. Two pewter candlesticks. A pair of shell earrings that once belonged to Pook—Pocahen—Pocahontas."

"Excuse me?"

"Here,” said Norah in her best voice of reason. “Denny, I take it that's a list of items stolen from Melrose Hall?"

Silently he reversed the paper, revealing a dozen typewritten lines in the body of a letter. Irene's knife snicked up and down on the cutting board. Calum puffed away like a rotund dragon. The animals, like good extras in a crowd scene, milled around underfoot.

Amanda frowned. “I don't get it. The scabbard was in the box with the bones, but I don't know anything about the other things. They were all at Melrose when I left. Even the earrings, and they're just Victorian fakes."

"The box with the bones,” said Gibson. “May I see it?"

"Sure.” Amanda headed down the hall toward the spiral staircase, Gibson striding at her elbow, Malcolm and Norah close behind. Nothing like waking up, she thought, and finding herself accused of kleptomania in her sleep. “I take it the charges were filed by Cynthia Chancellor?” she asked. “Mrs. Anthony Chancellor, all-American busybody?"

The gray moustache twitched. “Never heard the name, Miss. Williamsburg P.D. is asking that you help with their inquiries. But no charges have been filed."

"Oh.” Up the staircase the procession went, Amanda shooting a sarcastic
thanks a lot
at James's portrait. But why should he take anything besides the scabbard? And how? There wasn't room for anything larger than the scabbard in the box.

The wooden crate stood empty beside the display case, its lid propped against its side, the roll of foam drooping over its edge. Each foam recess was empty now. It could have packed a set of dishes just as well as a human body. Amanda gestured toward it. “Help yourself."

Malcolm helped Gibson remove every bit of foam and each package of silica gel. “And your suitcase, Miss?” the constable asked at last.

"Just clothes, shampoo—you know, my stuff,” Amanda said.

"Give over, Denny,” said Malcolm. “If she filled her suitcase wi’ silver tea services she'd no have anything to wear, would she?"

"When did the items go missing?” Norah asked.

Gibson referred to the letter. “Thursday morning."

"I left Melrose Wednesday,” Amanda told him, “which would have been Thursday morning here. But you don't mean here, do you?"

"When it was Thursday morning in Virginia,” stated Norah, “it was afternoon here and Amanda was already with us. Speaking to her friend on the telephone about the scabbard."

Gibson nodded, folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket. “Well then, you can't have a better reference than Norah here, Miss. I'd best tell my counterparts in the States to have another go at it. You'll be returning the scabbard?"