The Burning Glass (18 page)

The same muddy blue car Jean had almost
collided with stopped at the end of the driveway. Valerie leaned
out of the window, Ciara stepped forward, Valerie made a comment
and drove on, back toward home and, presumably, Derek.

Turning away, Jean was confronted again by
the marble fireplace with its classical fluted columns. A
Georgian-style fireplace was out of keeping with this Victorian
house, but it would be of the same time period as the blocked door
in Ferniebank’s Laigh Hall. Like the clarsach, had the fireplace,
too, been—taken, borrowed, rescued—and passed down through
generations of Rutherfords? What had the Rutherfords been to the
Sinclairs, the Douglases, the Kerrs? Squires? Opportunistic
tenants? Thorns in various metal-plated or silk-clothed sides?

Jean walked over to inspect the photos
arranged along the mantel, each silver frame polished to a
fare-thee-well. Most photos were of Minty, hanging onto a
long-faced man’s arm as though hanging onto a dog’s leash, standing
in front of Buckingham Palace, the Great Pyramid, the Taj Mahal,
the Grand Canyon. The odd photo out was of an elderly man—the late
Wallace?—smiling on the steps of the flat at Ferniebank. Where
Alasdair had stood this morning, grasping the railing.

Wait a minute. Jean focused on Minty’s
companion. Hugh had described Angus as a long, lanky chap with a
face like the Queen of Faerie’s milk-white steed. That fit the man
in these photos, all right. That also fit the man from the Mystic
Scotland van, the only difference being the provisional
moustache.

What the . . . ?
Jean spun around.
“These photos are of Angus, right?

“That they are,” Rebecca replied.

“I swear to God,” said Jean, suiting action
to word by casting her gaze upwards, “I saw him arguing with Ciara
at Ferniebank not an hour and a half ago.”

The doorbell rang. Jean sprang for the couch
and sat down on its edge just as Minty sailed past the sitting room
door.

“Are you sure it was Angus?” Rebecca
hissed.

“If it wasn’t him, it was his identical
twin.” She was going to have to tell Alasdair about this. Although
she would have told him even without that crack about “making a
report.”

From the entry hall came the sound of the
door opening and Minty’s voice, exuding if not warmth, then at
least neutrality. “Ciara. So glad you could join us. And Keith.
What a lovely surprise. Zoe, take Miss Macquarrie’s coat.”

Again the crash of cutlery. Zoe hurried into
the hall as Keith ambled into the sitting room and saw the two
women sitting on the couch. “Oh. Hi.”

“Keith Bell,” said Jean, “Rebecca
Campbell-Reid from Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh.”

“We’ve met,” Rebecca said. “Keith’s staying
at the Reiver’s Rest.”

“Oh. Hi.” Keith pretzeled himself into an
armchair and held a paper folder out to Jean. “Here. Have a press
kit. I didn’t get to talk to you yesterday.”

No kidding
. Saying, “Perhaps I can
talk to you and Ciara after lunch,” she took the folder. The cover
was printed with “Ferniebank Conference and Healing Centre. Getting
in Touch with the Secret Wisdom of the Past.” Inside were
elevations, floor plans, maps, testimonials, all of which spun
across the surface of Jean’s mind like snowflakes across a blacktop
and vanished. She tucked the folder next to her backpack in the
space between the couch and the legs of an end table.

“Naw, after lunch won’t work,” Keith said.
“We’ve got to go into Hawick, you know, regional police
headquarters, to make a report about the inscription. Some
detective inspector’s coming all the way from Edinburgh, big
whoop.”

For a split second, Jean was actually
grateful to the thief with his nasty little chisel. But then, if
not for him, she and Alasdair wouldn’t have lashed out at each
other.

Minty led Ciara through the doorway while in
the background Zoe retreated, clutching Ciara’s Abominable Barbie
fake-fur jacket. “. . . all right between you, then,” Minty was
saying.

“We had a bit of a miscommunication is all,”
answered Ciara. “No harm done. Shannon’s with our clientele now,
showing them round Floors and Kelso, with high tea at the Abbey
Close.”

“The Abbey Close does a—nice—tea,” stated
Minty. “Drinks?”

“Pink Zinfandel, please.” Ciara sat down on
another armchair, the ruffles on her blouse palpitating gently.
“Hello, Jean. Hello—Rebecca, isn’t it? We met at the Granite Cross
a few nights since. Your husband was piping.”

Rebecca nodded, smiled, and said nothing
about Ciara’s past affiliations.

“Keith?” asked Minty. “Juice? Malvern water?
Ah, wine?”

“I’m fine with water.” Keith’s colorless eyes
followed her as she once again trekked across to the dining room.
In a bigger house, Jean thought, Minty would have had buttons and
bells to summon the servants. But then, this way she could keep a
close eye on the peons at their work.

The clock clunked, whirred, and played the
melody of the Westminster chimes, followed by one emphatic
dong
. Now that Jean wasn’t trying to dredge it up, the
memory appeared. She’d heard that same clock strike yesterday, in
the background when Keith called her at the office. That was no
mystery, with Ciara staying with the Rutherfords. She’d probably
urged him to set up his own interview, so that her project would
get even more column inches.

Ciara’s blue eyes were fixed on her.
Something moved in their—shallows, Jean thought waspishly.
Condemnation, perhaps. Or simple curiosity. She returned the stare.
Yes? No? Maybe?

Ciara tossed her head, and again her
earrings, cascades of tiny gold stars, tinkled behind the red
curls. “Dreadful, isn’t it? The inscription and all. And there’s
me, rewriting my lecture in mid-stream. Alasdair . . . Well,
Alasdair’s dealing with it, I’m sure.”

“He’s dealing with it,” Jean said, even as
the echo of his “Damn and blast!” ran through her body like an
aftershock.

Minty returned, Zoe at her heels with the
tray. Zoe served while Minty pulled forward a smaller chair and
seated herself, her hands with their plain gold wedding band folded
tightly in her lap. “Bad news indeed about the inscription. Good
job we have the bits that we do. The one with the
ic
and
j
, the one with the
ac
, and three others from the
left edge, all in the museum.”

Zoe flinched, almost throwing Ciara’s
wineglass into her lap. Deftly, Ciara fielded it.

“That will be all, Zoe,” instructed Minty.
“Tell your mother luncheon in ten minutes.”

Again plowing straight through the
underbrush, Jean asked, “So y’all have the stone inscribed
ac
, then, the one that was in Wallace’s pocket when he
died?”

“Why yes, I do,” Minty replied, ignoring
Jean’s second-person plural. “Ciara, if you’d like to donate the
icj
to the Stanelaw Museum, the two pieces could be fitted
together. The entire inscription should have been removed to the
museum long since. But that was P and S’s decision, to risk damage
and even theft by leaving it
in situ
.”

“The museum’s welcome to keep the pieces for
the time being,” said Ciara graciously. “A shame the villains
struck just now, but it was all to a higher purpose.”

Right
, Jean thought. Funny how the air
seemed to be leaching from the room.

Rebecca looked from face to face. Ciara eyed
the row of photos on the mantelpiece, her auburn brows tightening.
Keith inspected either his fingerprints or Ciara through his glass
of water. Minty said, “Publicity. The more the fairy-tales about
Ferniebank are publicized, the more likely it is to attract
hooligans like that Derek Trotter. I told P.C. Logan that boy needs
questioning.”

Wondering if Minty meant “publicity” as a dig
at Ciara, Jean repeated, “Fairy tales?”

“Isabel Sinclair,” conceded Minty, “was a
lady-in-waiting to Mary, Queen of Scots. She died in a fire at the
castle in 1569, soon after Mary stopped there on her flight to
England.”

“A Catholic queen, fleeing to a Protestant
land at a time of religious ferment,” said Ciara. “No wonder she
was done to death in 1587.”

“Her messy relationships lost her Scotland as
much as her religion did do,” Minty said.

Rebecca smiled, not mentioning that her PhD
dissertation considered Mary’s role in sixteenth-century politics,
including her supposed plots to overthrow her cousin Elizabeth of
England—a distinct possibility, with Mary’s son James being next in
line to childless Elizabeth’s throne.

“And Isabel’s ghost has walked at Ferniebank
ever since,” concluded Ciara, her smile at Minty more cheery than
cheeky. “But then, there’s more to Isabel’s story than Wallace
printed in the brochure. His grandfather Gerald, typical Victorian
gentleman that he was, plastered sentimentality over bothersome
historical truths.”

Minty reclaimed the floor by raising her
voice the merest fraction of a decibel. “In any event, our museum
has a burning-glass that is said to be the one with which Isabel
ignited the fatal fire.”

“It survived the fire?” Jean asked.

Minty smiled. “I’ve brought it here until I
can consult with Alasdair about security issues at the museum. I’m
sure he’ll recover from the embarrassing theft of the inscription
quite quickly.”

Jean pressed her lips together, not that she
had any effective retorts, and caught Rebecca’s lifted eyebrow.
They’d seen Minty, outside the museum, putting a small box into her
handbag. That must have been the burning-glass. Some nerve, to
regard the museum as her own private treasury.

“I’ve got a friend who’s a dab hand at
psychometry,” said Ciara. “If he’s holding an artifact, he’s
sensing what happened all round it. I’ll be bringing him along in
time, so’s he can have himself a go at the burning-glass. And the
bits of inscription as well.”

Minty’s alabaster complexion grew just a bit
ashen at that. Rebecca’s mouth turned down in a frown, probably
because she was trying not to smile. Keith chewed pensively on a
fingernail.

Feeling more breathless by the minute, Jean
went on, “Thank goodness Gerald Rutherford made sketches of the
complete inscription. And Wallace had some skill with a pen, didn’t
he? Last night I found a drawing he did of the dig at Ferniebank.
Is Angus an artist, too?”

Again Ciara’s eyes focused on the
mantelpiece, then darted in Jean’s direction. Jean met her gaze
evenly.
Yes, I saw you with him. Is something going on behind
Minty’s back? Or does Minty really know and see all?

Ciara looked away. If Alasdair was right
about Ciara’s abilities—and he was rarely wrong, even when he was
infuriating—she hadn’t caught a hint of Jean’s telepathic
transmission.

“As an artist,” Minty was saying, “my husband
has a tendency to dot his t’s and cross his i’s. But then, there
are very few people whose abilities live up to their self-images.
Much better to bear their shortcomings without complaint. Luncheon
is served. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Zoe will show you to
your places.”

Jean and Ciara bounded to their feet. Jean’s
thigh muscles twinged and she lurched into Ciara. They spun away
from each other, two magnets touching negative poles. “Sorry,” said
Ciara, and headed onwards, Keith in tow.

Jean was left with an impression of softness,
soft fabrics, soft pillowy flesh. A man could get lost in a body
like that. It’s a jungle in there. For a moment she felt dizzy.

Rebecca took her arm. “You’re sure you’re all
right?”

“Yes, I’m fine, thanks, I just got up too
fast.” Jean plowed on toward the dining room. The table gleamed
with what might have been Minty’s third-best service, painted
pottery and stainless steel ranged around a vase of flowers so
fresh dew clung to the petals. Rebecca sat down across from Ciara,
Keith rather crammed in next to her. Jean found herself seated at
the foot of the table, while Ciara had the guest of honor slot on
the right hand of Minty.
Inhale
, Jean told herself.
Exhale
.

Zoe stood bracing the door open and balancing
a tray. Beyond her, Jean saw a heavyset woman, swathed in an apron
reading “Cookery at the Glebe,” scowling with the effort of daubing
morsels of food onto myriad small plates. As though that wasn’t
enough to identify Polly, the bandaged left hand did so. Her drab
hair, encased in a net, looked like mouse sausage.

Minty reappeared, seated herself, and
announced, “I’m organizing the catering for the new conference and
healing center. Today we have a tasting menu of dishes. Zoe.”

Zoe started distributing the plates as though
she was bowling and trying to make the spare, then hurried back for
more.

Jean considered the array. Right now she
would have done just fine with bread and water, although the
mingled aromas were quite appealing. Despite its acid coating, her
mouth began to water. When she saw Minty lift her fork, she
followed suit.
Inhale. Exhale. Prepare to swallow
.

“We have haggis wonton and plum sauce,” said
Minty, “haggis tortellini with a spiked salsa verde, haggis
beignets with diable sauce, haggis pakora, and haggis
dumplings.”

What Jean swallowed at first was her
incredulity. Rebecca was making little hiccups, trying not to
laugh. Minty wasn’t joking. Piled in artistic mounds on the plates,
decorated with sauces, enclosed in pastry, was haggis in all its
liverish glory.

“And we have,” Minty went on, “a clapshot of
diced root vegetables—potato, turnip, parsnip—
al dente
, with
a sprinkling of parsley, as well as salad lettuces fresh from my
garden. The water is the new select brand from the springs near
Balmoral. Enjoy.”