22. Sullivan

22

SULLIVAN

“ H e meant well,” Fallon said when David left us on our own.

“I’m unaccustomed to being shut down that way. In fact, it’s reminiscent of both my mother and her brother.”

“Clive?”

I nodded. “My dear uncle Clive.”

“The situation with him is problematic.”

I laughed. “Problematic?”

She laughed too. “Apologies. It is far worse than that.”

“I’d say,” I muttered.

“You may not want to hear this, but I agree with Ash about not confronting him. Better to see what he does next. There’s a good chance he’ll lead us to Weber.”

“You’re right.” I looked up at her. “I never liked him. Even before I thought he set me up to be assassinated. Is that what they’d call it?” I lowered my voice an octave. “‘Breaking news this evening. An unidentified female was assassinated outside Edinburgh Castle, where a fundraising gala was taking place.’”

“Probably not. They likely would’ve said ‘fatally shot.’”

“Assassinated sounds far more dignified, though, doesn’t it?” I shook my entire body, much like a wet dog would. “Okay, change of subject. I can’t talk about this anymore.” I folded my arms. “What about you and Con?”

Her nostrils flared, and she made a growly noise in her throat. “The man makes me stark-raving mad.”

“You seem to get on okay.”

She shook her head. “Not at all. In fact, if I wouldn’t be putting Ash out, I’d ask if I could stay here rather than at Blackmoor.”

“I don’t think he’d mind. There’s another cottage. I quite liked it.”

“You really think he’d be okay with it?”

“I don’t see why not. And as far as your safety, it seems to me they’ve employed every available security officer in all of Scotland.”

She rolled her eyes. “I noticed. There are more at Blackmoor. At Glenshadow too.”

“So, every bodyguard in all of the UK.”

“As it seems.”

“David was surprised I noticed them.”

Fallon laughed. “You’re kidding.”

I shook my head, hating that I’d been so standoffish with him. He’d saved my bloody life, and I’d shown my appreciation for it by giving him the cold shoulder. Well, I had thanked him. Many times, in fact. Still.

“I wonder if they’re making progress.”

Fallon looked at her watch. “It’s been fifteen minutes. I’d say it’s unlikely.”

I stood and looked out the window. An older man was walking across the bridge, headed toward the castle. He turned when he reached the walkway that led to the entrance. “Who’s that, I wonder?”

Fallon stood. “Perhaps Ash’s uncle, Ambrose? I’ve heard stories about him from Con. None that were terribly interesting.”

“He appears to be scowling.”

“Hard to be the spare, I suppose. Then having it all passed down to one’s nephew.”

“You’d think he would’ve gotten over it by now.”

“Does one ever?”

I returned to the table where my computer sat open. “I guess not. So, what should we be working on?”

Fallon glanced around the room as if she was looking to see if someone might overhear her. “I’ve been dying to tell you what I found in the monastery records.”

“I’d forgotten all about those.”

“Come over here, and I’ll show you.”

She pulled an image up on her laptop.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Drawings. Of tunnels.”

My brow furrowed. “Tunnels?”

“They run beneath the three estates—Ashcroft, Glenshadow, and Blackmoor.” More images appeared on the screen. “It’s quite fascinating, is it not?”

“How old are these?” I asked, pointing at the screen.

“From what I read, they date back to the Jacobites.”

I wished I was sitting in front of my computer, so I could quickly look it up. I was sure it was, or they were, something I’d learned about in history class.

“While most of the rebellion’s battles took place closer to the Cairngorms in the eastern highlands, according to this, there was quite a stronghold here, in the west. It makes sense, given the proximity to the sea.”

“I know it makes me sound like a bampot, but can you refresh my memory?”

Fallon smiled. “No worries. I had to look it all up too.” She typed something into her computer, then turned the screen toward me. “Here, it’s easier if you read it, which is all I’d be doing.”

The article said that the Jacobite Rebellions were a series of uprisings that took place in Scotland between 1688 and 1746. While the time span was over several years, the rebellion’s focus was first to restore James II, part of the Catholic Stuart dynasty, to the throne after William and Mary—Protestants—were crowned as co-monarchs of England, Scotland, and Ireland.

After James II’s death, the rebellion continued in support of, first, his son, then his grandson.

“How does this relate to the tunnels?” I asked.

“Most believed they were urban legends, so to speak, but according to what I found, they were quite real. Perhaps they still are.”

Fallon brought one of the maps back on the screen. “They were more commonly talked about in Edinburgh, where there are allegedly many vaults and passages, most of which predated the rebellions. There are several other castles that are purported to be connected to places that could serve as an escape route.”

I raised my head. “Like Loch Fyne.”

“Precisely.”

“Err, do you think this relates to Weber and Tower-Meridian somehow?”

Fallon looked like a balloon I’d just stuck a pin in. “Sadly, no. Honestly, I just found it fascinating.”

I jumped when I heard a rap at the door and looked up to see David on the threshold.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, standing to approach him.

“Again, please forgive the interruption, but I must speak with you.”

“Excuse me,” I said to Fallon. “What’s happened?” I asked once we were outside the library.

“Come with me. I can’t speak about it here.”

I followed him outside, to the waiting golf cart, then held on tight as he drove to Thistle Gate at a speed I didn’t think the thing was capable of.

Once inside, he paced the small room. “I just had a conversation with my uncle, and he told me something that, I’ll admit, I’m having a bit of a hard time processing.”

“Come sit with me,” I said, patting the sofa cushion.

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Try.”

He nodded, and when he sat down, I took his hands in mine.

“Okay, start at the beginning.”

“It began innocently enough. Brose asked if he could see the cottage’s refurbishments. On our way here, he mentioned my grandfather had always been enamored with the place.” He looked down at our clasped hands. “That might’ve been the end of it, until he added, ‘For good reason, I’d say.’”

“Go on.”

“He assumed I knew, as he put it, about my grandfather and the housekeeper, whose name he couldn’t remember.”

“Agnes?” I gasped.

“Yes. Then he said, ‘Angus and Agnes. The least well-kept secret in the west of Scotland.’”

My eyes opened wide. “Agnes is Mrs. Drummond’s mother.”

“And Gus—Angus—is her son.”

I closed my eyes and pictured a family tree. “That would make Gus your what? Cousin?”

“And Mairi my aunt.”

“Do you think they know?”

“Mairi, certainly. Gus, I rather hope he doesn’t.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“One, that he kept it from me. Or worse, that he believed I knew and never acknowledged our, err, familial relationship.”

“He’d never think that of you.”

“No?”

I shook my head. “No. Absolutely not.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“What will you do now?”

“I suppose I need to confront Mairi. Good God, on Christmas of all days.” He pulled his hands away and reached into his pocket. “This, you really won’t believe.” He opened the watch I’d given him. “Ambrose took this from my grandfather. In essence, he stole it.”

“No!”

David nodded. “He turned the same ashen shade Mrs. Drummond, err, Mairi did when she first saw it.”

“My God,” I said under my breath.

“There’s more, not that it’s as significant.”

“Tell me anyway.” He took my hands in his again. “I asked Ambrose if he’d ever been in love, and he told me once. To my mother.”

This time, I withdrew a hand and covered my mouth.

“He brought her here, and she and my father promptly fell in love, to Brose’s great heartbreak.”

“How awful. Sorry, I know she was your mum, but…”

“He said neither of them knew his feelings, but no wonder he and my dad never got on.”

“Admittedly, my head is spinning. I can’t imagine how you must feel.”

“Hence the pacing.”

I smiled. “You must speak with Gus.”

He nodded. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“The same way you told me,” I suggested.

“But what if he has no idea—like me?”

“Good point. It would be best to speak with Mairi first.”

“My aunt, who is now overseeing the preparation of our Christmas dinner. The one she’s never been invited to share with her own family. God, he was a bastard. Err, I don’t mean it that way. I mean, my grandfather was, you know.”

“I know who you meant and how you meant it.”

His expression softened. “Of course you did. I was frantic to speak with you, knowing you’d understand.”

I leaned forward and kissed him. “So. Mairi. You must speak with her before dinner.”

“Agreed.”

“Let’s go.”

His head cocked. “Where?”

“Back to the castle. You’ll hardly be able to get her to come down here again.”

“Right.” He stood and pulled me up with him.

“Oh, one more thing before I forget. Fallon expressed an interest in staying here rather than at Blackmoor.”

He stared at me in a way that seemed like he had no idea what I was talking about.

“She said Con drives her ‘stark-raving mad.’”

“He would do. As with most people.”

“I assured her you wouldn’t mind. I hope I didn’t overstep.”

“Of course you didn’t. So, um, here?” He motioned with his hand. “At Thistle Gate?”

“Actually, I suggested Primrose Croft.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Yes. Absolutely. She’s more than welcome. Although I have a feeling Con will not be happy about it.”

“That’s his problem.”

David smiled. “Precisely.”