The Highland Heist, page 24
Tony tensed at her side at the mention of Mr. Kane.
“Most certainly,” Grace said, flashing Blake a playful smile in the rearview mirror. “How convenient it is that you’re so adept at sleuthing, Mr. Blake. It’s almost as if this isn’t your first case, given how much you know about everything.”
Blake grinned. “I’ve dabbled on occasion.”
“Boredom leads to mischief where Blake is concerned,” Frederick chimed in, casting his cousin a pointed look. Blake’s laughter rang out.
“It’s my way of making boredom work for me.”
Blake brought the car to a stop in front of a stone gatehouse, with a path leading to the castle looming on the horizon, its gray stone walls merging with the overcast sky. The faint scent of rain in the air seemed only fitting for their situation. After all, a sunny day spent searching for a will guarded by a ghost just didn’t seem right.
“Tony and I are going to take a look around the castle while the three of you go on the tour.” Blake announced once they’d exited the car. “We can cover more ground that way and keep Tony out of sight of Lady Blair, in case she is Mrs. James.”
“Or mistake me for one of her own ghostly acquaintances,” Tony quipped, his humor returning—albeit faintly—after his, well, death.
Grace let out a laugh. “Imagine that! Dueling ghosts.”
Tony’s humor failed to rise to her teasing, and with a nod to them, he followed Blake around the loch side of the castle grounds.
Before Frederick, Grace, and Zahra had reached the entrance of the gatehouse, the door swung open to reveal a rather spindly man. He huddled slightly, his thin white hair sticking out in various directions, much like Baby Thomas’. His pale blue eyes, framed by a weathered face, scanned them before a welcoming smile spread across it.
Grace fell in love with him on the spot. Partly because she had a weakness for older people … and smiles. But something about the man also tugged at a distant memory—one she couldn’t quite place. Had she met him before?
He dipped his head to Frederick. “Come to see the castle, aye?”
“Indeed, we have, Mr. Locke, is it?”
“Aye.” Mr. Locke’s voice creaked like the hinges of an old door. “Been the gardener here for nigh on fifty years.” He turned his rheumy eyes to Zahra, then back to Grace, his smile dropping into open-mouthed wonder. “You—you look just like her.”
Warmth spilled through Grace’s chest and rose into her eyes before she fully comprehended why. “Her?”
“Must be Elspeth Blair’s daughter, then. Wee Grace?”
The heat in her eyes took on liquid form. There it was. The name. Elspeth. Grace hadn’t heard it in so long. Her father always referred to her as “your mother,” or rarely, “Ellie,” but the way Mr. Locke said it—his accent curling the name—made it feel like a long-lost memory rising to the surface.
“Yes, I am,” Grace said, reaching out and taking his bony hand in both of hers. “I only have faint memories of her, of you, and this place, but what a delight to finally return and find such a fixture here who knew my mother.”
“Aye. A grand lass, she was. As good a heart as ever there was.” His fingers squeezed hers in return. “And it’s in you too. In your eyes.” He waved his hand toward her face. “You don’t last as long as I have without seeing certain things.”
Grace caught a glance at Frederick, who had stepped closer, his palm gently pressing to her back. Something about Mr. Locke reminded her of ancient trees or wise elves from fairy stories—mysterious, yet reassuring. She wanted to know more. Ask more. The loss of Rutledge House still felt fresh, but standing here in a place connected to her mother, with someone who had known her, made it feel a little less like so much had been lost. “I’d love to hear more about her if you’d be willing to share. Perhaps over tea?”
His brow rose in surprise. “Aye, I’d gladly do so. ‘Twould be good for the both of us, I’d say. Me to recall better days, and you to know from where you’ve come.” He gave his head a shake. “Your sister came yesterday to tour the castle, but she didnae seem as keen to talk of your mother or the past. I’m glad to hear you’re willing.”
“Not only willing, happy to.” Grace gave his hands another squeeze before releasing them. “Would you be available tomorrow?”
Mr. Locke studied Grace’s face, his smile softening. “Aye, I’ve nothin’ but time, lass.” He chuckled, then looked toward the castle. “And if you want, I’ll have ye join me here at the gatehouse tomorrow. We’ll take another keek of the castle—if you’re keen.”
“I’ll certainly be … keen.” Grace’s grin grew so wide it pinched her cheeks. “And this is my darling husband, Lord Astley, and our daughter, Zahra.”
“Lord?” The man’s gaze swung to Frederick. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir. I hadnae idea.”
“It’s no matter here, Mr. Locke,” Frederick interrupted, waving away the man’s concern. “I’ll happily disappear as the husband of Elspeth Blair Ferguson’s daughter in this—and many other—respects, so you needn’t worry about ceremony.”
Mr. Locke looked between them, his eyes calculating, as if weighing them in some ancient balance. Those eyes seemed to hold more than any pair she’d ever encountered—even more than the ones she’d seen in Egypt. “Aye, ye’ll do nicely here.” He nodded, then gestured toward the castle path. “You’re lookin’ for Laird Blair’s will, I wager?”
The warmth in Grace’s face instantly froze. She exchanged a glance with Frederick, the chill spreading. Oh no. Had Lillias told him everything already?
“Did my sister tell you?” Grace asked, keeping her voice as steady as she could manage.
Mr. Locke nodded as he turned back toward the gatehouse to fetch a ring of old keys and a walking stick. “Aye. When she came with Mr. Kane.” His smile vanished completely at the mention of Mr. Kane.
“And you’re not too keen on Mr. Kane?” Frederick asked.
Mr. Locke closed the door of the gatehouse with a quiet thud and gestured toward the castle path ahead, clearly avoiding an answer. “Let me show you Mosslea.”
As they walked a few steps, Mr. Locke pointed to the left, where the loch shimmered in the distance. “She’d sit out there by the loch with her sketchbook, drawing the water and the hills.”
Grace moved a little closer to him, captivated. “My mother?”
“Aye. She and the previous laird were thick as thieves when they were weans.” Mr. Locke’s walking stick made a rhythmic thump against the stone path as they climbed the incline. “Only children of only children, they were. Loved the same things.”
“Like what?” Grace sent a grin over her shoulder to Frederick, and he smiled back.
Yes, she should be thinking very sleuthy thoughts right now, but certainly her dashing detective would keep his investigative hat on while she learned a little more about the woman whose laugh she barely remembered.
Who gave her this brilliant and noticeable hair color.
Who read stories to her at night which incited her own love of story.
Mr. Locke’s eyes twinkled afresh, and he gestured with his stick toward the castle. “I’ll show ye.”
Ah, Frederick knew well the grandeur and shadow of an old family home.
Despite its description as a castle, its exterior and many aspects of its interior reminded him of his home, Havensbrooke, even down to the frayed rugs and dusty tapestries. But the beauty was there too, seasoned with time in some ways. High ceilings arched overhead, supported by darkened wooden beams whose sturdiness mocked their weathered appearance. Beveled windows flung patterns of light across dining rooms, ballrooms, and sitting rooms far too large to heat properly. The mingled scents of beeswax polish and damp stone lingered in the air like a memory.
He drew a deep breath. Of all the places he’d traveled to, this echo of home settled him most—though it was hard to fully appreciate when it came bundled with a ghost hunt, a missing will, and the lurking possibility of a murderer.
“Those were favorites of Laird Blair and your mother.” Mr. Locke’s voice interrupted his reverie, drawing Frederick’s attention to a massive fireplace adorned with carved wooden figures on either end of the marble mantel.
Frederick narrowed his eyes. He’d seen them before. Something from Scottish folklore. Sleek, horse-like creatures with wild manes and eyes gleaming with an unsettling intelligence.
“Kelpies,” Grace murmured, stepping closer, her tone laced with a sense of wonder.
Mr. Locke grinned, his expression crinkling with approval. “Ah, so ye know a bit of lore, do ye?”
Her gaze lit as she looked at the old man, and if Frederick guessed, Mr. Locke was deciding on whether to adopt Grace as a granddaughter or not. Very good. A charmed Mr. Locke was a helpful Mr. Locke, especially if it led to learning more about Grace’s mother—or uncovering useful leads for their investigation.
Investigation. The word still snagged in his thoughts like a boot heel on a loose floorboard. How had this become his life?
“Mother read Scottish tales to me as a child,” Grace explained, brushing her fingers over the carvings. “I’ve done some research since.” She recited softly, “‘Beware the kelpie,’ the old folks say. ‘He will lure you into a watery grave.’“
The words seemed to shiver in the air, bouncing off stone walls and sending a faint chill through the room.
Zahra slid her hand into his, and he gave it a squeeze.
“Are they real?” Zahra asked, her young voice adding brightness to the room.
The gardener chuckled. “Real enough, lass, if you’ve a mind to believe. And dangerous enough if ye’ve the foolhardiness to defy them.”
The tour continued, revealing carvings of other mythical creatures: selkies, fairies, wulvers, even a Loch Ness Monster. Mr. Locke patted the latter fondly. “Cannae live here without one.” He patted the creature one last time and continued, keeping them on the main level.
At one point, Grace gestured toward the stairs. “Will we tour the upper levels?”
“No, my lady.” Mr. Locke sent a look in the direction she pointed. “Those are private chambers for whoever takes the castle next. I’ve no permission to lead people there.”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “Would my mother have stayed there during her visits?”
Mr. Locke hesitated, his expression tightening before he spoke. “Aye. The family rooms. In fact, the chamber at the end of the hall was Laird Blair’s favorite.”
Was it Frederick’s imagination, or had the man emphasized that detail as if daring them to investigate? “His study, perhaps?” Frederick prompted, adopting an air of casual curiosity.
“No, my lord.” Mr. Locke’s grin returned, sly as a fox. “He had his study for peace and quiet from a bothersome wife, but the Laird preferred a more … expansive retreat.” He glanced at Grace, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Much like a selkie slipping away to the sea.”
Grace exchanged a look with Frederick, and he knew she’d also caught the implication. But Mr. Locke, apparently satisfied with his cryptic hint, offered no further elaboration.
They stayed a little longer, but Mr. Locke didn’t offer any further clues or hints, and when they made their way back to the car, they found Blake and Tony waiting inside.
“Nothing much to report except for a little skiff docked among the underbrush at the edge of the loch,” Tony explained once they’d all settled into the car, and he’d tugged off his hat.
“And the two of you?” Blake asked.
Without further encouragement, Grace shared their conversation with Mr. Locke, interspersing information about her mother in between more significant details for the investigation like the lay of the castle, Mr. Locke’s dislike of Lady Blair and possibly Mr. Kane, and the hint of something important about Lord Blair’s rooms upstairs.
“Well, it certainly sounds as if we have a plan for tonight.” Blake drew the car to a stop in front of their hotel.
Frederick drew in a deep breath for strength as Blake’s grin took a mischievous upturn and Grace’s eyes lit with mystery-loving fire. “And that is?”
“Anyone up for a late-night treasure hunt in a haunted castle?” He wiggled his brows. “Nothing brings a family closer, I’ve heard?”
Chapter 21
“Why didn’t you tell me you was Elspeth Blair’s daughter?” Mrs. MacIntosh announced the moment Grace and her party stepped into the inn. They had just returned from a walk on the outskirts of the village so Blake could, as he’d put it, “gather information about the lay of the land.”
Grace wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but since Blake said everything with such confidence, she had decided it must be a very smart choice.
“I didn’t think it would be important,” Grace replied with a polite smile. She sent a glance around the dining area, now bustling with villagers. The place had been empty when they’d first arrived, but it seemed Mrs. MacIntosh’s proclamation was drawing quite the crowd.
“You’re a Blair! That’s always important in Angloss. Has been for centuries. We thought the Blair line ended with Laird Alastair, but here ye are.” She gestured toward Grace as though presenting a long-lost heirloom.
“And her sister’s here too,” came a voice from among the patrons.
Grace spun toward the crowd, locating the author of the voice. As soon as her eyes met his, she knew. She was staring into the face of Fake Officer Clark, otherwise known as Mr. Malcolm Kane.
Following his subtle gesture, her gaze landed on Lillias, seated beside him at the table.
Frederick stepped to Grace’s side, Blake a step behind him. Zahra had been sent up to their room, and thankfully, Tony had remained behind from their walk, likely to avoid the temptation of confronting Lillias if he’d seen her.
Praise God for small favors.
The crowd returned to their conversations as Grace reached the table and got a clearer view of Mr. Malcolm Kane. Why did dastardly men have to be handsome? She knew meanness didn’t change ones looks, but it ought to give fair warning to the unsuspecting public at large.
“Grace.” Lillias gestured toward the others. “Lord Astley.”
Her attention hinged on Blake, clearly trying to recall his name. “Mr.—Mr. Blake, is it?”
“Mrs. Dixon.” He gave a subtle dip to his head, his eyes remaining as sharp as her husband’s. Of course, that was the only giveaway to their otherwise affable appearance, but Grace assumed that’s because she knew both of them so well.
“It’s good to see you’re safe and sound, Mrs. Dixon.” Frederick gave Lillias a meaningful look that Grace hoped Lillias actually felt. Her choice to jaunt off from Harrington had made everything more difficult for the rest of them and possibly more dangerous for herself.
“Please, join us,” Lillias said, motioning toward Mr. Kane, who rose with infuriating grace. “May I introduce Mr. Malcolm Kane, an associate of my dear Tony’s.”
Grace froze, her composure slipping entirely.
“It’s no wonder you’re surprised, my lady,” Kane said smoothly. “What would a Scot be doing for business in Virginia?”
“It is … a curiosity,” Grace managed to say, pinching the napkin in her lap to keep herself grounded. The Scottish accent shouldn’t be paired with such a sneaky man. It just seemed wrong. A disgrace to all the sweet Scottish men like Mr. Barclay and Mr. Locke.
“Mrs. Dixon may have exaggerated a touch, referring to me as an associate,” Kane continued, sending Lillias a warm look that made her blush furiously. Oh goodness! Her sister was a much easier victim than Grace had thought possible. Charmed by a murderer!
And then Grace realized that, for the first time in this entire case, she and Frederick were seeing Mr. Kane up close. This was the man who had stabbed Tony, wounded Mr. Barclay, and cavorted with Mrs. James to wound poor Mrs. Lindsay.
Scoundrel.
Grace raised the napkin to cover her sneer even though she’d not been served anything to drink or eat just yet.
Gratefully, Mr. Kane continued without any apparent notice of her dislike of him. “I have a house here in Angloss, though I travel frequently for business.” His grin creased at the corners of his eyes in a very un-scoundrel-like way. “My business tends to take me all over the world, but I usually work out of Edinburgh. However, Mrs. Dixon’s late husband was an acquaintance of mine through the bank as I interacted with him on several international transactions. I’m currently assessing property in this part of Scotland for a few clients, and when I unexpectedly met Mrs. Dixon aboard ship and heard of her tragic loss, how could I not offer to escort her to the very place I call home.” He glanced at Lillias, his expression softening. “It was the least I could do.”
“How generous of you.” Frederick’s calm behavior spilled added calm through her.
Grace unclenched her fingers from the napkin she’d been wringing to shreds and took a deep breath.
“And fortuitous!” Blake chimed in, signaling to the server with a flick of his wrist, as though they were all merely discussing the weather. “Travel in Scotland is notoriously treacherous. Imagine a bereaved American widow navigating alone. Heroic of you, Kane. Positively heroic.”
The ease with which Blake disarmed the table was nothing short of miraculous. Even Kane seemed charmed, raising his glass in a toast. “To chivalry, aye?”
Truly, how Frederick and Blake managed to ooze such charm while navigating lies, half-truths, and thinly veiled threats mesmerized her. Perhaps she ought to study their technique. Charm could be a useful weapon for a detective, after all.
She summoned a polite smile. “How fortunate we are to have such gallant company. Still, you must have business to attend to, Mr. Kane.”
“Actually, I plan to stay a few more days,” Kane said lightly. “The country air agrees with me. Besides, I’ve offered my assistance in sorting out the matter of the missing will.”
All her life, Grace had always thought she was the snitch of the family! But offer her sister a charming man with a mesmerizing accent, and she was ready to forget all about the danger surrounding Tony’s death—er … almost death—and Mr. Barclay’s attack.
