A Scottish Confection, page 4
Bonnie shrugged. “No, not really. The whole castle isn’t open to tourists, only small sections of it, as is always the way with these old castles. The upkeep of the castle is extremely expensive, and although Lady Nessa does receive funding from the Scottish Trust, she has to live in the castle to receive the money. Those are the terms, you see.”
“That’s right,” Freya chimed in. “And most people pretend they’re living in the castle solely to receive the money and are, in fact, living elsewhere, but Nessa is a stickler for rules. And the upkeep of her apartment in that old decrepit castle would be quite expensive. Anyway, let’s get back to the case at hand.”
Bonnie took up the story. “Silverware and other items that weren’t on display and weren’t in the cordoned off sections were stolen. That seems to suggest a tourist wasn’t the thief.”
“But surely a tourist could have slipped away to steal stuff,” I said.
“Yes, but there are security cameras in the tourist sections,” Bonnie told me. “And before you ask why there aren’t security cameras throughout the whole castle, well, that would be way too expensive. You’ll see what I mean when we go there tomorrow.”
I nodded slowly. “I see. So why do you suspect Hamish McSporran?”
“I don’t suspect him, as I told you,” Bonnie said.
Freya shook her head. “I suspect him. At least I think he needs to be on a list of suspects because he’s a known thief.”
“How long have things been going missing from the castle?” I asked them.
“It’s been years, really.” Bonnie scratched her head. “Nothing much, mind you, not at once, not anything highly valuable by itself, but it all adds up.”
I thought it over. “Maybe Damon caught somebody in the act.”
“It’s certainly possible, and in fact, that’s what we think,” Bonnie admitted. “Damon caught somebody in the act of stealing the sword, and they kidnapped him. Maybe after the perpetrator finds a fence for the sword, he or she will let him go.”
Anxiety gnawed at my stomach.
Bonnie was still speaking. “The sword is very valuable and ancient. It’s nothing like the other items that were stolen, and it was kept under some sort of security.”
“Unlike the other items,” Freya added.
“Were there security cameras in the room with the sword?” I asked.
They both shook their heads. “No, because it was in the original library and in a locked glass case,” Freya added. “Tourists were not given access to areas anywhere near the original library.”
“So, who are the other suspects?” I asked them.
“There’s the butler, Dean Buchanan; he’s new,” Bonnie said.
Freya interrupted her. “And the elderly caretaker, Jock McTavish.”
“What about anyone else from the castle?” I asked.
Bonnie tapped her finger on the table. “I was just getting to that. Clara Cochrane. She’s the cook.”
“And the new people,” Freya added. “An American art appraiser, Mr. Fitzsimmons and his assistant, Jillian.”
“You forgot Mitchell Gunn,” Bonnie snapped.
“I didn’t forget him. You interrupted me before I could mention him!” Freya countered. “Mitchell Gunn, who is the great-great-grandson of a woman who worked in the castle over one hundred and fifty years ago.” She glared at Bonnie.
I thought it over. “If these two Americans are new, they haven’t been pilfering. The butler’s new too, so these people obviously haven’t been stealing for years. How long has Mitchell Gunn been at the castle, and why is he staying there?”
“He’s a history buff,” Bonnie said, “and he’s been there several weeks. Apparently, his great-great-grandmother worked with the servants at the castle many years ago. He says he’s writing a book about her story.”
“Interesting.” I took a sip of the hot tea. It burned the back of my mouth. “So, we’ve got a new butler, a couple of new Americans, and a new history buff. Are there any other new people?”
Bonnie shook her head. “No one new. The usual staff members are here.”
I nodded. “Perhaps the thefts over the years had nothing to do with the theft of the sword. Surely, if someone was going to steal the sword, they would have stolen it years ago.” I clutched my head.
“Never mind, Jane,” Freya said. “You will feel much better after you have had some sleep, and we can look at the whiteboards in the war room.”
I shot her a weak smile. Suddenly, tiredness overcame me, and I didn’t even think I could eat dessert. I excused myself and went to my room. I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
Chapter 7
I awoke from a dream. I couldn’t remember the details, but it made me shiver, and for a moment, I didn’t know where I was. I looked around the room. It took me a moment to remember that I was in Scotland and that Damon had been kidnapped.
I needed coffee. I pulled on some clothes and went down to the breakfast room.
Freya and Bonnie were already up and in the kitchen drinking steaming liquid from oversized mugs—I guessed tea, as the aroma of coffee was decidedly absent.
“Did you sleep well, Jane?” Bonnie asked.
I nodded. “Yes, I slept well, thank you.” Apart from the weird dreams, I added silently.
Bonnie poured me a cup of tea from the yellow ceramic teapot sitting in the center of the table, and I sat down.
“There’s more in the pot if you want some,” she said.
“Err, would you happen to have any coffee?” I asked hopefully.
“No, we don’t,” Bonnie said. “We usually keep some for guests, though. Where is it, Freya?”
“How would I know?” Freya retorted. “I’m not the coffee’s keeper.”
“Is there a café nearby?” I did my best to keep the desperation out of my voice. Amish were for the most part dedicated coffee drinkers, and after I left the Amish, I had kept up the habit.
“The Bed and Breakfast next door sells coffee,” Bonnie said.
“Would they sell it to me?”
Freya shrugged. “Tell them you’re American and not English or Irish. That should do the trick.”
Bonnie looked as though she would explode. “What nonsense you speak, Freya!”
I hurried to speak. “I meant, as I’m not a guest there.”
Freya pursed her lips. “I see. Yes, they do sell takeaway coffee.” She had her head buried in a cupboard, and emerged with a triumphant shout, clutching an old glass jar. “I found the coffee!”
I took the jar from Freya and read the label. It was some sort of instant coffee, and the expiration date was illegible. By the look of it, I guessed it was years old. “I think I’ll go next door and buy coffee, thanks all the same,” I said.
Freya shrugged. “All our guests do that, the ones who want coffee, anyway.”
Before they could try to stop me, I hurried back to my room, grabbed my purse, and all but sprinted past them out the front door. I could smell the coffee before I even reached the Buttonbottom Lodge Bed and Breakfast. I followed my nose and found a barista standing behind a large coffee machine on the edge of what appeared to be the breakfast room. The barista was a woman in her late twenties, with her hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore a gray shirt and high-waisted jeans. Her face was friendly and open.
“You’re from next door, the Mony A Mickle Bed and Breakfast, aren’t you?’ she said in a thick Scottish accent.
“I am. How do you know?”
She laughed heartily. “You have a look of desperation and caffeine deficiency about you.”
I laughed too. “Yes, I need strong coffee to get me going in the morning.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. What would you like, cappuccino, latte, macchiato, espresso? Almond milk, soy, oat, or dairy? Large, medium, or small?”
“Strong and black, please,” I said. “And large. Actually, could you make that two?”
“Sure. I won’t be a minute.”
While she was foaming the milk for other orders, I waited by a small table at the window. The view was breathtaking: a panorama of the loch, the mountains, and the misty sky. Another staff member came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with a stack of freshly baked scones and a bowl of orange marmalade.
Now hungry, I took my two cups of coffee with delight.
I arrived back at the Bed and Breakfast thinking I could face the world. Bonnie raised one eyebrow when I walked into the kitchen with two polystyrene cups, so I hurried to explain. “They are both for me,” I said. “I always start the day with two coffees.”
“Tsk tsk,” said Bonnie, disapproval heavy in her tone. “Oh well, never mind. I’ll stick to my tea, thank you very much.”
I bit back a smile. I sat down, and after a few more sips of coffee, I started on my breakfast. I took a scone off the top of the pile and spread some marmalade on it. Everything tasted better when I was in Scotland. I poured some cream onto the scone and watched as it soaked in. The scones were followed by smoked salmon, scrambled eggs, sausages, toast, and fresh fruit.
It was a hearty breakfast, but I couldn’t identify one rather delicious part of it. “These are delicious,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever had them before. What do you call them?”
“Tattie scones,” Freya informed me.
“They’re so nice. Would you give me the recipe?”
“I don’t think there is a recipe,” Bonnie said. “You just mash the potatoes, throw in some flour and butter, oh and some salt, to make a dough, then knead it. You fry them. I play it by ear, really.”
“I’m sure I could find a recipe for you,” Freya said. “After breakfast, we’ll go to the war room, and after that we’ll go to the castle, and you can meet Lady Nessa.”
I was quite anxious about meeting Damon’s mother. What would she think of me? And what would I think of her? I was sure she was nice, but she might not like her son having an American girlfriend. After all, she lived in a castle, and I lived on a small farm surrounded by wild goats.
I had just finished my second cup of coffee when Bonnie cleared the table. Once more, she refused my offer to help. Freya stood. “Jane, I’ll show you to the war room.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Bonnie called after us.
I don’t know what I was expecting, really. I thought maybe there would be a small table in the middle of the room with a lone whiteboard behind it, so I could not help but let out a little shriek when Freya flung open the door.
I stepped inside. Every available space on the walls was covered with whiteboards, or rather, a combination of whiteboards and pinboards. Photos of every suspect stretched across one of the largest whiteboards, and below each suspect’s photo were lines of notes.
“Well, I’m impressed! You’re certainly thorough.”
“If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well, as my grandfather always said,” Bonnie said in my ear. “This is all the information we have on the suspects.”
“Did you take a photograph of the note the kidnapper left?”
Both Bonnie and Freya shook their heads. “No, sad to say,” Freya said. “We didn’t even know there was a note until the detective told you last night, or we would have looked for it.”
Bonnie looked at her watch. “I was going to suggest we go to the castle now, but it’s a little early. Lady Nessa is not an early riser. Jane, come outside to the stationary bike.”
I thought I must have misheard her, but I followed her outside. There, indeed, was a stationary bike. It was under a tin roof which afforded it protection from the elements. “I don’t want to do any exercise,” I protested.
“It generates power,” Bonnie informed me. “It runs into those batteries over there.” She pointed behind the bike. “If you pedal for half an hour, you’ll generate enough electricity to have lights on in your bedroom tonight.”
I must have looked aghast, because Freya patted my arm. “You’ll only have to pedal half an hour a day, Jane dear,” she said in soothing tones. “But if you want your lights on more than half an hour at night, you’ll have to pedal for longer.”
“That’s right,” Bonnie said. “Some guests don’t like to pedal, which is why we have candles in the rooms.”
It was all too much for me. Just wait until I got my hands on Matilda and Eleanor! What were they thinking, booking me into a place like this?
“I’m sure you’re used to peddling, given that you were Amish as a youth,” Bonnie said.
“The Amish don’t have electricity,” I said. “And they certainly don’t generate it by pedaling on a stationary bike.”
Both women smiled and nodded. I wondered if they were hard of hearing. Bonnie waved me over to the bike. “You’ll soon warm up after pedaling, Jane. Sure, you might be cold now, but you won’t be cold after five minutes on the bike. See, you can lose weight and be environmentally conscious at the same time!” She plastered a wide smile on her face, and then both women disappeared into the warmth of the house.
They hadn’t given me any instructions, so I got on the bike and started pedaling. I had pedaled for what seemed an age when Bonnie emerged from the house. “You pedaled for half an hour, Jane. Well done.” She walked over to me. “Oh no!”
“What is it?” I asked, alarmed.
“You didn’t have it plugged in! Your pedaling has been in vain.”
There were no words.
“Never mind. Just go on the bike for another half-hour.”
“I don’t have the energy,” I said. “I’ll use candles tonight. I need to go and buy some more coffee.”
Bonnie laughed. “All right then. When you’ve had your coffee, get ready, and we will take you to the castle to visit Lady Nessa.”
“I’m not pulling the rickshaw!” I said firmly.
Bonnie continued to laugh. “You don’t need to. We can drive a car there. After all, Lady Nessa is hardly environmentally aware.” With that, she strode back inside the house, with me hard on her heels.
The third cup of coffee revived me, and soon we were on our way to Lady Nessa’s castle. “How long will it take to get there?” I asked Freya and Bonnie.
“It’s only a ten-minute drive, or with Bonnie driving, a five-minute drive,” Freya told me.
I laughed but soon found she wasn’t joking. We were there in five minutes flat.
“Don’t worry, Jane dear. Lady Nessa will like you,” Bonnie said.
“I wish I shared your confidence,” I said. “I haven’t even spoken to her on the phone. And it’s certainly not a good way to meet Damon’s mother.”
“You’ll be fine,” Freya said.
We walked along a well-trodden path that wound its way through the bushes and flowers. At the far end of the garden, the path ran out of the walled enclosure and through a gate into a field filled with varieties of grasses and clover.
I looked up at the castle. It was of stone, gray and weathered. The front of the castle appeared to be in a good state of repair, but there was no escaping the ramshackle appearance of the sections on each side.
There was no way a single person could maintain it. It would take a small army of servants to keep it clean and maintained, and I had been led to believe Lady Nessa only had three full-time employees: a butler, a cook, and a caretaker.
I experienced a brief moment of doubt. How would Lady Nessa feel about me? I supposed I was about to find out.
“Years ago, after the passing of Damon’s father, Lady Nessa sold off portions of the land to fund the renovations. Most people in the village wondered if it was a decision made in desperation.”
“Why is that, Bonnie?” I asked her.
She shook her head sadly. “I don’t think there will ever be enough money to complete the renovations.”
Freya readily agreed. “That is the case with many castles.”
We walked up the steps. The huge front doors were already open, and I stepped into the foyer. It was like a scene from an old Hollywood film.
A black-and-white checkered floor ran the length of the narrow room, across to an iron and wood staircase carpeted in faded red. The wood paneling had been painted cream, somewhat brightening the rather shadowy room. The huge chandelier overhanging the stairwell was not on. My gaze ran over the beautiful pieces of wooden furniture lining the walls. They appeared to be of great age.
I gasped with delight. “I’ve never been in a castle before. This place is incredible.”
“It’s a small castle,” Bonnie told me.
“This is part of the original castle,” Freya added, “but the foyer was updated in Georgian times. Parts of the castle are original, but other parts have been added in the past few centuries.”
Bonnie interrupted her. “Where’s the butler?”
“I don’t know. It’s most improper. He should have met us at the front door.”
A loud scream punctuated her words. Before any of us had time to react, a woman appeared from somewhere within the castle, moving at speed.
Her face was as white as a sheet, and her mouth formed a perfect O. “Murder! Murder!” she screamed.
Chapter 8
Later, when I looked back on the events of that day, I wondered why I hadn’t been afraid that Damon was the one who had been murdered. I don’t know why, but it didn’t occur to me at the time—quite luckily for me, as my state of anxiety would have been so much worse.
Bonnie put out her arm and restrained the woman. “Clara, what happened?”
Clara Cochrane—I assumed this was the cook—burst into a flood of tears, her ample bosom heaving with sobs. Bonnie patted her shoulder sympathetically. “Take your time, dear. Take your time. Who has been murdered?”
“She’s taking a bit too much time, if you ask me,” Freya muttered.
Three men and a woman burst into the hall. “What happened?” one of the men asked.
“Murder! Murder!” Clara cried shrilly.
The woman grabbed the arm of the man who had spoken.
“The victim is Dean Buchanan,” said a stern voice behind us.
