A Parcel of Rogues

by Josephine March and Jim Vickers

Chapter 1

The butler walked the softly-lit, paneled hallways of Grey Manor without haste, just as he had done for many years. He carried a bottle wrapped in a white linen napkin. Opening the door to the library, he looked in at the person inside. "Sir, the bottle you requested from the cellar."

"Be good enough to pour my nightcap, Martin."

Sir Angus Fraser stood on the Persian carpet in front of the hearth at the far end of the room. No fire was lit there now, in late June, but this corner of the library still managed to appear comfortable and inviting. Two worn leather club chairs were drawn up to the fireplace, inviting reading or conversation. But tonight, Sir Angus appeared to have eyes only for the portrait of his late wife that hung above the mantel. It had been painted when she was in her early thirties, just before the pregnancy that had torn her from his arms forever. The old man considered it his dearest possession.

In the center of the large room, a Tiffany lamp cast a pool of light on his desk and on the papers he had laid out there. The well-ordered bookcases that lined every available wall space in the room were lost in shadows.

A warm breeze drifted into the room from one of two sets of French doors on the outside wall. Bare of curtains, the doors faced out onto a terrace. During the day, they afforded an enticing view of the gardens and the woods beyond.

Martin crossed to the small liquor cabinet between the windows. He unlocked the cabinet with a key from his pocket, took out a glass, and set it on the polished wooden tray that stood ready on top of the cabinet. Working deliberately, he unsealed and opened the bottle, filled the glass, and placed the new bottle inside the cabinet before re-locking it. In a ritual that was obviously familiar to both men, he then carried glass and tray to his employer and offered it to him. "Will there be anything else this evening, sir?"
.
"No, Martin, that will be all, thank you. Wait. Please close that window on your way out."

"Very well, sir, good night."

"Good night, Martin."

Sir Angus Fraser contemplated his nightcap without his usual pleasure. The twenty-five year old Scotch whisky, distilled in a neighboring village, was the pride of the region and his particular pleasure. He had been enjoying the same smoky, amber potion for nearly 40 years. As he savored the color and aroma of the single malt, he returned to his desk and looked thoughtfully at the papers there before taking a meditative sip. The smoothness of the fine old whisky was lost on him tonight. It burned his mouth and throat like cheap rotgut as he swallowed it.

He set down his glass with a sigh and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. Although his face was covered with a fine sheen of sweat, he felt chilled. Another sip of the whisky brought on a wave of nausea. He noted with distaste that the sweat had collected in his armpits and soaked through his white shirt. Resolutely, he loosened his tie, picked up his pen and signed the last of the documents waiting for him on the desk. He must be catching cold, he mused. It felt as though he had ice water running through his veins. He shivered and wiped his face again as he stood up. He made his way to the safe with some difficulty and secured the papers inside before returning to his desk.

The pain, when it hit him, was indescribably sharp. It radiated through his jaw in a searing flash, culminating in a tremendous pressure in the area surrounding his eyes. Sir Angus tried to reach the telephone but his body, crushed now by the pain, would not cooperate.

Although he was a stout man, Sir Angus slid to the floor soundlessly, unable to utter a word. His vision clouded, and his last few breaths were drawn in agony.

****

A young, dark-haired woman simply clad in a black dress, white apron, and white lace cap made her way slowly down the hallway of the great house. Her sensible, low-heeled black oxfords contrasted sharply with her slim, graceful ankles and very attractive legs. She pushed a carpet sweeper with one hand. A deep plastic tray containing a lambs wool duster and various cleaning solutions stood nearby, and she paused to use these on the light fixtures, occasional tables, and assorted bric-a-brac. Sunlight streamed in through a window at the end of the corridor, illuminating the dust motes she had stirred up as she cleaned.

A discerning person might have noticed that she was late in the first trimester of pregnancy. The fabric of her bodice strained slightly over breasts that were slightly fuller than they had been when the dress was fitted. And the white apron concealed a similar strain across the front of her dress. Still, the light cleaning was not taxing work, and she hummed tunelessly to herself.

When she had completed the area she was working on to her satisfaction, she picked up the plastic tray and moved to the door at the end of the hallway. She knocked softly, listened for a moment, and hearing no answer and no one within, she opened the door.

*****

The simple brick church at the outskirts of the village was filled to capacity. The congregation that gathered there was surprisingly varied. Neighbors of all classes from the village and surrounding countryside, prosperous business associates, servants, and elite visitors from London and the Continent had all come to pay their final respects.

After the brief service, Sir Angus was borne to a simple spot in the churchyard on the shoulders of his two nephews, young business associates, and stalwart lads from the village. It had been his wish to rest here in this peaceful setting, beside his wife, rather than in the elaborate family vault, for this had been one of her favorite places.

The two nephews took their places on either side of a young blonde woman, dressed in deepest mourning. As the minister began to intone the words that would commit Sir Angus to his final resting place, she pressed a white lace handkerchief to her face.

Sir Angus's solicitors, two conservatively-dressed men in late middle age, stood at the fringes of the large crowd. "I say, she's laying it on a bit thick, isn't she?" whispered one.

"It's the daughter-in-law. Ian's wife," replied the other.

"She's Matt O'Reilley's daughter," returned the first. "Danny O'Reilly's sister."

"Good family," replied his companion. "So, how did he die?"

"Heart attack."

"I don't recall his ever having a sick day in the thirty years I've known him."

"Well, you know how it is. Overweight, overworked, over fifty."

The two men regarded each other ruefully and returned their attention to the service.

***
A young, blonde woman clad in deepest mourning sat at the table behind closed doors in the breakfast room. She clasped a white lace handkerchief tightly in one hand. There was an unmarked, cream colored envelope on the table in front of her.

There was a discreet knock at the door.

"Come in."

The door opened slowly to admit the young, dark-haired maid. She was still dressed in black, though this morning she was not wearing her cap and apron. Her dark eyes appeared smudged with fatigue and red from weeping.

"Valerie, you are discharged," said the woman at the table without preamble. "We cannot condone this kind of disgraceful behavior at the Manor. This envelope contains a month's wages." She pushed the envelope across the table. "You may use the telephone in the kitchen to contact your mother if you wish. Albert will drop you off in the village or take you into the city, whichever you prefer. That will be all."

Although Valerie's eyes grew bright with unshed tears, she did not weep. She picked up the envelope, glanced at its contents, and left the room as silently as she had entered.

Chapter 2

Late June had brought heat and humidity to Chicago. The heat shimmered on the sidewalks, gripping the unfortunate citizens in its oven-like heat. Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP, stood at parade rest in front of the Canadian Consulate in his red serge dress uniform, apparently oblivious to the discomfort index. He heard the door open behind him just as he detected the intoxicating scent of Inspector Meg Thatcher.

"Constable, please see me in my office when you leave your post at noon." She turned to re-enter the Consulate without waiting for an answer, leaving a blast of air-conditioning in her wake. Fraser had continued to stand at attention during the short, one-sided interchange. But his peripheral vision took in her soft brown hair and slender figure without the necessity for turning his head. As usual, the sight pleased him.

Fraser was knocking at the Inspector's office door before the clock had finished chiming the hour. "Come in."

He stood at attention in front of her desk. "You wanted to see me, Sir."

"Yes, Fraser." The Inspector sat at her desk, reading a list. Fraser knew that she needed glasses and secretly found it endearing that she refused to wear them in front of other people. The slight nearsightedness lent an occasional softness to her dark eyes.

He gave himself a quick mental shake and concentrated on what she was saying. "As you know," she went on, "I'm taking the 5:30 flight tonight for the law enforcement conference in London. I'll be gone for ten days. I am leaving you in charge during my absence." She handed him a piece of paper. "This is a complete list of phone numbers."

"Thank you, Sir. Any orders?"

The Inspector frowned at her calendar. "The inventory needs to be finalized by Tuesday so that it can be forwarded to Ottawa on Wednesday. It's also our turn to host the monthly law enforcement roundtable. That's at 11:30 next Friday. You will take my place as chair. Familiarize yourself with the reports in these five files before then. Have Turnbull order the usual lunch and refreshments."

"Yes, Sir. Will there be anything else?"

"Nothing. Just keep things running smoothly, and for God's sake, keep Turnbull from burning the place down. Have him finalize the inventory, since he's been working on it. Just remember to double check it. That should keep him out of trouble. That and plenty of sentry duty."

"I've noted some improvement since he started seeing Ms Vecchio," observed Fraser in defense of the younger officer.

"So have I. But I can't help wondering how long it will be before he has a relapse. Dismissed, Constable."

Fraser tucked the itemized list in his pocket as he turned to leave the office.
.Chapter 3

Fraser arrived at the Consulate early Monday morning. He noted with approval that Turnbull was already at his post at the front door, looking suitably unperturbed by the heat.

As he approached his desk, he saw that the morning's mail had been laid out neatly for him. Several manila folders, containing the day's paperwork, were in another pile, while a third pile contained the reports for the Friday roundtable. The fourth and final pile apparently encompassed Turnbull's work on the inventory.

The telephone rang as he sat down. "Canadian Consulate, Constable Fraser speaking."

"Hey, Frase, any chance you could get out of there for a couple of hours?" It was his partner, Ray Kowalski.

"Why, Ray?"

"Mrs. Johansen finally gave a statement."

A look of interest crossed Ben's face. "Ah, good! What did she have to say?" They had been trying to get the elderly landlady to talk to them for almost a week.

"Well, she's given me a couple of pretty good leads. The suspect is still renting from her, but she hasn't seen him in about two weeks. Says he told her he's a salesman and that he travels quite a bit. But she expects him in the next couple of days because his rent is due. He always pays on time and in cash. I'm headed over to the apartment to take another look."

"Interesting." Fraser sighed. "But I can't help you today or for most of the week. The Inspector has left for London, and I can't see the top of my desk for the paperwork. Perhaps after I get off duty..."

"Too bad," replied his partner. "But I'll keep you in the loop. Talk with you later, Fraser."

Fraser sighed again as he hung up and looked at the mail. His partner, Ray Kowalski, was in the middle of an intriguing investigation involving an Internet chat room stalker. He knew that Ray hoped to resolve the case before the arrival of the FBI. But Fraser's duty was clearly to this pile of paperwork. He began working his way through the mail. The third envelope was addressed to him. It bore a Scottish postmark, and the engraved return address read, "Keith & Gunn, Solicitors, Aberdeen." He shook his head. While he did not know anyone in Aberdeen, the communication did not appear to be related to Consulate business, and it was inappropriate to read personal mail while on duty. He laid the letter aside and continued his attack on the official mail.

The ringing of the telephone startled him. He picked it up and spoke briskly, "Canadian Consulate, Constable Fraser speaking."

"Constable Fraser, Inspector Henley here."

Ben knew the man. He was from Ottawa. "Good morning, Inspector Henley. How can I help you?"

"Constable, I'm afraid it's bad news," began the Inspector. "You have a cousin, Sir Angus Fraser of Grey Manor near Aberdeen, Scotland?"

Ben searched his memory. "It's entirely possible, Inspector. I've heard my grandmother say that our family emigrated from that area of Scotland. But she never mentioned any specific relatives." His thoughts strayed to the unopened letter, now lying on the corner of his desk.

"Well, Constable Fraser, we've just received a communication from the firm of Keith and Gunn, solicitors to the late Sir Angus Fraser. I'm sorry to inform you that Sir Angus died of a heart attack two weeks ago. They go on to say that you're named in his will as one of the heirs and as his executor. They request that you be given an emergency leave of absence so that you can be present for the reading of the will and any duties pertaining to the execution of the estate."

Fraser had quietly opened his own envelope. The letter it contained said substantially the same thing. He noted a second, sealed envelope addressed to him in longhand, contained in the larger outer envelope. "Well, Inspector," he replied, "There is a problem. Inspector Thatcher is attending the law enforcement in London. I'm the ranking officer in her absence."

"I am aware of your situation, Constable. We've made arrangements for a senior officer to replace you temporarily in Chicago. Sergeant Buck Frobisher will be there this evening on the 8:30 p.m. flight."

:"Thank you, Sir. I'll arrange to have him picked up at the airport."

"Oh, and Constable. He's bringing a junior officer with him. A Constable...Let's see here. Ah, yes. Margaret Mackenzie. My sympathies on your loss, Constable. And have a successful trip."

"Thank you, Inspector." Fraser reached for the letter again as he hung up the phone. The lawyers had requested him to contact a travel agent in Chicago about his tickets. He dialed the number and, after a few minutes on "hold," was given a confirmation number for a ticket on the 5:30 p.m. flight that same afternoon.

The second envelope was sealed and addressed to him in a firm, smooth but somewhat old-fashioned handwriting. Opening it, he found a letter, also handwritten.

Dear Benton,

I have placed this letter in the hands of my solicitors with instructions not to deliver it until my demise. I presume you have been informed of my death and that you intend to be present for the reading of my will.

Since you will have no idea who I am, permit me to introduce myself to you: I am Sir Angus Charles Fraser, first cousin of your father, Robert Fraser, late of the R.C.M.P. Long ago, your grandfather and my father had a quarrel over something I know nothing about. To prevent more trouble from occurring, your grandfather emigrated to Canada while my father — the elder of the two brothers — stayed in Scotland to carry on the family name and business.

I have always regretted not having known your grandfather personally. I learned over the years that he was a very honorable and forthright person. My own father asked me never to have contact with his brother or any of his family, and I have complied with his request until now.

You are named as heir to the estate not only because you are the closest surviving male relative, but also because of what I have learned of your background. I have kept an eye on you over the years and know that you and your family members are persons of good character, honorable and upright in all your dealings. I see nothing wrong with being a librarian or a police constable even though my father did.

I must implore you to look into my death and ensure that I was not murdered. There are those who would lay hands on my estate -- immoral people who would stop at nothing, including murder, to seize what is not rightfully theirs. My file cabinet is made of oak. It contains two drawers and sits under the table that serves as my desk. I have taped the key to it behind the portrait of my late wife that hangs over the mantel in the library. You will find information there that will assist you in determining if I have been the victim of foul play.

Thank you for honoring my final request. I sincerely regret that we never got to know each other.

Yours faithfully,
Angus Fraser

Fraser read through the letter a second time with a thoughtful air. He wondered what Angus Fraser had been like. And his policeman's instincts were awakened by the fact that he had found it necessary to write such a letter. It seemed like a literary device in a murder mystery.

"Hello, Son."

Ben looked up to see Bob Fraser. Dressed smartly today in his red serge tunic, his father's image stood in front of Ben's desk at parade rest, as though awaiting orders.

"Hello, Dad. How are you?" replied Ben.

"Well, I'm still dead, Benton. Some things never change."

"Dad, did you know about this cousin, Sir Angus Fraser, or about the family in Scotland?"

"Not a thing, Son. Your grandfather never spoke of it." Bob Fraser shook his head and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I do recall hearing stories from other relatives when I was a boy about a rift between your grandfather and someone close. But he would never elaborate. Stubborn as a mule, he was."

"Well, it would appear that I am named in Sir Angus' will as his heir," Fraser went on. "He was also afraid that someone would murder him. He's left me a personal letter to that effect."

"Murdered? Great Scot!"

"Very aptly put, Dad," replied his son. "In any event, I'm headed to Scotland. Since you're here, you might as well know that Maggie is on her way here with Buck Frobisher. Can you stay close to her while I'm gone? Look after her?"

Bob rocked back on his heels with an amused air. "Of course, Son. I want to see how she'll get along with that partner of yours without you around to chaperone."

Ben looked up in surprise. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, Son, you're a bit... That is, don't you think you're a bit overprotective towards her?"

Ben rubbed his eyebrow and wondered what had brought about this turn in the conversation. "Dad, she is a Mountie. She can take care of herself."

"Oh, a bit defensive, are we? She can take care of herself except when you're around," the older man replied with some asperity.

"Not true, Dad. She hasn't had much experience in a big city. When she visits, I merely see to it that nothing happens to upset her."

"Son, give the poor girl a bit of breathing room. I want grandchildren, and by God, if you won't give them to me with that inspector of yours, I'll see to it that your sister meets somebody who will!"

"That's easy for you to say," said Ben, "You're dead." The retort came too late. His father had already left the room.

Fraser sighed and reached for the telephone. He caught up with Ray Kowalski on his cell phone. "Ray, I need a favor."

"Sure, Fraser. Just name it."

"Well, it's rather a complicated favor. I need you to go to the airport twice this evening. Once to drop me off and again three hours later to pick up Sergeant Frobisher and my sister Maggie."

"Maggie's coming to town? Hey!"

"Ray!" Ben interrupted sharply. He quickly filled Ray in on the communication from Ottawa, the contents of the letters, his unplanned trip to Scotland, and the possible murder, finishing with the arrival of Buck and Maggie to take over at the Consulate for him."

"Whatever you need, Fraser, I'll be glad to do it. See you at 3:30."

Fraser's afternoon was spent packing his few belongings and settling the affairs of the Consulate as best he could. When he heard Ray Kowalski's horn, he was ready.

"Turnbull, you're dismissed for the afternoon," he said to the younger officer. "You understand that Sergeant Frobisher will be here this evening."

Turnbull nodded, his blue eyes focusing intently on Fraser so as not to miss a single word.

"Until his arrival, you are to do nothing but work on the inventory. All the preparations for his visit, and that of Constable Mackenzie, have been taken care of. Do you understand?"

Turnbull beamed. "Yes, Sir. I thought I might make some ratatouille."

"Above all, do not cook anything."

"Understood. Have a safe trip, Sir." Turnbull sighed as he re-entered the Consulate. Perhaps if he could not cook, at least he could order something.
Chapter 4

Ben and Ray were quiet for a few minutes as Ray navigated the afternoon traffic to the freeway and headed for the airport. It was Ben who finally broke the silence. "Ray, can I talk with you about something?"

"Sure, Frase. What's on your mind?"

"It's about Maggie. I won't be around to watch over her and I was wondering if you would keep an eye on her for me,"

"Certainly, Fraser. You know I care for her a lot..." Ray cracked a lopsided grin.

"I know, and that is the other thing I wanted to talk with you about. I want to make sure whatever you do with my sister that your intentions and actions are strictly honorable."
.
"C'mon, Fraser! You know I wouldn't hurt her. Besides, with her Mountie training, if I tried anything, Maggie would break me in two!"

"That's true, Ray, she would. Just remember this, Ray," Ben said as he got out of the car, "Hurt her and I'll kill you."

"Understood," Ray shot back with a grin on his face.

"Good, I'm glad we had this talk," said Ben, "Thanks for the ride. I'll see you when I get back." Fraser grabbed his suitcase, borrowed from Turnbull for the occasion, and headed into the terminal.

The check-in formalities were finished quickly, thanks in large measure to his RCMP identification, and Ben found himself in the first-class departure lounge with an hour to kill before boarding. He looked around with interest at his fellow-passengers. Most were obviously business men and women, although there were two middle-aged couples, apparently traveling together, who appeared to be tourists. There was nothing remarkable about any of them.

A plump, redheaded middle-aged woman stood off to one side hissing angrily into her cell phone. She closed it with a snap, turned it off, and slid it into her large carry-on bag. Then she looked at Fraser with a smile and said, "Blessed relief. Out of touch for the next ten hours."

Fraser smiled back at her shyly and continued to survey his fellow-passengers.

When the flight was called, he found himself seated in a window seat of the second row of the first- class cabin. His seat mate was the cell phone lady. Flashing him another smile, she stowed her carry- on bag beneath her seat, her eyes falling on the Stetson he held in his lap.

"Would you like me to put that up here for you?" she asked. "It should be OK. I've just got what's under the seat." She had an accent he couldn't place.

"Thank you kindly." He handed her the hat, and she placed it carefully in the overhead bin.

"Are you a police officer?" she asked as she buckled her seat belt. She eyed his uniform with mild curiosity.

"Yes. Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

"A Mountie! I don't recall ever meeting one of you before. I'm Catherine Browning. My friends call me Cathy." She extended her hand.

"Cathy. A pleasure to meet you. I'm Benton Fraser, and most people call me Ben." The two shook hands. "You're not Canadian, then?"

"Lord, no! Though sometimes people ask me that. I have no idea why." The steward had materialized beside them. "This would be our pre-flight drink order. I'll have a Virgin Mary," she said to the steward. "Make it with Clamato. Extra Tabasco."

"Virgin Mary?" Ben was puzzled.

His seat mate laughed. "You Canadians would call it a Caesar. But for some reason ‘Virgin Caesar' just doesn't have the same ring to it. I seem to crave tomato juice when I'm flying. But it's not a good idea to hit the liquor too hard -- it dehydrates you. So I always ask for the Bloody Mary mix with all the trimmings and no vodka. That way I can have some wine with my dinner."

"I'll have one of those, too," Ben said to the steward. "Also with extra Tabasco."

It took a long time to get everyone onboard the 747, and Ben had finished his drink when the steward came to collect the glasses. He was grateful that his companion for the journey, while agreeable, did not seem inclined to talk too much. He was equally grateful, as he stretched out after they were airborne, that Keith & Gunn had seen fit to send him a first-class ticket.

The early part of the flight was busy. After another round of Virgin Mary's, Ben and Cathy found themselves settling down to their steaks and salads. Cathy took a sip of her Burgundy and sighed with contentment. "You know you'll always get a decent meal on British Airways," she observed.

"Do you fly much?" Ben was enjoying his own meal.

"All the time. I fly for my company. The only reason I'm in first class is that I save my miles and use them for upgrades. Believe me, this trip is slow torture back there in Tourist." She took another sip of her wine. "So what brings you to London?"

Ben paused for a moment, unsure of what to say. "Family business," he finally replied. "I'm going on to Aberdeen."

"Aberdeen. I've been there. Lots of technology companies up that way. Lots of oil," replied Cathy. "You'll like it. It's a beautiful city. And do try to get out into the countryside."

"As far as I know, I'll be staying in the country." Ben took the last sip of his mineral water.

"Good. Well, I hope you'll take some time to see the sights." Cathy settled back and smiled at the steward as he cleared away the main course and replaced it with a slice of chocolate cheesecake and a cup of coffee.

Ben declined both coffee and cheesecake in favor of another glass of mineral water. Cathy fished a paperback out of her briefcase and was soon comfortably absorbed in it. Ben followed suit, pulling out his new copy of "The Farfarers." The cabin lights were soon dimmed, and those who could, slept while those who could not sleep watched movies. Ben looked out of the window as the plane took its leave of North America, somewhere over Newfoundland, and headed out over the open sea.

Chapter 5

At 8:15 that same evening, Ray Kowalski was back at O'Hare, pacing back and forth across the concourse. The quick kiss they had shared before her departure from Chicago had stayed n his memory. Would she remember it too?

"Ray, I appreciate your coming with me to pick up Sergeant Frobisher and Constable MacKenzie."

"That's ok, Rennie. I just wish they would get here. I thought Air Canada was always on time!"

"Oh, they are, Ray." Turnbull looked at his watch. "We're just here too early. The monitor says their flight is on time."

Ray turned to Turnbull."Yeah, well, I hate waiting!"

"Perhaps if you sat down and read a newspaper or a book…"

"Sorry, Turnbull, that's not my style."

After a few more minutes of pacing, the two Mounties emerged from the jetway. The Sergeant was a tall man with silver hair.. "Good evening, gentlemen." He smiled vaguely. "You must be Constable Turnbull and you are…"

"Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago P.D."

"Funny, you don't look the same as the last time as I was here. I seem to remember you as being taller with more forehead."

"Oh, yeah, well, that's a story that takes about two hours to tell, Sergeant," Ray turned to the person he had been waiting for. "Hi, Maggie." His eyes looked into hers, and he could see no one else.

"Don't worry, Sergeant Frobisher. This is Ray Vecchio," she said as she returned his gaze and found what she had seen the last time she was in Chicago.

"Well, then, shall we go collect our luggage and be on our way?" said Buck. "Detective! Constable! Can you hear me?"

He looked at Turnbull "Why does this remind me of two other people? Turnbull, these two are very busy at the moment. Have they met before?"

"Yes, sir, they have. Constable MacKenzie was here a while back on the trail of her husband killers. Along the way, she found out she's Constable Fraser's half-sister."

"Half-sister! But she's..." Buck Frobisher paused for a moment. "Bob Fraser! You devil you!"

"Yes, Sir." Turnbull was at a loss as to what else to say.

"Let's guide them and keep them from harming themselves and be on our way, shall we? Now, about that luggage."
Chapter 6

Ben was awake at the first whiff of coffee brewing early the next morning. His seat mate slept on undisturbed as he stood up, stretched, and made his way to the lavatory. He was thankful that Turnbull had been successful in urging a disposable safety razor on him for the journey; shaving with his straight razor in these small, gently shaking quarters would have been hazardous duty.

Feeling somewhat more comfortable, Ben collected a cup of coffee on his way back to his seat and sipped it as he looked out at the green land spread out far below. The plane had made landfall at Belfast and would be arriving in London at 7:30 local time.

"Good morning!" Cathy was awake. She ran her hands through her mop of graying curls until they stood on end, then squinted at her watch. "Six-thirty. What a waste! I could have slept for another hour." She, too, stood up and disappeared into the lavatory, returning a few minutes later looking much fresher and holding a cup of coffee. The steward brought them orange juice, sweet rolls, and more coffee, and offered to switch on BBC/Omnia, an offer both declined with thanks.

"You know," Cathy said as she finished her coffee. "I tend to forget what day it is on these flights."

"It's Tuesday," Ben smiled. His face grew more thoughtful as he realized that 24 hours ago he'd never heard of Sir Angus Fraser or Keith & Gunn or fortunes or manor houses.

Cathy frowned as she consulted a small personal data assistant. "Gee. I have a whole hour and a half after we land before my appointment. Well, at least I've had what passes for a night's sleep."

The plane touched down. Cathy smiled and shook his hand as the two parted company. "I hope you'll enjoy your visit."

Ben got his Stetson out of the overhead bin and was soon in the terminal--busy even at this early hour. He found himself with two hours to wait for his flight to Aberdeen. He located a bank of telephones, took out his notebook, and attempted to call the Inspector. She was not in her room. Probably at breakfast, he reasoned. A call to Ray's apartment was also unsuccessful. Ben killed a few minutes exchanging his money before settling down with his book to wait for his next flight.

"Howdy."

Ben looked up from his book. "Good morning," he replied. The man who had greeted him was casually dressed. Brown eyes twinkled through silver-rimmed spectacles.

"Mind if I sit here?"

Ben nodded agreeably and made room for the stranger, his backpack, and his laptop.

"So where are you headed?"

"I'm going to Aberdeen," replied Ben, drawn to the stranger's friendly demeanor and soft Texas accent. "How about you?"

"Well, I'm headed for New York and then home. You seem a little nervous."

"Well, this is my first trip overseas," Ben admitted.

"And where's home for you?"

"I'm Canadian. Royal Canadian Mounted Police. But I'm currently assigned to Chicago."

"First time I've ever met a Mountie. I'm retired from the Navy. I was a chief petty officer, and I suppose I've traveled over a million miles. But I never had the opportunity to visit Canada."

"That's a lot of traveling," Ben observed.

"Well, they used to say Join the Navy and see the world. And I still find things in this world that fascinate me."

"A very good attitude," Ben smiled. "And what do you do now?"

"I'm a systems test engineer. I test aircraft. Don't ever worry about traveling in an airplane. Flying is very safe, and we can expect the people in the cockpit to do their jobs just like they expect us to do our jobs. The way I look at it, when it's time to go to heaven, nothing is going to stop the man upstairs from taking you home. In the meantime, why not do the best we can to enjoy our lives and this world?"

"Sounds like a very workable philosophy."

Over the loudspeaker could be heard the announcement of the flight to New York. "That's my flight. I need to get going. I have a grandson to go spoil. A pleasure to meet you, Constable." The man handed Fraser a business card. "Drop me a line sometime. I got a feeling you're one to ride the river with."

"Good bye, Sir. Thanks for the advice, and have a good flight home."

The flight to Aberdeen, when it was finally called, took less than an hour. Ben stretched out, grateful not to have a seat mate. He closed his eyes and attempted to gather his thoughts for the day ahead.
Chapter 7

Ben was startled awake as the plane touched down after the short flight. As he left the plane, he noticed a tall man in late middle age standing to one side holding a hand-lettered placard that read FRASER.

"I'm Benton Fraser," he said as he approached.

"Good morning, Sir. I'm Albert, here to drive you to the Manor."The man seized Ben's suitcase and resisted all of his efforts to retrieve it. "If you'd be good enough to wait here, Sir, I'll bring the car around."

Albert materialized while Ben was setting his watch to local time, 10:50 a.m. He managed, somehow, to hold the door to the terminal open for Ben while simultaneously getting in front of him to open the car door.

Ben stopped for a moment before entering the car. He was unsure now what he had expected, but it certainly had not been a 30 year old Rolls Royce in perfect condition. The car's black paint gleamed in the sunlight as though lit from within, and it was only the somewhat antique body type that indicated to him it had not just been driven from the showroom.

"Thank you, Albert." Ben's face was devoid of any expression as he entered the car. Close friends might have noted a certain expression around his eyes that indicated perplexity. But most of his close friends were across the Atlantic.

Albert drove silently and expertly. Before long they had left the suburbs and were driving through a wooded countryside. Ben knew that Balmoral Castle was somewhere in the outskirts. But Albert was intent on his driving and did not seem inclined to talk. Eventually they turned off the main road onto a smaller road, bordered on both sides with woodlands. The woods thinned on one side of the road, giving way to rolling meadows. Ben made out the figures of several horses in one of the fields. In another mile or two, Albert turned off the road onto a paved lane, surrounded on both sides by tall hedgerows. Ben surmised they were approaching the house, but they seemed to drive on for more than half a mile.

He was almost startled to see the trees give way. He could see the house up ahead. Set in a tangle of gardens, the enormous Gothic Revival house was surrounded on three sides by a large terrace. Ben took the last few moments of his ride to study it. True to its name, Grey Manor was constructed of grey stone. Three stories high, it consisted of a large central structure flanked by two symmetrical wings. Balconies graced several of the rooms on the second floor.

Ben thought that the windows were its best feature. The gracefully pointed Gothic arches were trimmed in a lighter cream-colored stone that also formed a delicate tracery at the top of each arch. The windows and balconies, coupled with the jewel-like greens of the surrounding gardens, prevented the house from appearing dark and forbidding. Instead, it had a gracious, almost whimsical character that appealed even to Ben's practical nature. He could make out thick woods surrounding it on three sides in the middle distance.

Albert stopped the car directly in front of the steps leading up to the terrace. Moving with that disconcerting speed that belied his age, he was out of the car holding the door open for Ben before Ben could finish opening it himself.

Two people, a man and a woman, had materialized on the terrace. Lacking any cues, Ben walked up the steps to approach them.

"I'm Benton Fraser," he said to the pair.

"Welcome to Grey Manor, Sir," said the man. Dressed in a black suit, black tie, and immaculate white shirt, the man seemed to be in his mid-sixties. "I am Martin, the butler." He indicated the young woman standing beside him. She was a fragile blonde in her mid-twenties, wearing a simple gray shirtwaist dress that did little to hide her perfect figure. "This is Flora, the housekeeper," Martin went on. Ben noted that the butler had taken him in from head to toe with a single unobtrusive glance.

"How do you do," said Ben.

Martin opened the wide door and stood holding it. "You will no doubt wish to refresh yourself after your journey, Sir," he said as Ben entered. "Flora will show you to your rooms."

The center hall was illuminated only by two narrow windows to either side of the front door. Even on this fine day they were unable to shed enough light to relieve the gloom. The floor appeared to be of a stone similar to that of the terrace. The room was sparsely furnished in a gothic-revival style that matched the exterior. Ben admired the oak wainscot that gave way to creamy walls; it was this alone that prevented the large area from looking like a dungeon.

Flora had glided silently through the room, and he was startled to hear her voice from the carpeted center staircase. "If you would follow me, Sir," she was saying.

He followed her up the staircase. It divided at a landing, branching off into two side stairways that obviously led to the same place. The landing, paneled in the same oak as the hallway, served as a portrait gallery. Numerous oil paintings of various sizes, ages, and styles were hung here, and he surmised that the mostly-male figures memorialized in them must be relatives--former masters of Gray Manor. Ben suppressed a shiver and followed the young woman up the stairs.

The second-floor hallway seemed to stretch out forever in both directions. Somewhat better illuminated than the downstairs, it served as a continuation of the portrait gallery and was paneled in the same oak that prevailed in the rest of the house. Doorways on either side stood half open or entirely closed.

Flora approached a door on the front, opened it, and stood aside for him to enter. "These are your rooms, Sir," she said in a low, charmingly-accented voice. "They are guest rooms. We haven't prepared Sir Angus' rooms since he..." she broke off.

"Thank you, Flora." Ben smiled at the young woman. She was obviously as shy as he was, and it was almost impossible not to be drawn to her delicate beauty. "This will be fine."

He looked around. Thankfully, his assigned quarters were large, bright, and airy. Situated at a front corner of the main wing, the sitting room boasted a large fireplace at one end. Two comfortable wing chairs and a loveseat were drawn up in front of it, and a low table held fresh flowers. Off to one side he could make out the bedroom, which seemed to feature a high, curtained bed. A fresh breeze drifted through an open French door that led to a balcony overlooking the gardens.

"Will this be satisfactory, Sir?"

"Certainly, Flora. And thank you." Ben ignored the kilted ancestor who stared down at him from the spot above the fireplace mantel.

"Will there be anything else, Sir?"

"I'll need a telephone," Ben replied.

"Downstairs in the library," she replied. "When you've made yourself comfortable, if you would return downstairs, I'll direct you to it." She glanced at her watch. "Luncheon will be served in about an hour, at one o'clock. Would you like me to send the valet, Sir?"

"No thank you, Flora. I'll be down in about a half-hour."

Flora left and Ben went into his bedroom. Unseen hands had already unpacked his suitcase. His clothing was hung in order in a large wardrobe in the corner of the room. Ben moved quickly to the white-and-black tiled bathroom adjoining his sleeping quarters, shrugging out of his belt and tunic as he went.

He showered quickly, delighted to be rid of the grime of his trip. As he re-entered the bedroom, he had a moment of confusion before he located the drawer containing his underwear and socks. He dressed in jeans and a white fisherman's sweater, pulled on his casual boots, and moved quickly to hang up his dress uniform.
Chapter 8

Only twenty minutes had gone by, and Ben's hair was still damp from his shower, when he went back downstairs and looked around the entry hall for Flora.

She arrived in a few moments, smiling shyly. "This way to the library, Sir." He followed her past a large, graceful drawing-room and into one of the side wings. The library was located all the way at the end. "Here you are, Sir." The telephone is on the desk at the center of the room. She withdrew quietly.

The sunlight streamed through the open French door, illuminating the desk and its contents. A rainbow glint caught Ben's eye, and he realized that it was sunlight refracting off an empty glass set on the desk's corner. The glass was clean. It contained no residue of liquid, and as he observed it more closely, he also noted that it did not appear to have any fingerprints, although it was covered with a slight film of dust.

He looked around the room with interest and noted that there was a small bar set between the two pairs of French doors. A polished wooden tray stood on it, also hazed by a slight film of dust. Ben returned his attention to the immaculate but dusty glass. Taking out his clean handkerchief, he lifted it with great care and held it up to the sunlight. His closer examination only served to confirm that it had no fingerprints on it, not even those of Sir Angus who had presumably used it last. The corner of the desk where the glass had rested appeared to be unmarred by any ring of liquid or condensation. It was also free of any dust.

The portrait of Sir Angus' late wife was hanging above the mantel, just as Sir Angus had described it in his letter. Ben's fingers probed deftly behind the frame, quickly locating and removing the key.

The small wooden file cabinet was next to the desk. Working quickly Ben opened it, and after wrapping the glass with great care, he shoved it behind the papers in the top drawer. He glanced at the files and noticed that they were labeled with peoples' names. He knew that his time was limited, so he re-locked the file cabinet and pocketed the key.

Next he went to the telephone and tried several of the Inspector's numbers with no success. He knew that it was six hours earlier in Chicago and that no one would be on duty at the Consulate for at least another hour. But Ray was an early riser. Ben decided to risk a call, assuming that his friend would be preparing for work.

He was a little surprised when Ray picked up the phone on the first ring.

"Hello, Ray"

"Hey, Frase! Sounds like you've arrived. How's everything?"

"I'm not sure, Ray. Let's just say it's interesting."

"Interesting?"

"Well, I told you about the letter. There's a good chance Sir Angus was murdered."

"I hope you're takin' care of yourself."

"Well, let's just say I'm keeping my eyes open. I'm..."

"What was that, Frase?"

"I don't know. A bit of noise on the line, I guess."

Ben was startled to hear a familiar feminine voice from Ray's side of the Atlantic. "Ray, the coffee's ready!"

"Was that Maggie, Ray? What is she doing at your apartment. It's only 6:45 in the morning there!"

"Don't worry, Fraser. Nothing has happened. We just got off a stakeout--the Internet stalker case-- and I invited her over for some breakfast and to freshen up before I drop her off at the consulate."

"Stakeout? What is she doing on a stakeout?"

"Well, since you're not here, she's my temporary partner according to Lt. Welsh. Sergeant Frobisher was cool with it. Besides, it's probably the only way I can keep an eye on her."

"Keep an eye on me!" Maggie's indignant voice rose from the background. "Give me that phone, Ray!"

"Benton Fraser! What's this about keeping an eye on me? Did you ask Ray to look out for me?"

"Well, not in those exact words. I just asked him to help you while I was gone and to keep an eye on you."

"You do remember that I'm as much a Mountie as you are?"

"Yes, I recall that fact."

"Then you should know I'm in the middle of helping Ray apprehend his Internet stalker. We've seen the man, and tonight I'll be acting as a decoy. It's time for you to give up the overprotective brother act. Do I make myself clear?"

"Understood." Ben shook his head in mock despair.

"By the way, Ray is very good at keeping both eyes on me."

Martin entered soundlessly as Ben hung up the phone. "Luncheon is served, Sir. If you would be good enough to follow me."
Chapter 9

In the drawing-room, Ben was surprised to meet his twin.

"Cousin Ben," the man said he approached, holding out his hand. Ben shook it. "I'm Frederick MacDonald, your cousin. But everyone calls me Freddie."

"It's a pleasure to meet you." Ben found himself looking directly into a pair of blue eyes very like his own. Freddie's height, blue eye, dark hair, and fair coloring seemed to mark more than an average family resemblance. But his build was a great deal slighter, as though he seldom worked or exercised. He was dressed in classic gray flannel trousers, blue jacket, and white shirt with a conservatively- striped tie. Ben spared a brief thought for his jeans and sweater.

"How about a glass of sherry before lunch? We're waiting for my brother Ian and his wife, Fiona."

"No sherry for me, thanks," Ben replied. "But I would like a glass of water."

"Coming right up." Freddie busied himself for a moment at a table by the fireplace, returning to Ben with a tall glass of ice and sparkling water. He held a glass of sherry in his other hand. "There you are. Do sit down, Cousin Ben."

Ben chose a seat at the end of a brocade-upholstered Victorian couch. Freddie sat in an armchair facing him and raised his glass. "Welcome to Gray Manor, Cousin."

"Thank you kindly."

"I must say, your existence surprised us," Freddie went on. "Ian and I had no idea until last week that there was an American branch of the family."

"Well, Canadian actually. I'm currently attached as a liaison officer at the Canadian consulate in Chicago."

"That's right. You're a Mountie. A legendary police force, the Mounties." Ben smiled and said nothing as his cousin continued. "How was your flight?"

The two cousins occupied themselves with similar, slightly-strained small talk until they were startled by a feminine voice from the doorway. "Ian, I've found them! They're in here."

A tall, slender blonde woman approached them. Though the day seemed warm to Ben, she was dressed in a pale pink woolen suit with a deep collar of gray fox fur. She took both of Ben's hands in hers as he stood up, and kissed the air at the side of his cheek. She was wearing just a shade too much Joy, Ben decided. And she was a smoker.

"You must be Ian's Cousin Ben. I'm Fiona," she said in a slightly husky voice. She stepped back, shook her sleek, blonde hair out of her gray eyes, and regarded him appraisingly. "Ian, here's Cousin Ben."

They all turned, and Ben looked into the blue eyes of another twin. Ian MacDonald was approaching forty, though he still retained the full head of dark curls that seemed to bless most of the men of the family. Unfortunately, he had allowed himself to run somewhat to fat, although his well-tailored gray suit did a good job of concealing the fact. He watched Ben's face warily as he held out a clammy hand for Ben to shake.

"Sherry, Fiona?" Freddie called out from the table by the fireplace.

"Not now, Freddie. I'm starved. Let's go in to lunch."

Fiona led the way through a smaller parlor and into the dining room. Identical in size and proportion to the library, it was located at the end of the other wing. But where the library had been sparely and gracefully furnished, this room seemed to suffer from a sort of rococo Italianate exuberance that made Ben feel a little tired. Every article of furniture was gilded, and every table seemed to be supported by naked, chubby cherubs. He slipped into his place at the side of the table opposite Freddie as Ian and Fiona took their places at the head and foot.

"I must say, Fiona," began Freddie as Martin brought in the soup. "I can't eat in this room without being overcome by your brilliant aptitude for interior design."

"Oh, do be quiet, Freddie." Fiona smiled at her brother-in-law, but her gray eyes were hard. "So, Ben. How was your flight?"

The meal proceeded at a leisurely pace. Ben listened attentively to the small talk among his cousins and fielded the occasional question that came his way. The lack of sleep bothered him slightly, and he hoped fervently that he would be spared the jet lag he had heard so much about.

He shook himself back to reality as he heard Fiona's husky voice say, "So, Freddie, who will you be freeloading off of next week?" He had noted her tendency for sweetly acid sarcasm all through the meal. It seemed to be directed in equal measure at her husband and her brother-in-law.

"Well, Fiona, I thought I'd head back to London for a bit," drawled Freddie. "And what about you? When's your next shopping spree in Milan?"

Fiona gave him a reptilian look and turned her attention to Ben.

"So, Ben, where exactly are you from in Canada?" she began. "Montreal is a charming city. Or perhaps Toronto? I've never actually been there," she said dismissively.

"I was born and raised in the Northwest Territories," Ben replied.

"What's that near?" She fixed him with the same reptilian gaze she seemed to use on everyone else at the table.

"Well, it's not near much of anything but itself." Ben searched for some way to communicate with this exasperating woman. She had not impressed him as particularly stupid when they met. But her obtuseness defied description. "Parts of it are above the Arctic Circle," he went on as though that would explain everything.

"That's right, Fiona," Ian broke in. "Ben's branch of the family emigrated to Canada at the time of the famous Gold Rush."

"Gold Rush?" Fiona looked at Ben with renewed interest. "I remember reading about that. Were any of your relatives involved in the Gold Rush?"

"None that I know of." Ben set down his fork. "Although my Uncle Tiberius, on my mother's side, said we had relatives who owned a saloon in Dawson City about that time."

"Remember, Fiona, they panned for the gold in the Klondike. They didn't dig for it," remarked Freddie.

"Dawson City," echoed Fiona faintly, ignoring Freddie's remark. "Ah. Here's Martin with the coffee."

Ben accepted the coffee gratefully. As he did so, he noticed Freddie's eyes twinkling at him over the rim of his cup.

As they all stood up thankfully at the end of the meal, Freddie glanced at his watch. "It's almost 2:30, Cousin Ben. I know you must want a bit of a nap after your trip. Tea's at five. Why don't we plan to take a little stroll afterwards? I'll give you the Cook's Tour."

"I'd like that. Thanks."

Fiona looked pointedly at Ian before turning to Ben. "Ian would love to join you as well," she said. "Wouldn't you, Ian? Can you find your way upstairs, Ben?"

"I'll manage, thanks," replied Ben. And with that he fled gratefully to his rooms.

Ben sat on the edge of his bed and pulled his boots off. His cousins were an interesting group, he thought tiredly. There seemed to be plenty of motivation for murder just below the surface of each of them, and he would mine it thoroughly. But a nap was definitely called for. With that discipline that had stood him in good stead so often, he reminded himself to awaken in two hours and was instantly asleep. But his dreams were anything but disciplined. As he so often did, Ben dreamed of Meg Thatcher.

Chapter 10

Ben was awake almost precisely two hours after he fell asleep. The sun was still relatively high at this late hour, reminding him of just how far north he was here in Scotland. There would be a few more hours of daylight. He splashed his face with cold water, pulled on his boots, and headed back downstairs. It was a little after 4:30 p.m.

In the drawing-room, where his cousins were gathering, Ben noted with amusement that jeans seemed to have become the uniform of the day. Everyone sported a pair, though whether this was their normal attire or they had all decided to keep him company, he could not tell.

Ian's jeans were correctly faded to a precisely fashionable shade. He wore them with a white dress shirt, a blue blazer, and a pair of soft Italian loafers. Freddie looked a little more comfortable in a pair of jeans that had actually faded from wear, worn with a softly faded but very good knitted golf shirt. His feet were encased in a pair of deck shoes, equally soft and worn. Fiona's jeans were new and black, and Ben wondered idly if she planned to sit down in them. She sported a soft, pink midriff- tickling mohair sweater that Ms. Vecchio would have envied, and a pair of high-heeled boots.

What was it about her that bothered him, Ben wondered. He finally concluded it was her hair and coloring. She reminded him of a taller, harder-looking version of Eve Kendall, the heroine of "North by Northwest." He suppressed an involuntary shiver as he recalled the last time he had seen the film.

Fiona looked at him out of one side of her hair as she approached the table where the tea was laid out. "Milk and sugar, Ben?"

"Thank you kindly." Ben sipped the restorative brew appreciatively, but he ignored the assortment of cookies and small sandwiches. The drawing-room was as beautifully proportioned as all the other rooms he had seen, and it was also graced with a pair of French doors that overlooked the terrace. Ben stood in front of the fireplace, which was sheathed in white marble. It featured yet another portrait of a dark-haired, blue-eyed, kilted ancestor. This one seemed to date back to the middle of the 19th Century, for the subject had a fine set of Victorian mutton-chop whiskers and leaned on a gun. Two spotted retrievers and several dead grouse completed the scene.

"Ever do a bit of shooting, Cousin Ben?" Freddie asked from his armchair.

"I've been known to." Ben could not help but think of the elk, moose, and caribou, brought down to provide food for the long winter.

"You'll like it here in the fall, then," replied Freddie. "We make up several shooting parties during the course of the season."

"What kind of game do they go after in Canada?" Ian was obviously determined to be part of the conversation.

"Well, where I come, it's mostly big," Ben replied. "We hunt a lot of elk and caribou during the good weather in order to have meat over the winter."

Fiona shuddered delicately. "Couldn't we talk about something else?" she asked plaintively from her place at the tea table.

"Right. We all know you prefer to stalk your prey indoors," replied Freddie.

Fiona chose to ignore him. "More tea, Ben?" While the men were talking about hunting, Fiona had also made good use of her time, studying Ben over the rim of her teacup from her seated vantage point. She had decided that he did far more justice to his faded, comfortable jeans than either of his two cousins. At one point, Ben seemed to have noticed her frank appraisal. But he gave no sign.

"Now, how about that walk, Cousin Ben?" asked Freddie as he set down his cup and saucer. Ian sprang up from his seat to join them.

"Only a half-hour, Ian," called Fiona. "Remember we have theater tickets."

The three men left the house by the front door, passing Martin in the entryway. They stood for a moment on the broad terrace, enjoying the late afternoon sunlight as Ian lit a cigarette.

"A half-hour doesn't give us much time," remarked Freddie.

"Which way is the village?" asked Ben.

Freddie pointed vaguely off to his right. "Well, you can get there from the main road by turning right at the end of the lane," he replied. "Or you can pick up an old road through the woods behind the stables, over that way." Again he pointed to the right.

"Stables?" Ben regarded his cousin with interest.

"Yes," interjected Ian. "The old boy's gotten into raising racehorses in a big way over the past five years or so. He was in the process of adding some new breeding stock to enhance the bloodlines."

"The stables are quite large," added Freddie. "He also kept horses to ride for pleasure."

"And how did he do in the racehorse endeavor?" asked Ben.

"Well," drawled Freddie. "In my opinion he made rather a poor start of it."

"And what would you know about it?" interrupted his brother impatiently.

"I know enough not to gamble away money I don't have."
Ian turned on his heel and re-entered the house without another word.

"Care for a stroll in the gardens, Cousin Ben?" Freddie continued as though nothing had happened.

Ben nodded silently, apparently taking no notice of the brothers' interaction. He followed Freddie off the terrace and across the lawn, and the two men entered the garden and began their leisurely tour in a companionable silence.

"Freddie, I've been wondering," said Ben finally. "Sir Angus was a Fraser, but you and Ian are MacDonalds."

"Ah," Freddie laughed. "It's not difficult at all. We're the grandsons of a younger sister. That means that you and I are second cousins, actually."

"Understood."

"We had no idea that we had anybody in Canada," Freddie went on. "There was some sort of quarrel between the two brothers, George and Angus. George left for China--not Canada--and apparently started up your branch of the family at some point along the way. Angus stayed here and became the father of our Sir Angus. Our grandmother, Sarah, had long since been married off and stayed out of the whole mess."

"It must have been quite a disagreement."

"Must have been."

Chapter 11

As Ben and Freddie left the garden, Ben saw that the car had been brought around. Albert stood next to it waiting like a patient statue. Martin stood inside to open the door for them as they entered.

Inside, they met Ian and Fiona coming downstairs. Ian was dressed in evening clothes. Fiona wore a silk gown in the pink she seemed to favor. Her shoulders were draped with a pale mink stole, and she exuded clouds of Joy.

"Well, this is certainly a change from your deep mourning," Freddie observed drily.

Fiona chose to ignore him. She favored Ben with a dazzling smile as she continued her stately progress down the stairs. "Come on, Ian," she called over her shoulder. "We don't want to be late." Ian grimaced and followed her out of the house without saying a word.

Freddie, who had been speaking quietly to Martin, came over to Ben. "I have an engagement this evening, too," he began. "Though nothing as elegant as theirs. I've had a word with Martin. Would you mind terribly having supper in your rooms this evening?" He smiled apologetically.

"Not at all," Ben replied. "I still have some catching-up to do after the trip."

"Good." Freddie clapped him on the shoulder. "They'll bring it up around eight. We have an early wake-up call in the morning — about seven, I'd say. We need to be at the solicitors' by ten. Reading of the will."

"I wouldn't want to miss that," replied Ben. "Enjoy your evening."

He turned down the hall in the direction of the library as Freddie went upstairs. The room was in twilight now, but Ben's eyes were sharp enough to make out the file cabinet. He found to his relief that the glass was undisturbed. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he pulled out the files marked "Freddie," "Flora," and "Ian" and slid them beneath his sweater.

As he turned to go, he stopped to call the Inspector again. By now she would have communicated with someone at the Consulate and would know that they were on the same side of the ocean. But again, none of the numbers he tried worked.

As Ben entered his room, his eye was drawn to headlights in the driveway just below. Another car, probably an MG, was parked in the driveway with its motor running. As he watched, Freddie came down the terrace steps, got in, and drove off. The car stopped just at the edge of line of trees that edged the lane. Ben shaded his eyes from the light in his room and strained to adjust them to the darkness outside. A blonde woman emerged from the trees. Freddie got out and assisted her into the small car. The last thing Ben saw was the car's taillights as it disappeared into the trees.

At 8 p.m. his tray was brought up by a petite, red-haired maid. She smiled at him as she set out his supper on the table by the fireplace. "Will there be anything else, Sir?"

"No thank you, this will be fine." Ben could not help but smile back.

"Just ring when you're finished with your tray, Sir, and I'll be right around to collect it." She indicated a bell rope hanging by the mantel, smiled, and left.

Ben found that he was hungry. The lamb chop, peas, and new potatoes took the edge off his appetite, but he found himself thinking longingly of pemmican. He avoided the tapioca pudding. He seemed to be moving into a world of finger sandwiches and petits pois, and he was fairly certain he didn't like it.

The sprightly maid came back to collect the tray, and Ben settled back in his chair, wondering what they were doing in Chicago. He rubbed the fatigue from his eyes and pulled the folders out of their hiding place behind the chair cushion. Somewhat wearily, he began to read.

The file marked "Frederick MacDonald" contained an account. There was a promissory note, signed by Freddie to Sir Angus, for 10,000 pounds. A record of the account was written out in longhand on a sheet of simple, old-fashioned accounting paper. It recorded regular payments — amounts and check numbers — on a consistent monthly schedule, never varying by more than three or four days. Until earlier this year. The payments had apparently stopped in February, although there was still a substantial amount owed.

The file marked "Ian MacDonald" was thicker. It contained a neatly typed, bound document labeled ‘PROPOSAL." The title page had been lined through with a large X, obviously made with a fountain pen. Across the X the same pen had scrawled the word "RUBBISH!" Ben recognized the clear, firm handwriting as very similar to that contained in Sir Angus' letter to him. He made a mental note to do a closer comparison before flipping idly through the document. It seemed to be requesting research and development money for market research into the feasibility of introducing synthetic fibers (derived from petroleum) into some of the traditional Scottish textiles, such as the Harris tweed. Ben shook his head in disbelief. Rubbish, indeed. The amount requested was fifty thousand pounds.

He laid the proposal aside and picked up the third file, marked "Flora." This folder contained a variety of documents of different sizes. There were bills, receipts, and reports from a local secretarial school that Flora had attended for about eighteen months. She had done well in all her subjects, and one of the documents was a certificate of completion. The quarterly statements were marked "paid" in Sir Angus's handwriting, and a check number was written on the face of each. Each also had a canceled check neatly attached to it.

Interesting, thought Ben. Sir Angus had assisted Flora through secretarial school. Why was she working here as a housekeeper? He continued to flip through the file. Next was a letter from the university in Aberdeen, congratulating Flora on her admission as a student for this fall's term. Ben rubbed his eyebrow and kept reading. There was a statement from the university with no notation that it had been paid, and another letter requesting immediate payment in order to preserve Flora's standing as a student for the fall term. That one was dated June 1, just three weeks ago and a week prior to Sir Angus's death. Ben frowned and closed the folder. As he began to lay it aside on the table, a small piece of paper fluttered down.

The name "Harriet Malcolm, M.D." was engraved at the top of the paper, together with an address and phone number in the small nearby village. Scrawled on the paper in an almost illegible hand was another name: "Howard Law, FRCOG" with an address and telephone number in Aberdeen. A local doctor had referred someone — Flora? — to an obstetrician/gynecologist in Aberdeen. How and why had Sir Angus been a party to such an intimate transaction?

Chapter 12

"I've sent for the car, Cousin Ben," ventured Freddie. Ben stood next to Freddie on the busy street outside the office building that housed the firm of Keith & Gunn, Solicitors.

"Thank you kindly." Ben's eyes never left the traffic. It was almost as though he were still standing on sentry duty outside the Consulate. His outwardly calm demeanor concealed an inner turmoil. Albert brought the car around the corner, and Ben and Freddie were soon settled into the back for the drive back to Gray Manor — or home now, Ben thought grimly.

He turned to Freddie suddenly. "I've left my fountain pen upstairs. I'm going to go up and get it. Can you and Albert wait here just a minute?"

"Certainly."

Ben did not stop for the elevator but took the stairs to the fifth-floor solicitors' offices two at a time. "I'd like to see Mr. Keith," he said to the startled receptionist.

Keith, the solicitor, was just rounding the corner and heard the conversation. "How can I help you, Mr. Fraser? Would you like to step back into the office?"

"Thank you kindly." Mr. Keith held the door for Ben and followed him into the office. As the door closed, Ben said "I'd like for you to check on the matter of some payments Sir Angus may have made to the university here in Aberdeen. I've found bills, but no checks or receipts."

"That's a simple matter," replied the solicitor. "I'd like to call on you privately at the Manor in any case to discuss some of the details of the inheritance." He glanced at his agenda. "Would tomorrow afternoon, say around three be convenient?"

"Yes," replied Ben as they left the office. "Thank you kindly. I'll see you at three."

As Ben left the outer offices, Mr. Keith was joined by his associate, Mr. Gunn. "I like that young man," observed Keith. "He's got backbone." His partner nodded.Chapter 13

Ben emerged to find Freddie already settled in the car. Albert was waiting, as usual, to open the door for him.

"Did you get your pen?"

Ben held it up. "Yes. It was my father's. I would hate to lose it."

The two were silent for a few minutes.

"Quite a bit for you to take in over the course of a single morning," observed Freddie as they made their way through the lunch-hour traffic. "I must say, it came as quite a shock to Ian and Fiona." He chuckled.

Ben turned to look at his cousin. Though he was normally a good judge of character, his instincts seemed to have deserted him in the case of Freddie. He did not know what to make of this man, so similar in appearance to himself. At least Ian had tried his hand at business. Freddie did not appear to have any visible means of support.

Freddie laughed again. "A week ago you didn't even know you had a family over here, much less a house and a business. Now you're going to have to find a way to deal with the lot of us. I don't envy you."

"Do you think Ian and Fiona will be back at the house this afternoon?" ventured Ben.

"I wouldn't count on it. They're holed up somewhere licking their wounds. They'll be back when they've come up with a plan."

Ben's face took on a grim cast as he thought over the morning's events and the family's reactions to them. "And what about you?" Ben asked. "Will you be able to manage on what Sir Angus has left you?" With his simple habits and small salary, Ben regarded the money settled on Ian and Freddie as a not-so-small fortune. But he was beginning to learn that the term "fortune" was relative.

"Oh, I expect so," replied Freddie vaguely.

"Do you stay at the Manor much?" asked Ben.

"Stuck in the country with Sir Angus? Good God, no! I live in London most of the time," replied his cousin. "I get up here several times a year for very, very short visits; just long enough to let the old bastard know I'm still alive. I also manage to spend a fair amount of my time visiting friends. It's one of the ways I manage to be...careful."

The two men passed the rest of the ride in silence as Ben turned the morning's events over in his mind. To his own astonishment and that of his two cousins, Sir Angus had left Ben the vast majority of his substantial estate. In addition to Gray Manor, Sir Angus had large holdings in North Sea oil. As heir, Ben would be expected to manage both home and fortune. Ian and Freddie had each received the income from what appeared to Ben to be generous trusts.

Ben was puzzled by his late cousin's treatment of the butler, Martin. The two men had been children together at Gray Manor, and Martin had been in service to the family for his entire life. Ben was surprised that the old man had not been given the income from a trust similar to Ian and Freddie's. He assumed there was something about the matter in the file marked "Incidental Bequests" where he could deal with it later. At least if any wrongs had been done, it would now be in his power to correct them.

As they turned off the highway, Ben spoke again. "Does Flora have any long-term connections to Gray Manor?"

Freddie laughed heartily. "Good Lord! She's Martin's granddaughter. Lived here since she was a girl." Ben regarded him with astonishment. "The servants don't talk about themselves much, I suppose," Freddie continued as they turned into the lane.
Chapter 14

There was no sign of Ian and Fiona back at the Manor. Ben left Freddie in the hall and went to his room, where he exchanged his suit for jeans, boots, a flannel shirt, and his Stetson. Next he went down the back stairs to the kitchen, where he foraged for two apples and some cheese. He left through the back door and shortly found himself in a large, formal herb garden. Culinary and ornamental herbs of every variety imaginable had been pruned, clipped, and otherwise tortured into growing in an elegant formal knot pattern bordered by gravel pathways. The herb garden occupied almost the area of a city block, after which it gave way to the surrounding woods. Ben knew that the stables were somewhere off to the side. He walked purposefully down the path, rounded the corner of the house, and entered the extensive gardens that fronted Gray Manor.

Though he had found the flower gardens too formal to be comfortable, Ben admitted to himself that they were in their glory in late June. He strolled aimlessly, enjoying the peaceful surroundings. Fragrant old roses seemed to be everywhere, together with a profusion of spring flowers artfully planted so as to entice the wanderer to go further. Over it all, there was the barely detectable tang of the ocean air. Ben found that for the first time since his arrival he was able to empty his mind and relax, focusing only on shape, color and scent. As he rounded a corner, he barely avoided running into an old man crouched on the pathway.

The man got to his feet slowly, turned, and looked sharply at Ben from beneath shaggy eyebrows. He held a trowel in an arthritic hand. "You'd be the new cousin from America," he said sharply.

"Well, Canada, actually. I'm Benton Fraser," replied Ben. "And you are..."

"Edwin. Chief groundskeeper here for over fifty years. You'd be the heir, then."

"I guess so. News travels fast." There was an awkward pause which Ben felt compelled somehow to fill. "The gardens are beautiful. What is it you're doing with those delphiniums?"

Edwin looked startled for a moment, probably surprised that the interloper would know a delphinium from a geranium. "Weeding ‘em. Strange weed to find growing in my delphiniums."

Ben looked at the weeds, then leaned forward for a closer examination. "I know this plant. It grows in the Rocky Mountains. It's aconite."

"Aye. The common name is Monkshood," replied Edwin with a grudging respect. "And I've got no idea how it came to be here."

"Not a native species?"

"Well, it's found in the woods, though it's not common. But it's a queer thing to find it springing up in a cultivated garden."

"What else can you tell me about it? I'm not entirely familiar with it," Ben went on.

"It's a noxious weed," replied Edwin. "In the old days they called it wolfsbane. All parts of it are a deadly poison, both to men and to cattle. Not a plant I want in my flower borders. In the old days they made a nerve medicine out of it. But it takes a great deal of processing to do that."

"You seem to know a lot about it."

"You can't be a gardener all your life without learning something about plants," Edwin replied with some asperity. "I learned about herbs and medicinal plants from my grandmother when I was a boy, sixty years and more ago. Any rate, it's coming out of my border." He removed his tweed cap, wiped his balding head with a handkerchief, and replaced the cap.

"Edwin, I'd like you to leave the plants there for the time being," said Ben after a moment.

"Leave them there? As I said before, this is a noxious weed."

"You'll be able to remove them eventually. I just don't want them moved now. And thank you kindly," Ben called to Edwin's retreating back.

After the old groundskeeper disappeared around a corner, Ben stood for a long moment examining the plants and their neighboring delphiniums. Both plants were tall and spiky, he noted, and both had blue flowers. He plucked a few stems and leaves of the monkshood and wrapped them in his handkerchief before turning down the path that would lead him through the woods and, eventually, to the stables.
Chapter 15

Ben relaxed immediately among the comforting, familiar sights and smells of the stables. He had seen a number of the horses out in a pasture as he and Freddie returned to the Manor at noon. But there were two or three in their stalls here.

A high-pitched whinny and snort, followed by the sound of sharp hooves striking a wooden door, drew Ben's attention to the other end of the large space. He found a fine-looking black stallion in the last stall. The brass plaque on the door read "Firebrand." Firebrand was not pleased with the present company or with his accommodations. He reared and snorted again in his ample stall, showing the whites of his eyes and giving Ben a sidelong look.

Ben looked at his new acquaintance steadily and said quietly, "Hello, Firebrand. You're a good- looking fellow, aren't you?"

The horse was not taken in at all and continued to eye Ben disdainfully, occasionally asserting his very menacing hooves. Ben, undeterred, kept up a steady stream of flattering comments in a quiet voice, never taking his eyes off Firebrand's.

"He's a handful, all right," said a voice behind him.

Ben turned to find a jeans-clad young man who looked a great deal like a younger version of Ray Kowalski. They shared the same experimental dark blond hair and the same edgy look.

"Edwin MacKay," said the young man. "I manage the stables here."

"Benton Fraser. Are you any relation to..."

"He's my granddad," replied the younger man, laughing. "I take it you've met him." Edwin seemed as unimpressed as his grandfather by Ben's new position in life, although he was a great deal more agreeable.

Both men turned to regard Firebrand, who seemed unhappy at being ignored. Edwin whistled, and the horse quieted immediately. "Sir Angus brought him in here from Ireland as part of his breeding program," Edwin went on. "He's not broke yet, nor likely to be anytime soon, I guess."

"Well, I suspect he and I will be seeing a lot more of each other eventually," said Ben, smiling.

"That's right. You're a Mountie." Edwin looked at the hat.

"Well, yes, I am. But we're not mounted any more, not really. And haven't been since long before I joined the Force. I just happen to like horses."

He turned to Firebrand and spoke to him again. "I don't suppose there would be any point in my offering you an apple, would there?" This elicited a tantrum.

Edwin laughed again. "There's no doubt in his mind as to who's the real lord of the Manor."

"Tell me something," said Ben. "Which horse did Sir Angus ride?"

"That'd be Gus," replied Edwin leading the way back to another ample stall with a similar brass nameplate. "He's here."

Gus turned out to be a tall bay gelding. He regarded Ben with interest and accepted an apple, shaking his head courteously when he had finished the treat.

"He's a lot friendlier, as you can see," observed Edwin. "He misses Sir Angus. They were out together almost every day."

"I'd like to take him out for a ride."

A short time later, Ben and Gus left the stable and took a country lane that meandered along between the woods and fields at the edge of the estate. Ben let the horse take an easy pace, content to relax and enjoy the countryside. Rolling pastures housed horses, sheep, and a few dairy cattle. The landscape was entirely rural, and he did not meet a single car or pedestrian. The afternoon sun shone brightly in a sky with only a few clouds.

He allowed his thoughts to run to the morning's events. The situation was obviously far more complex than he had ever imagined it could be. The business would require a firm and constant hand at the helm, and though Ben had no doubt he could master it, he knew that the skills required were substantial. The Manor itself was another question. Sell it out of the family? Turn it over to Freddie? Or Ian and Fiona? Ben grimaced at the thought.

His conversation with the elder Edwin had given him another cause for disquiet. The crotchety old man had certainly been forthcoming with information about the misplaced plant. He had also been very eager to get rid of it. The contents of Sir Angus' personal letter were never far from Ben's thoughts, just as the letter itself never left his person. He instinctively reached for the back pocket of his jeans, where it was carefully folded away.

Ben noticed that the quiet lane was about to intersect the main road. He had no wish, as yet, to meet his new neighbors. So he and Gus turned and rode back down the lane to the stable. He waved Edwin aside and took care of Gus himself. When the horse had been rubbed down and settled comfortably in his stall, Ben returned for a final conversation with Firebrand. The horse seemed to recognize him this time, although he was still aggressive. Ben spent a few more minutes in quiet, one- sided conversation with him before returning to the house through the back door.

He met Martin in the butler's pantry in the corridor that led to the dining room. The old man appeared to be doing something that involved a great deal of silver flat wear. He eyed Ben with what could only be described as distaste. "Family uses the front door," he observed sourly.

"I just came from the stables," replied Ben. "I've been riding."

"Doesn't matter. The family uses the front door. Dinner's at eight," he went on. "The family dresses for dinner. And by the way, you've missed your tea." Martin turned away dismissively and went back to his work without another word.
Chapter 16

Upstairs, Ben looked at his watch and found that it was after six o'clock. Time for a shower, he thought, and a quick run-through of some of the documents the solicitors had given him this morning. There was also the question of what to wear for dinner. He shook his head as he headed for the bathroom.

A short time later he emerged clad in the red long johns that served him as both pajamas and bathrobe. He went to the armoire and studied its contents. There, hanging neatly, were his dress uniform, the gray suit he had worn this morning, several shirts, most of them flannel, and several pairs of jeans. He shook his head. Suit or uniform? He shook his head. "Dress for dinner" certainly meant black tie. Uniform, he decided suddenly. After all, he was still a member of the Force. He reached for his boots, knowing they would require some attention.

Unseen hands had cleaned, brushed, and polished them in his absence until they would pass the most rigorous inspection. Ben's blue eyes were troubled. A small matter, he told himself. Yet he had been taking care of his own boots for more years than he cared to count.

The room suddenly felt close and stuffy, and he went to open the glass doors that led to the balcony. His room faced the front of the house, and he could see the driveway and the gardens beyond. A small sports car — a Mercedes, he noted — was now parked in the drive. Ian and Fiona had apparently just gotten home.

Further away, he could make out two figures in the garden, concealed by the tall shrubs that surrounded them. One, tall and slim, was obviously a male. The other was a blonde woman whose fair hair gleamed in the last rays of the sun. They sat together on a bench near the delphiniums where he had met the older Edwin this afternoon. As he watched, the two heads drew closer together, obviously sharing a kiss.

He turned away with a sigh and picked up the folder marked "Miscellaneous Bequests." He had about an hour before the family would gather in the drawing room for cocktails.

Precisely an hour later, Ben was descending the oak staircase that led to the center hall. As he entered the drawing room, he found Freddie, Ian, and Fiona seated comfortably sipping on their drinks. The conversation stopped as they turned to look at him.

"Good evening, everyone," said Ben.

Freddie was the first to answer. "Evening, Cousin Ben. Name your poison." He got to his feet and headed for the liquor cabinet. "Whisky and soda? Gin and tonic?"

"Thanks. I'll have just the tonic water, please, with a twist."

Fiona threw her husband an amused glance, then looked at Ben appraisingly. "What is it, Ben? You're not allowed to drink while in...what's that uniform again?"

Ben accepted his drink from Freddie and settled into a chair. "Royal Canadian Mounted Police. And in answer to your question, I don't drink as a rule. I find it clouds the intellect." He smiled easily at Fiona.

"Well," replied Fiona in a waspish tone, "I suppose we should be honored to have a... What did you say your rank was, Ben?"

"Constable."

"I suppose we should be honored to have a constable in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police as part of the family," drawled Fiona. "Freddie, how about a refill here?"

When Freddie had replenished Fiona's drink, she raised her glass. "A toast! I propose a toast to Sir Angus." She paused. "He died old and alone, just as he deserved."

"Come on, Fiona," replied her husband. "Let's go get some dinner to soak up all that liquor you've had."

Dinner, when they finally went in, dragged on relentlessly. It was clear to Ben that Ian and Fiona had not recovered from the shock dealt by the will. It was also clear that the veneer was off, and that while the pair did not get along well with each other, they were united in their disdain for him.

Freddie regarded the proceedings in amused silence until he'd had enough. "So, Ian? You never said how you'd done at Ascot. Make your usual killing?"

Ian threw his brother a poisonous look and said nothing. Fiona could not resist the opening. "Yes, Ian. Tell them how you did. How much of Dad's money did you lose this time around?"

Ian took a sip of wine and said nothing.

"The answer to your question, Freddie," said Fiona, "is that he lost his shirt. Again." She subsided into her own wine. The meal ended shortly thereafter.

Chapter 17

When he was finally able to excuse himself, Ben was grateful for the solitude of the library. It was ten- thirty, more than past time to contact the Inspector. He was relieved to hear her voice on the other end.

"Inspector Thatcher."

"Inspector, it's Constable Fraser," he began.

"Yes, Fraser. I've been expecting to hear from you. I've been in touch with Sergeant Frobisher. How is everything going?"

"I feel a crime may have been committed here," began Ben without preamble. "There's a very real possibility that my uncle was murdered."

"Murdered? Have you contacted the local authorities?"

"No. I have very little to go on as of yet." Ben related the entire story to the Inspector in a few words, beginning with the letter from his uncle, moving on to Ian and Fiona's tattered finances, and concluding with the aconite hidden among the delphiniums.

"Was an autopsy performed on your uncle?"

"No. At the family's request. He was a prime candidate for a heart attack," Ben went on. "Over sixty, overweight, and a real Type A personality. But besides Ian and Fiona, there are a number of other people here who might have wanted to get rid of him. The butler and his granddaughter, for example. And perhaps several of the other servants. Sir Angus was less than generous with them in his will, so there could be some real ill feeling."

"Ill enough to make them want to murder him?"

"Unsure as yet. I'm still sifting through all of this."

"Well, Fraser, if you could use a hand, just say the word. The conference ends Friday at noon. I could be persuaded to skip the final keynote speech and fly up there Friday morning. I had plans to take the weekend off anyway."

"Inspector, I would welcome your help. There's a flight out of Heathrow at 9:30."

"I'll rent a car at the airport when I get there," replied Meg. "Now, how did the reading of the will go?"

Ben had hoped for a little more time before telling her. "Well, Sir Angus has pretty much left everything to me. There are trusts for the two cousins, and some miscellaneous bequests for a few people, but aside from those, I'm the heir. That includes not only the house and grounds, but also his business."

"What business was he in?"

"Oil." replied Ben slowly. "It's a substantial business, Inspector. I have a number of decisions to make."

Meg paused a long moment before her reply. But when it came, it was brisk. "I imagine you do, Constable. Perhaps we can find time to discuss it over the weekend."

"Thank you, Inspector. We'll look for you on Friday."

"I'll be there. Meantime, watch yourself, Constable." And without waiting to say goodnight, she hung up.Chapter 18

Meg Thatcher sighed as she looked down at the phone. The murder concerned her, certainly. But Fraser was a seasoned officer. She had no doubt at all that he was perfectly capable of handling himself and the situation.

She admitted to herself that the news about the inheritance had thrown her. It sounded as though Fraser might be left with very little choice but to leave the Force and devote himself to the family business.

And what was holding him after all? Certainly not his trivial duties at the Consulate. She had caught the edge in his voice. It was the tone of seasoned officer doing what he loved best--investigating a crime. Murder, she reminded herself, was definitely non-trivial.

She also had her own inner voice to deal with — the one that was saying, "No! Don't lose him, Meg. You can't lose him!" She was very good at ignoring that particular voice. But now it rose up and clamored for her attention, refusing to be ignored. Resolutely, she shut it away, picked up the phone, and dialed the Consulate.

"Canadian Consulate, Sergeant Frobisher speaking," said a reassuringly familiar voice on the other end. It was late afternoon in Chicago, and the day's business was coming to a close. Buck Frobisher sat in Ben's cramped office enjoying a cup of bark tea. His friend, or rather the ghost of his friend, Bob Fraser, sat opposite him, and the wolf Diefenbaker reclined on the floor nearby.

"It's Inspector Thatcher," began Meg.

"Ah, Inspector. I've been expecting your call. Good afternoon. Or rather, good evening. How are things in London."

"Fine, Sergeant. I've just spoken to Constable Fraser..."

"How is the lad?"

"Well, it appears a murder may have been committed. He's attempting to gather enough evidence to go to the authorities."

"Murder!" Buck looked over at Bob, who had gotten to his feet. "Anyone we know?"

"Sir Angus Fraser. It seems he may have been murdered."

"I see. Well, Benton is a fine officer. I'm sure he can handle himself."

"I'm certain of that, too, Sergeant. But I'm going up there Friday for the weekend to see if I can assist him with the investigation. You can reach me at Gray Manor after twelve noon, local time."

"I see. Well, good luck. I don't suppose there's anything we can do for you from here."

"Not at all, Sergeant. How are things at the Consulate."

"Fine. Just fine. You'll be happy to know that Turnbull finalized his inventory. I checked it, and it's been forwarded to Ottawa."

"That's very good news, Sergeant."

"He's a good lad, Inspector. His heart's certainly in the right place. But he seems to be a little..."

"The words ‘Swiss cheese' come to mind, Sergeant."

"Exactly. I'll keep an eye on him."

"Thank you."

Buck looked over at his old friend as he hung up the phone. "Did you know anything about this?" he began.

"Well, Benton did mention it to me before he left on Monday. But I'm sure he can handle it. I'm much more interested in what's going on here with Ray and Maggie and that Internet investigation." Bob settled back in his chair. "It seems to me this Internet business is open to all sorts of criminal activity."

"Well, they seem to be moving the case right along," replied Buck.

Bob said nothing. He cherished the hope that something else was moving right along as well.Chapter 19

Ben was up before the sun on Thursday morning. He had slept well, and he admitted to himself that he was relieved not to have experienced the jet lag he had dreaded. By the time he had showered, shaved and dressed, it was about 5:30. That would be 11:30 p.m. in Chicago. A very good time, he thought, to talk to Ray.

The phone at Ray's apartment rang four times and the answering machine picked up. Ben heard his partner's familiar voice saying, "I'm not here, but you know the drill. When it beeps, talk." He hung up without leaving a message.

Ray was at that moment dropping Constable Maggie MacKenzie off at the Consulate. At the door, he looked around carefully, and seeing no one, pulled her into his arms. They kissed for a few moments like two teenagers.

"Good job on the collar, Constable," said Ray finally.

"You, too, Detective," she replied, looking up at him with a smile. "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Count on it," He looked deeply into her blue eyes and kissed her again, with much more intensity. When the kiss ended, they parted reluctantly, and Maggie closed the door.

"Well, it's grand to see one of my children in a romantic frame of mind," said Bob Fraser.

Maggie turned around, startled. "Dad! How much did you see?"

"Enough to know I might get a grandchild out of it," he replied with a twinkle in his eye.

Maggie blushed a very becoming shade of crimson, "What do you think of Ray?"

"For an American, he's okay. He is a good friend and partner to your brother. I think you should continue to see him."

"I plan to, Dad. No matter what you or Ben may think about our relationship."

"Do you think you could move this relationship along faster?" he pleaded, "I'm not getting any younger and I would like to see one of you kids have children."

"You're not getting any older either. Remember, you're dead."

"Don't remind me. It's a fact I have to live with."

Maggie laughed as she saw the look on her father's face. Ben had warned her it was not easy getting in the last word with their father. She looked away to give the dead Mountie a chance to regain his composure. "So, Dad, how is Ben doing?"

"Well, there seems to have been a murder at that castle, or manor, or whatever it is."

"Murder?"

"Oh, don't worry about Benton. He can handle it."

"I don't doubt that for a minute. Well, I'm off to bed. Good night, Dad."

"Good night, Maggie," replied Bob as he disappeared.

Chapter 20

"Good morning, Flora." Ben was in the kitchen at six o'clock, and Flora was apparently the only other person stirring.

"Good morning, Sir. You're up early this morning. There's tea and porridge, but breakfast won't be ready for hours yet."

"Tea and porridge will be fine, Flora. I'm an early riser."

"Well, if you'd care to take a seat in the breakfast-room, I'll bring this right in."

"I can eat right here in the kitchen, if that's all right with you."

The young woman indicated a seat at the kitchen table. She served Ben his breakfast in silence. He could not help noticing that, though she was always simply dressed, Flora was a beauty. Her blonde hair gleamed in the dim light of the kitchen. Her translucent skin was tinged with a faint pink blush. Her mouth was wide. But her eyes were her most arresting feature. Of about the same clear blue as his own, they tilted up slightly at the corners and were set wide in her perfect oval face. But Ben had also noticed that the generous mouth and the arresting blue eyes were seldom graced by a smile. He wondered if this was due to sorrow over the loss of Sir Angus or if she had been touched by some deeper melancholy.

"I didn't know you did the cooking, too," observed Ben.

"Generally I don't. Cook generally takes Thursdays off," replied Flora. "She'll be back after dinner tonight. The tea and porridge are for the rest of the staff. They'll be in to eat around seven. The family doesn't generally eat until after eight, and most of them want breakfast served in their rooms."

"I hope I haven't inconvenienced you too much."

"Not as long as you're happy eating tea and porridge," she replied good-humoredly.

"How long have you been here at the Manor?" Ben was determined to draw the young woman out.

"Since I was five years old. I came here to live with my Grandfather after my parents were killed in a car accident."

"It's tough to lose your family at such an early age," Ben replied. "I lost my own mother when I was six. My father was also in the RCMP, and he was constantly out on patrol. I was raised by my grandparents."

"Then you know something of what it's like. You never get over missing them, do you? Not really." Flora spoke almost as much to herself as she did to Ben. "And what about your father?"

"My father was killed in the line of duty four years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that!" Flora sounded as though she really meant it. "You must miss him a great deal."

Ben was never sure how to answer. "Well, I sometimes feel as though he's still with me. Thank you kindly for the breakfast." He stood up. As he began to leave the kitchen, he turned. "Flora, do you suppose I could have an apple or two?"

"Of course." She went to the refrigerator and got out three apples, which she handed him.

"And while I'm thinking about it, I assume you're the right person to tell," Ben began again.

She looked at him inquiringly.

"Inspector Thatcher, my superior officer, is in London and will be coming up for the weekend. Could you make the arrangements?"

"Certainly, Sir. And as housekeeper, I'm the person you would make those arrangements with. The advance notice is appreciated."

"Thank you kindly, Flora."

"You're welcome, Sir."

Ben left the kitchen by the back door again. The day was overcast, and the chill in the air reminded him of how close he was to the ocean. He waved to the elder Edwin, who was working in a far corner of the herb garden. Edwin did not wave back.

The early-morning fragrance of the garden enticed him again as he rounded the corner of the house, and he decided to walk to the stables via the garden path, as he had yesterday. He found himself passing the delphinium bed where he had met the elder Edwin the day before, and he stopped to take another look.

The bed was freshly mulched and weeded, and there was not a monkshood plant to be found. Ben looked back over his shoulder in frustration. Edwin, or someone else, had certainly done a good job on the flower beds. He settled his Stetson on his head as he turned off towards the stables.

Chapter 21

Ben was beginning to feel more at home in the stable than he did in the house. There was no sign of the younger Edwin, though the stalls had been freshly cleaned. As he made his way to Firebrand's stall, he heard the contented, companionable nickering of several horses who had not been taken out yet.

"Good morning, Firebrand." Once again, Ben spoke very quietly. Those who knew him would have recognized the same matter of fact tone of voice he used with his wolf, Diefenbaker. Firebrand seemed to recognize him. "I don't suppose I could interest you in an apple this morning." He held out the treat, and Firebrand chose to disregard it. "Well, it's your loss. Maybe next time." The horse snorted with what sounded suspiciously like derision, and tossed his head, but he was otherwise quiet.

Ben turned to Gus, who seemed glad to see him. "Gus, I know you want an apple." Gus was, as usual, delighted to accept the treat. Ben went to the tack room for saddle and bridle and returned to Gus's stall. Shortly thereafter, horse and rider were ambling down the country lane.

Ben had decided to explore the woods this morning, and he and Gus spent a very contented hour picking their way along a narrow path through the trees. The path suddenly widened, and Ben found himself in a little open glen. The ground was covered with a velvet mixture of fine grass and moss, and Ben could hear a small stream somewhere nearby. If he had been a whimsical man, he would have looked for the presence of a woodland spirit, perhaps one of the Old Ones. But as it was, he simply drank in the scene with great pleasure.

He also took care to mark the way to the glen as he and Gus returned to the lane. It was mid-morning, and he knew he needed to return to the Manor, so he turned Gus in that direction.

He was startled a few moments later by the honking of a horn behind him. Turning to look, he saw a small red Triumph Spitfire pulling to a stop. A middle-aged woman got out and waved. Perplexed, Ben dismounted and went over to her.

"Are you Benton Fraser?" the woman asked. Probably in her mid to late fifties, she was tall, slim, and athletic. She had a homely face, slightly sunburned, and bright blue eyes set in crinkles of laugh lines. Her hair had obviously been blonde at one time, but it was beginning to fade to white. Ben concluded that this was the face of a woman who loved to laugh and loved the outdoors.

She held out her hand, and he shook it. "I'm Harriet Malcolm," she said. "Doctor Malcolm." Let me look at you. "You're as fine a Fraser as I've seen in a long time," she laughed.

Ben flushed to the roots of his hair.

"No need to blush, my boy. I've been looking after the Frasers for over thirty years. And my father doctored them before me. You look almost exactly as Sir Angus did when he was your age."

"Thank you kindly." Ben had decided he liked this woman. "Actually, Dr. Malcolm..."

"Harriet, please!"

"Harriet, I'm glad we met."

"I was visiting a patient down at the other end of this road," she replied.

"Well, if you're Dr. Harriet Malcolm, you're named in Sir Angus' will," Ben went on.

"Am I really?" A look compounded of sorrow and something else seemed to cross her plain features.

"Yes. There is a bequest, actually probably a memento," replied Ben. "Would you be free for dinner tomorrow evening? I'd like to give it to you."

"Certainly. Cocktails at seven-thirty, dinner at eight," she replied.

"You sound as though you've been there before."

"Many times, my boy. More times than I care to count." Again the look of sorrow clouded her kind face.

"Were you Sir Angus' personal physician?"

"Yes, I was. For most of our adult lives. I also took care of just about everyone at the Manor."

"And you concluded he died of a coronary."

"The family wouldn't permit a post mortem, and there was no reason to suspect foul play." Harriet Malcolm was suddenly all business. "I can tell you this. He was too stout in recent years, and he took medication for hypertension. He was, you might say, a coronary waiting to happen. But aside from that, he was in perfect health."

"One more question, Harriet." Ben had lapsed into his chosen profession almost without realizing it. But Harriet Malcolm, too, was a professional.

"Go right ahead!"

"Did you refer someone in the household to a gynecologist in Aberdeen?"

"I did. We're not talking here in a professional capacity, my boy. And I'd be stretching my confidentiality if I told you too much more than that."

"Can you tell me if it was for a pregnancy?"

"I can tell you it was not." She smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "I need to get back to my surgery. Here's a card in case you need to ring me. It's been a pleasure talking with you, Benton Fraser. You do Sir Angus proud."

She waved as she started up her little red Spitfire. Ben whistled for Gus, who came immediately, and rode back to the Manor at an easy canter.Chapter 22

There was still an hour before lunch after Ben finished putting Gus away. He felt driven by the need to write up his findings and was thankful he had brought along his notebook. He entered the house, dutifully, by the front door, and went immediately to his rooms.

He was startled to find a man, dressed in a black suit, emerging from his bedroom.

"How do you do, Sir. I am Boyd, the valet."

"Benton Fraser. You must be the person who keeps cleaning my boots. I've been meaning to have a word with you about that."

"Yes, sir. I took care of Sir Angus, and I generally assist all the gentlemen who stay at the Manor." Boyd was a man in the prime of life, slim and elegant, and very self-assured.

"It's fortunate you're here, Sir. Your kilt and other articles have just arrived from the tailor."

"My kilt?"

"Yes, Sir. Martin knew you would be needing it. We took the liberty of ordering it for you shortly after your arrival."

Ben shook his head. "How did you know what size? No one measured me."

"We took the size from a pair of those casual trousers you favor. The blue jeans. And we had your tunic and shirts to work from as well as your boots. I think you'll be pleased, Sir."

"Well, let's see what you've got." Ben followed Boyd into the bedroom, where a number of articles had been laid out on the bed.

"This is the kilt itself, Sir." Boyd held it up with a critical eye. "It looks as though it will fit you nicely, although I advise you to try it on whilst I'm here." Ben recognized the red tartan from the innumerable portraits in the Manor.

"Your shirt and tie for semi-formal wear. These don't differ in any respect from any gentleman's dress shirt." To Ben's relief, the dress shirt had a conventional collar, and the tie was a conventional bow tie. "These are Sir Angus' shirt studs and cuff links," Boyd went on. "It seems fitting you should have them."

"Thank you kindly."

"I've also taken the liberty of setting out several other articles of Sir Angus' — his dress sporran and chain and his kilt pin."

Ben said nothing.

"Your dress shoes. We'd best try these on." Ben eyed the shoes dubiously. "They're called ghillie brogues, Sir."

"If you say so."

"Your hose and garters. And this is your dress jacket and waistcoat." The jacket was of fine black wool, trimmed with silver buttons. Ben thought vaguely of a waiter's jacket but suppressed the image.

"Now then, Sir, for casual wear. Here is a leather sporran, also Sir Angus', a belt, and several pairs of hose in various colors."

"Casual wear," echoed Ben.

"We must have a word about your jackets later, Sir. But in the meantime, you could certainly wear a sweater similar to the one you have on now, or your white Irish sweater. Those boots you're wearing now would be fine, as would your black shoes."

"Understood." Ben realized that this man knew every detail of his wardrobe.

"Now, Sir, I would suggest that if you have the time, we try some of this on for fit. There's still time before tomorrow evening for alterations, though I don't believe they will be necessary. If you'd be good enough to undress..."

Ben sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh and pulled off his boots and socks, jeans and shirt. When he stood before Boyd outfitted only in his underwear, the man held the kilt out to him.

"You'll find three buckles just there, Sir"

Ben got the kilt buckled around his waist. He sent up a quick prayer of thanks that it was amply provided with fabric in front so that there was no real danger of its blowing open. Boyd circled him with a critical eye.

"Perfect, Sir. Next the dress hose and ghillie brogues." The shoes fit Ben perfectly. The leather was somewhat softer than what he was accustomed to, and the shoes were open. He laced them on and stood up. "How do they feel, Sir?"

"They're fine. Do I have to wear them now?"

"No, Sir. If you'd be good enough to try on the waistcoat and jacket, please."

Ben complied.

"A perfect fit, Sir. I don't expect you'll have any trouble with the shirt, so we might leave it until tomorrow evening."

"I'll be wearing all of this tomorrow evening?"

"Most assuredly, Sir. As will the other gentlemen."

"Understood. Suppose I wanted to wear it now?"

"An excellent idea, Sir. Give you the opportunity to become accustomed to it. Replace the dress hose with this pair." He handed Ben a pair of softly-knit, thick socks. "Use the garters underneath to hold them up. That's it exactly, Sir. And if I might suggest, your Irish sweater." Boyd crossed to the dresser and extracted the sweater, which Ben noticed had been freshly laundered. Obediently, he pulled it on. "I suggest you leave aside the sporran, Sir. You may wear the same boots you had on this morning." Ben began lacing up his soft, brown leather hiking boots with great relief. He stood up.

"Perfect, Sir!" Boyd indicated the mirror on the bathroom door, and Ben regarded himself dubiously. He was a man utterly devoid of vanity, but he had to admit to himself that he looked...well, exotic if nothing else. And certainly very Scottish.

"I'm forgetting something, Sir!" Boyd returned to the bureau and came back with a small article wrapped in dark green velvet. "Your sgian dubh, Sir."

Ben opened it. It was a small dagger, fitted with a handle of dark wood and resting in a dark wooden sheath. The wooden handle was inlaid in silver with a small Scottish thistle, and the same bright silver formed simple bands on the hilt. Ben pulled it out and found it perfectly sharp.

"Wear it in your sock, Sir. Just here."

"Sir Angus wore this?"

"Yes, Sir. It was one of his treasured possessions. He'd had it since his days in the Army."

"I see."

"If you're among friends, keep it in your sock where your host can see it," Boyd said. "If you're among enemies, then conceal it. That's the tradition, Sir. And now you are perfectly turned out."

Ben grimaced, then smiled. "Thank you, Boyd. I couldn't have done it without you."

"You are most welcome, Sir."

"But Boyd, I'd prefer to see to my own boots."

"Understood, Sir."Chapter 23

Ben felt clumsy as he descended the stairs. "I'm a Mountie," he told himself. "I can handle anything." Still, he was not sure if "anything" had ever been intended to include wearing a kilt for the first time. His eyes strayed to the innumerable kilted ancestors staring down at him from the walls of the landing gallery. "If they can do it, I can do it," he told himself grimly. Still, the slight breeze he felt made him continually want to check to see if he'd lost his trousers.

Martin awaited him in the hallway. "Good morning Sir. I see you have found Boyd."

"Yes, Martin. I suppose I have."

"Very good, Sir. Mr. MacDonald is in the drawing room. Luncheon will be served in fifteen minutes."

"Thank you, Martin. Will you please let Flora know that Dr. Malcolm will be joining us for dinner tomorrow evening."

"Yes, Sir."

"I'm also expecting Mr. Keith, the solicitor, at 3 o'clock. I'd like to see him in the library."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Well, Ben!" Freddie smiled broadly and clapped him on the shoulder. "I see you've decided to adopt the native camouflage."

"Martin and Boyd seem to have seen to it for me," replied Ben. "I thought I'd better practice a little."

"Well, you look fine. A credit to the family."

"Where are Ian and Fiona?"

"Up to their own devices. It's just the two of us for lunch. Your usual mineral water?"

"Thank you kindly."

"Oh, and just so you know, I'll be out at dinner again today. Sorry to keep abandoning you like this."

When lunch was served, Ben picked up his fork to begin his salad, then set it down again.

"Something the matter, Ben?"

"The salad has a strange taste today," replied Ben.

Freddie tasted his own salad and made a wry face. "Cook's day out. Flora's a great girl and a wonderful housekeeper, but she's a dreadful cook."

"Oh?"

"She's used the oil Cook keeps for frying in her dressing in place of the salad oil. Mine tastes a little rancid to me."

The two men talked easily during lunch. They were beginning to become accustomed to each other.

"How was your morning ride?" asked Freddie.

"Excellent," replied Ben. "I ran into Dr. Malcolm, and I've invited her to dinner tomorrow evening. Sir Angus has left her a bequest in his will."

"Understandable, given the circumstances," replied Freddie.

"Circumstances?"

"Oh, they were an item for years. Everybody knew it. Never married because Harriet was too independent and bloody-minded. Always swore she'd never give up her independence, and she never did. They were wonderful together, those two. They loved to laugh, and they brought out the best in each other. The old buzzard had quite a sense of humor, you know."

"But Sir Angus was married at one time."

"Yes. Before our time, but not by much. His wife died giving birth to their first child, who also died. Terrible tragedy. He never remarried."

Ben thought of the beautiful woman depicted in the portrait in the library and understood why.Chapter 24

Ben decided to wait for Mr. Keith in the library. There was still just a little over an hour before their scheduled appointment. He looked around with pleasure as he entered the beautiful room. There were hundreds of books here, all neatly arrayed on their shelves. He could not help but think of the delight his grandparents would have felt in this room.

He allowed himself the luxury of wandering from shelf to shelf. Sir Angus had been a man of many interests if his books were an indication. They were neatly, if roughly, organized according to subject matter, and they seemed to Ben to cover everything from classics to current novels, to economics and business texts. Enough reading to last a lifetime, he thought.

The shelf he was looking at seemed to be devoted to the art and science of the garden. "Ten Thousand Garden Questions Answered," read a no-nonsense two-volume set. A lush and beautiful oversized book read simply, "Giverny." He ran his hand across it lovingly, with a promise to himself to return soon to read it. The next book had been returned to the shelf lying on its spine. Idly he turned it over. "Medicinal Plants and Herbs of the British Isles."

Ben replaced the book hastily as he heard the door open.

"I beg your pardon, Sir. I didn't know anyone was in here." Flora stood just inside the door with a carpet sweeper and cleaning supplies.

"Come in, Flora. I didn't realize you were responsible for the cleaning," replied Ben.

"Well, normally I'm not, Sir. Valerie, the downstairs maid..." She flushed pink, swallowed, and went on. "Well, Sir, she was in the family way. She's gone off to have her baby. Sir Angus wanted her place kept for her. He was a good-hearted man." She sighed. "He used to let me borrow any book I wanted from here, just so long as I gave him a report."

"You can continue to do that," replied Ben. He continued looking up and down the shelves. "Louis L'Amour. An American author noted for his westerns," he observed.

"Sir Angus did not limit himself in what he read. He felt L'Amour captured the western United States perfectly. He said you could use him for history papers because he was so accurate in his portrayals," she said.

"You seem very well read for someone who's a housekeeper," Fraser observed.

"Thank you, Sir. Not many people notice. Sir Angus was going to help me go to the university in Aberdeen. Economics. He said when I got my degree, he would find a place for me in his business." Flora's voice was so low as to be nearly inaudible.

"When was the last time the room was cleaned, Flora?"

"That would have been a day or so before Sir Angus' death."

"I see."

"Have I offended you, Sir? I should not have brought up the matter of the university. It was presumptuous of me."

"Not a problem, Flora. Sir Angus was a good man and I still have a few bequests to hand out. I don't
know if you have anything coming to you, but I'll go over it with Mr. Keith while he's here. Either way, we'll see about your education."

"Thank you, Sir." Flora smiled, and for the first time since Ben's arrival the smile seemed to light up her eyes. With a sudden movement that caught him off guard, she reached up, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him full on the lips.

It was not, in Ben's opinion, a "Thank-you" kiss. In fact, in the brief moment it took him to react, he wondered just what kind of a kiss it was. When he felt her tongue press on his lips, all doubt was removed.

"Flora!" He reached up, removed her arms, and placed them gently at her sides. Her eyes seemed unfocused for a moment before she dropped them to stare at her hands, which she had clasped tightly in front of her. "Flora, you've been under quite a strain. Sir Angus' death can't have been easy for you. You've had the funeral, a house full of company, you've been doing double duty for a maid who's not here, and you've been up since before daybreak cooking for people. I know the rest of the family plan to be out this evening. I'm going out, too. That will give you the opportunity to go to your room and rest, or at least finish your work early."

Flora did not reply, nor did she look at him. She gathered the cleaning supplies and left the room, closing the door gently behind her.

Ben shook his head. The promise of a university education would certainly be appreciated, he reasoned, but would it provoke a reaction like that? He clasped his hands behind his back and walked towards the fireplace. His earlier awkwardness in the kilt had been replaced by his normal, graceful carriage. Ben was entirely unconscious of his own good looks. But any woman on either side of the Atlantic would have admired him as he looked at this moment.

He sat in an armchair by the hearth and looked up at the portrait. "Margaret Fraser," the small brass plaque on the frame read. "Margaret Fraser," thought Ben. The woman in the portrait had been dead for over thirty years. But her dark hair, brown eyes, and fair skin reminded him of another Margaret.
Chapter 25

"I beg your pardon, Sir." Martin spoke quietly from the doorway. Ben looked up, startled.

"Mr. Keith is here, Sir."

"Thank you, Martin. Please ask him to come in."

The solicitor was carrying a large, old-fashioned soft sided leather briefcase.

"Mr. Fraser, how are you getting on through all this?" he asked as the two shook hands.

"There's a lot to take in, Mr. Keith. But I'm surviving."

"I suggest we defer any discussions of the business operations until at least the beginning of next week," the solicitor went on. "At this juncture, it's in the hands of Sir Angus' trustees, and I see no reason why it should not remain so until you've had some time to prepare. Let us confine our discussion this afternoon to the will itself. And there was that other matter you asked me to look into."

Ben crossed to the desk and returned with the now-familiar "Miscellaneous Bequests" file.

"I'm concerned about this, Mr. Keith." Ben opened the file. "For example, he has left Edwin MacKaye a substantial portion of his stables. The horses attached to the Manor, as I understand it, will remain attached to the Manor. That would be the riding-horses."

Keith nodded. "Go on, Sir."

"He's left the thoroughbreds, those horses he was using for breeding stock as racehorses, to Edwin."

"That's correct."

"That seems fair to me." Ben looked up to see a faint look of surprise cross the solicitor's face. He went on. "However, he bequeaths to Martin, a man who has been in service here since boyhood, a cigar humidor and all its contents. All its contents, Mr. Keith."

"And that seems inequitable to you."

"Yes it does, Mr. Keith. And there are other odd bequests. He leaves Harriet Malcolm a gold locket belonging to his grandmother, and the blue leather case that contains it. Not ‘in a blue leather case.' He particularly mentions the blue leather case."

"And you know of the relationship between Sir Angus and Dr. Malcolm."

"Yes, Mr. Keith, I do."

"Go on, please, Mr. Fraser."

"The list goes on for pages. Antique swords. Bits of jewelry. Paintings."

"What more can I tell you about all of this?"

"I need to be certain of two things, Mr. Keith." He paused.

"I'll do what I can for you."

"Many of these people are elderly. Several of them have been attached to this family for their entire working lives. I want to know what, if anything, has been done to provide for them when they are no longer able to work. You don't have to give me that information today, but I'll want it soon."

Keith nodded. "And the second thing?"

Ben closed the folder and looked at the solicitor intently. "To the best of your knowledge, was Sir Angus Fraser of sound mind when he prepared this will?"

Mr. Keith looked at his client with renewed respect. "Mr. Fraser, I have known Sir Angus Fraser since we were at school together. That's very nearly fifty years. He could be ruthless in business, though his ethics never failed him. He did not suffer fools gladly. Yet he was kind and compassionate to those who required it of him. He was unfailingly fair. He had high standards, and he required high standards of any who came in contact with him. And above all, he was rational, and he remained rational up until the moment of his death. He was a decent man, Mr. Fraser, and I shall miss him."

The intensity of Ben's gaze never wavered. "Thank you, Mr. Keith. You've told me what I wanted to know."

"Now about that other matter," Mr. Keith reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folder.

"The university."

"Yes. We can find no record of that bill's having been paid. Furthermore, Sir Angus telephoned about a week prior to his death and directed specifically that the bill not be paid."

"Ah. So you believe his wish was that Flora not attend the university at Aberdeen."

"That is my belief, Mr. Fraser."

"Understood."
"I won't detain you any further, Mr. Fraser." Mr. Keith took out two envelopes. "This is the combination to Sir Angus's safe. It stands over there." He pointed to the safe in the corner. "And this is some cash. I thought you might be needing an infusion. We'll go over all that at our next meeting as well."

Ben searched through the kilt for a pocket, and finding none, shook his head. "I should have opted for the sporran. Thank you kindly. I assume many of the bequests are in the safe.."

"I believe you'll find the jewelry there, and the swords and small paintings. The cigar humidor is in the dining room." Keith held out his hand. "Good day, Mr. Fraser. I'll have my secretary ring you on Monday. We should set up another appointment."

Ben began to walk with Keith towards the door of the library.

"Don't trouble yourself, Mr. Fraser. I know my way out very well. Have a pleasant evening."

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Keith." Ben shook hands with the solicitor. "I'll wait to hear from you Monday."

Ben noticed that Flora was waiting to see Mr. Keith to the door. As he turned back to the desk, the phone rang. He suppressed his normal phone response and picked it up. "Hello?"

"Good afternoon. Is that Ms Flora Martin's residence?" The voice belonged to an elderly woman.

"Yes, it is. I'm afraid she can't come to the phone right now."

"It's Mrs. Jones at Dr. Law's office. I'm filling in for the regular receptionist. Ms Martin has missed her regular appointment," the woman went on. "I'm directed to remind her that these appointments are very important to the health of mother and child, especially as she approaches her fifth month." The woman was obviously reading from a prepared speech. Equally obvious was the fact that she had no idea of where she had called. "Would she care to re-schedule?"

"Not at this time. But I'll certainly ask her to call you," replied Ben.

"Thank you. Good afternoon, then."

As Ben hung up the phone, he thought he heard a click.

He walked to the desk to unlock the file cabinet and realized he had no pockets, and therefore no key.
Chapter 26

Ben found the front hall deserted and took the stairs at his usual two-at-a-time. He had left his jeans, and the precious contents of their pockets, neatly folded over the armchair in his room. He realized now that those who were waited on hand and foot had very few real secrets.

The jeans were where he had left them, and their pockets appeared to be undisturbed. Ben shed the kilt as quickly as he could and settled back into the jeans with gratitude. With wry humor, he took a moment to savor the way the denim protected him from drafts.

Back downstairs, he headed for the library once more. He unlocked the file cabinet, taking a moment to verify that the glass, in its linen handkerchief, was still safely stored there. The envelope with the combination to the safe went in next. Finally, he returned to the bookcase, took out another clean handkerchief, and carefully extracted "Medicinal Herbs" from its place on the shelves. It followed the glass and envelope into the cabinet, and he re-locked it.

His back pocket held the doctor's business card, and he dialed her number.

"Dr. Malcolm...Harriet...this is Benton Fraser. Do you have a moment?"

"Didn't expect to hear from you, but of course I do."

"I'd like to ask you two things. First, are you free for dinner tonight?"

"Dinner? I thought we were on for dinner tomorrow night. You'd like me to come tonight?"

"Not exactly. I'd like to meet you somewhere for dinner. Perhaps in the village."

"Ah. Well, there's the local pub, the Thistle. Not bad, and the landlord will give us some privacy if you need to talk."

"That's perfect. I'm not sure how I'll get there. Ian and Fiona seem to have the car..."

The doctor laughed heartily. "Benton, my boy, there are half a dozen cars in the garage there. Ask them to bring you the Jaguar."

"Ah. Well, would eight o'clock be convenient?"

"It would be fine. Just turn right out of the lane and drive about seven miles. That road turns into the main street of the village. Now, what was the other thing you wanted to ask me?"

"Would you happen to have some spare pairs of disposable rubber gloves, the kind you might use with your patients?"

"Rubber gloves?"

"A pair or two. If you would bring them with you." Ben had decided that if he found any more evidence, his supply of handkerchiefs would be severely depleted.

"I'll see you at the Thistle at eight, Ben."

Ben's innate courtesy disliked the idea of using the bells, but Martin had been absent from the hall. He seized the rope beside the fireplace and gave it a good yank.

Martin materialized shortly. "Yes, sir."

"Thank you, Martin." The part of Ben's brain where he kept his sense of humor was secretly disappointed that Martin's response had not been, "You rang, Sir." He suppressed the thought and the accompanying urge to laugh. "I'm planning to be out for dinner this evening, Martin."

"Yes, Sir."

"And I'd like to have the Jaguar brought around at 7:30."

If Martin was surprised he gave no sign.

"Yes, Sir. Will there be anything else, Sir?"

"No. Thank you, Martin."Chapter 27

The car was waiting for Ben at 7:30. Like the Rolls, it was not new but beautifully maintained. He seated himself in the driver's seat and eyed the steering wheel dubiously. "Right-hand drive," he mused. "I can do this." He started the car and rolled majestically down the lane. As he turned towards the village on the main road, his every instinct and reflex screamed at him to get over to the other side of the narrow road. He found it took a great deal of self-control to ignore this, especially when he met another vehicle coming the other way. He pulled up in front of the Thistle with great relief. Parking did not seem to be a problem in this small community.

The doctor was seated at the bar, sipping a pint, when he entered the small pub. The room was dim and smoky with dark wood furniture and bar and simple white plaster walls. The patrons, mostly men, seemed to represent all ages and classes.

"Ben!" Harriet smiled and waved her arm. "Come and meet Johnny, my boy."

The man behind the bar was at least seventy. Tiny and rotund, his pink scalp was saved from baldness only by a thin halo of wispy grey curls. His blue eyes twinkled at Ben over gold-rimmed glasses.

"Johnny, this is Benton Fraser. Ben, Johnny is the landlord here. Get to be his friend, and he'll take good care of you."

"You'd be Sir Angus' nephew from Canada," replied Johnny. "Welcome to the Thistle."

"Thank you kindly."

Johnny had drawn another pint, which he slid over to Ben. "There you are, Sir."

Clearly this was not the time or place to discuss his drinking habits. Ben sipped the beer and smiled his thanks over the rim of the thick mug.

"Let's get to supper," Harriet went on. "I'll introduce you to everyone later." She led the way to a small room off to one side that was even darker than the main bar. "No one will bother us in here."

Johnny arrived with plates of thick stew, studded with fresh vegetables and laden with meat. He also set out a plate of thickly-sliced rye bread and one of butter. Ben had not realized how hungry he was. He wasted no time in doing justice to the meal.

Harriet set down her fork and laughed. "They're not feeding you right out there at the manor," she observed. "I'll have a word with the cook."

Ben took a sip of his beer, delighted at how perfectly it seemed to go with the meal. "We eat a lot of lamb chops at the manor. And a lot of very small sandwiches."

"Well, eat up. There's more where that came."

After a second helping of stew for Ben, Johnny brought them strong coffee to end their meal. Harriet sipped hers, settled back, and got to the point. "What's on your mind, Ben."

"There is, or was, a maid at Gray Manor. Valerie. I don't know her last name. It's my understanding that she was relieved of her duties there because of a pregnancy. I'd like to know if she plans to return to the Manor once the child is born."

"Valerie? She's not my patient, Ben."

Ben rubbed his eyebrow. "You said that you looked after the people at the Manor. Were you referring only to the family?"

Harriet laughed and stirred her coffee. "Ben, you sound like a police constable."

"I am a police constable, Harriet. Just not here."

"When Angus said you were attached to the Canadian consulate in Chicago, I assumed you were in the diplomatic service."

Ben shook his head. "RCMP. I went to Chicago several years ago on the trail of my father's killers. And for a number of reasons, I've remained, attached as a liaison officer at the Consulate."

"I see. Well, I'm sure there's a reason you're asking me all these questions. I'm equally sure that you know that this isn't your jurisdiction. And I'd like to think that you'll let me, and the authorities here, in on what's going on."

"Harriet, something is going on. If I go to the police now, they won't have anything to act on. But I can tell you this. The minute I can go to them, I will. And I'll come to you, too."

"I'm glad we've got this out in the open." Harriet smiled at him. "I'm a good judge of character, and I believe you're a person of integrity. I can tell you that Valerie was my patient, and had been my patient since she was a little girl. But she did not consult me about her pregnancy."

"Do you know who her doctor was?"

"I don't."

"Do you find that unusual?"

"Yes, I do. And that's about all I can tell you, Ben."

"Understood."

"I'm glad we had this little obstetrical chat, Ben. Now could we talk about something else?"

Chapter 28

As Ben walked across the terrace to the house, he began to think about the next day. He admitted to himself that he was looking forward to Meg Thatcher's arrival for more reasons than just her assistance with this case. It was also more than his undeniable feelings for her. His dinner and conversation with with the doctor this evening had reinforced how lonely he was at the Manor, and how far removed it was from the life he had chosen for himself. Above all, when Meg Thatcher arrived tomorrow there would be a friend at Grey Manor.

As he opened the door, he gave a brief thought to his breakfast. He wanted to be up early, but he had no desire for an encounter with Flora. He wondered if the cook had returned. Surely the woman would have left the kitchen by this hour.

As he had hoped, the kitchen was empty and the refrigerator still held a stock of apples. Ben pocketed three of them and turned to go through the hall to the front stairway. As he left the kitchen, he could hear voices coming from the front hall. A woman's querulous tones rose above a deeper man's voice.

"You promised!" Fiona's voice echoed in the front hallway.

"Come on, darling. You've made enough trouble for one evening."

Ian and Fiona were dressed in evening clothes. The odors of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke clung to them, assailing Ben's nostrils along with the smells of nervous sweat and Fiona's overabundant perfume.

"Just what are we going to do now, Ian? Dad's not going to put up with this very much longer. And neither is Matt. Just how do you propose to get the money?"

"Fiona, this is not the time or the place to discuss this. Come upstairs to bed now."

"Bed!" she almost spat. "You're as miserable a lover as you are a provider, Ian. Stay away from me!"

Ben, half-concealed in the shadows beside the staircase, willed himself not to blush. He cleared his throat and continued to walk towards the unhappy couple.

"Good evening, Ian. Fiona."

"Ah! Look who's here!" Fiona gave her husband a shove and glided sinuously over to Ben, bringing with her a cloud of cigarettes, gin, and Joy that nearly overcame him. She draped an arm around his shoulder and traced the contour of his ear with a pink-lacquered nail. "How about you, Ben? You look like you'd be a pretty good...provider."

Ben pulled his head away and regarded her with astonishment. He looked over at Ian, who appeared resigned.

She jerked her hand away from his ear. "Oh, so that's how it is. Well, I'll leave you two to enjoy each other's company. I'm going upstairs."

Ian followed her wordlessly. Ben stood in the entry hall for a long moment as the sound of Fiona's voice died away in the upstairs hallway. When he heard the doors to their rooms close, he went up to his own rooms.

Chapter 29

Ben was up with the sun on Friday. He had slept poorly, if at all. What dreams he had were haunted by images of a killer. He regretted that he would have nothing to present Meg Thatcher but disconnected circumstantial evidence, theories, and innuendo. But, he reasoned as he bit into one of his smuggled apples, two heads were better than one.

The morning was cool and fresh as he opened the French doors and stepped out onto his balcony. The trees cast long shadows over the garden in the early sun. As he stood eating his apple, Flora emerged from the house, crossed the terrace and drive, and entered the garden. She threw a glance behind her, and Ben stepped back into the shadows.

He was startled to see Edwin emerge from a side path and walk to meet her. Flora ran to Edwin and embraced him passionately before the two began walking away from Ben. Feeling a little like a voyeur, he watched them until they disappeared from view down a side path.

The morning was still cool and fresh as Ben left the house and headed for the stable. Edwin was busy in one of the stalls.

"Good morning, Edwin. You're up early."

"Well, I haven't been to bed yet. My girlfriend in the village is ill."

"Ah. Nothing serious, I hope."

"She'll be all right." Edwin looked grim. "Will you be taking Gus out this morning?"

"Not this morning, thanks, Edwin. I wanted to let you know that I'm expecting a guest this weekend. She's an experienced rider. I'd like to have Gus and a horse for her ready at noon."

Edwin led the way to a stall. "How about Shannon? She's a spirited little girl, and very pretty."

"Like the woman who will be riding her," Ben thought. He produced an apple, which Shannon accepted gracefully. "She looks like she'll be just fine, Edwin. Thank you kindly. We'll see you at noon."

Ben was not looking forward to his next stop in the kitchen, but he could not put it off. As he had feared, Flora was there with Mrs. Crawford, the cook. While Mrs. Crawford busied herself with breakfast, Flora appeared to be mixing a dessert of some sort; she stood by a cutting board on which she had laid out raisins, fruits, and nuts.

"Good morning, Sir," she said with her normal calm. "Are you here for breakfast?"

"No, thank you Flora. Good morning, Mrs. Crawford. I'd like to see about getting a picnic lunch packed for today."

"How many will be in the party, Sir?"

"Two. Inspector Thatcher and I will be riding out."

"Certainly, Sir. If you'd be good enough to see Martin for it, it will be ready for you at noon."

"Thank you, Mrs. Crawford. Flora." Ben left the kitchen gratefully and made his way down the hall to the library, where he shut himself in gratefully. His task for the morning was to open the safe and sort out the various miscellaneous bequests. List in hand, he set to work.Chapter 30

Ben spent the morning examining the contents of the safe and comparing them to his file of "Miscellaneous Bequests." Within the safe was a folder containing a sealed envelope addressed to each recipient of a bequest. Many had, in addition to the name, a brief note scrawled on the outside For example, Mrs. Crawford's said, "In sincere appreciation of your many years of devoted service." For the first time since the reading of the will, Ben felt at least some measure of relief. He reasoned that the envelopes might contain checks or other items of significance. The time passed quickly, and Ben was both surprised and pleased to notice that it was nearly 11:00. The Inspector would have landed by now, and she would be here within the hour. Smiling to himself, he turned back to his list of bequests.

Sir Angus had left Harriet Malcolm an antique locket in gold, set with several rubies and suspended from a heavy gold chain. Ben's notes said that it had been Sir Angus' grandmother's. He hoped the doctor would be pleased with the memento. The locket rested in a case of blue morocco leather, just as the list had said it would. Ben slipped it into his pocket, planning to take it upstairs. He would give it to the doctor at dinner this evening.

He smiled to himself again as he heard the sound of a car in the driveway. The Inspector. Ben left the library and was standing on the terrace to greet her as she pulled up.

"Fraser. I must say you're looking surprisingly well." Meg extended her hand cordially, and Ben shook it, relinquishing it quickly so that he would not seem to keep it too long. She was dressed in a soft, red wool pantsuit — the color he loved so well on her — and her dark eyes sparkled today with good humor. Ben wondered if she might be glad to see him as well.

"Welcome to Grey Manor." Ben finally found his voice.

"Very impressive," she said in a conspiratorial tone. "So this is the family homestead?"

"This is it. It's a little larger than what I left behind in the Territories. Would you like to come inside?"

Martin was there to open the door, and the two stood together in the large, dark hall.

"Would you like some coffee or tea, Inspector? Or would you rather go straight upstairs?"

"Coffee would be lovely, thanks."

Ben turned to Martin. "Would you please have coffee sent to the library?" He indicated the hallway with one hand, and Meg followed him silently to the library.

She spoke only when Ben had closed the door. "What have you got, Fraser?"

"It's all still purely circumstantial," he replied. "And I'd prefer not to discuss it in the house."

Meg raised her eyebrows.

"No, I'm not developing a case of paranoia," he went on. "I've ordered us a picnic lunch specifically so we could get out of here for a while to discuss all this. Would you like to ride?"

Meg's expression softened slightly. "Sounds like fun, Fraser. I'd love to."

Ben was startled by the knock at the door, since he had learned that butlers do not normally knock. Freddie, carrying the tray, peered around the door. "May I come in, Cousin Ben?"

"Please."

"I just took these away from Flora in the hallway," Freddie went on. "I had hoped to meet the Inspector."

Meg extended her hand as Freddie put the tray down. "Meg Thatcher," she said.

"Frederick MacDonald, universally known as Freddie." He smiled back at her, giving no sign that he was surprised to be greeting a woman. "Coffee, everyone?"

"So...Freddie. This is a beautiful house." Meg had no idea whether or not she was dealing with one of Ben's list of suspects. "Do you make your home here?"

"Not at all, Meg. I'm up here several times a year, mostly in the fall. I live in London."

"I just came from there. International law enforcement conference. What do you do there?"

Freddie laughed. "I manage the income from my investments," he replied, setting down his cup. "I need to shove off," he added. "See you both at dinner tonight."

Meg turned to Ben and raised her eyebrows, suppressing the obvious question. "I guess I'd better get ready. Will jeans be OK?"

"They'll be just fine. I've been riding in jeans all week."
Chapter 31

Both Meg and Ben were relieved to be free of the house. Edwin had the horses ready for them, and after Ben's obligatory visit to Firebrand, they were riding easily and comfortably through the trees.

"So, Fraser. How about filling me in on some of this."

"Well, I'll start at the beginning. This past Monday, I received this," Ben reached into his back pocket and handed Meg the note, which she read carefully.

"Those who would lay hands on my estate," she mused when she had finished. "So he knew something. But not enough to confront the person or go to the authorities, or otherwise protect himself.. Very odd." She handed the note back to Ben.

"He may have felt that everyone was closing in on him," Ben observed. "I went into the files as he suggested."

"And?"

"I found information that could compromise three people. First, Freddie."

Meg's eyebrows shot up a notch.

"Freddie owes him money. Ten thousand pounds. As you'll learn, it's not much in the great scheme of things, but there's a note. He made regular payments on the loan for approximately a year. The payments stopped three months ago."

"OK. So go on."

"Then there's Ian. You haven't met him yet, but he's got an expensive wife and expensive habits. From what I've heard around here, he gambles at the racetrack and loses heavily. There's a file in there with a business proposal from him to Sir Angus. A marketing proposal, built on a ridiculous premise."

"How much?"

"Fifty thousand pounds. There's a line drawn through the title page and a note in Sir Angus' hand that says ‘rubbish.' It could be interpreted as a ruse, or perhaps a last-ditch effort to get some money out of Sir Angus. Obviously the old man had more sense than that."

"Who else?"

"Flora, the housekeeper." Ben's eyes were troubled. "She's the real puzzle. She's the granddaughter of Martin, the butler, and she's lived here since she was orphaned as a child. There are two main subjects covered in her file. First, let's turn left here onto the path."

Ben indicated a path through the trees. The path was narrow, requiring them to ride single file. Ben led the way, turning to say, "We'll be there in a few minutes."

They rode in silence through dappled sunshine and shadow. The woods were cool, almost chilly, and Meg was glad she had thrown on a sweater. The horses' hoofbeats were muffled by the thick litter of last year's fallen leaves. Ben looked back from time to time, enjoying the way the shafts of sunlight seemed to pick out haloes around Meg's dark hair, which was curling a little in the moist air.

"Almost there," he finally said. A minute later they rode into the clearing.

"It's beautiful!"

"I'm glad you like it. I found it the other day, and I've been using it to do all my best thinking."

"Perfect spot for a picnic." Meg dismounted and patted Shannon's nose as she looked around the clearing. "We could set up under that tree."

Ben was already spreading out the assortment of blankets and cushions that had been tucked into one of the saddlebags. "Would you like to eat now?" he asked, indicating a place on the blanket.

Meg settled herself comfortably in the sunlight. "I'd like to hear about Flora. Then I'd like to eat."

"The folder on her covered two main topics. First, Sir Angus seems to have put her through a local secretarial school. There are bills, checks, and reports, and there's a certificate of completion indicating that she finished there last year."

"Are they good reports?"

"Very high marks. She did well there."

"Go on."

"She was accepted as a student for this fall's term at the university in Aberdeen. The letter is in there, and there are two bills. Neither was paid."

"Sir Angus seems a lot more methodical than that to me," Meg observed.

"Well, he was. I checked with the solicitors. The bills were left unpaid deliberately, which had the effect of canceling Flora's enrollment."

"But why?"

"I don't know," Ben replied. "It's something I need to find out. But I can tell you this. Flora herself told me that Sir Angus had promised to send her. She said nothing about any cancellation of the plans." Ben had not quite decided how to relate the story of the perplexing interlude in the library. "And there was one more item in the file."

"OK."

"A small note, written on a prescription blank from the local doctor. It was the name, address, and phone number of a physician in Aberdeen. An obstetrician and gynecologist."

"So she's pregnant?"

"I don't think so." Ben related the details of the phone call from the doctor's office. "So you see," he concluded. The doctor's office in Aberdeen thinks she's four months pregnant. I don't agree. And Dr. Malcolm says she didn't refer her for a pregnancy."

"So where's the baby? Why did she feel she had to go into Aberdeen to consult this Dr. Law?"

"Well, there is a baby. But it doesn't belong to Flora. A maid was fired last week, before my arrival, for being pregnant. And Dr. Malcolm says she wasn't treating her."

Meg was silent for a long moment, chewing on her lower lip. Finally she said, "It sounds like you've got something on just about everybody in the house. But it's not much to go on, is it?"

"No, it's not." Ben sighed as he rummaged in the saddlebags, setting out their meal. "Have something to eat, and I'll give you the rest of it."

The lunch was simple but filling. There were sandwiches — real ones — of several kinds, cheese, fruit, crackers, and a cake of some sort.

Meg thought Ben looked tired, and she said so. "You look as though you haven't been sleeping. It's not still jet lag, is it?"

"I don't know. I slept well the first couple of nights I was here. But last night..."

"Well, you've had a lot on your mind. So what else have you got? Any physical evidence?"

"The cause of death was listed as a coronary. Sir Angus was buried without an autopsy at the request of the family. But Dr. Malcolm — Harriet — wanted to do one. She describes him as overweight and suffering from hypertension, which was kept under control with medication. He was a good candidate for a heart attack, but she characterizes his health as very good aside from those two risk factors."

"So what happened the night of the death?"

"He suffered the coronary alone. He was found next morning by a maid — the same maid who was dismissed for being pregnant. I found a single empty glass on his desk."

"Fingerprints?"

"That's just it." Ben paused for a long moment. "The glass was clean. There wasn't a single fingerprint on it, no residue of anything in it, and no ring of liquid underneath it. The room hadn't been cleaned since the night of the death when I found the glass. There was a very fine film of dust on everything, including the glass. But it was clean."

Meg shook her head. "Were there other glasses in the room?"

"There's a liquor cabinet between the windows, and it was also covered with dust. Inside are a bottle of single malt Scotch and several other glasses that match the one I found."

"What else?"

"I was walking in the garden the afternoon of my arrival, and I ran across the gardener — Edwin MacKaye. He's apparently been the head groundskeeper here for many years. He was weeding a bed of delphiniums."

"Delphiniums?"

"It's a perennial flowering plant, grown as an ornamental in gardens. It's characterized by tall spikes of deep blue flowers. There are several beds of delphiniums in the formal gardens."

"OK."

"He'd found something else growing in the bed, mixed in with the ornamentals. A flowering plant known as monkshood or aconite."

"How did it get there?"

"Edwin was unsure. He professed great annoyance at finding it there. He was able to tell me a great deal about it. It's a noxious weed, apparently, and all parts of it are poisonous. ‘To men and cattle,' was how he put it. In the past, it was used as a sedative for the nerves."

"And?"

"And superficially, at least, it resembles the delphiniums a great deal. Tall with spikes of dark blue flowers."

"And he didn't know how it got there."

"He was preparing to dig it out when I arrived. I asked him to leave it, but when I returned later, all traces of it appeared to be gone. I haven't dug around to see if any roots or other parts remain under the soil. I did take a sample of it."

"So we have a deadly plant, concealed in plain view in a flowerbed, that has now disappeared completely."

Meg was eating a plum, and the juices ran down her chin. She wiped them away with her fingers, which she then licked clean. Ben found the sight pleasantly distracting.

"Well?"

"Well, that's about it. The only other point left to be covered is that Sir Angus doesn't appear to have been very generous with some people in his will."

Meg looked at him sharply as she started on another plum. "Go on."

"He left Ian and Freddie the income from trusts that have been set up for them. The terms of the trusts appear to be fairly ironclad. They also appear to me to be generous, but Ian and Freddie don't seem to think so."

"Everything is relative," replied Meg, thinking of Ben's simple life in Chicago.

"He made several miscellaneous bequests, mostly to servants and employees. I find these perplexing."

"In what sense?" Meg was licking her fingers again.

"Many of these people have been employed at the Manor for years. From what I've been able to learn of Sir Angus, they should have been provided for in their old age — pensions, investments, and such. What he's leaving them is trivial souvenirs and mementos."

"And you think this might have made some of them angry. Any chance they could have learned about it ahead of time? Are we looking at revenge?"

"I haven't been able to figure out how. The will came as a surprise to everyone. I came as a surprise to everyone."

"You had no idea this branch of the family existed." Meg's chin and fingers were now clean to her satisfaction. Some part of Ben regretted this.

"My grandparents came to Canada by way of China, where they had been missionaries. We knew, of course, that the Frasers were originally from Scotland. But I don't think anybody knew the details. And the people here had no idea I existed, with the exception of Sir Angus."

"And how did he find out?"

"Well, there had apparently been a quarrel between his father and my grandfather that sparked the emigration to China. He found us and followed our lives for years, but quietly. Said in his letter to me that he was satisfied we were people of good character." Ben investigated the cake. "This appears to be a fruitcake of some sort," he observed. "Would you like some?"

"No, thanks."

Ben cut himself a generous slice, took a bite, and chewed thoughtfully. "Strongly flavored with brandy," he observed.

"Why do I get the feeling you haven't been getting enough to eat?"

"Because they don't eat much here." Ben cut himself a second slice, finished it, and laid back with a sigh. "Now you know about as much as I do," he finally observed. "What do you think?"

"Well, you've got a motive — several motives, in fact. You've got the opportunity. And you've probably got the method. But if you ask me, you couldn't spit inside that house without hitting someone who had a reason to want Sir Angus dead." Meg hugged her knees. "All we have to do is figure out who." She looked over at Ben, who had shut his eyes. "Why don't you take a nap, Fraser?"

He raised himself up on an elbow and looked at her.

"I mean it. It's not even 2:30 yet. We've got the whole weekend to work on this, starting with dinner tonight. And you've got somebody to cover your back now. Just sleep for a while. I'll wake you in time to get back to the house." As if to emphasize her words, she shoved the second blanket at him.

Ben closed his eyes. "Tea at five," he said sleepily.

Meg looked in the saddlebag, found a cushion, and settled herself against the tree.Chapter 32

She was standing in the sunlit clearing, within the protective circle of his arms, offering her neck to his kisses. She could feel the softness of his cotton shirt under her cheek, the warmth where his hands rested, the fire under his lips...Meg...MEG!

Meg was immediately awake, her dream receding rapidly. She experienced a brief moment of uncertainty about where she was and who was calling her before she opened her eyes and looked over at Ben.

Ben lay on his back in a tangle of blankets, fast asleep. As she watched from her vantage point by the tree, he turned away from her, onto his side, calling her name again quite clearly. Meg was fascinated. She obviously had a starring role in his dream, just has he had in hers. But was it a pleasant dream or a nightmare? He thrashed again and said something else, but she could not make it out.

Moving with stealth, she left the tree and sat beside him at what she judged was a safe distance. So far, so good. From this viewpoint at his side, she could see his hair, tousled and curled from sleep. He had thrown one hand out, and the fingers curled gently and gracefully. She thought how much she would like to take that hand in her own. But instead, she watched and waited.

She did not wait long. He began to say something else, but it was almost unintelligible. Was that her name again? Unable to resist, she leaned closer.

Too close! As she leaned forward to hear, he turned his head. A stray lock of her hair fell forward and brushed his cheek. She began to move back quickly, but she was too late. His hands moved like lightning, and before she could react, he had reached up and pulled her off-balance into a kiss so intense and satisfying she began to wish it might never end. She forgot everything -- the fact that she was sprawled on the ground, her concerns about the possibility of murder, even the nagging thought that they really should not be doing this — as his exploration of her mouth moved from gentle to demanding.

She moaned softly and fell forward as the kiss ended as gently as it had begun. Ben opened his eyes, and they focused on her slowly. He smiled and brushed her hair gently away from her face as he took it in both his hands. "I was dreaming about you, and here you are."

"And was it a good dream, or a bad dream?" Meg pulled away and regarded him seriously for a moment.

Ben said nothing, but laughed sleepily and gathered her into his arms, cradling her on his chest and pulling the blanket over both of them. He ran his hand gently down the curve of her back, pressing her close against him, and said into her ear, "Why don't you tell me."

Meg could sense his excitement even through their many layers of clothing, and she moved against him like a cat, feeling his arms tighten around her. "So it was a good dream..."

"They're always good. That is, until..."

"Until what?" She traced the contour of his lips with her finger.

"Until I wake up and find out they're not real."

Her fingers moved to caress his ear as she placed her lips against his again."I dream about you, too, you know."

He laughed. "And are your dreams like mine?"

:"I could wish...That is, I have wished," Meg buried her face in his chest, feeling the soft cotton of his shirt against her cheek, just as in her dream.

"You've wished what?" He laid his cheek on her hair, leaning very close so that he could hear her.

"I've wished that the dreams were so," she replied so softly even he could barely hear her.

"And what would it take to make that happen?"

"I can't make it happen, Ben. Because of who I am, because of who we are. You have to make it happen."

He tilted her chin up, then, and kissed her again. Chapter 33

When Ben and Meg rode out of the woods and onto the lane, they stayed very close to each other, the toes of their boots almost touching. Gus and Shannon, obviously friends, seemed content to walk along together.

Meg broke the comfortable silence. "So what do you want to try to accomplish this evening?"

"We have two opportunities with the family. Tea and dinner." Ben rubbed his chin reflectively. "I think it's time to turn up the heat a little. You can learn a lot just by listening to them."

"Well, I'm just the person to do that. Finances?"

"Exactly. Get them started about horses and racing."

"Back to reality," Meg smiled a little sadly as the stable came into view.

Edwin was there, smiling, as they rode up. "You'll miss your tea if you don't get back to the house. I'll take care of this lot." He watched the pair as they walked towards the garden and the house. Were they lovers? If so, he mused, he hoped their path was easier than his own. "Come on, you two," he said to the horses. "I'll bet you're hungry."

Martin opened the door as they walked up to the house, responding to Ben's "Good afternoon" with a frosty greeting of his own. Although he was too well-bred to show it, it seemed apparent that Martin had been surprised when the Inspector turned out to be a woman.

Meg stopped on the landing to look at the portraits as they went upstairs. "Do all the men in the family look just like you?"

Ben ducked his head a little before replying, "If you think these fellows are good-looking, wait til you see the one with the dead birds."

Meg gave him a little shove. "So what do people wear to afternoon tea here?"

"Well, I think you look just fine as you are. It seems to be a pretty casual affair." He put an arm around her shoulder and kissed her lightly, breaking off immediately as they heard someone coming down.

"Ah, Flora," said Ben. "This is Inspector Margaret Thatcher, our guest for the weekend." He turned to Meg. "Inspector, this is Flora, our housekeeper."

"How do you do, Ma'am. Welcome to Gray Manor," said Flora in her usual quiet voice. She turned to Ben. "Will there be anything else, Sir?"

"No, Flora. Thank you kindly."

The young woman continued down the stairs without a backward glance.

"Do you think she saw us?" asked Meg as they reached the upstairs hallway?

"I don't care if she saw us or not," Ben snatched another quick kiss, followed by another. "When you think about it, this is my house now."

Back in his room, Ben showered quickly and dressed in the fresh pair of jeans that Boyd's unseen hands had laid out for him. The doors leading to his balcony were open, letting in the warm spring breeze. He leaned on the stone railing, thinking of Meg. He was sure now, that on the day he died, he would see her face as it had been this afternoon. Streaked with sunlight and shadow, lips parted, eyes lit from within by the depth of her passion for him — she would remain, just like that, in his dreams for the rest of his life. He knew with absolute certainly that he would never willingly be parted from this woman.

He was almost startled by the sight of a car pulling up. Ian and Fiona emerged from their Mercedes 2- seater. Dressed to the nines, they seemed to be bickering as usual as they entered the house. Ben sighed. It was time to head downstairs for tea.

Meg entered the drawing room a few minutes later, having opted for a soft gray sweater and slacks.

"Well, Ben, this must be your Inspector," Fiona said from her place at the tea table. "I don't think any of us expected a lady Inspector." She held out her hand. Ben was relieved to see that she seemed to have forgotten about their conversation of the previous evening.

"Meg Thatcher." Meg smiled as she shook Fiona's hand, but her eyes missed nothing. Fiona, on the other hand, seemed to sense no threat. As a foreigner and a career woman — a police officer, no less — Meg seemed to be outside of Fiona's scope. And this suited the Inspector perfectly.

"What do you take in your tea, Meg? Milk and sugar?" Fiona smiled graciously, if a bit absently.

"Thank you." Meg accepted a cup and went to stand beside Ben.

"Inspector, this is my cousin, Ian MacDonald. Ian, I'd like you to meet Inspector Margaret Thatcher."

"We've been looking forward to your visit." Ian summoned up as much charm as he could muster.

"And you've already met Freddie."

"Afternoon, Meg. Did you two have a nice picnic?"

"Very nice, thank you. The countryside is lovely." Meg turned to Ben. "And these must be the dead birds you were telling me about this afternoon." She indicated the portrait.

"Ah, yes. Those would be the dead birds." Ben licked his lips nervously, but his eyes twinkled. ‘I guess he wanted to be remembered for what was important to him."

"Inspector." Freddie gestured to a spot on the couch. "Come and tell me about your visit to London. And how long will you be with us?"

"Someone have some of this cake!" trilled Fiona from the table. "I know Flora got up in the middle of the night to make it. Ian? How about you?"

Ian gestured to his middle. "No thanks. I'll be wearing that for a long time if I have any."

"Ben, then. I know you'd like a piece of our special Dundee Cake."

Ben recognized the fruitcake from the picnic. He had enjoyed his two slices earlier, and he was hungry enough to put away another without much effort. "Thank you kindly, Fiona. I will have a slice."

She cut a thick slice of the rich cake and handed it to him on a plate.

"I take it brandy is considered a necessary ingredient," Ben observed as he finished his cake.

"Brandy? I hardly think so. It's not like other fruitcakes." Fiona sounded a little patronizing, which caused Meg to look up from her conversation with Freddie.

"Well, this one is loaded with brandy."

Fiona leaned toward the cake plate and sniffed delicately. "I do believe you're right, Ben. She must be experimenting with a new recipe."

"Well, it's very tasty," Ben replied, holding out his plate for another slice.

The gathering broke up when Ian was called to the telephone. Meg asked to see the gardens, and she and Ben left the house by the front door, under Martin's neutral gaze.

"Where are the roses?" Meg asked as they started down the path.

"This way."

They were soon standing in the rose garden, and it was apparent that the elder Edwin was a gifted artist. Climbing roses spilled over a mellow brick wall, and the paths were lined with roses of every sort — old and new, large and small, they grew in a sort of controlled riot, and the air was filled with their fragrance.

"Mmm," said Meg leaning over to breathe in the fragrance of a particularly beautiful crimson rose. "They're heavenly. I don't remember..."

Ben, who had been standing next to her, grasped her arm gently and held his finger to his lips. They could hear the sound of footsteps, then of voices — male and female — coming from the direction of the stable.

"All I can say is I'm sorry."

"Edwin" mouthed Ben silently.

"By God, I'll have you turned out!" The woman's voice was low and controlled. "And you can forget about any inheritance you were expecting from Sir Angus."

"It's not about money, Flora. It's about doing the right thing."

"If you know what's good for you, you'll stay out of my sight."

Meg and Ben finally breathed again as the footsteps faded in the opposite direction. They walked silently back to the house to get ready for dinner.Chapter 34

As he entered his rooms, Ben could see that Boyd had been at work again, and he remembered that this evening he would be expected to don the native camouflage. Uncharacteristically, he had a headache, the first he could remember having in many years. He glanced at his watch. A little less than an hour before dinner. He sat down to begin undoing his boots. Boyd arrived as Ben stood in his underwear, contemplating the kilt and all its dependencies.

"I thought you might require a bit of assistance, Sir."

"I've been getting myself dressed for quite a few years," Ben replied a little crossly. "But I may need your advice, if you'd like to have a seat over there."

Boyd complied, as Ben donned the dress shirt, a little experimentally since he had never worn it. The studs, cufflinks, and tie that went with it were mercifully compliant this evening. Ben had learned, as most men have, that these articles of dress are often equipped with minds of their own.

Before long, Ben stood, eyeing himself dubiously in the long mirror as he attempted to get an unruly strand of hair to lie flat. If he had possessed even a shred of vanity, he would have been pleased at his reflection. The man who stared back at him was undeniably handsome. The black jacket and waistcoat, with their silver buttons, gave him a romantic air while serving to emphasize his broad shoulders. Although the jacket fitted perfectly, the effect was one of strength and power, barely contained within the sober black wool. As for the kilt itself, the garment could not hide the long legs and slim hips encased in its folds. His eyes flicked down to his right leg, where the small dagger was safely tucked into his sock. It lent him a dangerous air.

"Perfect, Sir," Boyd was saying. "You look as though you've been dressing that way all your life."

"It's the shoes, Boyd. I'll never get used to these shoes." The ghillie brogues seemed to Ben to be something a woman would wear. "Can't I just wear regular shoes?"

"Certainly, Sir, on other occasions. But these will be more suitable for this evening."

The ancestor seemed to be eyeing him with approval from his place above the mantel as Ben entered the sitting room. He noticed that the man in the portrait was wearing ghillie brogues. "If you say so, Boyd."

Meg, in her rooms, was managing her preparations with her usual cool efficiency. Clad in her slip, she stood in front of her closet considering her options. She had decided that the evening might present good opportunities for extracting information from Fiona, and she wanted to present herself in full battle dress for the occasion. She was deciding between the black crepe and the red silk when there was a knock at her bedroom door.

"Will you require any assistance, Madam?" It was Flora. She was a beautiful young woman, decided Meg, with a serene manner that emphasized her classic features. She also seemed a little shy.

"Thank you, Flora, but I'm just about ready. I can manage."

"Yes, Madam." The door closed quietly.

It would be hard not to take a liking to Flora, Meg decided as she rejected the black in favor of the red and began pulling the gown on. She slipped her feet into her shoes and got the green garnet brooch from her small jewelry case. Pinning it on, she regarded herself in the mirror with some satisfaction. She loved this particular dress. Light and graceful, with a subtle sheen, it fell to her feet in a slim column from the thin straps at her shoulders. It was her best color. "This will do," she thought as she put on her lipstick. She had pulled her long hair up and back from her face, although some flattering tendrils escaped in the humid spring air. Something was agreeing with her — and here she smiled at her reflection — because she had required very little makeup. Her dark eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were rosy. "Love suits you, Meg," she told herself as she left the room.

Chapter 35

Ian and Fiona were the only two people in the drawing room as Meg entered.

"Meg! What can I get you to drink?" Ian said from his place near the small table that served as a bar. He was dressed in the traditional Highland style, and Meg could not help noticing, once again, his strong family resemblance to Ben. A shame he had let himself go, she thought.

"Thanks, Ian. How about a gin and tonic?" She turned to Fiona, who was standing by the window looking undeniably cool and elegant in a slim, fitted gown of heavy white silk, cut straight across the bust. "And how are you this evening, Fiona?" She smiled at Ian's wife, but her thoughts were busy. Versace. A very elegant gown for a quiet dinner at home.

"I'm just fine, Meg," drawled Fiona in that husky voice of hers. "And did you two enjoy your picnic this afternoon?"

"Very much so," replied Meg as she moved to stand beside the other woman. Joy, she decided. One of the most expensive fragrances in the world, and Fiona seemed to use it liberally. "The gardens and woods are lovely, and I did enjoy getting a chance to ride Shannon. Do you ride, Fiona?" Those were South Sea pearls around her neck and pave diamonds in platinum in her ears.

"Lord, no! Not if I can help it." Fiona waved her cigarette. "But the rest of the family is crazy for horses, aren't you, Ian?"

Ian was prevented from replying, and Meg was interrupted in her clandestine appraisal of Fiona, by the arrival on the scene of Ben.

Ian was the first to speak. "Well, Cousin Ben. I must admit, you look very dashing. What will you have to drink? Your usual mineral water with a twist?"

"Thank you kindly." Ben strode into the room cooly, although his first instinct had been to stand and peer around the doorway like an adolescent girl. He accepted the drink from Ian with a smile and went to join the two women.

"Evening, Fiona. Inspector."

"Well, Ben, you do that kilt a lot more justice than old Sir Angus did," remarked Fiona.

"Good evening, Fraser." Meg said nothing more, but her dark eyes seemed to sparkle and dance as she took a sip of her drink.

"What is all this ‘Inspector...Fraser' business?" asked Fiona.

"Well, the Inspector is my commanding officer," replied Ben. "We work together at the Consulate in Chicago."

"You mean ‘worked,' don't you? Surely you're not going back to your job as a police constable when you've just come into all this?" Fiona made an expansive gesture with her now-empty drink glass.

"Ah, so that's how it is," thought Meg grimly, though she continued to smile.

Fortunately Fiona's eye was drawn to the condition of her glass. "Ian, I'm due a refill," she said querulously, leaving Ben and Meg to fend for themselves.

"She's a real piece of work," Meg said quietly.

"She's just warming up," replied Ben drily.

They were interrupted by the arrival of Freddie, dressed just like the rest of the men, with Harriet Malcolm. "Evening everyone. I've brought the Doctor."

"You must be Inspector Thatcher. I'm Harriet Malcolm" said Harriet, holding out her hand. She was dressed in a simple black dress.

"Meg. It's good to meet you, Harriet."

"And here's your usual, Harriet." Ian brought over a glass.

"Cheers, Ian. Now Meg, come over here and sit down and tell me what it's like to be a woman in the RCMP." Harriet's eyes twinkled, and Meg decided she might grow to like this woman. The two sat quietly on a loveseat between the French doors."

"Doctor, Fraser has told me a great deal about you. You were Sir Angus' personal physician."

"For almost thirty years," replied the doctor. "And a good friend, too."

"Have you lived in the area all your life?" Meg went on.

"Born and raised here. I studied medicine in Edinburgh when it wasn't a very popular thing for women to do."

"It's a hard life, I would imagine."

Harriet looked at Meg over her glasses. "Yes, it is. Just as I imagine yours is hard. But I'm now caring for my third generation of people in the village, so it does have its rewards."

Meg smiled. "Just as my life has its rewards."

"They never talk about anything interesting." Fiona, apparently bored with the men, had decided to join Meg and Harriet. "Since Ben got here, they've shifted from dead birds to dead caribou." She shuddered delicately. "So, Harriet, what's new in the village?"

Harriet looked at her sharply. "Oh, the usual. Births, deaths, and marriages. A few new babies on the way."

"Motherhood!" replied Fiona. "Now that's an experience I'm planning never to have."

Fortunately, Harriet was prevented from replying by the arrival of Martin, who announced that dinner was served.

Chapter 36

Ben seemed to have found some new assertiveness to go with his Highland dress. He went immediately to the head of the table, leaving Ian, who had taken that place up to this dinner, to shift for himself. Fiona made her way quickly to the hostess's position.

"My," said Meg as the soup was served. "What an...interesting room. So...different from the rest of the house."

Harriet flushed red and kept her eyes on her plate, but Meg could see that they were twinkling. It was Freddie who took up the conversational gambit.

"This room is Fiona's decorating triumph. She had all the furniture custom made in Italy. That old, dark stuff from the seventeenth century was really very cumbersome."

Fiona threw him a dark look but said nothing. Meg looked at the gilded cherubs supporting the sideboard and decided that it might be wise to change the subject. "I had such an enjoyable ride on Shannon this afternoon. I hope I'll be able to take her out again while I'm here. Who normally rides her?"

"Well, I do. Or did," replied Harriet.

"Harriet, I hope you'll come and ride any time you please," Ben replied.

Meg had apparently finally crossed Fiona's radar screen. "Oh, that's right. You're one of the Mounties too. Did they teach you to ride as part of your police training?"

"Not exactly." Martin and a footman or two had arrived with the fish course. Meg took a bite of the Dover sole before continuing. "I was taught to ride as a child. We had horses at home."

"I see." Fiona sensed that Meg may have come from money, and this further increased the Inspector's visibility on the radar screen. "So you're not from out there in the middle of nowhere like our Ben is?"

"Not really," Meg laughed. "I grew up not too far from Ottawa. How about you, Fiona? Do you ride?"

"Fiona's only interest in horses is in how fast they run," shot Freddie from his side of the table.

"So you're a racing fan, Fiona?" Meg went on innocently enough.

Before Fiona could answer, the party found themselves confronted by the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Ben found the beef very much to his liking, but the pudding resembled library paste. Still, he thought to himself as he sprinkled the salt and pepper, this was the first day since his arrival at the Manor that he'd actually had enough to eat.

"Oh, I go to the races to keep Ian in line," replied Fiona. "If it weren't for me..."

Ben was seized by a coughing spell and reached for his water. "I beg your pardon, Fiona," he managed, wiping his eyes with his napkin. "I must have overdone the pepper."

"If it weren't for me," Fiona went on cooly, "Ian would lose even more than he does, and then where would we be? I go to keep him in line. As for the horses themselves, the less said about them the better."

"The stallion I saw today looked like a Thoroughbred," Meg said to the table at large.

"Firebrand?" Freddie looked at her with interest. "He is. Brought in from Ireland by Sir Angus to improve his breeding stock."

"Let's not start down that road again, Freddie," said Ian tiredly.

Harriet had been watching the interplay with great interest. "So how did you do at Ascot this year, Ian?"

Fiona set down her fork. "Don't ask, Harriet."

"Well," said Harriet in an attempt to change the subject, "It looks as though I'm soon going to be in the market for a new car."

"No!" replied Freddie in mock despair. "Not the Spitfire! Say it isn't so. I've coveted that car since I was old enough to drive."

"Well, I could let it go cheap, Freddie. Bring your own electrical system."

"Thank you, no! I have my own electrical system to worry about." Freddie laughed. "But I'd be sorely tempted."

"I guess it takes a special devotion to own an English car," replied Meg as dessert — more of the Dundee cake — arrived on the scene. She took a small bite of her slice. "Interesting, Fraser. I thought you said the cake was spiked with brandy."

"What I had earlier was," he replied. "This tastes quite different."

"Well, you should know, Fraser. You've had enough of that cake today to be an authority on it." She laughed.

"Everybody has said Sir Angus was a sizeable man," replied Ben. "I wonder how he got that way."

When dessert had been cleared away, Ben stood and went to the sideboard, returning with a blue leather box and an envelope. He handed these to Harriet. "Harriet, Sir Angus wanted you to have this."

Harriet began to open the envelope.

"You may want to save the envelope to open later." Ben said hastily. He had handed her a blank envelope with the flap tucked in. Only Ben knew that he had used this envelope to conceal another, sealed inner envelope that read "To my darling Harriet."

"I'll do that, Ben." She opened the box and held up the gold locket. "It's lovely!"

Freddie, who had been seated next to her, examined the locket. "You know, Harriet, that was his mother's. Would you like to wear it? Here, let me do the honors." He took the locket and fastened the clasp behind her neck, giving her shoulder a small pat as he finished. "There. You look wonderful."

Fiona sniffed. "It's very Victorian, isn't it? Count on the Victorians for elaborate jewelry, I suppose." She stood up. "Shall we, ladies? We'll see you gentlemen later," she said acidly. "Not too much port, Ian."

Meg and Harriet followed her, like the proper ladies they weren't, into the drawing room.
Chapter 37

Fiona led the way through the drawing room to the small parlor. "I thought we'd be more comfortable in here," she observed. "I hate that portrait with the dead birds. Anybody care for a drink?"

Meg and Harriet accepted sherries, while Fiona poured herself a stiff shot of Scotch.

"Let me see the locket, Harriet. It's wonderful!" exclaimed Meg, taking the piece in her hand.

Fiona sniffed again. "I daresay he could have picked one of the nicer pieces," she observed. "Those rubies are the most valuable thing about it. You could probably have them re-mounted. Maybe a platinum setting. A cocktail ring, perhaps. They'd look nice surrounding a diamond."

"I like it," Meg replied evenly. "He probably wanted Harriet to have something his mother loved."

"Well, you seem to have a taste for Victorian jewels yourself, Meg." Fiona squinted at the brooch. "Those aren't emeralds, are they?"

"No. They're garnets. Green garnets. I'm told they're very unusual."

"You know, I had a great-aunt who had a brooch very much like that," Harriet said.

"Yours must have been...in the family...quite a long time, Meg. It's a little the worse for wear," Fiona continued.

"Time to kick it up a notch," Meg thought. She wondered if Harriet would play along and decided that the older woman would catch on fast. It was unfortunate that neither she nor Ben had spoken privately to Harriet this evening.

"Well, I love your pearls," she said to Fiona. "Classically simple. And the dark pearls are so..." she paused, searching for the right word.

"So very trendy," Harriet contributed.

"Exactly." Meg nodded in satisfaction. "Very fashionable, Fiona."

"They're South Sea pearls," Fiona replied complacently. "Very difficult to put together a matched strand. I actually picked these up on a trip to New York."

"And your diamonds?" Meg sat back and took a sip of her sherry. "Are they also from New York?"

"Amsterdam," replied the other woman. "Don't ever go anywhere else for your diamonds. It's pointless. You'll always get the best quality and prices in Amsterdam."

"Direct from the mines, I should imagine," drawled Meg.

"Oh, Fiona is a very astute shopper," contributed Harriet. "She's in Milan twice a year for the spring and fall fashions." She, too, took a sip of her drink.

"I knew it!" Meg took the hand-off and began to run with it. "That's got to be a Versace you're wearing now, Fiona."

Fiona smiled. "I love anything Italian."

Harriet smiled ruefully and patted the full skirt of her own dress. "Well, my designer is Annie MacPherson in the village. She manages to keep me in tweed skirts and jackets quite nicely. But I daresay I'm going to have to get a new dinner dress soon. This one is getting a bit rusty."

"Now Harriet," Fiona warmed to a subject she was comfortable with. "You may be in your fifties, but you're remarkably well-preserved. You have a wonderful figure." She settled back. "You should let me send you to Orb. Granville could work wonders for you."

"Orb? You mean that place in town where they're all pierced? Thank you, no." Harriet laughed heartily. "I think I'd rather hang on to my gray hair and wrinkles."

"Well, naturally the people who work there would follow the latest trends," Fiona replied. "Nobody would ask you to get a piercing."

"No danger there. But when I see their ears, eyebrows, noses, navals, and tongues, I can't help wondering what else they've put holes in."

Fiona shrugged and turned to Meg. "And how about you, Meg? Where do you get your clothes? Is the shopping good in Chicago?"

"I'm like Harriet," Meg replied. "I have a dressmaker, only mine is in Toronto. I try to get back there a couple of times a year."

"No one devotes the time and attention to shopping that Fiona does," Harriet beamed. "No one else possibly could."

"Thank you, Harriet," Fiona replied. And she seemed to mean it.

Meg sighed deeply. "Well, on my income from the RCMP, there's no danger I'll be taking in the collections in Milan anytime soon." She laughed. "Even if I could get the time off."

"That's our Fiona," replied Harriet. "A woman of leisure and exquisite taste."

"Well, let me know if you change your mind about Orb," Fiona said.

"So tell me, Fiona," Meg leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion. "What kind of work does Ian do that lets you devote so much ... attention to fashion? Good husbands don't grown on trees these days. What's your secret?" She fixed a raptly attentive gaze on the other woman.

Fiona laughed bitterly. "Well, let's just say he hasn't fulfilled his early promise. Ian borrows the money from my Dad, and I spend it."

"Who's your Dad?"

"Matt O'Reilley," replied Fiona calmly. "How about another sherry, Meg?"

Chapter 38

Ben accepted a glass of port, but he declined a cigar. His throat was beginning to bother him seriously, and since he was never ill, he had no idea whether he was coming down with a cold or not. He found the port soothed the burning somewhat, but the cigars were going to be unpleasant. He wondered how Meg was faring in the other room.

"So, Freddie," he began, clearing his throat. "Are cars a special interest of yours?"

"Not really. I bought my car second-hand when I got out of university. It's an MG, a 1974. As Meg said, they require a special devotion."

"I don't know why you don't get rid of that heap of rust," Ian shot from his side of the table. "It must cost you more in maintenance than it would to buy something decent." Ian took a healthy slug of his port and began the cigar-lighting ritual.

"It pays to know the right mechanic," replied Freddie serenely from around his own cigar. "Besides, I've got things I'd rather spend my money on than new his and hers Mercedes every year."

Ian sent him a black look but said nothing.

"Fiona is high maintenance," Freddie went on, turning to Ben. "It takes a lot of horse races to keep her in cars and diamonds."

"Both my partners in Chicago have driven vintage cars," Ben observed, clearing his throat and taking another small sip of his port.

Ian leaned back comfortably and poured himself another glass of port. "I'll tell you the best way to handle cars, Ben. Take out a lease on a new one every year."

"Doesn't that get a little expensive?"

"Not when money is not object," added Freddie.

Ian flushed darkly and set down his glass. "I've had just about enough of this," he said to his brother. "I don't think I ever liked it. Now I'm sure."

Freddie laughed easily. "Calm down, Ian. I'm sure Matt O'Reilley will be happy to help."

Ian stood up, his face flushed so deeply that Ben began to fear he might suffer a stroke. "You never did know when to stop, did you Brother?"

Ben kept his seat, his face alert and watchful. The prospect of a physical fight between these two seemed unlikely, and if it did occur, he could handle it easily. He coughed again, took a sip of his wine, and said easily, "Please, sit down Ian. Let's finish our drinks before we join the ladies." And then, quite carelessly, he added, "Matt O'Reilley?"

Both brothers turned to him. "Matt O'Reilley is my father-in-law," replied Ian as he sat.

Ben coughed again and rubbed his eyebrow with a knuckle. "I don't know him," he replied, taking another sip of his port. He turned to Freddie. "You know, I think I'm getting used to these Scottish clothes, but Boyd wants to have a word with me about my jackets."

"My advice to you? Let him order you whatever he wants. You can't go wrong." Freddie took the last sip of his port. "Let's go find the ladies, shall we?"

Meg smiled at Ben when he entered the parlor, but her eyes seemed to be telegraphing something different. Ben reflected that they would need to compare notes, and soon.

"Well," Freddie was saying, "There are six of us, so bridge is out."

"I'll sit out," Ben and Meg answered almost in unison, causing everyone else to laugh.

Ben cleared his throat, "I'm not a bridge player," he went on.

"Oh, bridge is so boring," Fiona replied. "I think we should drive into town. Show Meg and Ben some of the night life."

Ben held up his hand. "Thank you kindly, Fiona. But I..."

Martin arrived at that moment and approached Harriet. "There is a telephone call for you, Madam. Would you be good enough to follow me to the library?"

Harriet smiled apologetically and left with Martin.

"Drinks, everyone?" called Freddie.

Harriet returned a few minutes later. "I'm sorry, everyone, but I'm going to have to break up the party. An emergency in the village."

Ben would never become accustomed to consigning visitors to Martin to be seen out. He accompanied Harriet outside to the terrace to wait for her car. "We need to talk," he said quietly.

"Yes, we do."

"Meg and I can plan to ride tomorrow morning. How early can you meet us?"

"Eight o'clock, same place we met for the first time."

"We'll see you then."

Meg emerged from the house and came to stand beside Ben, just as Albert pulled up in Harriet's car.

"We're going to meet Harriet at eight tomorrow morning," Ben said quietly. Ignoring Albert, he opened the door for Harriet, saw her settled in, and closed it behind her. She did not wave as she drove off.

"Ben, she's Matt O'Reilley's daughter," said Meg quietly as they turned to re-enter the house.

"So I understand." Ben's eyes were thoughtful. "We need to put all of this together. Will you wait for me in your room?"

"Of course." Meg brushed his lips lightly with her own just before Martin swung the door open.Chapter 39

When they returned to the parlor, the party seemed to be breaking up. Ian had already left. "We're headed for town, Meg. Ian's gone up to change." Fiona said. "Are you sure you won't join us?"

"Thanks, Fiona. I'm pretty tired." Meg congratulated herself. The other woman seemed to regard her as a friend. "Promise you'll invite me another time."

"Of course, darling. Rest well." She turned to Ben. "And I know it's pointless to ask you, Ben."

"Another time, thanks Fiona." He smiled at her.

"Good night, everyone," Meg turned to leave. "Are we riding tomorrow, Fraser?"

"Breakfast at seven," Ben replied. "We can get something quick in the kitchen and be on our way by eight."

"Good. See you then."

Freddie did not seem inclined to move from his place on the couch. "Nightcap, Cousin Ben?" He held up a small glass which appeared to hold some of the local Scotch.

"I don't think so, thanks, Freddie." Ben's throat was now on fire, and pouring Scotch on top of the unaccustomed port seemed a very bad idea. "I've had a long day. Sleep well."

"Good night, then." Freddie raised his glass again.

Meg left the door to her room slightly ajar. The glass doors to her balcony were open, letting in a breeze scented with the roses from the garden below. It was only a little after ten. Meg leaned on the stone edge of her balcony, watching the full moon and attempting to sort out her thoughts as she waited for Ben.

She turned and called quietly to him as she heard the door close, "Out here, Ben."

He had gotten rid of his jacket, vest, and tie, though he still wore the kilt. The sleeves of his dress shirt were comfortably rolled up.

"You look as though you were born to wear those clothes," she began. But she was prevented from saying anything else by his kiss.

"No," he finally said, resting his lips in the now-tangled hair beside her ear. "Not these."

"Well, what, then?" She smiled a little at his serious tone and the intensity of his eyes.

"The only clothes I've cared about wearing since I can remember are red serge," he replied, taking her face in his hands. "But I think I could give up the uniform if it meant staying with you. I don't think I can let you leave now."

"I don't want to let you go, either." She smiled up at him and laid her hand on the side of his face, feeling the film of sweat that had gathered there. At the same time, she realized that the back of his shirt, where her other hand rested, was soaked. Ben shivered. It was a thing she had never seen him do.

"Are you all right?" She knit her brows and placed her hand on his cheek more firmly, this time more like a mother checking a child for fever.

"It's nothing. A sore throat. Nothing."

"Ben! You haven't had a sick day since I've known you." She pushed him away a little and looked into his eyes. He coughed again, attempting to smother the sound like a small boy.

"That's it. Let's at least go inside." She let go of him and reached for his hand. "Ben?"

"Sssh. Wait." He stared intently at one of the downstairs windows. "Look." She followed his gaze. "That's the library."

They could make out a dim, wavering light.

"Watch it for a minute while I get changed," she replied. "It won't take but a second." She was undoing her zipper as she left the balcony.
Chapter 40

In moment, Meg re-appeared, sensibly clad in a gray sweatsuit and sneakers. "Are they still in there?"

"Yes. There's a copper rain spout just here," he pointed to the side of the house. "Can you make it down?"

Meg smiled and swung her body gracefully over the stone railing. Ben watched, and when she was running lightly across the terrace below, he followed her. The wide terrace made concealment almost impossible, requiring them to crouch below the low stone railing. Both moved quickly to the location of the library where the light still flickered. "Flashlight," Ben mouthed silently.

They watched and waited from their hiding place in the low shrubs surrounding the terrace. When the light seemed to move away from the French doors, Ben risked standing up for a moment, keeping his head low. A moment later, the light approached them again, and he crouched beside Meg again. Taking her arm, he pointed toward the garden.

Neither breathed as they made their way across the dangerously open space of the lawn between terrace and garden. But within seconds, they were comfortably concealed by the tall shrubs surrounding the formal, outdoor space. They headed for a bench just off the gravel path.

"Male," said Ben quietly. "My height, somewhat heavier. Difficult to make out his exact weight in the dim light. He's wearing black, and he has a ski mask pulled over his face. My guess is it's Ian or Martin. He's too heavy to be Freddie." He cleared his throat. "He's trying to break into the desk in the middle of the room."

"Should we try to stop him?"

"I'd say we should let him go ahead and try. There's nothing in there. I've removed everything from the desk and the file cabinet and locked it in the safe. If he tries to blow that, we'll hear him."

"Ian and Fiona said they were going into Aberdeen," Meg observed.

"Right. But did you see them go? I didn't."

Meg shook her head. "Ben, we may have worse problems than that. I found out who Fiona is."

"I did, too. She's Matt O'Reilley's daughter."

Both were familiar with the name and exploits of Matthew O'Reilley and his son, Daniel. The father and son team had secured their fortunes by turning pure heroin from the fields of Iran and Afghanistan into guns and arms, which were then sold to the highest bidder. To date he had defied the efforts of police forces in several areas of the world, their own included.

"I'll bet you're overjoyed to have him in your family," Meg remarked wryly.

"Don't remind me." Ben coughed again as quietly as he could.

"I'm still worried about you," Meg went on. "Do me a favor and get Harriet to look into that cough."

Ben was silent, but she noticed he was shivering again.

Meg was prevented from continuing by the sound of footsteps on gravel, coming from some distance away. Ben held a finger to his lips and pointed to the thick hedge behind them. They concealed themselves quickly as the footsteps drew nearer.

"I want out, Flora." Ben raised his eyebrows in some astonishment as Freddie continued. "You've lied to me from the beginning. You've lied about everything."

"We can make a go of it." Flora's voice was as low and carefully modulated as ever. "Don't do this. It's going to be all right. You'll see..."

"What is it you want from me? More money, is that it?"

"It was never about the money. That was nothing..."

Freddie laughed bitterly. "I suppose it was about the baby, then. Poor Valerie! You've certainly shown her a thing or two."

"I can explain if you'll only listen."

"I've listened long enough, Flora. All I want is for you to go. If Sir Angus had known, Valerie wouldn't have gone. You'd have gone. So go now."

"As you wish." Flora's lighter footsteps sounded on the gravel nearby.

Meg and Ben exchanged a look. Ben pointed deeper into the garden and silently said, "He's that way." He held aside a branch of the thick boxwood for Meg and indicated she should move deeper into the hedge. "If we go this way, we'll come out on a different path," he whispered close against her ear.

After a few more minutes of maneuvering through the boxwood, they emerged into an open area with another bench.

Ben took a seat on the bench and pulled Meg down beside him as their ears strained for the sound of footsteps. Moments later, he put his arm around her shoulder and drew her into one of the long kisses she was beginning to acquire such a taste for. As the footsteps approached, they broke apart.

"Ah. Good evening again, Freddie," Ben looked at his cousin coolly, but a smile played around his lips. "Beautiful evening, isn't it?"

Freddie's eyes took them both in with wry amusement. "Evening, Cousin Ben. Meg. Yes it is a beautiful evening. I'll leave you both here to enjoy it. Good night."

They watched him continue down the path until it left the garden. Only when he had crossed the lawn and the terrace and entered the house did Meg speak.

"Caught in the act!" she laughed, giving him a little shove. "I guess now we'll find out how much of a gentleman Freddie really is. But what was all that with Flora?"

Ben shivered again, and she noticed that he was still sweating, now profusely. "Sir Angus did know," he said. "Sir Angus knew everything. It's why he stopped paying for her education."

"Why didn't he throw her out of the house?" Meg asked.

"He may have been planning to. Or he may have delayed out of some consideration for Martin. But I can tell you this. Martin is named in his will, but she isn't."

"Let's get back to the house," Meg said.

They found the front door securely locked. "Freddie must have a key," Ben said quietly. "How about the rainspout again?"

Climbing back up took only a few moments longer than climbing down had, and they were soon standing on Meg's terrace again. Ben was now shivering almost without interruption, and Meg was truly alarmed.

"How do you feel aside from your throat?" she asked, frowning.

"A little light-headed," he admitted hoarsely. "And my head hurts. I can't remember ever having a cold, but this..." He pressed his hand to his face, looked at her silently, and fell forward, hard, coming to rest on the chilly stones of the balcony floor.
Chapter 41

"Ben!" Meg crouched beside him, turning him over with difficulty. "Ben!" She felt for his pulse. It seemed regular, if a bit slow. He looked at her but did not respond, although the sweat still seemed to pour off him. Even in the moonlight she could make out the pallor of his skin. His eyes were wide.

Meg entered her sitting room quickly, seized the bell pull beside her fireplace, and pulled it decisively. She then ran to the hallway and opened her door, looking up and down it for signs of someone else. She could make out a light coming from beneath the door just opposite her own, and she pounded on it. "I heed help," she called out.

The door was opened by an astonished Freddie, now in his bathrobe. "It's Ben," she went on. "Call the doctor. Tell her he's been poisoned."

The red-haired maid was coming sleepily down the hall. "I'll call now," said Freddie as he began to run down them. "You go for Martin and one of the men," he said to the maid.

Casting a terrified glance at Meg, the young woman followed Freddie down the stairs. Meg turned and re-entered her rooms. Snatching the coverlet from her bed, she went back to Ben on the balcony. She covered him; then, noting again the pallor of his face, she sat beside him and took his head in her lap. Still breathing. He looked at her again.

"Ben, we've sent for help. Harriet is on her way. You're going to be all right." Meg spoke slowly and distinctly, as though reassuring a child.

"What in the world?" Ian's bulk filled the doorway, and she could make out the pale oval of Fiona's face just behind him. Like Freddie, both were clad in bathrobes.

"Help me get him into the bedroom! Fiona, pile up all the pillows for his head." The blonde woman moved quickly.

Martin had arrived with Albert. The three men worked together to carry Ben's unresisting form into the bedroom, where they laid him on the bed. Meg suppressed the urge to shudder as she looked at his pallid face. Still conscious.

"We should remove his clothing," Martin was saying.

Meg returned to the sitting-room just as Freddie came in. "Harriet's on her way," he said. "She'll be here in ten minutes. Whatever's happened?"

"He hadn't been feeling well all evening," Meg replied. "He's coughed and complained of a sore throat. He fell just before I called you."

"But what's all this about poisoned?"

"I believe he's been poisoned, yes." Meg replied. She returned to the bedroom. Ben was resting on the pillows. Martin, Ian, and Albert had removed his clothing and shoes and covered him.

"I assumed he should be kept warm, Madam," said Martin, his eyes troubled.

"Thank you." Meg returned to the bed. If anything, Ben's pulse seemed slower to her. She turned to Martin. "Martin, no one is to leave here. No one. I want you to go now and check on the servants. Where are their rooms?"

"Upstairs on the third floor, Madam," replied Martin. "Did you wish me to call the police?"

"No, not yet," replied Meg. Freddie had materialized in the doorway. Could she trust him? Could she trust any of these people? Meg decided. "Freddie, go with Martin. Be certain the house is secure." She returned her attention to Ben.

A few moments later, she heard the sound of a car in the driveway.

Chapter 42

"What's all this?" Harriet Malcolm's reassuring voice sounded from the doorway.

"Harriet, I think he's been poisoned." Meg moved aside as Harriet began her examination. The doctor turned to Ian and Fiona, who were peering through the doorway. "Would you two mind waiting in the sitting room? Albert, Meg, you stay here, please. And close the door. What poison?" she said to Meg as she began the process of drawing a blood sample from Ben's arm.

"Aconite," said Meg flatly.

Harriet did not turn. "Are you certain?"

"Sir Angus was probably poisoned the same way," replied Meg. "It was growing in the garden here.

"Well, the symptoms are consistent," Harriet replied. She finished what she was doing and laid the sealed tubes carefully in a compartment of her bag. "He's conscious, and he's probably in a great deal of pain. We're going to need to clean him out, and we're going to need to do it quickly. It won't be pleasant."

"I'm a police officer, Harriet."

"I know that. Let's get started. We need to elevate his head a little more. Albert, some cushions and a basin of some sort. That wastebasket if you can't find anything else." Harriet had a large bag with her. She extracted an intubation tube and something that resembled a cardboard milk carton. "Activated charcoal," she explained to Meg.

The taciturn man disappeared for a minute and returned with chair and sofa cushions from the sitting room, which he began placing carefully under Ben's pillows."

"That's enough. Ben, I'm going to move your head just a little, and we're going to have to get this tube down your throat. It's going to feel awful for just a minute."

His eyes remained fixed on her, though he gave no sign he had heard her. Meg watched, suppressing any desire to turn her head.

"Meg, if you'll open that carton...That's it. Ben, this is activated charcoal, and it needs to get to your stomach and stay there. Try to help me as much as you can. It's going to make you feel very sick."

No one spoke much for the next quarter-hour. Ben seemed to grow slightly more alert, struggling to cooperate by keeping the gritty mixture down. When, inevitably, he lost some of it, Harriet was ready with more. Her shoulders relaxed visibly as she watched him, and when Albert saw this, he spoke up.

"Doctor, I'll go for a better basin," he said.

"You do that, Albert. We're going to need it. Towels, too."

Meg said nothing. She sat crosslegged on the bed at Ben's head, and from time to time, she smoothed the sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead.

Albert was back in a few minutes, accompanied by Boyd. They brought towels and an old-fashioned porcelain basin. Boyd disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a damp washcloth, which he handed to Meg.

Harriet supported Ben's head, removed the tube, and in a few moments more the charcoal mixture followed. Ben leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes. "Very good, Ben." Harriet's hand reached for his pulse before she pulled her stethoscope up to listen carefully to his heart. "You've got the constitution of an ox," she said, squeezing his hand. "A few hours and you'll be right as rain."

She turned to Boyd, "Get him clean and comfortable, will you? Dress him in pyjamas or something warm."

"Yes, Madam." Boyd turned to exchange a few quiet words with Albert, who left the room again.

"What, Ben?" Meg felt Ben reach for her hand and squeeze it. "Don't try to talk. Your throat must be awful." He persisted, and she leaned over him, placing her ear next to his mouth. He whispered a single word into her ear. She sat up straight and looked directly at him. "Yes, I know," she replied. "I'm getting ready to take care of it right now." She touched his forehead gently before leaving her perch on the bed. "Harriet, we need to talk. Let's go out here."

Wordlessly, Harriet picked up her bag and followed Meg. Ian and Fiona had left the sitting room, and the two women found they were alone.

"We need to call the police," Harriet began.

"Yes, I know. Let's go and do that now."

"Flora did this," Harriet went on.

"Yes," replied Meg simply with a glance at the bedroom door. "I know."

Chapter 43

When Meg and Harriet got downstairs, they found that Martin had efficiently gathered the servants in the drawing-room. The group, mostly clad in bathrobes, appeared both tired and anxious.

"Are they all here?" Meg asked.

"Yes madam, all but two," Martin replied tiredly. "The younger Edwin is one. He lives above the stables, and he is not in his apartment. And the other..." He paused for a long moment.

"I know, Martin. Your granddaughter, Flora."

"I'll go and telephone the police," Harriet said.

"And where is the family, Martin?" The man seemed to Meg to have aged twenty years.

"Upstairs, in Mr. Frederick's sitting-room, Madam."

"Keep everyone here," Meg said over her shoulder. "And send the doctor up when she returns." She was up the stairs two at a time.

Freddie admitted Meg when she knocked. Ian and Fiona were seated on a couch, fully dressed, as was Freddie. "How is he?"

"He's going to be all right. We've called the police. Everyone else is downstairs with two exceptions."

"Exceptions?" Freddie regarded her intently.

"Flora and the younger Edwin, the stable manager," Meg replied.

Freddie looked at her blankly for a moment. "Oh, my God! Edwin!"

It was Meg's turn to look blank.

"We need to get to the stables immediately." Freddie took her arm and steered her out of the room. "He may be in danger," he explained as they started downstairs.

The moon was still bright enough to be useful as the two crossed the terrace and the lawn at a dead run. Meg lagged a little behind as they entered the garden, allowing Freddie to lead the way up and down the unfamiliar paths.

The stable was dark. The horses within were quiet as Freddie groped for the light switch. He was answered by a few sleepy nickers as the lights came on.

Meg looked around carefully. "Nothing out of the ordinary," she observed. "Let's check the stalls."

Each took a side, working their way carefully down towards the opposite end. The stalls contained nothing but their rightful inhabitants.

"My God," said Freddie in a low voice. "Here he is." He stood outside of Firebrand's stall."

Meg hurried over and peered in. The horse stood off to one side, quietly enough, though the muscles of his neck and flanks quivered. Edwin lay on his side in a corner of the stall, as though asleep.

"I can't tell if he's alive or dead," Meg said flatly. "We've got to get to him.

"Firebrand is the most dangerous horse on the property by far, Meg. The only one who can control him is Edwin."

"Well, he's incapacitated at the moment." Meg opened the door of the stall. The horse showed the whites of his eyes but did not move from where he stood.

"Hello, Firebrand," Meg began in a low, musical voice. She stood her ground for a few moments, allowing him to become accustomed to her. "You're such a good boy, aren't you? Such a good boy. You're just a big baby, aren't you? Aren't you, Firebrand?" She had begun to move forward slowly, almost imperceptibly, pausing frequently. "That's my good boy."

Freddie, from his vantage point by the door, found her voice almost hypnotic. He had to remind himself to breathe.

"Oh, you're an old softie," Meg said. "Yes you are." Her eyes never left the horse's face. "Want to come outside with me?"

Freddie suddenly noticed that Meg now held Firebrand by his halter. She continued her soft crooning as the two of them — woman and horse — began to walk slowly out of the stall. "You're a good boy, Firebrand," she went on. "And Freddie's going to bring you some oats outside."

She made short work of getting the now-docile animal out of his stall and safely closed into the paddock outside. Freddie arrived with the feedbag, and the horse was soon munching contentedly. Freddie gasped when she re-entered the lighted building. "Look at you!" he exclaimed. "You've got blood all over."

Meg looked down at herself and found that her sweatshirt and hands were covered in fresh blood. "It must be from the horse," she said. "Perhaps he's injured. Let's see to Edwin." She crouched beside him, feeling for a pulse, knowing as soon as she laid her hand on him that she would not find one. She looked up at Freddie and shook her head. "Don't touch him," she said simply.

"He was alive after dinner," Freddie said. "I came to see him here. He'd been drinking, but he was alive."

"I wonder where Harriet and the police are," Meg sighed, thinking how much she wanted to see Ben. "And I wonder where all this blood came from." She walked back out to the paddock, where Firebrand continued to much on his oats. "Some kind of injury to his shoulder," she called back to Freddie. "There's blood all over him, too. And some nasty puncture wounds."

"From this," he replied. "Come and have a look at it." He pointed to a pitchfork lying in the horse's stall. "Somebody prodded him with this, enough to draw blood. It's all over the ends. Don't worry," he turned to Meg. "I haven't touched it."

"I'll have to wait here for the police," replied Meg. "Is there an office, somewhere we can telephone?"

"This way."

They entered Edwin's small, cluttered office.

"So here's what he'd been drinking," said Freddie. "This is Sir Angus' best stuff. His private stock. I never had Edwin figured for a thief."

"Don't touch that," said Meg wearily.

At that perfect moment, Harriet arrived with several police officers in her wake.

Chapter 44

Meg dozed fitfully in the big wing chair beside her bed, where Ben slept peacefully. The rose-scented breeze still drifted in through the window, though the moon had long since set. Anyone awake would have noticed a slight brightening in the sky to the east, though no birds were stirring yet.

Earlier, Ben had responded with a protest when Harriet had awakened him to check on him. "Let him sleep all he wants," Harriet had told Meg. "His heart sounds good, his pulse is good, his color's good, and he was alert when I woke him up. His throat's going to be sore, and his stomach may be upset for a while. Start him on bland foods, all he wants. I'll get his blood sent to the lab and check in on you both in the morning." She had surprised Meg by leaning over and ruffling her hair before placing a dry kiss on her cheek. "You're a good girl, Meg." She stopped and corrected herself. "A good woman." Then, with a weary smile, she was gone. Meg had showered and found a fresh pair of sweats to put on before settling tiredly into the chair. Now as she turned in search of a more comfortable position, the muscles of her neck and shoulders began to protest, and she woke up.

Ben slept soundly, the curves and planes of his face thrown into relief by the bedside lamp. Some part of her needed to be certain he was still breathing, and she knelt beside the bed, where she could see the regular movement of his chest. She shivered just a little, thinking of how near death he had been. Judging that he was deeply asleep, and finding herself unable to resist, she extended a finger to trace the line of his jaw.

Caught again! For the second time in that long day, he moved too quickly for her, imprisoning the errant finger between his lips. His blue eyes regarded her smilingly, but he did not let go of the finger.

"I woke you up."

A nod and a smile betrayed a dimple she didn't recall seeing before.

"I'll bet your throat hurts."

This brought only a nod. Ben's eyes smiled again, and he moved his head sideways, still without relinquishing her finger.

"What?"

The sideways movement was repeated, only this time he threw back the covers, moving aside to make room for her.

"Me? In there with you?" With mock hesitation, Meg allowed herself to be persuaded to curl up in the warm hollow he had just vacated, resting her head comfortably on his shoulder. "Are you going to let go of my finger now?"

Somehow Ben made his eyes look indecisive.

"I'll bet you want to know about what happened," Meg went on. "Maybe if you let go of my finger, I'll tell you."

The bribery worked, and when he finally let go of her finger, she settled her arms around his neck. "You were right, you know. It was Flora." Ben looked at her and nodded in satisfaction.

"The police are going to want to talk to you about it tomorrow. They think she killed Edwin, too."

Ben was looking at her intently now.

"We found him in Firebrand's stall. There was a bottle of Sir Angus' scotch in Edwin's office, laced with the stuff. He drank a fair amount of it, and after he died, she dragged him into the stall and tried to goad the horse with a pitchfork to make it look as though he'd been kicked to death."

Thoroughly involved now, Ben gave her a dark, puzzled look.

Meg raised herself on an elbow before continuing. "It had to have been for the money, Ben."

He nodded.

"She set her sights on Freddie, faked a pregnancy, and according to him was fairly close to getting away with it. When Sir Angus found out, and put a stop to the university education, she must have figured his next move would be to tell Freddie. So that was the end of Sir Angus.

"Then you showed up. The classic fly in the ointment. You took home all the marbles, and there weren't enough left over for Freddie. I'll bet she made a pass at you, didn't she?"

Another nod, this one more thoughtful.

"And you responded in your typical fashion."

This brought an embarrassed duck of his head.

"When you did that, she was back at Square 1. She decided to get rid of you and replenish Freddie's stock of the inheritance. The only problem was, by that time, Freddie was no longer quite such an ardent lover."

Ben managed to force one word out past his sore throat: "Edwin?"

"Edwin," Meg replied thoughtfully. "That's going to require a little more work. The best I can come up with is revenge. Flora was seeing him, you know. But he — the idiot — was playing the field. Valerie was also involved with him." She sighed. "At any rate, they haven't apprehended Flora yet. She took one of the cars from the garage and got out of here while we were all seeing to you. And that's all there is for now."

Ben gathered her more closely in his arms then, and kissed her in spite of his sore throat, and a few minutes later she said, "Ben, after what you've been through, you can't mean it."

But he did.