A Parcel of Rogues	   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.