Deadly Editions Page 10

  “I’m sort of surprised too.”

  I was surprised, pleasantly, but I also wondered what she’d ask of me now. No matter that she’d done the right thing, it was rare that Brigid did anything without an ulterior motive.

  The Tolbooth Tavern was located off Canongate, not far from Grassmarket. Edwin drove with speedy, precise skill, and so did Brigid; I thought it must be difficult to do such a thing in an old Fiat.

  I’d never visited this tavern, but even before Brigid mentioned its onetime incarnation as a prison, I knew a little of the history surrounding it. It was located on the bottom floor of an old building, on one side of an arched tunnel, a close—Old Tolbooth Wynd—that had once served as an actual tollbooth. Atop the tunnel was a clock tower that had a fairy-tale quality, evoking images of both royal battles and Rumpelstiltskin. The tunnel led the way back to other buildings that had served many official functions over the last few hundred years, including courthouse and prison. Time had worn the stones some, but the buildings were still impressive, retaining their Old World beauty. In the 1600s Oliver Cromwell had imprisoned several Scottish enemies in the upper floor rooms of the clock tower. The prisoners made their escape by tearing up blankets and tying the pieces together, using them to lower themselves out the windows.

  As Edwin and Brigid parked, Birk appeared from the tunnel, his hands in his pockets and a scarf pulled up around his chin. He made his way toward the front door.

  “Lass, Edwin,” he said. He nodded at Brigid. “Lass.”

  “Birk, this is Brigid. Brigid, Birk,” I said. “Come on, let’s get inside.”

  They followed me into the warm pub. Though smallish like the other pubs, this one was decorated with more reds. Red upholstery as well as red-painted walls and some rich cherrywood for the bar. From the outside the tavern looked to be another small pocket space, but it extended far back, with a few steps up to another seating area.

  “What can I get fer ye?” a server said as she stood next to the bar. There were only two other customers in the place.

  I wanted to talk to Birk before asking if there was a clue anywhere nearby. He needed to know what had transpired.

  “A pot of coffee?” I asked my friends.

  Everyone nodded, so I turned to the waitress and repeated the order.

  “Aye? Whatever ye say. Have a seat, and I’ll bring it tae ye in a moment.”

  We sat, keeping our coats on to ward off the inside chill.

  “Birk, we think the third clue might be here,” I said.

  “I figured as much.” He looked at Brigid but didn’t ask why she was there. “What’re your thoughts?”

  I shrugged. “The hunt might be all about pubs, and the clue somehow makes sense for this place. Paying a toll and such. Maybe.”

  “Aye. Should we just ask the barkeep?”

  “First I wanted to fill you in on something else that has happened.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Both Brigid and Birk listened closely to everything Edwin and I said as we told them the story of Shelagh’s abduction, each of us filling in any details the other left out.

  “This makes no sense. Took her from her house?” Birk was visibly bothered as we finished sharing events.

  “Yes, in broad daylight.”

  “That seems so unreal.”

  “Nevertheless,” Edwin said as he put his hand on Birk’s arm, “that’s the way it is. The police are searching for her.”

  “This is truly terrible.” Birk frowned, and it seemed he was going to stand up. But a moment later he relaxed back into the chair, probably realizing that searching for Shelagh by himself didn’t make sense. “All right, everything must be tied together. The sooner we find that book, the better. Why does it feel like if we don’t find the book, we won’t find Shelagh?”

  I nodded. “I know, but that’s just because we’re in the middle of all of it. It’s impossible to know if this is connected.”

  “And the police will find her,” Brigid added. “We’ll find her if we have to.”

  Birk squinted at her. I could see uncertainty in his eyes—Who was this woman and why was she involved now?—but he appreciated her determination.

  He also hadn’t protested that Edwin had joined us. I couldn’t help feeling the same way he did, that Shelagh wouldn’t be found until the book was discovered.

  “I’ll ask the bartender,” I said. I looked at Birk. “Want to come with me?”

  “No, go ahead. If I need my identification again, I’ll join you.”

  I scooted the chair back and made my way to the bar.

  “’Elp ye?” the man behind the bar said. He reminded me a lot of Ritchie John, but maybe all older-men bartenders took on the same wiry, bright-eyed look.

  “My name is Delaney Nichols,” I began.

  “Aye? Benton’s mine. ’Elp ye?” he repeated.

  “I wondered … My friends and I have been sent on a treasure hunt of sorts, and we’ve concluded that we might be able to find a clue here at the pub. Do you by chance have anything?”

  Benton hesitated and then put down the glass he’d been holding. “I can’t say that I do. But let me look.”

  He turned and made his way back to the other end of the bar, which wasn’t far. He glanced at some narrow shelves, pulling a box out from one of them. He rifled through it, stirring up what I thought was probably forgotten winter wear that had been left behind. My heart fell when I realized he really didn’t know anything about a possible clue. Whatever it was, I didn’t think it would have been tossed into a lost-and-found box.

  He put the box back and rubbed his chin as he returned to me. “Lass, I dinnae ken anything about a clue. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks for looking. What about a manager or something? Would anyone else know?”

  “No. I’m yer man,” Benton said. “I own and run the place, pour most of the drinks.”

  I smiled. “It’s a wonderful pub. Thank you for looking.”

  “Aye. Want tae give me a contact number in case something comes in?”

  “Sure.”

  He handed over a pen and a paper napkin. I wrote my name and the bookshop’s phone number and gave him back the note. He stuffed it into his pocket without looking at it, and any hope I had that he really meant to let me know about a potential clue dissipated.

  I returned to the table just as the waitress was delivering the coffeepot and mugs. I couldn’t help but smile at the mugs. They were something I would expect in America, not in Edinburgh. Each was painted with an old advertisement reading GOOD TO THE LAST DROP.

  The waitress caught my smile.

  “It’s all we had. Apologies if ye were looking for mugs with our name. That’s what most people who visit want. It seems we’re either plum out of them or they’re dirty—they do get stolen.”

  “It’s okay,” we all said.

  “They’re kind of wonderful,” I added, enjoying the reminder of home.

  “Well?” Birk said when the waitress was gone.

  “Nothing,” I said. “He took my name, though, in case something comes in.”

  “Maybe it’s not like the previous clues—maybe it’s not as convenient as a note tucked into an envelope,” Edwin said.

  “Aye. Let’s look around the pub,” Brigid said. “I’ll take the ladies’ room. Birk, you take the men’s, and, Delaney, you and Edwin look around in here.” She stood and headed toward the back. Birk followed behind her.

  “Goodness,” Edwin said as he watched Brigid hurry away.

  “She’s a little bossy.”

  “A wee bit,” he agreed. “Let’s get to work.”

  Edwin and I separated as we looked around the pub. It wasn’t a big space, and we tried not to be too intrusive. Nonetheless, we examined pictures on the walls, peered under tables and chairs, paid way too much attention to one dusty corner before we realized we were overthinking.

  “Look at his sweatshirt.” Edwin nodded toward Benton.

  “It’s an Ed
inburgh Castle sweatshirt,” I said.

  “Do you think the clue could be something like that?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s keep it in mind. He didn’t seem to be particularly anxious for me to notice it. He seemed genuine in not knowing what I was talking about.”

  “Aye.”

  Our common thread of desperation made us willing to turn almost anything into a clue, but we ultimately had to admit that nothing seemed like it was trying to speak to us. For an instant I even closed my eyes and tried to summon my bookish voices. But of course they weren’t talking. When my eyes were closed, though, I did happen to notice that the coffee smelled exceptionally good … to the last drop, I ruminated as I opened my eyes, went back in my chair, sat down, and took a sip.

  Brigid and Birk rejoined us at the table.

  “Anything?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” they both said as they sat.

  “Nothing around here either,” Edwin said.

  “Maybe something will come to one of us,” I said. “We’ve looked around. Maybe our subconscious will bring something up to the surface later.”

  “Maybe,” Brigid said doubtfully.

  “Birk, are you still good friends with Shelagh?” I said, but then I put my hand up to halt him from speaking. “Before you go into detail, you need to know that Brigid is a reporter. If you want something to be off the record, you need to mention that.”

  “Aye? Where do you work?” Birk asked Brigid.

  Brigid mentioned her alternative newspaper, the Renegade.

  “Lass, are you the reporter who wrote the article about Shelagh’s library?” Birk asked.

  “I am. Why?”

  “It was a wonderful article,” Birk said. “I hadn’t spoken to Shelagh in years when I read it. I thought she must have been very pleased. When I received her message to come talk to her about her library, it all seemed like some sort of synchronicity.”

  “I hope I haven’t contributed to…” Brigid said.

  “Brigid…” I began.

  “What? You think your article had something to do with her disappearance or the New Monster? No. Whatever’s going on here, it is somehow of Shelagh’s doing. If she’s hurt, it’s not something she wanted to happen, but she’s extraordinarily good at manipulating situations. She set something in motion that has gotten her into trouble, I’m afraid. If that’s unkind, I don’t mean to be, but it’s a big part of why we couldn’t stay together,” Birk said.

  “Stay together?” I said. “Were you more than friends?” I looked at Edwin, who sent me a small shrug. I understood—he’d felt it hadn’t been his place to tell me that part.

  “Aye.” Birk took a sip of his coffee. “We were, but Shelagh … well, she just thinks she has an overactive imagination. To the rest of the world, her imagination seems like lies and manipulation. It was all too much work.” Birk shook his head. “It was also the most difficult decision I’ve ever had to make, even more difficult than asking her to leave … a group we were a part of. I loved her, maybe still do a wee bit, but I just couldn’t live with her as my partner in life.”

  “What group?” Brigid asked.

  “I promise I’ll tell you another day,” Edwin said to her.

  She frowned at him,

  “I’m sorry, Birk,” I said quickly, before Brigid could get us off track. “But she’s going to be found, and she’s going to be fine.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I’m going to the hospital to check on Jacques. He might know more than he told the police,” Brigid said, sounding now as if she was ready to move on.

  I looked at Edwin and then back at Brigid. “Can I come with you?”

  “Aye, but I’m going now.” She stood and turned, making her way toward the door.

  “Edwin?” I said.

  “Aye. Birk and I will enjoy another coffee and ring you if we figure out the next clue.”

  It seemed futile, like we’d come to a dead end.

  “Maybe a different pub?” I said.

  “There are a few of those around,” Birk said.

  “We will figure this out.”

  I told the men hurried good-byes and then sprinted outside to Brigid’s car. The engine was already running, but she had waited for me again.

  “How do you know which hospital?” I asked, noticing that her car smelled of gasoline fumes.

  “I’ll find it.”

  Brigid might have been a good driver, but she was also a fast one. As she drove, making unsafe calls from her mobile on the way, again I found myself holding on for dear life.

  TWELVE

  Logically, the hospital ended up being the one closest to Shelagh’s house. Brigid figured it out after talking to someone at her office. She parked the car in a spot that was clearly not a parking place, but I didn’t bother to mention that.

  We jetted up toward the building just as Jacques Underwood and Tricia Lawson were exiting through the emergency-room doors.

  “Hello,” I said, surprised but relieved to see him upright and walking.

  “Hello,” Tricia said as if it were her we’d come to see.

  “Hello,” Jacques said uncertainly.

  “I’m Brigid McBride, a reporter with the Renegade Scot,” Brigid began. “Can I ask you a few questions about what happened to you and Shelagh O’Conner in her home today?”

  She cut right to the chase.

  “Hang on,” I said as I raised a hand. “Jacques, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.” He seemed to suddenly realize who I was. “Delaney, you were there. You helped. Merci.”

  “I was worried.”

  Jacques shook his head and gave me a weak smile. “I’m fine. They didn’t even want me to stay overnight.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Brigid asked.

  “No, I don’t want to talk to a reporter, but off the record I don’t remember much anyway. Pardon.”

  He made a move to step around us, but Brigid sidestepped and got in his way.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” she said.

  I was torn between wanting to drag her away and wanting him to answer.

  He wasn’t going to answer. He sent her a glare that would have melted a lesser reporter. But Brigid wasn’t a lesser reporter. She stood firm, and for a reason I might never understand, her method worked.

  “I remember sitting on the couch, talking to my aunt,” Jacques said a moment later. He sighed as he spoke and then looked at Brigid as if he’d like her to help him remember more.

  She nodded. “Okay, go back to that conversation you were having on the couch. What were you talking about?”

  Jacques’s eyebrows came together, and his gaze moved to the sidewalk where we stood. It was cold, and I wanted us to go inside somewhere, but other than the hospital there didn’t seem to be a reasonable choice. At least it wasn’t raining.

  “It must have had something to do with the hunt for her book, but I don’t remember the specifics,” Jacques finally said.

  “Did you figure out the first clue?” I asked.

  “No, but I can’t even remember if I told her that or not. I know we hadn’t spoken long before.… It’s all so fuzzy.”

  “My friend and I were at the front door around the same time all of this must have been happening. Did you hear us at the door?” I asked.

  “Not that I remember.… It was chaos, though, that much I’m sure of.”

  “You knew that the person who attacked you was dressed in a shabby coat and hat? You said that to the police,” Brigid said.

  “Well, I think so. The more time that passes, the less sure I am,” Jacques said desperately.

  I put my hand on his arm. “It’s okay.”

  “Do you think they’ll find her?” His voice sounded choked.

  “Yes, I do.” I wasn’t sure at all, but I hoped.

  “What are you doing here?” Brigid asked Tricia.

  “Brigid, this is Tricia Lawson. Tricia is a librarian. She’s
part of the hunt for the book,” I said.

  “Where are you a librarian?” Brigid asked.

  “Firrhill,” Tricia said.

  “Did you call her?” Brigid asked Jacques as she nodded toward Tricia.

  “No…”

  “I heard about what happened at Shelagh’s house,” Tricia said. “I thought Jacques might need some help.”

  “How did you hear?” Brigid asked.

  “I stopped by the house just as the police were leaving, and they told me.” Tricia didn’t seem bothered by Brigid’s questions.

  I would ask Inspector Winters if he’d still been there when she stopped by.

  “Jacques, truly, are you okay?” I said.

  “I’m fine. Just a small hit on the head.”

  “Okay,” I said, thinking that any hit on the head wasn’t good but relieved he’d been released from the hospital.

  Tricia cleared her throat. “The news on the telly in the waiting area mentioned that the police were on the hunt for the New Monster and the Old Monster,” Tricia said. “I just knew that Shelagh’s past behavior would somehow lead to trouble.”

  Jacques shook his head.

  “What?” Brigid asked him.

  “Auntie has never been the most honest person.”

  Brigid and I shared a look. Birk had said something similar.

  “She lies a lot?” Brigid said.

  “She exaggerates the truth, makes things up because she thinks it’s fun.” Jacques shrugged again. “That’s the best I can explain it.”

  “Can you give me a recent example?” Brigid asked.

  “The Hyde Monster nonsense is her biggest lie of all. Back when she dressed up—how ridiculous was all that? I agree with Tricia, I’m worried that she’s done something to bring all this back,” Jacques said.

  “What could she have done?” Brigid asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jacques said. “I have no idea, but … I just wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Can you give me another example of her lies?” Brigid pushed.

  “No, not at the moment. I’m tired,” he answered quickly.

  “Jacques,” I said as gently as I could, “can you remember when you first arrived at the house? Was Louis Chantrell or Findlay Sweet there?”

  “I didn’t see anyone.”