Of Books and Bagpipes Read online

  “Lass, are ye awright?” He stepped next to me and looked at the fireplace like he was missing something.

  “Fine. I was hoping to sense a ghost.”

  “Aye,” he said as he looked around with a one-eyed squint. “No doot there are plenty close by, but they dinnae accept invitations. They’re on their own clocks. Ye need not work so hard tae see one. They’ll find ye when they want tae. Some arenae all that friendly either. There’s no rush.”

  “Right.” I looked around one more time.

  Elias rubbed his finger under his nose. “Meebe we should go up. We can better see who’s coming from up there anyway. Ye will let me lead the way.”

  “Sure.”

  There must have been a good reason for having a cramped, circular stairway, hidden from the living spaces and behind a wall. It probably had something to do with heating and cooling, or perhaps efficient use of space. The stairs were just means and modes to get from one floor to the next, but they hadn’t been an integral part of the cosmetic design.

  “Elias, what’s with the tight fit?” I asked as we continued moving spirally upward, on a trek that was taking much longer than I would have predicted.

  “Och, dinnae ken, lass. If I think aboot it though, it might have been a way tae keep close track of who’s coming in and going oot. Scots are suspicious folks. Back then even more so. If ye didnae have a moat to deter yer enemies, at least ye could watch the stairs and trap someone ye didnae want inside, kill them dead before they caused any harm.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I should have thought of that.”

  By the time we made it to the roof I was breathing like I’d just done a few hundred-yard wind sprints, and the cold wind was even colder. I would not have made a good fighter—even the stairs would have made me want to surrender.

  “Oh, it is beautiful though,” I said as we stepped next to the edge.

  We weren’t in the highlands, but the nearby view was made of rolling hills, less green and lush in their winter states, but still appealing. Large estates dotted the countryside here and there. Edwin lived in a country estate—though it was more like a castle than an estate—and his was like these; fairly new, big, and built with modern amenities inside, old-world charm on the outside.

  A wide river snaked around the hills, homes, and trees. The highlands, topped with snow, beckoned from far off in the distance. Perhaps my ghost waited for me there. I hadn’t yet had time to see and experience that part of Scotland, but I wanted to. As I looked at the faraway mountain range, the desire to visit the highlands deepened. They called to me. I was going to have to make the trip a priority.

  “Aye,” Elias said, his breathing similar to mine, as he rested his arms on the stone facing. “’Tis beautiful. They could see their enemies coming at them. ’Tis why all the castles are built up on hills.”

  I’d known that, but I nodded and made an agreeable sound.

  My eyes moved to the parking lot. The cab was still the only vehicle there.

  “I’m beginning to wonder about the tourists too.”

  Elias shrugged. “Aye. Weel, ebb and flow, I guess. No guided tours, but I ken that tour vans stop here. We must be in between groups.”

  I cleared my throat and stepped back from the ledge. I turned in a slow circle so I could take in the entire 360-degree view, but I only got about 100 degrees around.

  We were on one end of the roof, but it wasn’t all flat. There was a bricked peak that ran down the middle of the space, followed by more open space. I thought I spotted something on the ground on the other end of the peak.

  “Is that a sandal? A sandal on a foot?” I said as I pushed past Elias and moved quickly in between the peak and the battlements. It wasn’t an overly tight space and there was no concern that I’d go over the edge, but I leaned inward anyway.

  The angle at which I saw what I thought was a foot made me think that someone was flat on their back over there.

  Unfortunately, my eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on me. The foot was attached to a person—a man’s body extended backward down a short flight of stairs, his head at the bottom, his sandaled and tights-clad feet at the top. Two things became immediately clear: the man was dead, and he was surely my contact.

  “No! It’s him! The man I was supposed to meet!” I yelled, and stomped my foot. I threw my hands up to my mouth and looked at Elias with wide, confused eyes. I became frozen in a surreal sense of unreality. Something in me wanted to scream, something else wanted to run. Part of me wanted to faint.

  Involuntarily, I doubled over and started to breathe even more loudly, quickly, and noisily than just after the trip up the stairs.

  Gently, Elias moved me away from the scene, guiding me to sit down at a spot away from the body and back from the battlement wall. He said things, but I didn’t register the words. Oddly, the only things I could focus on were those faraway snowcapped mountains. I’d sensed that I needed to go to them.

  Now, I wished I was already there.

  TWO

  I recovered from the initial shock. I might have hyperventilated if I hadn’t, and I knew I needed to get it together to help Elias, or the dead man if there was any help to be had for him. Once I could breathe normally and my ears started to hear again, I stood and walked, with only slightly shaky legs, back to Elias and the body.

  He had the police on his mobile, his side of the conversation including things like, “We’ve come upon a dead body atop the Castle Doune. Aye, I checked for a pulse and listened for breath. Nothing. No, I cannae see right off what might have happened. We’ve just got a dead man in a … weel, I think it’s a costume of sorts.” I nodded but didn’t interrupt. I hadn’t told Elias about my contact’s acting job at the Wallace monument.

  The dead man was the man I was supposed to meet, I was pretty sure. He fit the description Edwin had given me. It was more than the costume. Edwin had said he would be a big man, late forties, shoulder-length auburn hair, somewhat gray at the temples. I’d commented that William Wallace had been tortured and executed when he was thirty-five. Edwin had been impressed by my historical knowledge, but then shrugged and said that if someone wanted to play the part of William Wallace, there’s usually a place that would welcome him aboard, no matter his age. The sandals, more like Birkenstocks than something from the thirteenth century, didn’t necessarily fit with the rest of the getup, but they were probably close in style.

  He was dead, there was no doubt, and Elias had been correct when he’d said that there was no visible cause. There was nothing gruesome about him, no blood, no injuries, though it was certainly a morbid scene and I had to work hard not to fall back into freak-out mode. I wondered who he was besides a reenactor of a famous historical Scottish figure. What was his real name? What was his job? I hadn’t asked Edwin, and he hadn’t offered. It was supposed to be an adventure. I thought his lack of details was on purpose and meant I wasn’t supposed to ask too many questions. Turned out it was an adventure, but surely not in the way Edwin had intended, and definitely not in the way I had expected.

  I’d forgotten all about the cold until voices rode up to us on a gust of wind. Happy voices and jovial laughter.

  “Uh-oh.” I stood and looked over the battlements. A van had parked in the parking lot, and a group of people were making their way up the path toward the castle entrance.

  “I’ll go talk to them,” I said to Elias.

  He looked at me, at the body, and then at me again. “Do ye want me tae do that?”

  “No, you stay here,” I said, giving him the worse of the two tasks. Though staying with the dead man wouldn’t help him come back to life, it seemed wrong to leave him alone.

  I hurried along the in-between space and tried to formulate what I would say to the group of people that would keep them away but not scare them too much, though if there was a killer in the vicinity maybe we all needed to be a little scared, or at least on guard.

  I stopped at the entryway to the spiral staircase and
looked back over the roof. There were a couple of juts and corners that the killer could still be hiding behind, but it was unlikely that we wouldn’t have noticed someone from the other end.

  “Be careful!” I said back to Elias.

  “Aye, ye too, lass.”

  “I will be,” I muttered quietly, hoping I didn’t come upon a killer in the tight stairway.

  If I hadn’t stopped and hesitated I might have missed the flutter out of the corner of my eye. My heartbeat picked up again when I saw the movement. I focused my attention on the spot around the wall and on the other side of the staircase entrance. It was a piece of paper, perhaps stuck behind a decorative stone cube that jutted upward.

  As I moved toward the flutter I’d all but forgotten about the Oor Wullie, but the memory came back full force when I saw that it was a book wedged into the space. I crouched, unwedged it, and inspected the cover closely. Edwin had told me the Oor Wullie cover would be an illustration of the lead character, Wullie, with his short spiky hair and dungarees, in sixteen different poses. The book I held matched the description. The book wasn’t in mint condition, but the tears on the cover and first few pages could have been from a recent windblown trip across the top of the castle.

  I couldn’t see Elias or the body from where I crouched. I looked in that direction to confirm he couldn’t see me. I shouldn’t have picked up the book. It might have been evidence. Elias and I were going to have to explain to the police what we were doing atop the roof of Castle Doune. We’d have to tell them about our meeting, about the handoff that was supposed to have taken place. Maybe the comic book had something to do with the man dying, or being killed. I should have left it where it was.

  But even though Edwin was a good man, kind and considerate, some of the secrets he’d been sharing with me sometimes skirted along the edge of legal; sometimes they spilled over a tiny bit.

  I’d become fiercely loyal to him and my coworkers, Rosie and Hamlet. Of course I didn’t suspect that Edwin had played some part in the death of the man at the other end of the roof, but something was amiss. If there was a murder, how much did Edwin have to do with it, even peripherally?

  Ultimately it was pure instinct. At least that was the excuse I would use later when I pondered exactly why I grabbed the comic book and put it under my jacket before going to talk to the approaching tourists.

  * * *

  They didn’t believe me at first. They were from Berlin, Germany, and though they spoke English much better than I could have faked German, they thought it was strange that someone who was so distinctly American was instructing them that they couldn’t go into the Scottish castle. It was an awkward summit meeting that was ultimately successful because the police were quick to arrive.

  I was prepared to hand over the comic book if Elias spilled the beans about our visit to the castle. I would apologize for tainting evidence, and become appropriately humbled about my actions.

  But the police didn’t ask why we were there. They asked if we knew the dead man, for our names, our phone numbers, and our home and work addresses, but not for the reason behind our trip to the castle. We kept our answers brief and noncommittal, which I’d noticed was always Elias’s way when speaking to law enforcement. I was typically more forthcoming but today I followed his lead. He sent me a questioning expression when he noticed I was giving the same sorts of answers he was giving, but he didn’t comment further.

  It must not have occurred to the police that there would be any reason to visit Castle Doune other than to see it. And they would probably be right most of the time.

  We were dismissed and the German tourists were sent away without getting a chance to even step into the courtyard. They were disappointed and sent me angry eyes as Elias and I got into the cab.

  Neither he nor I spoke until we reached the busy motorway again, headed back toward Edinburgh.

  “Lass, who was that man?” Elias asked.

  “I have no idea,” I said, but I told him about the connection to William Wallace and the monument in Stirling. I told him I knew he was my contact because of the costume and Edwin’s description.

  “Och, what a mess. Poor lad,” Elias said.

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I have no idea. He could have had a heart attack, I s’pose. The police will investigate.”

  “Do you think it’s weird that there were no other vehicles there?”

  “Aye. Verra much so, but I dinnae ken what tae make of it. Tour caravans and vans make their way tae the castle all the time. He could have taken a ride with one of them.”

  “That makes sense. I…”

  “What?”

  I opened my jacket and pulled out the comic book.

  “Ooh, where did ye get that?” he asked as he smacked his forehead with his hand, knocking his cap backward.

  “I found it at the other end of the roof, by the circular stairway, when I was going down to meet the tourists. I should have given it to the police, huh?”

  “Aye, ye shouldnae have even sae much as touched the wee thing.”

  “I know. I really do know, but … well, here it is.”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you think I should take it back to the police?”

  Elias rubbed his finger under his nose and adjusted the rearview mirror. He frowned as he looked in it and then in his side mirror. I got a final disgruntled glance before he said, “No, talk tae Edwin. See what he says.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I was thinking. Good idea.”

  “Aye,” Elias said doubtfully.

  THREE

  It took us just over an hour to get back to Edinburgh, which was about the right amount of time to recover from our time at the castle, and formulate the questions I had for Edwin. I hoped to find him at the shop, but his hours were unpredictable at best. Once in front of The Cracked Spine, I sent Elias on his way, wondering how he would break the news of our travels to Aggie. I was sure we’d have to convene later to discuss the events.

  The bell above the door jingled as I went through. Everyone I worked with was there. Edwin, Hamlet, Rosie, and Hector, the tiny terrier with the long bangs (today, a bright pink barrette held the bangs up in a miniature feathered fur fountain), and Rosie’s boyfriend, Regg Brandon, who’d recently become a frequent fixture in the shop. They all looked over to greet me. Rosie had witnessed Regg get hit by a bus a couple of months ago, and their romance had sparked when she’d sought him out at the hospital. His bruises and injuries had healed but he still walked with a slight limp. Since he was seventy-something, he’d accepted that he might have the limp forever and was grateful he wasn’t in worse condition. He was an architect with an office not far from the bookshop and his almost daily visits, usually with coffees in tow, were always welcomed.

  Hector sat up from his stretched position on the corner of the desk in the front of the shop and greeted me with a tail wag. His tail stopped being so happy when he must have sensed something wasn’t quite right. He sat and watched me with the cutest questioning brown eyes you’ve ever seen. I took a deep breath and told my face to normalize.

  I also pushed away any bookish voices that might want to talk. I had to focus, and I really needed to have an uninterrupted conversation with Edwin.

  Though Rosie had her own office on the other side of the wall, the dark side, she usually sat at the front desk, either looking over her handwritten bookkeeping ledgers, helping customers, or visiting with Regg. Hector went home with Rosie every night, but we were all his people. He was well in tune with each of our moods and dispositions.

  Edwin stood on the rolling ladder attached to the side of the shop’s ceiling-to-floor, jam-packed shelves.

  “How did it go, lass?” he asked with a smile that faded when he looked at me.

  “Delaney? Ye awright?” Rosie asked as she peered up over a steaming mug.

  “Hi, everybody. I’m fine, thanks.”

  “You don’t look so good. Pale even for you,” Regg said.
/>   “I’m okay.” I smiled. I liked Regg. He was the most direct person I’d ever known.

  Edwin stepped off the ladder. “Lass?”

  “Edwin, can we talk privately in the warehouse?” I said.

  “Of course,” he said as his eyebrows came together.

  Hamlet stood at the back of the shop, holding a broom and dustpan. Even with my hurried steps toward the stairs that would lead us up and over to the dark side, I glanced quickly at the ground next to his feet, noticing shards of glass.

  We gave each other curious scrutinizing glances, both of us wondering what was going on with the other one. Our nods and blinks indicated that we’d discuss things later. Though we were a close-knit group and I cared deeply for them all, my bond with Hamlet had been the most surprising and maybe the deepest. It was part friendly, part sibling-like, made up of fun times and laughter but also of serious discussions about the world. Eight years my junior, his wisdom belied his youth, and our deep conversations were moments I looked forward to. I’d come to Scotland almost on a whim, a desire to be bold because I felt like I’d lived my life too safely. I hadn’t thought I would ever give a second thought to my motivations to move to the other side of the world, but I had. Hamlet had been forced to live his life with no other choice but to be brave. In my moments of self-doubt he had helped me realize that my impulsive decision had been a good one.

  After traveling down a small walkway at the top of the stairs, Edwin and I went through another door to a cooler, darker, and mustier space lit with only an exposed bulb hanging from the ceiling and whatever outside light could make it through the blacked-out and grungy front and back windows. The shop side had once been a bank; this side had sat empty and unused for years until Edwin acquired it to use for office and warehouse space. A small kitchen took up one corner and the water closet another one.

  At the bottom of the stairs, we turned left toward the large, ornately carved red wooden door that kept Edwin’s treasures hidden from the world. The warehouse used to also be Edwin’s office, but now it was mine, with my worktable and a desk that dated back to seventeenth-century Scottish royalty. I’d only recently become accustomed to working at the priceless desk, but I still had to cover it with paper that I tore fresh from a roll every day. Edwin said the setup reminded him of a doctor’s office, but I’d told him it was the only way I could keep working on the valuable piece of furniture.