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sympathy, Jean said, “I heard about that, too. Gave me one of
your shivers. Was he a local man?”
    “Oh aye. Wallace Rutherford, Angus’s
uncle.”
    “And no indication of foul play there,
either?” Except for Alasdair’s I’m not so sure , Jean added
to herself.
    Rebecca shook her head. “People were shocked
about him dropping dead the week after Helen Elliot dropped
dead—she was Noel’s mother-in-law, lived at Ferniebank Farm across
from the castle. Neither death’s suspicious, no.”
    “These things come in threes,” cautioned
Michael.
    “Not necessarily,” Rebecca told him.
    Amen to that , Jean thought.
    “Wallace died,” Michael summarized. “The
castle closed down, then the sale and the consent for alteration
went through, and Alasdair arrived. And that’s where we’re standing
now.”
     
     

Chapter Four
     
     
    Jean glanced at her watch. “Except I’m
sitting here instead of standing there. It’s already past
five.”
    “We’re expecting tonight’s guests at the
B&B.” Rebecca piled her crockery on the tea tray. With one last
swallow, Michael added his glass to the collection.
    A faint gurgling came from the pram. Jean
smiled again on the wriggling baby, who was now as bright-eyed as
her parents, then wrinkled her nose. Linda was leaving a bit of a
vapor trail. But then, that’s what the gurgling signified, a
request for nutritional and hygienic assistance.
    Their chairs scraped on the concrete. Rebecca
gathered up a bag patterned with Kelly green Loch Ness monsters, a
baby gift from Jean. “Michael’s parents put us on to the Reiver’s
Rest. The owner went off to Canada for a family wedding.”
    “Which was not scheduled for the convenience
of people in the hospitality trade,” said Jean.
    “Good job all round,” Michael added,
collecting his bagpipes. “We’re outwith Auld Reekie during the
Festival and turning a few bob from renting our own place. I’m
driving into the National Museum twice a week and the rest of the
time we’re working via internet, phone, and fax.”
    “And Noel’s daughter Zoe helps with the
cooking and cleaning at the B&B.” Rebecca stowed the bag
beneath the pram and wheeled toward the gate.
    When Jean opened her car, Dougie let out an
inquisitive mew, the feline equivalent of, “Are we there yet? Are
we there yet?”
    “Bring Alasdair round for a meal,” Michael
instructed Jean. “It’s well past time we were making the man’s
acquaintance.”
    “I warned him about y’all, but he still says
he’s looking forward to meeting you.” Jean slid in behind the wheel
and called through the open window, “See you soon!”
    She squeezed her vehicle between cars parked
haphazardly at the sides of the road and picked up speed at the
edge of town, where the road curved up a hill. Then she tapped the
brakes. Behind a lichen-encrusted stone wall rose a similarly
lichen-encrusted church, its slate roof sagging with age. The
square, stumpy tower and slits of windows testified to the way this
building had served as a physical sanctuary as well as a spiritual
one. But then, neither Scot nor Sassenach had hesitated to burn
down a church with the congregation inside, an act that surely
merited a special place in Hell. Depending on how you defined Hell.
Much of the conflict in the Borders stemmed from religious
conflict, Catholic against Protestant, Protestant against other
Protestants.
    The road lay empty in the afternoon sunshine,
a gray-black ribbon between the fields on her right and the trees
concealing the river on her left. Jean stopped the car.
    The church seemed deserted, doors shut,
windows blank. But a notice board out front was freshly painted,
reading: “The Church of Scotland. Rev Janet Wilkins, present
incumbent. Church open by appointment—contact Mrs. Rutherford at
Glebe House. Services every Sunday at 12 noon.” So there was some
divine life left in the old shell yet.
    From the cemetery in front of the church rose
polished granite