Beloved Secrets, Book 3 Page 5

  “How can you tell?”

  “One of the rib bones is cracked. Could have happened before, or could be from the blade. I’d know more if you still had the dagger.”

  Charles had not noticed a cracked rib, but then, he did not truly look for one. “Any law against removin’ the bones?”

  “None that I know of.” The inspector set his bag on the work table, opened it again, and pulled out a small camera.

  “Good.” Charles was happy to hear that. The best way to stop the circus in the glen was to make it so there was nothing to see. Charles went to his telephone, unlocked the box, and called the town’s undertaker.

  Two hours later, a horse drawn hearse arrived from town bringing what appeared to be a very expensive coffin. When Charles frowned at the sight of it, the undertaker only shrugged. “’Tis the only one left. Tell Miss McKenna she can expect my bill shortly.”

  Sarcastically, Charles muttered. “No doubt she shall be thrilled to pay it.”

  The crowd moaned as the undertaker and his helper shooed everyone away, carefully collected them, and then laid the bones in the casket just the way they were positioned in the ground – minus an arm bone. Finished, he closed the casket lid.

  That should have been an end to it, and it was, until the undertaker had the casket loaded in the hearse and was about to drive away. “When do you mean to have the funeral?”

  “Funeral?” Charles asked.

  “Aye, a funeral,” the indignant undertaker said. “I’ll ask Miss McKenna.”

  “Nay, I shall ask her and call you.”

  “Very well.” In somber respect for the dead, the undertaker took off his tall black hat, and reverently closed the back door of the hearse. He put his hat back on and then climbed up on the buckboard. Any other time, he would have drawn the curtains so people could not see through the glass windows, but this time he did not. He retrieved the reins, gently slapped them against the rump of his horse, and with his usual flair, made an exhibition of the sad event by slowly hauling the remains away.

  Charles could not have been happier. He watched the people hurry to get in their various means of transportation and just as reverently follow the hearse back down the lane. When enough of them were gone, he called Brady, asked him to call all the men again and tell them they were working the next day.

  That done, he headed off to see McKenna.

  CHAPTER 3

  KENTIGERN MANOR.

  When Charles arrived at the manor, all four boys were having a grand time playing with the Scotties – that is until one of them let the dogs inside the house. He tried to call the dogs back, but the front door closed in his face. Charles huffed his frustration, knocked, and was surprised at how quickly Alistair answered the door. Alistair looked a bit frazzled too, and simply pointed toward the sitting room.

  On the sofa in the sitting room, McKenna watched the dogs dash through and then shouted at the boys, “’Tis forbidden,” just before the back door slammed. “A girl,” she muttered as she rubbed her tummy, “let this one be a peaceful, quiet, little girl.”

  When she finally noticed him, Charles was smiling. “I shall come for the dogs first thing in the morning.”

  “None too soon, I assure you.” She put her feet up on the ottoman, leaned back, and closed her eyes. “Have you any good news to report?”

  “I have,” Charles said as he watched Nicholas come down the stairs. “The undertaker took the remains away and we shall begin work in the mornin’ as usual.”

  “I am pleased to hear that,” said Nicholas.

  “So am I,” McKenna agreed.

  McKenna sat up, touched her hair to make certain it was still in place and narrowed her eyes. “Nevertheless, not all your news is good?”

  “How did you guess?” Charles asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “You keep twistin’ your hat round and round. On a good day, you sit when you talk to me. This day you have yet to find a chair.”

  He quickly took a seat in the chair opposite her and set his hat on his knee. “The undertaker brought his most expensive casket.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” said Nicholas. “Word is he tries to squeeze every last pound out of a family when someone dies.”

  Charles nodded. “You have heard right. He said ‘twas the only one left.”

  Nicholas chuckled. “He had three in his window just yesterday and no one has died since that I have heard of.”

  “Nor I.” Charles lowered his gaze. “He, the undertaker that is, asks when you wish to have the funeral.”

  McKenna gasped. “A funeral? Am I to pay for that too?”

  “Send the bill to Cameron,” Nicholas suggested as he finally took a seat, “it is his castle. Better yet, send the skeleton to him.”

  Charles could not help but snicker. “By the way, I hear there is a story I have not yet read?”

  McKenna looked accusingly at her husband.

  “Not me, Alistair let it slip,” Nicholas said.

  “I swear the concept of keepin’ a secret is entirely lost on this family.”

  “Do not be too hard on him, my love. Alistair did not mean to.”

  She felt the baby kick, so McKenna laid a hand on the top of her stomach. “It is just that we hoped not to share that story.”

  “Why,” Charles asked.

  “Because ‘tis very unpleasant,” said McKenna.

  Charles argued.” I can endure unpleasantness.”

  That answer did not satisfy her. “Furthermore, we hoped to avoid a scandal. Now that everyone knows about the bones and most suspect a murder has taken place, it appears we are too late.”

  “And the dagger that I cannae find,” Charles added.

  “Yes but we can keep them from reading the story,” said Nicholas.

  “Forgive me, but I dinna understand.” Charles lifted his hat, crossed his legs and set it on his other knee. “What harm can the story do?”

  McKenna drew in a deep breath. “Did you not say a reporter came? No doubt we shall soon see an article about the bones in the paper, and people shall hunger for more details. If we let them read the story, which I might add, is likely about the murder, how long could it be before someone sells a copy to the reporter?”

  Charles shrugged. “Not long.”

  “The glen will fill with the curious once more and...”

  “Delay the work again.”

  “Aye.” McKenna leaned her head back and rested her tired eyes. This baby was heavier than the other two and it did not take much to wear her out.

  “You can trust me not to sell it to a reporter. I give you my pledge not to tell another livin’ soul,” Charles argued. “I dinna want a crowd in the glen any more than you do.”

  McKenna thought about it a little more. “Very well, but I best not hear of anyone else readin’ it.”

  “I give you my word,” Charles said. He watched as Nicholas got up, lifted the cover on his roll-top desk, and retrieved several pages of the story held together by a McGill staple.

  Nicholas handed them to Charles, and then offered his hand to his wife. “Can you not rest now? You look very tired.”

  McKenna took his hand and as usual, had to scoot forward a couple of times before she could stand up. “I can think of nothin’ I would like better than to sleep the entire afternoon away.”

  “Shall I help you up the stairs?” Nicholas asked.

  “Is she havin’ twins?” Charles asked. “She looks too big to...”

  “Dinna say it, Charles MacGreagor,” McKenna warned as she glared at her favorite cousin. “You know very well there are twins and triplets in Neil MacGreagor’s blood line, of which I am a descendent.”

  Charles chuckled. “So am I, though somewhat more removed than you.”

  McKenna took a step up the stairs. “Then you are welcome to have all the twins you like...and may they all be boys.” She climbed half way up, turned to wink at Charles, and then carefully ascended the rest of the stairs.

  “�
�Tis twins,” Charles whispered. He set his hat on a nearby table and began to read the first page.

  5 MARCH, 1534

  I, Duncan MacGreagor, shall tell you forthwith that which was related to me by Shaw MacGreagor on the eve of his death. The days of Shaw MacGreagor were harsh and unyielding, and thus also were the struggles of the MacGreagor clan. Laird Donnan MacGreagor was the father of Jamie, who was the clan’s laird when Shaw was born in the year 1500. Jamie married Lexine, who gave him two daughters and a son they named Bordan.

  Shaw was but three years of age when King Henry VII of England and King James IV of Scotland signed a document called, “the Treaty of Perpetual Peace.” Happy were those peaceful years in which the clan greatly prospered, and Shaw and his elder brother, Bruce, grew up. Left in the charge of a loving Aunt after their parents passed, they became close lads who did everything together. Both brothers were good with numbers and it was a great honor for Bruce, at not yet seventeen, when Laird Jamie made him second in command. Jamie gave Bruce charge over counting that which must be kept count of and naturally, Shaw learned what must be done too.

  Also in the days of Laird Jamie MacGreagor, there came an amiable parting of the ways in the MacGreagor clan. After years of planting and harvesting, the land was no longer fertile enough, the herds did not flourish as they should, and the people could not grow enough to sustain such a large clan. Most wanted to leave the glen and find new land in the north, but Laird Jamie MacGreagor was against it, for he loved the home of his fathers. Even so, in the spring of 1513, the day came when a long line of people, horses, livestock, and loaded carts made their way toward the main road and turned north.

  With them went Jamie’s younger brother, Lucus.

  Left behind were several empty cottages and less than one hundred families.

  Indeed, Shaw MacGreagor and his brother delighted in the days of peace between the Scots and the English. Nonetheless, the French were not to be ignored and a mere ten years after the signing of the treaty, the call went out for all able bodied Scots to fight the English yet again. Many a Scot died that day, and of this he could personally attest, for at the age of thirteen, Shaw, together with his older brother, was sent to fight for Scotland.

  Of his part in the battle, Shaw said not a word to the living, for he felt it a nightmarish truth best not shared with anyone who remembered the dead so very well. I, on the other hand, begged to be told, so that I might leave word of it with him who is fortunate enough to find the books hidden beneath the floor of the Great Hall. I gave my pledge never to speak of it. But then, it was an easy pledge to keep for after he had his say, I agreed ‘twould do no good for the clan to know.

  The following are the words Shaw MacGreagor said to me:

  “By the grace of God, I survived the killing at Branxton Moor. To everyone’s dismay, and although we were there much earlier, the battle did not begin until the afternoon sun was low in the sky. I was, therefore, allowed time to estimate the number of lads and was greatly encouraged by the thousands upon thousands on our side. Victory was ours for the taking, I thought, even though there were many who stood against us. Most of the English wore a full dress of armor and the sun glistened off their multitude of swords and axes. A few Scots had breastplates, but I was not one of them.

  At last, the English fired their cannons and both sides began the charge.

  I was just as determined to kill the English as any other lad, but the moor was wet and soggy. Soon after the charge began, I slipped, fell to the ground, and before I could get up, a Scot of great weight fell on his back atop me. Try as I might, I could not push the lad aside quickly enough, and soon, another fell atop him. Both were quite dead, for neither moved nor gave a hint of life after. I greatly struggled to breathe and as it was, could only free one hand from beneath them. My sword, for that was the only weapon I had, lay somewhere under them as well. Therefore, I could but lay there amid the clash of weapons, the thunder of cannons, and the screams of Scots as they were cut down.

  I tried not to hear, not to see, and not to smell the blood that repeatedly splattering upon my face, but ‘twas to no avail. So distraught was I that I cursed my head for not having been crushed beneath the lads as well. Darkness was about to fall when the screams turned to moans, the weapons clashed no more and the battle came to an end.

  ‘Twas then an odd thing happened.

  I reached out my one free hand, but no Scot was there to help me. Instead, an English came, whom I suspected was there to finish us off. He held his bloody sword high above his head as his eyes met mine, and I was certain I was about to die, I tightly closed my eyes so as not to see the blade of his sword coming. I waited and waited, but when I again opened my eyes, the lad was gone. I know not who he was, nor why he let me live, and to this very day I can still see his eyes

  I lay there the whole night through and was not recovered until the break of dawn when those few Scots that remained on the moor came to search for the living. I had but one cut to my leg, which I thought was of no great consequence, and the cause of which I have no true recollection. My ribs were another matter for that lad who fell on me was one of the few with breast armor. When I was at last helped to stand and was able to bear the pain in my chest some better, a great and unimaginable sea of dead Scots lay before me. Their blood had soaked into the moor and their lifeless eyes accused me, for I was yet alive and they were dead. When I could take no more, I tightly held my ribs and wretched what little my stomach still held.

  I searched then for my brother, whom I thought not far off, and dinna find him among the living. Nor did I find his body until high noon. By then the English had collected the few who had died on their side and departed the battlefield. Along with many weapons, the English took our cannon and made off with many a dead Scot’s horse.

  The King of Scotland died too, I was told, though I cannae claim to have wept over the loss of him.

  CHARLES LAID THE PAPERS in his lap, closed his eyes, and rubbed his forehead. “Thirteen,” he whispered. He had not realized the butler was there, but he was glad of it. As soon as Alistair handed him a glass of wine, Charles quickly drank half of it down. “I can see why McKenna dinna want the clan to read it.”

  “Aye,” said Alistair, “and there is little good news to come in it.”

  When he spotted Nicholas coming down the stairs, Charles asked, “May I take this home?”

  “You may,” said Nicholas, “and burn it if you will, so no one else reads it.”

  Charles drank the rest of his wine, handed the glass to Alistair, and then stood up. “Thirteen,” he muttered again as he headed toward the foyer. “Thirteen is far too young to go to war.”

  “I agree,” Nicholas said. He opened the door and let Charles walk through ahead of him. “Do not forget. Let no one see the story or McKenna shall hang us both.”

  “I will not forget.” Charles put on his hat, climbed into his automobile, nodded to Nicholas, and then headed home.

  DAVID’S HOTEL ROOM was indeed lavish and larger than any hotel room he had ever seen. It was expensively decorated with a bedroom and two telephones, one in each room. Even the bed was larger than most, and when he answered a knock on the door, a footman came in to unpack his clothing.

  “The Duke ordered a tuxedo for you and if you can, the tailor would like to fit you tomorrow.”

  “What time?” David asked. He watched as the man hung what few articles of clothing he brought with him in a closet, and then closed his suitcase and set it in the bottom.

  The footman reached in his pocket and handed David a note. “Perhaps you might call him.”

  “Very well, thank you.” Before he left, the footman offered to bring him anything he liked, but David declined. He was eager to read the story Blair’s aunt gave him. Hopefully, there was a clue in it somewhere that would explain whose bones had been uncovered. He stretched out on his bed, read the first part, and then sat up. “Thirteen?” he too muttered. Instead of lying back down, he m
oved to a chair and decided to call room service after all. He ordered a glass of scotch and water, waited until it arrived, took a drink, and then settled down to read.

  SEPTEMBER, 1513

  Shaw MacGreagor noticed not the warm sun as he slowly rode his horse away from the battlefield. If there was any good news to be had, it was that his horse and that of his brother had somehow avoided being captured by the English. Nonetheless, others, including the injured, were not so fortunate and were forced to walk for as many days as it would take them to reach their villages.

  Although a kind lad wrapped a bandage around his leg and washed the blood off his face, Shaw’s mind had become too dull to feel the pain of his cut thigh, or notice his own blood occasionally dripping from his shoe to the ground. It was the horse’s sway that hurt him most, and when he twisted and looked back to make certain Bruce’s body was still tied across the other horse, the sharpness of the pain harshly awakened him to the reality of his situation. Other than those few times however, he saw without seeing, thought without thinking, and depended upon his horse to find the way home.

  He was not alone on the road. Scottish onlookers, hoping to be witness to a great and triumphant battle at Branxton Moor, were now grieving relatives who had the unthinkable task of taking dead husbands, brothers, and fathers home for burial. Some family members wailed, some softly lamented, and others aimlessly stared.

  Shaw paid no attention to any of them.

  Occasionally, Shaw’s horse found water and rested, just as all horses must, and at night, Shaw slid down, tied both horses to a tree, lay beside the road, and restlessly slept. Feeling the pain in his ribs more acutely the next morning, it took all his strength and the help of a low limb to pull himself up to a sitting position. He rested for a moment and then struggled to stand. With the help of a large stone to stand on, he threw his bad leg over the horse’s bare back, thrashed about until he sat upright again, and then recovered the reins to his brother’s horse. The pain in his chest was excruciating and for a long moment, he dared not take a deep breath.