Artifact (12 page)

The sky outside became fierce as the train thundered into Scotland. I sat alone in an empty back row of a train compartment as far away as I could get from Lane Peters.

Dark clouds tumbled by. Hail splattered across the window. The train cut inland briefly, revealing a bright blue sky for a few precious moments. Before long, the sky was again swallowed up by clouds.

What was it about the idea of a long-lost treasure that could turn the brain of a normally rational man into single-minded idiocy? On Rupert’s part, I knew he wasn’t the most rational of men to begin with. But I wasn’t ready to forgive him for his childish stunt of following me around London. Rupert’s actions had shaken me more than I cared to admit. Now that I knew it had been Rupert following me, I had fury to deal with on top of my fears.

I had thought Lane was different. I was wrong.

I turned up the volume on my headphones to a level that I’d probably regret if I lived to be eighty. I’d worry about that later. I skipped through tracks, first trying some of my classical tabla favorites, then the more upbeat Asian Underground beats, danceable bhangra, and last, some of my dad’s ‘60s folk music that had stuck with me. None succeeded in distracting me.

I tried watching the scenery out the window. The train swept along the eastern seaboard. To the west, the landscape was dotted with sheep grazing on grassy pastures lush from the frequent rains. We passed lone houses, stone churches with granite gravestones, and crumbling ruins of old abbeys. To the east, jagged cliffs stretched along the edge of the sea, with the occasional fishing village and harbor.

We headed north into the Aberdeenshire and Grampian Highlands, where the Scottish Highlands begin. The plan was to disembark in the city of Aberdeen and rent a car to drive to the Fog & Thistle Inn. Providing I managed to stay sane that long. It didn’t seem likely at the moment.

I flipped through the guidebook I’d picked up in London. Unable to focus, I was about to toss it back into my bag. The title on the page caught my eye, snapping me out of my funk. An old estate in the Grampian region was now open to the public. The title read: Relive the Romance and Splendor of the British Raj.

I turned to the map showing the estate’s location, forgetting all about Rupert and Lane. The newly opened Gregor Estate was only a few miles away from Rupert’s Pictish dig. Could that be why he and Knox were at the nearby dig?

The British Raj wasn’t technically the same thing as the East India Company, but it was damn close. After the 1857 uprising that killed scores of both British and Indian soldiers and civilians, the Company was absorbed into a system of colonial rule directly from the British Crown, known as the British Raj. It was hardly a “romantic” time as the guidebook claimed, but it did involve vast amounts of wealth. The kind of wealth that could secretly buy lost ruby treasures like the one Rupert sent me.

When I stepped off the train in Aberdeen, Lane was already standing on the platform. He was leaning against a signpost at the far end, halfway through a cigarette, his bag at his feet. He looked as if he could have been standing there for hours.

My stomach clenched. His relaxed pose reminded me of another time when I’d seen him looking contentedly as if he hadn’t moved in ages. The reading room. If he could look that at ease on cue….

But I knew it hadn’t been Lane following me. I needed to relax. I took a deep breath of the clean coastal air. Though there wasn’t a cloud in sight, the air smelled of fresh rain and the ground was slightly damp. I walked up to Lane.

“You were right,” he said. “I realize how what I said must have sounded to you. All I meant was that working with our strengths is what makes the most sense. If we solve the mystery of the treasure, it should also lead to the attempted murderer. Truce?”

He held out his hand for me to shake.

“Apology accepted,” I said. “Let’s go get a car. We’ve got somewhere to go before the dig.”

“What did I miss?”

“Patience is a virtue.”

I led the way to the car rental service at the end of the station.

“How about this one?” he asked.

A sleek, forest green Jaguar sat in the lot, looking down its hood ornament at the sedate sedans next to it.

“You’re joking.”

“Hardly. We’re supposed to be on a leisurely vacation in Europe with the means to do so. We need to play the part.”

“Why not,” I said. I do love a sporty car. “In for a penny....”

“I’ll cover it,” Lane said. “Provided you actually tell me where we’re going.”

“On your research assistant salary? It’s okay, I can get it.”

“I worked for a while before I went to grad school. Did you think I’d been a graduate student for over ten years? Let me get it.”

“If you insist. But I’m driving.” I tossed him the guidebook. “Check out the page I marked.”

The highway down to Stonehaven was a straight shot from Aberdeen. The stick shift on the left took a little getting used to, but driving on the left side of the road itself is easy. Lane, however, began to look nervous when I barely slowed as I took a tight curve along the coast. He breathed out a sigh of relief as I eased the car up the gravel drive to the massive Gregor Estate.

“It’s a stretch, you know,” Lane said.

“Hurry up.” I hopped out of the car. “The book says they’re only open for the next hour.”

Lane followed me up to the ticket booth.

“Is there a collection of jewelry here?” I asked the lean man sitting behind a tall counter.

“He dragged you along with him to see the military history, did he, love?” He winked at Lane. “Sorry to disappoint. The family hasn’t got any jewelry on display. No need to look so sad, love. There are some beautiful tapestries. The ladies seem to like those.”

I smiled weakly as Lane thanked him. We paid our admission and joined a handful of elderly tourists in the main hall.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Lane said. “You didn’t really think the ruby set would be here, did you? Escaping the notice of the world aside from your ex?”

“I know you’re right,” I grumbled. “But the existence of this place so close to the dig…it can’t be a coincidence. There’s a connection. We need to find it.”

I walked up to the huge portrait that dominated the room.

“Connor Gregor,” I read, “1899.”

A plaque explained that Connor had held a high-level administrative position in the British Raj. Connor seemed to have done pretty well for himself. His portrait hung above a hearth taller than me. On the opposite wall, an equally large landscape painting of the ocean crashing against the local cliffs dominated its own corner. Smaller paintings and photographs of other members of the Gregor family lined one side wall, and those impressive tapestries the ticket-taker had mentioned hung against the other.

I walked along the row of portraits. The Gregors were a rather unremarkable, fair-haired lot.
Mary, 1865,
her wispy blonde hair framing a narrow face with wrinkled lips pressed firmly together.
Morag, 1895
, with a visibly serious scowl in spite of eyebrows so fair you could barely see them.
Iain, 1927
, a thin mustache adding dignity to an already solemn face. And on they went, a serious family, indeed. The earliest portrait,
Willoughby Gregor, 1858
, had the same sedate pose except for his mischievous eyes.

The woman next to Willoughby stood out even more. And not only because she had sat for the portrait while much younger than the others. Her black hair stood out against her pale skin. Her large brown eyes were almost haunting.
Elspeth Gregor, 1859
. She didn’t resemble the rest of the family. She almost looked like….

“There’s a room full of guns,” Lane said, coming up beside me and interrupting my thoughts. “But not a single piece of jewelry.”

I looked back at the imposing portrait of Connor Gregor. His blue eyes stared across the room at me.

“What are you up to, Rupert?” I whispered to myself.

We arrived at the Fog & Thistle Inn close to five o’clock. A modest wooden sign announced a pub and rooms for rent. The Tudor building looked like a home. The heavy door creaked as we opened it. It led into a small pub with a bar and half a dozen tables. An unlit fireplace filled most of one wall. A small stone gargoyle perched at its edge.

The room was eerily empty. A few seconds after we entered, a man appeared behind the bar. He stepped into the light from the shadows of a room behind the bar, revealing black eyes and ginger hair. The juxtaposition was jarring at first, but as he welcomed us with a full Scottish brogue, his cheery demeanor was unmistakable.

“Douglas Black,” he said. “Can I offer ye a pint to fill yer belly, or a bed to rest yer head?”

Lane explained that we were there to see the archaeologists, and Mr. Black was happy to give us his one remaining room. As we filled out the standard form with passport numbers, Mr. Black—the name that seemed more fitting for him than Douglas—explained that he and his wife were retired other than running the small establishment. They lived in the section of the house on the ground floor behind the pub. The rooms of the inn were on the next floor up. His wife cooked a set meal each night for the guests.

“They should be headin’ back within the hour,” Mr. Black said. “Their stones is down the way.”

“Is the site of the dig easy to find?” Lane asked.

“Tis at that. But ye might as well wait, or ye’ll pass ‘em as they come.”

“It’s not far?”

“The professor invited me to visit the site,” he said proudly. “Only a quarter of an hour’s walk to get there. They’re all stayin’ with me and the missus. Except for Mr. Chadwick. He met with an accident last week. Went over the cliffs. Reckless driving.” He shook his head sadly.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “And nobody else has left?”

“Left?”

“I thought perhaps someone might have been so distraught—”

“Nothin’ like that. These are professionals.”

“What about visitors?” Lane asked.

Mr. Black thought it over for a moment before shaking his head. His face clouded over as he turned his attention back to me.

“No,” Mr. Black said, looking me straight in the eye. “But you be careful, young miss. It’s not only cars that lose control. The winds ‘round here will pick you right up and toss you out into the sea before you know what’s got you. Especially someone as wee as yourself.”

His eyes remained locked on mine in the moments of silence that followed.

“Well then!” He slapped his palms together. “Fancy a pint before ye head up to yer room?”

“I think I’ll go freshen up first,” I said, grabbing Lane’s elbow before he could answer.

Mr. Black handed me the keys and pointed us up the stairs.

At the top of the steep wooden stairs we emerged into a narrow hallway with a slanted ceiling.

“How can they all still be here?” I said, shuffling dejectedly down the hall. “I was so sure it was one of them in San Francisco.”

“It’s too bad he didn’t see anyone visiting the crew. But look—” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Even though we’re in the middle of nowhere, full reception. It wouldn’t be hard to secretly give an accomplice a call.”

We found our room at the end of the hall.

“Cozy,” I said, stepping inside. It wasn’t much bigger than the sleeping car into which Rupert had pulled me.

The slanted ceiling cut across the room. A single bed had been pushed under the lowest part of the slope. A child-size bureau stood next to the end of the bed, and a chair was tucked underneath the small window opposite the door.

“I’ll take the floor,” Lane said, dropping his bag on the hardwood floor.

“Chivalry?” I asked, setting down my pack on the small surface of the bureau. It was a good thing we’d both packed lightly. “We should flip a coin or something.”

“I’m not being chivalrous,” he said. “I’m being tall. Look at the size of the bed. There’s no way I’d fit in that.”

I looked closely at the bed. Because it filled up such a large portion of the room, it gave a false impression of being at least a standard twin bed. I sat on the edge of the bed, sinking down several inches. I looked up at Lane. His head nearly touched the ceiling.

“At least take the quilt,” I said.

“Will do.”

“I’m bad at sitting still,” I said, bouncing back up.

“I noticed.”

“I’m going to go downstairs to the pub. Are you coming?”

“But I thought you said—”

“I needed a minute to compose myself.”

Lane’s eyes were an unreadable dark gray behind his glasses as he stood blocking the beam of light from the small window.

“I didn’t like what he said to you about those cliffs either,” he said. His voice held the trace of some strong emotion, but it was so faint that I might have imagined it.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to spook us. He doesn’t know we’re worried about someone who would actually send us off that cliff.”

“But maybe he’s worried about something, too.”

“I wonder what he—”

A low rumble sounded a fraction of a second before the sound exploded. The small window shook violently, trying to escape from the frame. The thick glass pane rattled so loudly I was surprised it didn’t break.

Lane whirled around. The explosive thudding sound came again.

“Wind,” Lane said, exhaling loudly. “That dangerous Scottish wind.”

I sighed. “I’m going down. I want to be there when the crew gets back from the dig.”

“I’ll see what I can do to secure the window. I’ll meet you down there.”

I made my way down the steep stairs, regaining my composure as my feet slowly touched down on each step. Though the stairs looked old and creaky, they were in fact solid and noiseless.

The pub was still deserted, save for two figures huddled together at the bar. A face turned toward me and met my gaze. The face froze. A visible shudder ran across it. The old man recoiled as if he had seen a ghost. He let out a rattling gasp.

“The dark fayrie,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “She’s returned.”