The Burning Glass Read Online Free PDF Page A

legend.”
    “Ah, but you know how I feel about legends.”
Like tonguing a sore tooth, she asked, “Was the councillor who
asked you to play the clarsach named Angus Rutherford?”
    “That he was. Long, lanky chap with a face
like the Queen of Faerie’s milk-white steed and a wife holding the
whip-hand. But you’ll be meeting up with the pair of them this
weekend, I expect.”
    “I doubt it. The Scotsman says Angus
went missing in Brussels. Funny how Stanelaw becomes a hotbed of
intrigue just as the developers move in.” She let “just as Alasdair
and I move in” twist gently in the breeze.
    Hugh’s smile was annotated by a firm nod. He
patted his T-shirt, evoking the events at Loch Ness in June. “No
problem, Jean. You’ve got D.C.I. Cameron on the premises.”
    “Except he officially retired from the police
last week.” Gavin and Hugh both meant well, but neither of them
seemed to think she could fend for herself. “Now Alasdair’s making
security arrangements for properties managed by Protect and
Survive. Castles, abbeys, stately homes. Conservation areas. Local
museums, too, I bet, but apparently not the one in Stanelaw.”
    “You’ve barely seen the man since June.
You’ve earned yourself a bit of peace and quiet.”
    “ He has.” She’d sensed when she first
met Alasdair that he was burned out, and therefore pushing himself
harder and harder. When she discovered he’d turned in his own
partner for corruption and the man subsequently committed suicide,
she realized he’d been burning for a long time. All she could do
for him was suggest, at first gently, then with the offer of a new
job, that he move on. Now she sent up a prayer to whatever
hard-bitten being passed for Alasdair’s guardian angel that this
career would not be fraught with life-and-death matters, the
unfortunate caretaker and the old lady notwithstanding.
    Judging by the sympathetic gleam in Hugh’s
eye, she was looking like a human version of Dougie’s pincushion
effect. But he picked up his guitar and his fiddle without further
comment. “I’m away then. Have a good honeym . . . er, holiday. I’ll
be looking out for you and Alasdair both soon.”
    “Well, yeah.” Alasdair had sold his house in
Inverness and put his belongings into storage, and was going to
stay at Ferniebank until he found a new caretaker. Which might take
longer than he’d intended, now. And then . . . Well, she could
almost see P and S headquarters on George Street from her living
room. Her flat wasn’t too small for two if they were on good
terms.
    Even that McMansion in Dallas hadn’t been
large enough, at the end. She and Brad had staked out their
individual territories, occasionally meeting in the kitchen like
strangers at Starbucks. Jean had no idea where Alasdair had lived
his married life. He only ever mentioned his marriage in the same
way a cancer survivor mentioned his excised tumor. Jean didn’t even
know his ex-wife’s name.
    Her flat was small. Stanelaw was small.
Scotland was a small country. One where you had to make your peace
with the past, because that past was never really gone.
    Hugh was already several paces away, laughing
back over his shoulder.
    “Can I drop you off anywhere?” Jean
called.
    “I’ll get there faster on Shanks’s pony.
Cheers.” He made it across the courtyard in time to join the conga
line of costumed dancers snaking its way up Ramsay Lane.
    With her own laugh, Jean turned to her car. Once more unto the breach , she told herself, and then
remembered that line ended with something about filling a wall with
dead bodies. Never mind. Wishing she had eyes in the back of her
head, she inched out onto the narrow medieval street and into what
was less the flow of traffic than the curdle.
     
     

Chapter Three
     
     
    By the time Jean pulled into the small, shady
parking lot beside the Granite Cross, she’d caught her breath,
soothed her nerves, and committed herself to her fate. Which had
more than once