Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2) Page 8
“All right.”
“Although, to be clear, David doesn’t hold a majority stake in any agricultural enterprises.” Nelson spun slightly in his chair to get a better look out his window. “Similarly, David holds a significant, but minority, interest in several British media outlets.”
“Such as?”
“Yes, well. I’d rather not list them specifically, unless it’s absolutely vital. Given his status as Chieftain, he’s rather expected to shy away from the media. But again, the profits can be sizeable, and he shows an interest in it.”
“So those are all minority interests?” Warwick confirmed.
“Yes. Well, actually, no.” Nelson corrected himself with a finger in the air and a turn back toward his guest. “We did just purchase a majority interest in a Gaelic language news site on the internet. I believe it’s called ‘an-diugh.co.uk.’”
“Anjou?” Warwick asked. “Isn’t that French?”
“No, no: An-Diugh,” Nelson corrected, but he essentially repeated the sounds the police officer had made. “It Scottish Gaelic for ‘today.’ We actually just purchased the site the other week and—” He frowned. “Well, actually, this may not be the best example after all. David has asked me to do a complete study as to the site’s profitability. I’m not sure how that will turn out. It can be hard to get advertising on a site which can only be read by some seventy-thousand people, most of whom don’t have any sort of high-speed internet access—if any at all, actually. So we’ll see.”
“And if it’s not profitable?” Warwick asked.
“Then I imagine David will liquidate it.”
Warwick thought for a moment then asked, “Are there any other Gaelic news sources on the internet?”
“Most likely,” was the reply. “But An-Diugh was the—er, I mean, is the primary one.” He smiled again.
“And from whom did Mr. MacLeod purchase An-Diugh?”
Nelson frowned in thought. “I really can’t say just off the top of my head. Does it really matter? I’d have to have Laura look it up.”
Warwick smiled politely. “Then please do.”
Nelson paused, making no movement toward the intercom. Finally he sighed, then offered, “Marsaili NicRath. She was paid quite well for it, I can assure you.”
Warwick thought for a moment herself, then tried, “An I.P.O.?”
Nelson’s left eyebrow raised and he couldn’t suppress an admiring smile. “Yes, actually. We succeeded in purchasing over seventy percent of the stock.”
Warwick nodded, expressionless.
“But as I said,” Nelson continued, “at quite a large profit for Ms. NicRath. David paid twice the initial offering price.”
“Which drove away,” Warwick surmised, “most of the competition.”
“Yes.”
“Except Ms. NicRath.”
“Yes.”
“Who bought the other thirty percent.”
“Twenty-six actually.” Nelson’s smile seemed significantly less warm. “With a few shares spread around among some others.”
Warwick considered all of this silently, then asked, quite earnestly, “Do you think you’ll survive Ms. NicRath’s minority shareholder legal challenge to the liquidation of her former company?”
The smile turned downright cold. “Hence the profitability study.”
Warwick nodded slightly to herself. “All right then. What about oil?” Time to push the interview along.
“Ah yes. David’s interests in the oil industry are quite broad.”
“Does he control a majority share in any of the oil companies?”
“If he did,” another engaging smile, “I wouldn’t be in a position to say so. Not outright, anyway.” A wink.
“Of course not,” Warwick replied quickly. “Thank you. And is there anyone in the oil industry who dislikes Mr. MacLeod?”
Nelson pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling again. “No, I really don’t think so. David is very well liked among his colleagues in the industry.”
“What about nationalization?”
A puzzled expression blossomed on Nelson’s face. “Well, London already receives a healthy percentage of all oil profits…” he started.
“No, not London,” Warwick clarified. “Edinburgh.”
“Oh, you mean Scottish nationalization.” Nelson nodded. “Yes. Right. David would be opposed to that. But it’s not a real possibility in my opinion.”
Warwick recalled her conversation of earlier that afternoon. “Mr. MacLeod seems to think it is.”
“I know.” Somehow the warmth returned to the curling lips. “But David’s a bit of a worrier. I simply don’t believe there is any way London is going to allow those revenues to be diverted from the Royal treasury.”
“Unless Scotland becomes independent.”
Nelson guffawed. “Even then, I’d suspect. And I should assert that an independent Scotland is a proposition of only the smallest possibility. I hardly think London will allow that to happen either.”
“That presumes,” Warwick observed, “that London’s opinion will be relevant—let alone solicited.”
Nelson considered this in silence until there came a sharp knock at the door. Warwick confirmed with a quick glance at her watch that it was exactly five o’clock.
“Mrs. Nelson,” her subject observed unnecessarily, before calling out, “Come in.”
Then Warwick turned to glimpse what she had to admit was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen in her life.
Mrs. Nelson was tall, probably equal to her husband’s six feet, even without the heels, and boasted long red hair which cascaded around her face and shoulders in waves of tightly wound ringlets. Large green eyes shone from a face of the purest porcelain complexion. Her body appeared to be of perfect proportions, the classical rounded curves at her bosom and hips combining seamlessly with the modern muscular tautness apparent at her stomach and legs. Her beige suit was of the highest quality and the skirt was actually a little longer than she could have gotten away with. Gold jewelry flashed from her ears, throat, wrists, fingers and her left ankle.
“Sergeant Warwick,” Nelson waved toward the red-maned goddess as he stepped around his desk, “my wife, Caroline.”
“Good day, Sergeant,” Caroline chimed with perfect diction, her soft Scottish accent shining gently off each vowel. A smile lit the already incandescent face. “I’ve come for my husband.”
“Of course.” Warwick stood up and stepped over to the door. “We’d just finished anyway. I won’t detain him any longer.”
Caroline’s eyes narrowed at the word ‘detain.’ “Barry,” she purred, “you haven’t you got yourself into trouble?”
Barry Nelson laughed but it was Warwick who replied. “No, Mrs. Nelson. I’m here regarding the kidnapping of David MacLeod’s son. Just trying to get some background information to tease out who might have done this.”
“Not the MacLeod Banshee, I suppose?” Caroline inquired. “Like all the papers are saying?”
“I expect not,” Warwick replied humorlessly.
“Well, I apologize for the interruption, then.” Caroline smiled. “But I must insist. Barry and I don’t always get the opportunity to dine together and I’m afraid I can be quite possessive.”
“Long hours, Mr. Nelson?” Warwick inquired of the businessman who was fetching his suit coat from its hanger.
“Sometimes,” he replied as he slipped the coat on. “Although more often it’s hers.”
“Oh?” Warwick turned back to the scarlet beauty.
“I’m a physician,” Caroline explained. Warwick found this surprising, and then was disappointed in herself for so finding. “Emergency at Aberdeen General Hospital,” Caroline continued. “My hours are often less than standard.”
“I can imagine,” Warwick replied. “Which reminds me: I have one more question for you, Mr. Nelson.”
Nelson almost succeeded in suppressing the concern from his face. “Oh? Well, then, by all means ask aw
ay.”
“Yes, well,” Warwick hesitated. A practiced hesitation. “It’s difficult to ask the question without seeming accusatory, but I do need to ask it of everyone I speak with regarding the case. You understand?”
“I believe so,” Nelson glanced sidelong at his wife. She was taller than him in the heels.
“Fine. Well, then. It appears that young Douglas was abducted sometime between eleven o’clock Sunday evening and eight the next morning. So if you could just tell me where you were during those hours.”
“Home alone, of course.” Caroline’s voice startled both her husband and Warwick. “Where he should have been. I was working myself. A late swing shift turned into a graveyard shift. I arrived home around seven-thirty to find Barry sound asleep in the bedroom.”
Nelson looked from his wife to the sergeant, his eyebrows lowering again on the trip over. “So says she,” he grinned.
Warwick smiled too, in departure. “Well, thank you then, Mr. Nelson. And nice to meet you, Mrs. Nelson. I’ll let myself out.”
12. Hypothesis
“Hello, miss. How may I hel—”
“The exhibition,” Maggie interrupted. “The illuminated-manuscripts-ninth-century-Old Gaelic-Old Irish-whatever-exhibition. Do you have copies of the manuscripts?”
The middle-aged saleslady at the Trinity College souvenir store paused long enough for Maggie’s rapid fire words to sink in. Finally, she managed to ask, “Copies?”
“Yes.” Maggie had suddenly become very impatient. She needed to read that next page—and what lay beyond. But the library hadn’t had any plain-text versions of the books. ‘Try the gift shop,’ the librarian had said. ‘They might have reproductions for sale.’ “Reproductions,” Maggie explained. “Of the pages. Do you have any?”
“Well, now,” the woman stepped out from behind the counter as she slowly surveyed the small shop tucked into the lobby of the Old Library, “let me see. We usually do have. Let’s give a look, shall we?”
Maggie followed the plump woman around the narrowly aisled shop for what seemed an eternity. Finally the woman announced, rather proudly, “We have coloring books.”
Maggie hadn’t expected that. “Coloring books?”
“Yes.” The saleslady pulled one from a swiveling metal rack. “They’ve beautiful illustrations. The children love to color in the knot work.”
I’ll give you knot work, Maggie thought as she tried to control her irritation at this particular turn of events. “Anything else?” she demanded through her teeth.
“Well, there’s the booklet about the exhibition.” The woman removed a thin, glossy book from the same wire rack. “It has some photographs of particular pages, I suppose.”
“Great.” Maggie snatched both books from the woman’s hands. “I’ll take them. Here.” She thrust far too large a banknote toward the saleslady. “Keep the change.”
The woman accepted the note and before she could protest its size, Maggie was out the shop doorway and through the Old Library’s doors to the sunny courtyard beyond.
The woman slowly returned to her post behind her counter.
“Hmph,” she observed to herself. “Americans.”
***
The crofter’s shack was nestled into a rolling fold of the lush green carpet draped over the rocky crags of the seaside cliff. The cliff was one of many forming the edges of the Isle of Skye. The North Atlantic waves beat rhythmically against the granite shore, their crash joined by the occasional cry of a seabird and the intermittent creak of the old man’s rocking chair. Milky, cataract-covered eyes stared out toward the enormous orange ball of the setting sun, while his remaining senses reveled in the sound, spray and scent of the sea.
“
Taggert stepped onto the cleft stone front patio.
Niall smiled a weathered, tooth-poor smile. “
“
The two men sat for some time then, content to let the waves and birds carry the conversation. Eventually, Old Niall asked, “
“” Taggert reluctantly agreed. He picked up a pebble, considered tossing it toward the waves, but thought better of it and let it fall again to the ground. “
The old man continued his creaky rocking. “
“” He picked up the pebble again. “
“
“
Niall was glad for it. “
So Taggert gave him the phrase. And the old man told him what he could.
***
Maggie tipped back in her wooden chair, her pub dinner long finished, the plates laying discarded across her small table. Her afternoon of pouring over small photographs and black-outlined coloring book pages had proved to be only minimally useful. The ‘Spellbook of Ballincoomer’ had garnered less space in the booklets than its compatriots in the 1937 Reading Room. But what few images there were confirmed its title: It was a shopping list of various spells, incantations, and rites. And none of them seemed to call on the ‘evil forces’ mentioned so frequently in her own Dark Book of spells. Indeed, these new spells were of an undeniably positive nature—perhaps the reason a literate Christian monk might feel at liberty to record their words. Words which called on natural forces like the sun and the water to use their gifts for the benefit, not of the spellcaster, but of whomever or whatever the spellcaster’s subject was. The few complete spells she could make out claimed to reveal, enlighten, strengthen and protect. But she couldn’t find any that healed.
Apparently the page she’d seen that morning in the Reading Room had not been pretty enough to warrant a space in either the coloring book or the exhibition’s promotional pamphlet. In the event, Maggie could find no reference in the reproduced Gaelic she’d purchased of any ‘ben-slániger’—or of any healing spells such a woman might have used.
Still. Magic spells.
Spells that called on good forces for altruistic results. Not evil forces for self-serving results.
Spells that sought to amplify the natural order and harmony of the universe. Not to twist and violate that order to its own ends.
In short, Good Magic. Not Dark Magic.
And even though the spell she’d really wanted to see wasn’t in that stupid coloring book, she’d still seen the word ‘healer’ that morning. She had no doubt. The Spellbook of Ballincoomer hid within its covers a healing spell.
She needed them simply to turn one more page. And luckily, the exhibition had one day left.
The descendant of Brìghde Innes looked at her watch and calculated how long it had taken her last time. Then she raised her hand just slightly, waving politely in the direction of a nearby waitress.
“Check, please!”
13. Experimentation
Maggie closed the door to her hotel room, locking it. She flipped the deadbolt. Then she latched t
he chain.
She surveyed the small room. There was just the one window. The curtains were open, letting the summer sun stream in even after eight o’clock at night. She considered leaving the curtains open—sunlight seemed appropriate somehow—but she knew better and crossed to the window to pull tight both the thin white external curtains and the heavy internal green ones. She surveyed the room. Unless the mirror over the desk was two-way, she was alone.
She set the booklets on the desk. She still couldn’t believe she’d bought a coloring book. But in fact it had proved the more helpful of the two books she’d purchased. One of the pages from the Spellbook of Ballincoomer which had been worthy of transmogrification into black outlines on rough coloring book paper had actually contained a complete spell. A spell Maggie had been absolutely elated to see.
It was a levitation spell.
A levitation spell had been the first spell she’d mastered from the Dark Book. And now here she was with the same type of incantation only from a different source. Time to get busy.
She propped the coloring book open to the proper page, Old Gaelic letters large and outlined on the colorless paper. She set a small pen from the desk drawer directly in front of the book, centered on the desktop before her.
Then, closing her eyes, she spoke the spell. Not the newly-encountered words from the coloring book, but rather the well-learned levitation spell she’d mastered from the Dark Book. Just to be sure.
“
The pen rose quickly into the air, to exactly the level Maggie intended.
Simple enough, she thought almost smugly.
But in truth, it wasn’t as simple at it used to be. She’d avoided the dark magic lately. Not just because of the nightmares which inevitably followed its use—she’d gotten used to those—but also out of a general unease surrounding the magic. Since learning the true origins of the dark magic, she’d become increasingly reluctant to use it just for fun. It seemed… inappropriate somehow. And just a little dangerous. She let the pen descend back onto the desktop.