Astrid smiled. On the surface it seemed like a polite grin, but the corners were pulled just a little too tight.
Yes, Astrid Flett was hiding something. Whether it was a significant something remained to be seen. Rose’s plan to learn more from the islanders was only inspiring more questions. She would just need to figure out how to dig further.
“I really did not see much while I was there. It was just a peedie errand, and I wasn’t on Mainland for long.” Astrid’s mouth tensed a little bit more, and Rose knew she would not extract any more information today. If she kept probing, the islanders might realize that she herself was hiding something.
Settling back in her chair, Rose allowed the conversation to flow naturally among the four of them. Astrid gradually relaxed, but Rose remained on guard.
The residents of Frest most definitely possessed secrets, and it was obvious that Rose needed to find out exactly what they were concealing.
Chapter 6
“Would you please stop trying to jiggle the stones in my broch?” Myrtle asked as she looked up from her tape measure. “I’ve grown quite attached to it. I can’t wait to see what treasures it might hold, but you don’t see me ripping into it, do you?”
“Technically, it’smybroch,” Rose grumbled. Yesterday’s storm had prevented her from visiting any of the other crofters, and she’d spent the evening knocking about Muckle Skaill in a futile attempt to discover where Viscount Barbury had locked away his records about the spy ring.
Myrtle raised a blonde eyebrow. “I called dibs, remember? You get the Viking, and I get my stone heap.”
“Okay, fine. It’s yours,” Rose huffed out. Since she was giving Myrtle permission and the funds to excavate when Rose was officially the recorded owner of Hamarray, she supposed that the brochwasmore Myrtle’s than hers.
Myrtle had been trying for ages to lead her own dig—even a small one—but as a woman, she was finding it frustratingly difficult to convince her college or even a landowner to allow her to oversee one. Any discovery she’d made in the field had been claimed by male archaeologists in the press and, even worse in Myrtle’s viewpoint, archaeological circles. Rose was glad to give her friend this opportunity, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t frustrated that her main reason for buying the islands remained irritatingly stalled.
Rose stubbornly poked at another stone. It scraped slightly but did not give. “What if the keyhole is hidden within this wall?”
Myrtle did not attempt to hide her eye roll. “This island is full of rocks. You can’t possibly overturn each one.”
“I can try.” Rose sighed and sank against the ancient wall. The top of the structure had long since rotted or fallen away, leaving an almost perfectly round opening. Despite the drystone construction, the building was remarkably geometric and snug. The sun had just begun to peek over the horizon, and the circle of sky had a golden glow. It felt otherworldly, as if Rose were trapped in a magical place of ancient myth where time both crept and rushed by.
“Perhaps you need to confide in one of the islanders.” Myrtle eased back on her haunches as she scribbled down measurements in her notebook. “Your Viking, perhaps?”
“He’s really notmyViking. Besides, heishiding something from me, maybe even several somethings. Everyone on Frest is. They all know more about the viscount and the earl than they want to admit. What if it has something to do with the spy ring?”
Myrtle adjusted a knob on the side of her tripod-mounted theodolite surveying tool, gazed carefully through the eyepiece for several seconds, and then, with a satisfied nod, made a note on the pad sitting on the wall next to her. Her friend’s obsession with minuscule details had always seemed odd to Rose, but now that she was so desperate to gather any clues, she better understood Myrtle’s desire for precision.
“You just don’t seem to be getting anywhere with that key of yours. I heard several of the servants gossiping this morning about how you keep wandering the halls at night like a madwoman.”
Rose gradually slipped down the rough rocks until her bottom touched the springy ground. “Perhaps Iammad—chasing after ghosts and half-baked memories and suspecting decent, hardworking people of undermining a war that their loved ones were fighting.”
Maybe she was trying too hard to find meaning, any meaning, in all the tragedy she’d witnessed when she’d sped across France in an ambulance that often seemed more like a hearse.
“Specters and undercooked recollections do not sabotage automobiles and try to kidnap you,” Myrtle reminded her.
“True.” Rose massaged her temples, wishing she hadn’t forgotten to bring her satchel. She reallydidwant to play with a cig right now. “I need to figure out a way to break into David Craigie’s windmill and have a poke around. I’m certain Mr.Sinclair didn’t want me going beyond the first floor.”
“You said that this David fellow lives adjacent to the mill,” Myrtle pointed out crisply. “We are not exactly cat burglars who can sneak inside undetected.”
“I—” Suddenly Rose broke off as she thought she heard something. Voices. Which generally would not be an unusual thing, but this was Hamarray. True, there was the skeletal staff at Muckle Skaill, but they had no reason to be on this end of the cliffs. Although Rose certainly would not begrudge her servants a stroll along the dramatic seascape, she somehow instinctively knew that someone else had invaded her little island. This warning sensation inside her didn’t feel like her normal postwar skittishness but something more concrete.
“What—” Myrtle began to ask, but Rose shushed her with a slice of her left hand. With her right, she pulled her Bull Dog revolver from her pocket.
Slowly, Rose crept to the entrance of the broch. Staying hidden in the shadows, she stared out at the hills leading from the southern side of the isle—the side that faced Frest. The ground around the broch was bumpy with crumbling ancient rock walls. At one time, smaller round buildings had fanned out from the main tower, leaving a honeycomb-like patchwork of stone behind. Meticulous Myrtle planned on recording each structure’s dimensions before removing even one handful of dirt.
Nothing moved on the landscape but a few mottled brown-and-white birds who hopped about as they swept their long curved beaks through the grasses in search of worms and insects. Amid the howl of the wind, Rose could detect only the haunting calls of the seabirds. They lived in huge colonies by the cliffs, and a large, rather angry group of white ones roosted in the broch itself.
Then she heard it—the deep rumble of male voices and the lighter tones of a woman’s. Between the blasts of sea air and the avian chatter greeting the sunrise, Rose could not make out a single word, but she had no doubt that people were talking.
Waving at Myrtle to stay behind, Rose grabbed her friend’s binoculars with her free hand and then slunk out of the tumbledown tower. Using the rabbit warren of stone walls as shields, she crouched practically on her hands and knees. The earthy scent of the damp loam filled her nostrils as she scuttled like a crab over the bumpy slope. Every now and then, she poked her head up for a better view.
She spied nothing but more feathered sentries until she reached the other side of the broch. A flicker of movement near the cliffs caught her eye. Scooching against one of the taller piles of stonework, Rose peered over the lichen-covered edifice.
