The Fairy Mound Read online

  She heard Westland sigh over the phone. It was something that made Alice feel like she’d won the argument. Making a case for public scrutiny had a way of moving the man more than her beliefs or intuition.

  “I’ll see if we can get the warrant. It will have to wait until Monday. You have until then to make use of your officers. Barring anything else happening, with or without that warrant, we close the case. You will return to your duties in Edinburgh.”

  “I understand, Sir.” It got old repeating herself.

  Yet, Westland believed in order and diligence from his officers. Alice knew he was a member of the old guard. In Westland’s youth, women in uniform had no business out in the field. They remained fixtures of the precincts, glorified office personnel with uniforms, answering phones, fetching coffee and tea. Alice deserved her appointment as an inspector. She put in her hours and the testing. She earned her degrees, and anywhere else in the world, she’d have that respect she deserved. Under Westland, though, it was different. He was a man from a generation of separating men and women based on physical strengths, not their overall capabilities.

  “I believe whatever happened to their man, Simon Hinton, is in direct relationship to the missing Americans.”

  “I’ve heard it before, Lemont. Prepare to close your case, whatever happens. MacIomhair will fight a warrant tooth and nail.”

  “As I understand it, Sir, the man won’t know we obtained the warrant until we’re knocking on the front door. If he has something to hide, he can talk to his solicitors at that time.”

  “Monday, Lemont, not a day longer,” he said and ended the call.

  Alice stood up and sighed. She dropped the phone on the bed and looked at the time. It was a little after ten at night. Another useless day had gone by, and they were heading into Thursday. Rain saturated the countryside. If they wanted to do more overland searching, any clues would have washed away in the rainstorm.

  Alice crept from the bedroom and made her way downstairs. It was an attempt to wander through the old house noiselessly. But years of settling caused floorboard to groan and the wooden stairs to creak. By the time Alice reached the ground floor, she knew it was impossible to get around without people noticing.

  There were orange embers in the fireplace and a small light on in the kitchen. She heard someone else shuffling around. Alice wanted bottled water, something available to all guests from the standalone refrigerator. Her presence in the Guesthouse was much appreciated, given the Weatherspoons were relations to Harper Biel. Alice knew about her mother’s disappearance eight years ago. It was too close to be a coincidence.

  No one brought it up, but it was on everyone’s minds.

  “Tea, dear?” The older woman asked. It wasn’t so much a question as a way of steering Alice to sit down at the small round table off the kitchen.

  Alice sat at the table where a saucer and teacup gently clicked on the table before her. With arthritic knuckles, the old woman slowly poured tea into the cup. The tea strainer inside the kettle rattled.

  “Thank you,” Alice said. It was barely above a whisper.

  She watched as the crumpled pack of filterless cigarettes slid into the front pocket of the old woman’s house smock.

  “Please don’t tell Beth about these awful things,” she said. “We’re not supposed to smoke in the house.”

  “No, Ma’am,” Alice said. The sugar bowl and small milk vessel sat near the ashtray.

  “You can call me Marcia,” the old woman said. There was a wide puffy smile on her face that made her squint.

  “Alice,” she said.

  “I know who you are, lass. You’re charged with finding my young warrior, Harper.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Alice said. She felt a little self-conscious. Hunching her shoulders, she rolled back the hair behind her ear and scooped a teaspoon of sugar into the tea. “I don’t know if I’m doing as much good as people hoped by now.” The spoon tinkled inside the cup.

  Alice lifted the teacup to her lips and sipped. Marcia had an expectant look on her face.

  “It’s lovely, thank you,” Alice said. But it wasn’t. It was thick and tasted like strained Highland grass. Alice scooped another spoonful of sugar and added a helping of milk that brought the swirling brown liquid up to the brim.

  “Tell me, dear, does your family come from around here? You have a face that is familiar to me.”

  “My father was a PI with Scotland Yard. He came to the area years and years ago. This is my first time in the district.”

  Marcia settled into the chair across from Alice. She made a whooshing sound and kicked out her feet. Alice saw fur slippers as the old woman rubbed her knees. The old woman’s breath washed over Alice in a blend of cigarette smoke and Highland grass smells.

  “I come to clean the kitchen and prepare the morning biscuits for Beth. I don’t sleep through most nights. This is my usual time. I clean for Beth, too. This big old place is too much for her. She won’t let it go.”

  “Are you a relative of Beth Weatherspoon?”

  “I should say so,” Marcia said. “I am Gramma Marcia; at least, that’s what most calls me.”

  “You saw Harper the night of her disappearance,” Alice said.

  It was in the notes. Beth Weatherspoon said her niece went to the grandmother’s cottage. Alice had looked for the place for three days. Directions were not right, and it didn’t appear on Google maps.

  “I couldn’t find your house, Mrs. Weatherspoon. I wanted to speak to you about Harper. I wanted to call you.”

  Marcia waved a hand between them. “I don’t have no phone, lass. I don’t need one. All my family is right here. I ain’t got nothing to add to your searching for Harper. I suspect you didn’t find the cottage because you didn’t need to,” Marcia said.

  “But I did—I do,” Alice said. She leaned forward, pressing her elbow on the table. “You were the last to see Harper that night. Did both girls come to see you?”

  “No, just the warrior lass,” Marcia said. “And you can call me Marcia, no need for that formality between friends.” Marcia shook a knowing finger at Alice again. “What’s your surname?”

  “Lemont,” Alice said.

  Marcia snapped her fingers. “You’re Donovan Lemont’s child.”

  “Yes, um, how is it that everyone around here knows my father? We’re from Edinburgh.”

  “You’re father took care of those monsters, Roy Hall and Archibald Fontaine. We don’t forget someone like that.”

  “Did he? It’s a little before my time.”

  “You follow in your father’s shadow, and you don’t know his legacy? I find that hard to believe, lass.”

  “They killed those people. I know that. Dad was part of the team that apprehended them.”

  “It was your father that caught both those boys. Had it not been for him, we’d lost more than those poor folks and that girl they brought up from Edinburgh.” Marcia shook her head. “It was a lot more than that,” she said and patted Alice’s hand. “But you have your time to talk to him about that. You’re here because you’re looking for my Harper.”

  “We’re still doing our—”

  “Harper is fine. It is the other girl I’d worry about.”

  “You mean Amy Miller?”

  “Aye, that’s her name.”

  “We assume they’re together.”

  “No, lass.” Marcia scooped the cigarettes from her smock pocket. She saw the look on Alice’s face and stuffed them back into the pocket. “You need to go to the mound.”

  “What mound?”

  “Is it so hard for anyone to see that man is doing his best to undo the things what been done here?”

  “I’m sorry, Marcia, I don’t understand.”

  “There’s way too much noise in the world anymore. No one can hear anymore. There were times when
the banshee’s song spread over these lands.”

  “Mrs. Weatherspoon, I appreciate your devotion to the past and folklore. But that has nothing to do with this. You sound like Philip Edmund.”

  “Aye, Philip is a good man. He never gave up looking for that girl. I know he spent many a long day combing the moors for her. He wouldn’t listen to me about her.”

  “You mean the girl Hall and Fontaine murdered.”

  “Some say she’s murdered.” Marcia shrugged indifferently.

  “Look, Ma’am, thank you for the tea.” Alice stood. She began to slip away from the table when Marcia grabbed her wrist. The woman was frail and large, not able to move around with a lot of ease. Her grip was like a fleshy vice.

  “You talk down to me ‘cause you see things that are in front of you. You’re afraid to follow where you’re heart leads you, lass. You forget where you are. This is the edge of the world. We are the keepers of the daoine sìth.”

  “—the fairy mound,” Alice translated. She knew a smattering of Gaelic. “Two missing children, Marcia,” Alice said. She felt the fiery frustration bubble up inside her. “We have two missing girls, and I want to find them. I want to bring them home. You and Edmund, you’re both talking about something that’s not important.”

  “You know it in your heart, lass. It is as plain as that fire burning in your eyes. You need to get into the daoine sìth. You know that man has those girls.”

  “What, man?” Alice asked. “Do you know something? Where are they, Marcia?”

  “What is going on down here?” Beth asked from the doorway. She looked from Alice to Marcia sitting in her chair. “Gramma, are you bothering our guests again?”

  “No, Mrs. Weatherspoon, we’re fine.” Alice tried smiling for Beth.

  The woman pulled at the sash on her robe. “Is everything okay? Is this something to do with Harper?”

  “I’m sorry to wake you, Mrs. Weatherspoon. We’re doing everything we can. Your grandmother was explaining some of the folklore around here.”

  Beth snickered uncomfortably. “She tends to overstep sometimes. I apologize.”

  “I am right here,” Marcia said. She pulled the cigarette pack from the dress and didn’t hesitate to light up.

  Alice knew there was some family rivalry going on, and she didn’t want to get in the middle of it.

  “Thank you for the tea. I am sorry to bother you, Beth.” Alice went around the owner of the guesthouse. As she moved to the skinny hallway off the kitchen to go upstairs, Marcia called to Alice.

  “MacIomhair, that man will undo a treaty that is older than most of these hills.”

  “What did you say?” Alice asked.

  The old woman stared at Alice. A cloud of cigarette smoke enveloped her.

  “Put that out, Gramma. It isn’t good for your health. And I told you no smoking in the house.” Beth moved to the table, snatching the cigarette.

  Alice went back to her room. She sat down on the bed with the squeaky frame. Alice grabbed the laptop and began looking into the Scottish lore of the fairy mounds. If Marcia knew more than she let on, it all went back to Brian MacIomhair. Edmund and Marcia both pointed fingers at folklore. The thing about lore had to do with how it survived into the modern age. Winners wrote history. Folklore survived through retelling old tales. That means that those tales came from some point in history that had slivers of truth.

  If MacIomhair had something to hide, he had the funding and the available personnel to make it happen. Marcia was old, and she was a little misguided. But something in her manner, the clarity, even through the smoke. The girls, Alice knew, had something to do with Equinox Technologies, and Brian MacIomhair. Alice needed that warrant to get into the warehouses. Yet, something told her Westland didn’t have confidence the courts would issue the permit. Alice considered if that happened, she’d find another way.

  Clan Slora

  I woke to the sounds of a bleating lamb. It made me think of the weirdest dream where I fell out of the world and landed in a big mud hole. To make it worse, some strange guy’s arm came with me, and I buried the limb in a bunch of rocks.

  There was a smell of cooking meat and body odor. I realized that what I thought was a dream was the life I woke up to in that startling moment.

  “She’s awake,” the girl said.

  She had wide blue eyes like the deep ocean. Her blonde hair sprouted from her head in reddish-gold spirals. The girl hovered over me, and I knew she was real because her hair tickled my face as it brushed against me.

  “Sit back, Fiona. Let the girl breathe.” The voice came from an older woman with a pale face in the middle of bushy black hair.

  I moved under the blanket. The top side looked like animal fur. The underside against my body felt like an animal hide against my hands. I sat up after a fashion.

  “Water,” the woman said. She thrust the stone cup at my face. Droplets sloshed over me.

  I saw the girl move away. She grabbed my hooded sweatshirt from a stack of wood near a thin hearth with a rolling fire under an iron pot.

  “That’s my shirt,” I said. I felt feverish but alert.

  The woman looked surprised. It was as if I was ungrateful for being stripped naked while unconscious.

  My arm burned. I looked at the wound on my wrist. That cat did a lot more damage than I thought. It looked infected. I tried not to think about my arm when I had too much to worry about besides pain.

  “Um, where are the rest of my clothes?” I realized I wore the animal skin blanket and nothing else.

  The girl hugged the sweatshirt to her chest and pointed to the corner in the other direction. I saw my jeans, boots, sports bra, and my panties. All the things I should be wearing while in the presence of strangers.

  “You saved me,” the girl said.

  “I don’t think that’s accurate. I just managed to stop those men from doing anything to you.”

  The girl pointed at me and laughed. “You speak funny.”

  “That makes two of us.” I looked at the woman. “Can I have my clothes, please?”

  “You turn down water?” The stone cup waivered near my face.

  I took it with two hands and sniffed it. Not only did it smell like dirt, but there was also a soil-colored tint to the water. I pressed the cup to my mouth but didn’t drink.

  “Mmm, thank you.” I faked the swallow and looked satisfied.

  “You think I do not see that?” The woman snatched the cup and tossed it across the floor. She stepped away from me. “We wanted to make sure you are not a prowlie.”

  “A what?” I asked.

  “I knew you were different,” the woman said. “I think it is wrong; the child is here. I am not the chieftess.” She said it with a halfhearted shrug.

  “I can understand you, but I feel like you and I don’t exactly speak the same language.”

  “Suits me,” she said. “Come, Fiona. Let the girl get dressed.” She waved at the little girl to join her. “Do not take long. The chieftain wants to speak to you.”

  “Bye,” the girl said. She gave a half wave to me. Fiona dropped the sweatshirt near the door.

  They went through a door that was more thatch than wood. I heard the bleating of a lamb, followed by the call of a ewe. I looked around and waited. I was inside a snug stone building with a thatch roof and no windows. I pulled the animal skin to my chest and crawled to the corner where my clothes lay in a heap. At least they didn’t steal my clothes. I got dressed as fast as I could, keeping an eye on the door for unwanted guests.

  I laced up my boots tight. I looked around for the jacket. They took my windbreaker. At least, I still had my life.

  When I opened the door, I saw huge, very serious men watching me. Each of them had weapons, swords, or battle-axes. One had a large bat weapon with a solid metal head on end. I saw Fiona who slipped betwee
n the Highland warriors as if they were tall mannequins posing in Celtic wraps of blue and green hatched tartans. No one wore kilts. The men facing me all wore boots made of fur facing outward. It didn’t appear inside the ankle-high footwear to insulate their feet from the chilling and muddy ground.

  “Hi,” I said and raised an empty and dirty palm to show them I didn’t carry a weapon.

  “That is Devlin, and Niall, and Gòrdan,” Fiona said.

  Each of the warriors allowed the girl to poke at their midsections while she announced their names. They ignored her and continued to stare at me.

  “I’m Harper,” I said. I didn’t know if bowing was a custom, or were women supposed to curtsy?

  “I see your legs, woman,” Devlin said. “Are you sure you’re not a harpy or a witch?” The jeans were dirty but durable.

  “I say she is a Glaistig,” Niall said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You are fairy folk. Half maiden, half goat,” he said.

  “Nope, I’m just me,” I said. I didn’t want to make any sudden moves.

  “Step aside, lads, let her through,” a voice called from behind the wall of muscular Scots.

  “That is Alasdair,” Fiona said. She launched herself at the young man as he emerged around the others.

  Alasdair caught the girl, hoisted her in his arms. “Come, meet the chieftain.”

  He didn’t look at me as long as I stared at him. Alasdair turned with Fiona in his arms. She was too lanky to carry. I think Fiona was maybe eight or ten years old. Still, Alasdair didn’t mind the additional weight. It was as if the girl weighed nearly nothing.

  The other men, all older than Alasdair, parted for me to follow. I saw the rest of the village, if that’s what accounted for five or six huts of mud and stone with thatched roofs.

  I didn’t know what time it was, and if the dates matched up where I ended up from the time I left, then I suspected it was still May. The sun lost its battle with the heavy blanket of rolling clouds that blotted out the clear sky. The initial raindrops cascaded over the Highland tundra around the hamlet. There were mild winds and heavy humidity in the air. Pockets of campfires sparked from different areas between the stone buildings. I smelled the cooking fires. My belly growled at the aroma of cooked meat. When I heard the lamb again, I cringed at the thought of it waiting around to become dinner.