A Parcel of Rogues

by Josephine March
with Jim Vickers

Chapter 1

The butler walked the softly-lit, paneled hallways of Grey Manor without haste, just as he had done for many years. He carried a bottle wrapped in a white linen napkin. Opening the door to the library, he looked in at the person inside. "Sir, the bottle you requested from the cellar."

"Be good enough to pour my nightcap, Martin."

Sir Angus Fraser stood on the Persian carpet in front of the hearth at the far end of the room. No fire was lit there now, in late June, but this corner of the library still managed to appear comfortable and inviting. Two worn leather club chairs were drawn up to the fireplace, inviting reading or conversation. But tonight, Sir Angus appeared to have eyes only for the portrait of his late wife that hung above the mantel. It had been painted when she was in her early thirties, just before the pregnancy that had torn her from his arms forever. The old man considered it his dearest possession.

In the center of the large room, a Tiffany lamp cast a pool of light on his desk and on the papers he had laid out there. The well-ordered bookcases that lined every available wall space in the room were lost in shadows.

A warm breeze drifted into the room from one of two sets of French doors on the outside wall. Bare of curtains, the doors faced out onto a terrace. During the day, they afforded an enticing view of the gardens and the woods beyond.

Martin crossed to the small liquor cabinet between the windows. He unlocked the cabinet with a key from his pocket, took out a glass, and set it on the polished wooden tray that stood ready on top of the cabinet. Working deliberately, he unsealed and opened the bottle, filled the glass, and placed the new bottle inside the cabinet before re-locking it. In a ritual that was obviously familiar to both men, he then carried glass and tray to his employer and offered it to him. "Will there be anything else this evening, sir?"
.
"No, Martin, that will be all, thank you. Wait. Please close that window on your way out."

"Very well, sir, good night."

"Good night, Martin."

Sir Angus Fraser contemplated his nightcap without his usual pleasure. The twenty-five year old Scotch whisky, distilled in a neighboring village, was the pride of the region and his particular pleasure. He had been enjoying the same smoky, amber potion for nearly 40 years. As he savored the color and aroma of the single malt, he returned to his desk and looked thoughtfully at the papers there before taking a meditative sip. The smoothness of the fine old whisky was lost on him tonight. It burned his mouth and throat like cheap rotgut as he swallowed it.

He set down his glass with a sigh and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. Although his face was covered with a fine sheen of sweat, he felt chilled. Another sip of the whisky brought on a wave of nausea. He noted with distaste that the sweat had collected in his armpits and soaked through his white shirt. Resolutely, he loosened his tie, picked up his pen and signed the last of the documents waiting for him on the desk. He must be catching cold, he mused. It felt as though he had ice water running through his veins. He shivered and wiped his face again as he stood up. He made his way to the safe with some difficulty and secured the papers inside before returning to his desk.

The pain, when it hit him, was indescribably sharp. It radiated through his jaw in a searing flash, culminating in a tremendous pressure in the area surrounding his eyes. Sir Angus tried to reach the telephone but his body, crushed now by the pain, would not cooperate.

Although he was a stout man, Sir Angus slid to the floor soundlessly, unable to utter a word. His vision clouded, and his last few breaths were drawn in agony.

****

A young, dark-haired woman simply clad in a black dress, white apron, and white lace cap made her way slowly down the hallway of the great house. Her sensible, low-heeled black oxfords contrasted sharply with her slim, graceful ankles and very attractive legs. She pushed a carpet sweeper with one hand. A deep plastic tray containing a lambs wool duster and various cleaning solutions stood nearby, and she paused to use these on the light fixtures, occasional tables, and assorted bric-a-brac. Sunlight streamed in through a window at the end of the corridor, illuminating the dust motes she had stirred up as she cleaned.

A discerning person might have noticed that she was late in the first trimester of pregnancy. The fabric of her bodice strained slightly over breasts that were slightly fuller than they had been when the dress was fitted. And the white apron concealed a similar strain across the front of her dress. Still, the light cleaning was not taxing work, and she hummed tunelessly to herself.

When she had completed the area she was working on to her satisfaction, she picked up the plastic tray and moved to the door at the end of the hallway. She knocked softly, listened for a moment, and hearing no answer and no one within, she opened the door.

*****

The simple brick church at the outskirts of the village was filled to capacity. The congregation that gathered there was surprisingly varied. Neighbors of all classes from the village and surrounding countryside, prosperous business associates, servants, and elite visitors from London and the Continent had all come to pay their final respects.

After the brief service, Sir Angus was borne to a simple spot in the churchyard on the shoulders of his two nephews, young business associates, and stalwart lads from the village. It had been his wish to rest here in this peaceful setting, beside his wife, rather than in the elaborate family vault, for this had been one of her favorite places.

The two nephews took their places on either side of a young blonde woman, dressed in deepest mourning. As the minister began to intone the words that would commit Sir Angus to his final resting place, she pressed a white lace handkerchief to her face.

Sir Angus's solicitors, two conservatively-dressed men in late middle age, stood at the fringes of the large crowd. "I say, she's laying it on a bit thick, isn't she?" whispered one.

"It's the daughter-in-law. Ian's wife," replied the other.

"She's Matt O'Reilley's daughter," returned the first. "Danny O'Reilly's sister."

"Good family," replied his companion. "So, how did he die?"

"Heart attack."

"I don't recall his ever having a sick day in the thirty years I've known him."

"Well, you know how it is. Overweight, overworked, over fifty."

The two men regarded each other ruefully and returned their attention to the service.

***
A young, blonde woman clad in deepest mourning sat at the table behind closed doors in the breakfast room. She clasped a white lace handkerchief tightly in one hand. There was an unmarked, cream colored envelope on the table in front of her.

There was a discreet knock at the door.

"Come in."

The door opened slowly to admit the young, dark-haired maid. She was still dressed in black, though this morning she was not wearing her cap and apron. Her dark eyes appeared smudged with fatigue and red from weeping.

"Valerie, you are discharged," said the woman at the table without preamble. "We cannot condone this kind of disgraceful behavior at the Manor. This envelope contains a month's wages." She pushed the envelope across the table. "You may use the telephone in the kitchen to contact your mother if you wish. Albert will drop you off in the village or take you into the city, whichever you prefer. That will be all."

Although Valerie's eyes grew bright with unshed tears, she did not weep. She picked up the envelope, glanced at its contents, and left the room as silently as she had entered.

Chapter 2

Late June had brought heat and humidity to Chicago. The heat shimmered on the sidewalks, gripping the unfortunate citizens in its oven-like heat. Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP, stood at parade rest in front of the Canadian Consulate in his red serge dress uniform, apparently oblivious to the discomfort index. He heard the door open behind him just as he detected the intoxicating scent of Inspector Meg Thatcher.

"Constable, please see me in my office when you leave your post at noon." She turned to re-enter the Consulate without waiting for an answer, leaving a blast of air-conditioning in her wake. Fraser had continued to stand at attention during the short, one-sided interchange. But his peripheral vision took in her soft brown hair and slender figure without the necessity for turning his head. As usual, the sight pleased him.

Fraser was knocking at the Inspector's office door before the clock had finished chiming the hour. "Come in."

He stood at attention in front of her desk. "You wanted to see me, Sir."

"Yes, Fraser." The Inspector sat at her desk, reading a list. Fraser knew that she needed glasses and secretly found it endearing that she refused to wear them in front of other people. The slight nearsightedness lent an occasional softness to her dark eyes.

He gave himself a quick mental shake and concentrated on what she was saying. "As you know," she went on, "I'm taking the 5:30 flight tonight for the law enforcement conference in London. I'll be gone for ten days. I am leaving you in charge during my absence." She handed him a piece of paper. "This is a complete list of phone numbers."

"Thank you, Sir. Any orders?"

The Inspector frowned at her calendar. "The inventory needs to be finalized by Tuesday so that it can be forwarded to Ottawa on Wednesday. It's also our turn to host the monthly law enforcement roundtable. That's at 11:30 next Friday. You will take my place as chair. Familiarize yourself with the reports in these five files before then. Have Turnbull order the usual lunch and refreshments."

"Yes, Sir. Will there be anything else?"

"Nothing. Just keep things running smoothly, and for God's sake, keep Turnbull from burning the place down. Have him finalize the inventory, since he's been working on it. Just remember to double check it. That should keep him out of trouble. That and plenty of sentry duty."

"I've noted some improvement since he started seeing Ms Vecchio," observed Fraser in defense of the younger officer.

"So have I. But I can't help wondering how long it will be before he has a relapse. Dismissed, Constable."

Fraser tucked the itemized list in his pocket as he turned to leave the office.
.Chapter 3

Fraser arrived at the Consulate early Monday morning. He noted with approval that Turnbull was already at his post at the front door, looking suitably unperturbed by the heat.

As he approached his desk, he saw that the morning's mail had been laid out neatly for him. Several manila folders, containing the day's paperwork, were in another pile, while a third pile contained the reports for the Friday roundtable. The fourth and final pile apparently encompassed Turnbull's work on the inventory.

The telephone rang as he sat down. "Canadian Consulate, Constable Fraser speaking."

"Hey, Frase, any chance you could get out of there for a couple of hours?" It was his partner, Ray Kowalski.

"Why, Ray?"

"Mrs. Johansen finally gave a statement."

A look of interest crossed Ben's face. "Ah, good! What did she have to say?" They had been trying to get the elderly landlady to talk to them for almost a week.

"Well, she's given me a couple of pretty good leads. The suspect is still renting from her, but she hasn't seen him in about two weeks. Says he told her he's a salesman and that he travels quite a bit. But she expects him in the next couple of days because his rent is due. He always pays on time and in cash. I'm headed over to the apartment to take another look."

"Interesting." Fraser sighed. "But I can't help you today or for most of the week. The Inspector has left for London, and I can't see the top of my desk for the paperwork. Perhaps after I get off duty..."

"Too bad," replied his partner. "But I'll keep you in the loop. Talk with you later, Fraser."

Fraser sighed again as he hung up and looked at the mail. His partner, Ray Kowalski, was in the middle of an intriguing investigation involving an Internet chat room stalker. He knew that Ray hoped to resolve the case before the arrival of the FBI. But Fraser's duty was clearly to this pile of paperwork. He began working his way through the mail. The third envelope was addressed to him. It bore a Scottish postmark, and the engraved return address read, "Keith & Gunn, Solicitors, Aberdeen." He shook his head. While he did not know anyone in Aberdeen, the communication did not appear to be related to Consulate business, and it was inappropriate to read personal mail while on duty. He laid the letter aside and continued his attack on the official mail.

The ringing of the telephone startled him. He picked it up and spoke briskly, "Canadian Consulate, Constable Fraser speaking."

"Constable Fraser, Inspector Henley here."

Ben knew the man. He was from Ottawa. "Good morning, Inspector Henley. How can I help you?"

"Constable, I'm afraid it's bad news," began the Inspector. "You have a cousin, Sir Angus Fraser of Grey Manor near Aberdeen, Scotland?"

Ben searched his memory. "It's entirely possible, Inspector. I've heard my grandmother say that our family emigrated from that area of Scotland. But she never mentioned any specific relatives." His thoughts strayed to the unopened letter, now lying on the corner of his desk.

"Well, Constable Fraser, we've just received a communication from the firm of Keith and Gunn, solicitors to the late Sir Angus Fraser. I'm sorry to inform you that Sir Angus died of a heart attack two weeks ago. They go on to say that you're named in his will as one of the heirs and as his executor. They request that you be given an emergency leave of absence so that you can be present for the reading of the will and any duties pertaining to the execution of the estate."

Fraser had quietly opened his own envelope. The letter it contained said substantially the same thing. He noted a second, sealed envelope addressed to him in longhand, contained in the larger outer envelope. "Well, Inspector," he replied, "There is a problem. Inspector Thatcher is attending the law enforcement in London. I'm the ranking officer in her absence."

"I am aware of your situation, Constable. We've made arrangements for a senior officer to replace you temporarily in Chicago. Sergeant Buck Frobisher will be there this evening on the 8:30 p.m. flight."

:"Thank you, Sir. I'll arrange to have him picked up at the airport."

"Oh, and Constable. He's bringing a junior officer with him. A Constable...Let's see here. Ah, yes. Margaret Mackenzie. My sympathies on your loss, Constable. And have a successful trip."

"Thank you, Inspector." Fraser reached for the letter again as he hung up the phone. The lawyers had requested him to contact a travel agent in Chicago about his tickets. He dialed the number and, after a few minutes on "hold," was given a confirmation number for a ticket on the 5:30 p.m. flight that same afternoon.

The second envelope was sealed and addressed to him in a firm, smooth but somewhat old-fashioned handwriting. Opening it, he found a letter, also handwritten.

Dear Benton,

I have placed this letter in the hands of my solicitors with instructions not to deliver it until my demise. I presume you have been informed of my death and that you intend to be present for the reading of my will.

Since you will have no idea who I am, permit me to introduce myself to you: I am Sir Angus Charles Fraser, first cousin of your father, Robert Fraser, late of the R.C.M.P. Long ago, your grandfather and my father had a quarrel over something I know nothing about. To prevent more trouble from occurring, your grandfather emigrated to Canada while my father — the elder of the two brothers — stayed in Scotland to carry on the family name and business.

I have always regretted not having known your grandfather personally. I learned over the years that he was a very honorable and forthright person. My own father asked me never to have contact with his brother or any of his family, and I have complied with his request until now.

You are named as heir to the estate not only because you are the closest surviving male relative, but also because of what I have learned of your background. I have kept an eye on you over the years and know that you and your family members are persons of good character, honorable and upright in all your dealings. I see nothing wrong with being a librarian or a police constable even though my father did.

I must implore you to look into my death and ensure that I was not murdered. There are those who would lay hands on my estate -- immoral people who would stop at nothing, including murder, to seize what is not rightfully theirs. My file cabinet is made of oak. It contains two drawers and sits under the table that serves as my desk. I have taped the key to it behind the portrait of my late wife that hangs over the mantel in the library. You will find information there that will assist you in determining if I have been the victim of foul play.

Thank you for honoring my final request. I sincerely regret that we never got to know each other.

Yours faithfully,
Angus Fraser

Fraser read through the letter a second time with a thoughtful air. He wondered what Angus Fraser had been like. And his policeman's instincts were awakened by the fact that he had found it necessary to write such a letter. It seemed like a literary device in a murder mystery.

"Hello, Son."

Ben looked up to see Bob Fraser. Dressed smartly today in his red serge tunic, his father's image stood in front of Ben's desk at parade rest, as though awaiting orders.

"Hello, Dad. How are you?" replied Ben.

"Well, I'm still dead, Benton. Some things never change."

"Dad, did you know about this cousin, Sir Angus Fraser, or about the family in Scotland?"

"Not a thing, Son. Your grandfather never spoke of it." Bob Fraser shook his head and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I do recall hearing stories from other relatives when I was a boy about a rift between your grandfather and someone close. But he would never elaborate. Stubborn as a mule, he was."

"Well, it would appear that I am named in Sir Angus' will as his heir," Fraser went on. "He was also afraid that someone would murder him. He's left me a personal letter to that effect."

"Murdered? Great Scot!"

"Very aptly put, Dad," replied his son. "In any event, I'm headed to Scotland. Since you're here, you might as well know that Maggie is on her way here with Buck Frobisher. Can you stay close to her while I'm gone? Look after her?"

Bob rocked back on his heels with an amused air. "Of course, Son. I want to see how she'll get along with that partner of yours without you around to chaperone."

Ben looked up in surprise. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, Son, you're a bit... That is, don't you think you're a bit overprotective towards her?"

Ben rubbed his eyebrow and wondered what had brought about this turn in the conversation. "Dad, she is a Mountie. She can take care of herself."

"Oh, a bit defensive, are we? She can take care of herself except when you're around," the older man replied with some asperity.

"Not true, Dad. She hasn't had much experience in a big city. When she visits, I merely see to it that nothing happens to upset her."

"Son, give the poor girl a bit of breathing room. I want grandchildren, and by God, if you won't give them to me with that inspector of yours, I'll see to it that your sister meets somebody who will!"

"That's easy for you to say," said Ben, "You're dead." The retort came too late. His father had already left the room.

Fraser sighed and reached for the telephone. He caught up with Ray Kowalski on his cell phone. "Ray, I need a favor."

"Sure, Fraser. Just name it."

"Well, it's rather a complicated favor. I need you to go to the airport twice this evening. Once to drop me off and again three hours later to pick up Sergeant Frobisher and my sister Maggie."

"Maggie's coming to town? Hey!"

"Ray!" Ben interrupted sharply. He quickly filled Ray in on the communication from Ottawa, the contents of the letters, his unplanned trip to Scotland, and the possible murder, finishing with the arrival of Buck and Maggie to take over at the Consulate for him."

"Whatever you need, Fraser, I'll be glad to do it. See you at 3:30."

Fraser's afternoon was spent packing his few belongings and settling the affairs of the Consulate as best he could. When he heard Ray Kowalski's horn, he was ready.

"Turnbull, you're dismissed for the afternoon," he said to the younger officer. "You understand that Sergeant Frobisher will be here this evening."

Turnbull nodded, his blue eyes focusing intently on Fraser so as not to miss a single word.

"Until his arrival, you are to do nothing but work on the inventory. All the preparations for his visit, and that of Constable Mackenzie, have been taken care of. Do you understand?"

Turnbull beamed. "Yes, Sir. I thought I might make some ratatouille."

"Above all, do not cook anything."

"Understood. Have a safe trip, Sir." Turnbull sighed as he re-entered the Consulate. Perhaps if he could not cook, at least he could order something.
Chapter 4

Ben and Ray were quiet for a few minutes as Ray navigated the afternoon traffic to the freeway and headed for the airport. It was Ben who finally broke the silence. "Ray, can I talk with you about something?"

"Sure, Frase. What's on your mind?"

"It's about Maggie. I won't be around to watch over her and I was wondering if you would keep an eye on her for me,"

"Certainly, Fraser. You know I care for her a lot..." Ray cracked a lopsided grin.

"I know, and that is the other thing I wanted to talk with you about. I want to make sure whatever you do with my sister that your intentions and actions are strictly honorable."
.
"C'mon, Fraser! You know I wouldn't hurt her. Besides, with her Mountie training, if I tried anything, Maggie would break me in two!"

"That's true, Ray, she would. Just remember this, Ray," Ben said as he got out of the car, "Hurt her and I'll kill you."

"Understood," Ray shot back with a grin on his face.

"Good, I'm glad we had this talk," said Ben, "Thanks for the ride. I'll see you when I get back." Fraser grabbed his suitcase, borrowed from Turnbull for the occasion, and headed into the terminal.

The check-in formalities were finished quickly, thanks in large measure to his RCMP identification, and Ben found himself in the first-class departure lounge with an hour to kill before boarding. He looked around with interest at his fellow-passengers. Most were obviously business men and women, although there were two middle-aged couples, apparently traveling together, who appeared to be tourists. There was nothing remarkable about any of them.

A plump, redheaded middle-aged woman stood off to one side hissing angrily into her cell phone. She closed it with a snap, turned it off, and slid it into her large carry-on bag. Then she looked at Fraser with a smile and said, "Blessed relief. Out of touch for the next ten hours."

Fraser smiled back at her shyly and continued to survey his fellow-passengers.

When the flight was called, he found himself seated in a window seat of the second row of the first- class cabin. His seat mate was the cell phone lady. Flashing him another smile, she stowed her carry- on bag beneath her seat, her eyes falling on the Stetson he held in his lap.

"Would you like me to put that up here for you?" she asked. "It should be OK. I've just got what's under the seat." She had an accent he couldn't place.

"Thank you kindly." He handed her the hat, and she placed it carefully in the overhead bin.

"Are you a police officer?" she asked as she buckled her seat belt. She eyed his uniform with mild curiosity.

"Yes. Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

"A Mountie! I don't recall ever meeting one of you before. I'm Catherine Browning. My friends call me Cathy." She extended her hand.

"Cathy. A pleasure to meet you. I'm Benton Fraser, and most people call me Ben." The two shook hands. "You're not Canadian, then?"

"Lord, no! Though sometimes people ask me that. I have no idea why." The steward had materialized beside them. "This would be our pre-flight drink order. I'll have a Virgin Mary," she said to the steward. "Make it with Clamato. Extra Tabasco."

"Virgin Mary?" Ben was puzzled.

His seat mate laughed. "You Canadians would call it a Caesar. But for some reason ‘Virgin Caesar' just doesn't have the same ring to it. I seem to crave tomato juice when I'm flying. But it's not a good idea to hit the liquor too hard -- it dehydrates you. So I always ask for the Bloody Mary mix with all the trimmings and no vodka. That way I can have some wine with my dinner."

"I'll have one of those, too," Ben said to the steward. "Also with extra Tabasco."

It took a long time to get everyone onboard the 747, and Ben had finished his drink when the steward came to collect the glasses. He was grateful that his companion for the journey, while agreeable, did not seem inclined to talk too much. He was equally grateful, as he stretched out after they were airborne, that Keith & Gunn had seen fit to send him a first-class ticket.

The early part of the flight was busy. After another round of Virgin Mary's, Ben and Cathy found themselves settling down to their steaks and salads. Cathy took a sip of her Burgundy and sighed with contentment. "You know you'll always get a decent meal on British Airways," she observed.

"Do you fly much?" Ben was enjoying his own meal.

"All the time. I fly for my company. The only reason I'm in first class is that I save my miles and use them for upgrades. Believe me, this trip is slow torture back there in Tourist." She took another sip of her wine. "So what brings you to London?"

Ben paused for a moment, unsure of what to say. "Family business," he finally replied. "I'm going on to Aberdeen."

"Aberdeen. I've been there. Lots of technology companies up that way. Lots of oil," replied Cathy. "You'll like it. It's a beautiful city. And do try to get out into the countryside."

"As far as I know, I'll be staying in the country." Ben took the last sip of his mineral water.

"Good. Well, I hope you'll take some time to see the sights." Cathy settled back and smiled at the steward as he cleared away the main course and replaced it with a slice of chocolate cheesecake and a cup of coffee.

Ben declined both coffee and cheesecake in favor of another glass of mineral water. Cathy fished a paperback out of her briefcase and was soon comfortably absorbed in it. Ben followed suit, pulling out his new copy of "The Farfarers." The cabin lights were soon dimmed, and those who could, slept while those who could not sleep watched movies. Ben looked out of the window as the plane took its leave of North America, somewhere over Newfoundland, and headed out over the open sea.

Chapter 5

At 8:15 that same evening, Ray Kowalski was back at O'Hare, pacing back and forth across the concourse. The quick kiss they had shared before her departure from Chicago had stayed n his memory. Would she remember it too?

"Ray, I appreciate your coming with me to pick up Sergeant Frobisher and Constable MacKenzie."

"That's ok, Rennie. I just wish they would get here. I thought Air Canada was always on time!"

"Oh, they are, Ray." Turnbull looked at his watch. "We're just here too early. The monitor says their flight is on time."

Ray turned to Turnbull."Yeah, well, I hate waiting!"

"Perhaps if you sat down and read a newspaper or a book…"

"Sorry, Turnbull, that's not my style."

After a few more minutes of pacing, the two Mounties emerged from the jetway. The Sergeant was a tall man with silver hair.. "Good evening, gentlemen." He smiled vaguely. "You must be Constable Turnbull and you are…"

"Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago P.D."

"Funny, you don't look the same as the last time as I was here. I seem to remember you as being taller with more forehead."

"Oh, yeah, well, that's a story that takes about two hours to tell, Sergeant," Ray turned to the person he had been waiting for. "Hi, Maggie." His eyes looked into hers, and he could see no one else.

"Don't worry, Sergeant Frobisher. This is Ray Vecchio," she said as she returned his gaze and found what she had seen the last time she was in Chicago.

"Well, then, shall we go collect our luggage and be on our way?" said Buck. "Detective! Constable! Can you hear me?"

He looked at Turnbull "Why does this remind me of two other people? Turnbull, these two are very busy at the moment. Have they met before?"

"Yes, sir, they have. Constable MacKenzie was here a while back on the trail of her husband killers. Along the way, she found out she's Constable Fraser's half-sister."

"Half-sister! But she's..." Buck Frobisher paused for a moment. "Bob Fraser! You devil you!"

"Yes, Sir." Turnbull was at a loss as to what else to say.

"Let's guide them and keep them from harming themselves and be on our way, shall we? Now, about that luggage."
Chapter 6

Ben was awake at the first whiff of coffee brewing early the next morning. His seat mate slept on undisturbed as he stood up, stretched, and made his way to the lavatory. He was thankful that Turnbull had been successful in urging a disposable safety razor on him for the journey; shaving with his straight razor in these small, gently shaking quarters would have been hazardous duty.

Feeling somewhat more comfortable, Ben collected a cup of coffee on his way back to his seat and sipped it as he looked out at the green land spread out far below. The plane had made landfall at Belfast and would be arriving in London at 7:30 local time.

"Good morning!" Cathy was awake. She ran her hands through her mop of graying curls until they stood on end, then squinted at her watch. "Six-thirty. What a waste! I could have slept for another hour." She, too, stood up and disappeared into the lavatory, returning a few minutes later looking much fresher and holding a cup of coffee. The steward brought them orange juice, sweet rolls, and more coffee, and offered to switch on BBC/Omnia, an offer both declined with thanks.

"You know," Cathy said as she finished her coffee. "I tend to forget what day it is on these flights."

"It's Tuesday," Ben smiled. His face grew more thoughtful as he realized that 24 hours ago he'd never heard of Sir Angus Fraser or Keith & Gunn or fortunes or manor houses.

Cathy frowned as she consulted a small personal data assistant. "Gee. I have a whole hour and a half after we land before my appointment. Well, at least I've had what passes for a night's sleep."

The plane touched down. Cathy smiled and shook his hand as the two parted company. "I hope you'll enjoy your visit."

Ben got his Stetson out of the overhead bin and was soon in the terminal--busy even at this early hour. He found himself with two hours to wait for his flight to Aberdeen. He located a bank of telephones, took out his notebook, and attempted to call the Inspector. She was not in her room. Probably at breakfast, he reasoned. A call to Ray's apartment was also unsuccessful. Ben killed a few minutes exchanging his money before settling down with his book to wait for his next flight.

"Howdy."

Ben looked up from his book. "Good morning," he replied. The man who had greeted him was casually dressed. Brown eyes twinkled through silver-rimmed spectacles.

"Mind if I sit here?"

Ben nodded agreeably and made room for the stranger, his backpack, and his laptop.

"So where are you headed?"

"I'm going to Aberdeen," replied Ben, drawn to the stranger's friendly demeanor and soft Texas accent. "How about you?"

"Well, I'm headed for New York and then home. You seem a little nervous."

"Well, this is my first trip overseas," Ben admitted.

"And where's home for you?"

"I'm Canadian. Royal Canadian Mounted Police. But I'm currently assigned to Chicago."

"First time I've ever met a Mountie. I'm retired from the Navy. I was a chief petty officer, and I suppose I've traveled over a million miles. But I never had the opportunity to visit Canada."

"That's a lot of traveling," Ben observed.

"Well, they used to say Join the Navy and see the world. And I still find things in this world that fascinate me."

"A very good attitude," Ben smiled. "And what do you do now?"

"I'm a systems test engineer. I test aircraft. Don't ever worry about traveling in an airplane. Flying is very safe, and we can expect the people in the cockpit to do their jobs just like they expect us to do our jobs. The way I look at it, when it's time to go to heaven, nothing is going to stop the man upstairs from taking you home. In the meantime, why not do the best we can to enjoy our lives and this world?"

"Sounds like a very workable philosophy."

Over the loudspeaker could be heard the announcement of the flight to New York. "That's my flight. I need to get going. I have a grandson to go spoil. A pleasure to meet you, Constable." The man handed Fraser a business card. "Drop me a line sometime. I got a feeling you're one to ride the river with."

"Good bye, Sir. Thanks for the advice, and have a good flight home."

The flight to Aberdeen, when it was finally called, took less than an hour. Ben stretched out, grateful not to have a seat mate. He closed his eyes and attempted to gather his thoughts for the day ahead.
Chapter 7

Ben was startled awake as the plane touched down after the short flight. As he left the plane, he noticed a tall man in late middle age standing to one side holding a hand-lettered placard that read FRASER.

"I'm Benton Fraser," he said as he approached.

"Good morning, Sir. I'm Albert, here to drive you to the Manor."The man seized Ben's suitcase and resisted all of his efforts to retrieve it. "If you'd be good enough to wait here, Sir, I'll bring the car around."

Albert materialized while Ben was setting his watch to local time, 10:50 a.m. He managed, somehow, to hold the door to the terminal open for Ben while simultaneously getting in front of him to open the car door.

Ben stopped for a moment before entering the car. He was unsure now what he had expected, but it certainly had not been a 30 year old Rolls Royce in perfect condition. The car's black paint gleamed in the sunlight as though lit from within, and it was only the somewhat antique body type that indicated to him it had not just been driven from the showroom.

"Thank you, Albert." Ben's face was devoid of any expression as he entered the car. Close friends might have noted a certain expression around his eyes that indicated perplexity. But most of his close friends were across the Atlantic.

Albert drove silently and expertly. Before long they had left the suburbs and were driving through a wooded countryside. Ben knew that Balmoral Castle was somewhere in the outskirts. But Albert was intent on his driving and did not seem inclined to talk. Eventually they turned off the main road onto a smaller road, bordered on both sides with woodlands. The woods thinned on one side of the road, giving way to rolling meadows. Ben made out the figures of several horses in one of the fields. In another mile or two, Albert turned off the road onto a paved lane, surrounded on both sides by tall hedgerows. Ben surmised they were approaching the house, but they seemed to drive on for more than half a mile.

He was almost startled to see the trees give way. He could see the house up ahead. Set in a tangle of gardens, the enormous Gothic Revival house was surrounded on three sides by a large terrace. Ben took the last few moments of his ride to study it. True to its name, Grey Manor was constructed of grey stone. Three stories high, it consisted of a large central structure flanked by two symmetrical wings. Balconies graced several of the rooms on the second floor.

Ben thought that the windows were its best feature. The gracefully pointed Gothic arches were trimmed in a lighter cream-colored stone that also formed a delicate tracery at the top of each arch. The windows and balconies, coupled with the jewel-like greens of the surrounding gardens, prevented the house from appearing dark and forbidding. Instead, it had a gracious, almost whimsical character that appealed even to Ben's practical nature. He could make out thick woods surrounding it on three sides in the middle distance.

Albert stopped the car directly in front of the steps leading up to the terrace. Moving with that disconcerting speed that belied his age, he was out of the car holding the door open for Ben before Ben could finish opening it himself.

Two people, a man and a woman, had materialized on the terrace. Lacking any cues, Ben walked up the steps to approach them.

"I'm Benton Fraser," he said to the pair.

"Welcome to Grey Manor, Sir," said the man. Dressed in a black suit, black tie, and immaculate white shirt, the man seemed to be in his mid-sixties. "I am Martin, the butler." He indicated the young woman standing beside him. She was a fragile blonde in her mid-twenties, wearing a simple gray shirtwaist dress that did little to hide her perfect figure. "This is Flora, the housekeeper," Martin went on. Ben noted that the butler had taken him in from head to toe with a single unobtrusive glance.

"How do you do," said Ben.

Martin opened the wide door and stood holding it. "You will no doubt wish to refresh yourself after your journey, Sir," he said as Ben entered. "Flora will show you to your rooms."

The center hall was illuminated only by two narrow windows to either side of the front door. Even on this fine day they were unable to shed enough light to relieve the gloom. The floor appeared to be of a stone similar to that of the terrace. The room was sparsely furnished in a gothic-revival style that matched the exterior. Ben admired the oak wainscot that gave way to creamy walls; it was this alone that prevented the large area from looking like a dungeon.

Flora had glided silently through the room, and he was startled to hear her voice from the carpeted center staircase. "If you would follow me, Sir," she was saying.

He followed her up the staircase. It divided at a landing, branching off into two side stairways that obviously led to the same place. The landing, paneled in the same oak as the hallway, served as a portrait gallery. Numerous oil paintings of various sizes, ages, and styles were hung here, and he surmised that the mostly-male figures memorialized in them must be relatives--former masters of Gray Manor. Ben suppressed a shiver and followed the young woman up the stairs.

The second-floor hallway seemed to stretch out forever in both directions. Somewhat better illuminated than the downstairs, it served as a continuation of the portrait gallery and was paneled in the same oak that prevailed in the rest of the house. Doorways on either side stood half open or entirely closed.

Flora approached a door on the front, opened it, and stood aside for him to enter. "These are your rooms, Sir," she said in a low, charmingly-accented voice. "They are guest rooms. We haven't prepared Sir Angus' rooms since he..." she broke off.

"Thank you, Flora." Ben smiled at the young woman. She was obviously as shy as he was, and it was almost impossible not to be drawn to her delicate beauty. "This will be fine."

He looked around. Thankfully, his assigned quarters were large, bright, and airy. Situated at a front corner of the main wing, the sitting room boasted a large fireplace at one end. Two comfortable wing chairs and a loveseat were drawn up in front of it, and a low table held fresh flowers. Off to one side he could make out the bedroom, which seemed to feature a high, curtained bed. A fresh breeze drifted through an open French door that led to a balcony overlooking the gardens.

"Will this be satisfactory, Sir?"

"Certainly, Flora. And thank you." Ben ignored the kilted ancestor who stared down at him from the spot above the fireplace mantel.

"Will there be anything else, Sir?"

"I'll need a telephone," Ben replied.

"Downstairs in the library," she replied. "When you've made yourself comfortable, if you would return downstairs, I'll direct you to it." She glanced at her watch. "Luncheon will be served in about an hour, at one o'clock. Would you like me to send the valet, Sir?"

"No thank you, Flora. I'll be down in about a half-hour."

Flora left and Ben went into his bedroom. Unseen hands had already unpacked his suitcase. His clothing was hung in order in a large wardrobe in the corner of the room. Ben moved quickly to the white-and-black tiled bathroom adjoining his sleeping quarters, shrugging out of his belt and tunic as he went.

He showered quickly, delighted to be rid of the grime of his trip. As he re-entered the bedroom, he had a moment of confusion before he located the drawer containing his underwear and socks. He dressed in jeans and a white fisherman's sweater, pulled on his casual boots, and moved quickly to hang up his dress uniform.
Chapter 8

Only twenty minutes had gone by, and Ben's hair was still damp from his shower, when he went back downstairs and looked around the entry hall for Flora.

She arrived in a few moments, smiling shyly. "This way to the library, Sir." He followed her past a large, graceful drawing-room and into one of the side wings. The library was located all the way at the end. "Here you are, Sir." The telephone is on the desk at the center of the room. She withdrew quietly.

The sunlight streamed through the open French door, illuminating the desk and its contents. A rainbow glint caught Ben's eye, and he realized that it was sunlight refracting off an empty glass set on the desk's corner. The glass was clean. It contained no residue of liquid, and as he observed it more closely, he also noted that it did not appear to have any fingerprints, although it was covered with a slight film of dust.

He looked around the room with interest and noted that there was a small bar set between the two pairs of French doors. A polished wooden tray stood on it, also hazed by a slight film of dust. Ben returned his attention to the immaculate but dusty glass. Taking out his clean handkerchief, he lifted it with great care and held it up to the sunlight. His closer examination only served to confirm that it had no fingerprints on it, not even those of Sir Angus who had presumably used it last. The corner of the desk where the glass had rested appeared to be unmarred by any ring of liquid or condensation. It was also free of any dust.

The portrait of Sir Angus' late wife was hanging above the mantel, just as Sir Angus had described it in his letter. Ben's fingers probed deftly behind the frame, quickly locating and removing the key.

The small wooden file cabinet was next to the desk. Working quickly Ben opened it, and after wrapping the glass with great care, he shoved it behind the papers in the top drawer. He glanced at the files and noticed that they were labeled with peoples' names. He knew that his time was limited, so he re-locked the file cabinet and pocketed the key.

Next he went to the telephone and tried several of the Inspector's numbers with no success. He knew that it was six hours earlier in Chicago and that no one would be on duty at the Consulate for at least another hour. But Ray was an early riser. Ben decided to risk a call, assuming that his friend would be preparing for work.

He was a little surprised when Ray picked up the phone on the first ring.

"Hello, Ray"

"Hey, Frase! Sounds like you've arrived. How's everything?"

"I'm not sure, Ray. Let's just say it's interesting."

"Interesting?"

"Well, I told you about the letter. There's a good chance Sir Angus was murdered."

"I hope you're takin' care of yourself."

"Well, let's just say I'm keeping my eyes open. I'm..."

"What was that, Frase?"

"I don't know. A bit of noise on the line, I guess."

Ben was startled to hear a familiar feminine voice from Ray's side of the Atlantic. "Ray, the coffee's ready!"

"Was that Maggie, Ray? What is she doing at your apartment. It's only 6:45 in the morning there!"

"Don't worry, Fraser. Nothing has happened. We just got off a stakeout--the Internet stalker case-- and I invited her over for some breakfast and to freshen up before I drop her off at the consulate."

"Stakeout? What is she doing on a stakeout?"

"Well, since you're not here, she's my temporary partner according to Lt. Welsh. Sergeant Frobisher was cool with it. Besides, it's probably the only way I can keep an eye on her."

"Keep an eye on me!" Maggie's indignant voice rose from the background. "Give me that phone, Ray!"

"Benton Fraser! What's this about keeping an eye on me? Did you ask Ray to look out for me?"

"Well, not in those exact words. I just asked him to help you while I was gone and to keep an eye on you."

"You do remember that I'm as much a Mountie as you are?"

"Yes, I recall that fact."

"Then you should know I'm in the middle of helping Ray apprehend his Internet stalker. We've seen the man, and tonight I'll be acting as a decoy. It's time for you to give up the overprotective brother act. Do I make myself clear?"

"Understood." Ben shook his head in mock despair.

"By the way, Ray is very good at keeping both eyes on me."

Martin entered soundlessly as Ben hung up the phone. "Luncheon is served, Sir. If you would be good enough to follow me."
Chapter 9

In the drawing-room, Ben was surprised to meet his twin.

"Cousin Ben," the man said he approached, holding out his hand. Ben shook it. "I'm Frederick MacDonald, your cousin. But everyone calls me Freddie."

"It's a pleasure to meet you." Ben found himself looking directly into a pair of blue eyes very like his own. Freddie's height, blue eye, dark hair, and fair coloring seemed to mark more than an average family resemblance. But his build was a great deal slighter, as though he seldom worked or exercised. He was dressed in classic gray flannel trousers, blue jacket, and white shirt with a conservatively- striped tie. Ben spared a brief thought for his jeans and sweater.

"How about a glass of sherry before lunch? We're waiting for my brother Ian and his wife, Fiona."

"No sherry for me, thanks," Ben replied. "But I would like a glass of water."

"Coming right up." Freddie busied himself for a moment at a table by the fireplace, returning to Ben with a tall glass of ice and sparkling water. He held a glass of sherry in his other hand. "There you are. Do sit down, Cousin Ben."

Ben chose a seat at the end of a brocade-upholstered Victorian couch. Freddie sat in an armchair facing him and raised his glass. "Welcome to Gray Manor, Cousin."

"Thank you kindly."

"I must say, your existence surprised us," Freddie went on. "Ian and I had no idea until last week that there was an American branch of the family."

"Well, Canadian actually. I'm currently attached as a liaison officer at the Canadian consulate in Chicago."

"That's right. You're a Mountie. A legendary police force, the Mounties." Ben smiled and said nothing as his cousin continued. "How was your flight?"

The two cousins occupied themselves with similar, slightly-strained small talk until they were startled by a feminine voice from the doorway. "Ian, I've found them! They're in here."

A tall, slender blonde woman approached them. Though the day seemed warm to Ben, she was dressed in a pale pink woolen suit with a deep collar of gray fox fur. She took both of Ben's hands in hers as he stood up, and kissed the air at the side of his cheek. She was wearing just a shade too much Joy, Ben decided. And she was a smoker.

"You must be Ian's Cousin Ben. I'm Fiona," she said in a slightly husky voice. She stepped back, shook her sleek, blonde hair out of her gray eyes, and regarded him appraisingly. "Ian, here's Cousin Ben."

They all turned, and Ben looked into the blue eyes of another twin. Ian MacDonald was approaching forty, though he still retained the full head of dark curls that seemed to bless most of the men of the family. Unfortunately, he had allowed himself to run somewhat to fat, although his well-tailored gray suit did a good job of concealing the fact. He watched Ben's face warily as he held out a clammy hand for Ben to shake.

"Sherry, Fiona?" Freddie called out from the table by the fireplace.

"Not now, Freddie. I'm starved. Let's go in to lunch."

Fiona led the way through a smaller parlor and into the dining room. Identical in size and proportion to the library, it was located at the end of the other wing. But where the library had been sparely and gracefully furnished, this room seemed to suffer from a sort of rococo Italianate exuberance that made Ben feel a little tired. Every article of furniture was gilded, and every table seemed to be supported by naked, chubby cherubs. He slipped into his place at the side of the table opposite Freddie as Ian and Fiona took their places at the head and foot.

"I must say, Fiona," began Freddie as Martin brought in the soup. "I can't eat in this room without being overcome by your brilliant aptitude for interior design."

"Oh, do be quiet, Freddie." Fiona smiled at her brother-in-law, but her gray eyes were hard. "So, Ben. How was your flight?"

The meal proceeded at a leisurely pace. Ben listened attentively to the small talk among his cousins and fielded the occasional question that came his way. The lack of sleep bothered him slightly, and he hoped fervently that he would be spared the jet lag he had heard so much about.

He shook himself back to reality as he heard Fiona's husky voice say, "So, Freddie, who will you be freeloading off of next week?" He had noted her tendency for sweetly acid sarcasm all through the meal. It seemed to be directed in equal measure at her husband and her brother-in-law.

"Well, Fiona, I thought I'd head back to London for a bit," drawled Freddie. "And what about you? When's your next shopping spree in Milan?"

Fiona gave him a reptilian look and turned her attention to Ben.

"So, Ben, where exactly are you from in Canada?" she began. "Montreal is a charming city. Or perhaps Toronto? I've never actually been there," she said dismissively.

"I was born and raised in the Northwest Territories," Ben replied.

"What's that near?" She fixed him with the same reptilian gaze she seemed to use on everyone else at the table.

"Well, it's not near much of anything but itself." Ben searched for some way to communicate with this exasperating woman. She had not impressed him as particularly stupid when they met. But her obtuseness defied description. "Parts of it are above the Arctic Circle," he went on as though that would explain everything.

"That's right, Fiona," Ian broke in. "Ben's branch of the family emigrated to Canada at the time of the famous Gold Rush."

"Gold Rush?" Fiona looked at Ben with renewed interest. "I remember reading about that. Were any of your relatives involved in the Gold Rush?"

"None that I know of." Ben set down his fork. "Although my Uncle Tiberius, on my mother's side, said we had relatives who owned a saloon in Dawson City about that time."

"Remember, Fiona, they panned for the gold in the Klondike. They didn't dig for it," remarked Freddie.

"Dawson City," echoed Fiona faintly, ignoring Freddie's remark. "Ah. Here's Martin with the coffee."

Ben accepted the coffee gratefully. As he did so, he noticed Freddie's eyes twinkling at him over the rim of his cup.

As they all stood up thankfully at the end of the meal, Freddie glanced at his watch. "It's almost 2:30, Cousin Ben. I know you must want a bit of a nap after your trip. Tea's at five. Why don't we plan to take a little stroll afterwards? I'll give you the Cook's Tour."

"I'd like that. Thanks."

Fiona looked pointedly at Ian before turning to Ben. "Ian would love to join you as well," she said. "Wouldn't you, Ian? Can you find your way upstairs, Ben?"

"I'll manage, thanks," replied Ben. And with that he fled gratefully to his rooms.

Ben sat on the edge of his bed and pulled his boots off. His cousins were an interesting group, he thought tiredly. There seemed to be plenty of motivation for murder just below the surface of each of them, and he would mine it thoroughly. But a nap was definitely called for. With that discipline that had stood him in good stead so often, he reminded himself to awaken in two hours and was instantly asleep. But his dreams were anything but disciplined. As he so often did, Ben dreamed of Meg Thatcher.

Chapter 10

Ben was awake almost precisely two hours after he fell asleep. The sun was still relatively high at this late hour, reminding him of just how far north he was here in Scotland. There would be a few more hours of daylight. He splashed his face with cold water, pulled on his boots, and headed back downstairs. It was a little after 4:30 p.m.

In the drawing-room, where his cousins were gathering, Ben noted with amusement that jeans seemed to have become the uniform of the day. Everyone sported a pair, though whether this was their normal attire or they had all decided to keep him company, he could not tell.

Ian's jeans were correctly faded to a precisely fashionable shade. He wore them with a white dress shirt, a blue blazer, and a pair of soft Italian loafers. Freddie looked a little more comfortable in a pair of jeans that had actually faded from wear, worn with a softly faded but very good knitted golf shirt. His feet were encased in a pair of deck shoes, equally soft and worn. Fiona's jeans were new and black, and Ben wondered idly if she planned to sit down in them. She sported a soft, pink midriff- tickling mohair sweater that Ms. Vecchio would have envied, and a pair of high-heeled boots.

What was it about her that bothered him, Ben wondered. He finally concluded it was her hair and coloring. She reminded him of a taller, harder-looking version of Eve Kendall, the heroine of "North by Northwest." He suppressed an involuntary shiver as he recalled the last time he had seen the film.

Fiona looked at him out of one side of her hair as she approached the table where the tea was laid out. "Milk and sugar, Ben?"

"Thank you kindly." Ben sipped the restorative brew appreciatively, but he ignored the assortment of cookies and small sandwiches. The drawing-room was as beautifully proportioned as all the other rooms he had seen, and it was also graced with a pair of French doors that overlooked the terrace. Ben stood in front of the fireplace, which was sheathed in white marble. It featured yet another portrait of a dark-haired, blue-eyed, kilted ancestor. This one seemed to date back to the middle of the 19th Century, for the subject had a fine set of Victorian mutton-chop whiskers and leaned on a gun. Two spotted retrievers and several dead grouse completed the scene.

"Ever do a bit of shooting, Cousin Ben?" Freddie asked from his armchair.

"I've been known to." Ben could not help but think of the elk, moose, and caribou, brought down to provide food for the long winter.

"You'll like it here in the fall, then," replied Freddie. "We make up several shooting parties during the course of the season."

"What kind of game do they go after in Canada?" Ian was obviously determined to be part of the conversation.

"Well, where I come, it's mostly big," Ben replied. "We hunt a lot of elk and caribou during the good weather in order to have meat over the winter."

Fiona shuddered delicately. "Couldn't we talk about something else?" she asked plaintively from her place at the tea table.

"Right. We all know you prefer to stalk your prey indoors," replied Freddie.

Fiona chose to ignore him. "More tea, Ben?" While the men were talking about hunting, Fiona had also made good use of her time, studying Ben over the rim of her teacup from her seated vantage point. She had decided that he did far more justice to his faded, comfortable jeans than either of his two cousins. At one point, Ben seemed to have noticed her frank appraisal. But he gave no sign.

"Now, how about that walk, Cousin Ben?" asked Freddie as he set down his cup and saucer. Ian sprang up from his seat to join them.

"Only a half-hour, Ian," called Fiona. "Remember we have theater tickets."

The three men left the house by the front door, passing Martin in the entryway. They stood for a moment on the broad terrace, enjoying the late afternoon sunlight as Ian lit a cigarette.

"A half-hour doesn't give us much time," remarked Freddie.

"Which way is the village?" asked Ben.

Freddie pointed vaguely off to his right. "Well, you can get there from the main road by turning right at the end of the lane," he replied. "Or you can pick up an old road through the woods behind the stables, over that way." Again he pointed to the right.

"Stables?" Ben regarded his cousin with interest.

"Yes," interjected Ian. "The old boy's gotten into raising racehorses in a big way over the past five years or so. He was in the process of adding some new breeding stock to enhance the bloodlines."

"The stables are quite large," added Freddie. "He also kept horses to ride for pleasure."

"And how did he do in the racehorse endeavor?" asked Ben.

"Well," drawled Freddie. "In my opinion he made rather a poor start of it."

"And what would you know about it?" interrupted his brother impatiently.

"I know enough not to gamble away money I don't have."
Ian turned on his heel and re-entered the house without another word.

"Care for a stroll in the gardens, Cousin Ben?" Freddie continued as though nothing had happened.

Ben nodded silently, apparently taking no notice of the brothers' interaction. He followed Freddie off the terrace and across the lawn, and the two men entered the garden and began their leisurely tour in a companionable silence.

"Freddie, I've been wondering," said Ben finally. "Sir Angus was a Fraser, but you and Ian are MacDonalds."

"Ah," Freddie laughed. "It's not difficult at all. We're the grandsons of a younger sister. That means that you and I are second cousins, actually."

"Understood."

"We had no idea that we had anybody in Canada," Freddie went on. "There was some sort of quarrel between the two brothers, George and Angus. George left for China--not Canada--and apparently started up your branch of the family at some point along the way. Angus stayed here and became the father of our Sir Angus. Our grandmother, Sarah, had long since been married off and stayed out of the whole mess."

"It must have been quite a disagreement."

"Must have been."

Chapter 11

As Ben and Freddie left the garden, Ben saw that the car had been brought around. Albert stood next to it waiting like a patient statue. Martin stood inside to open the door for them as they entered.

Inside, they met Ian and Fiona coming downstairs. Ian was dressed in evening clothes. Fiona wore a silk gown in the pink she seemed to favor. Her shoulders were draped with a pale mink stole, and she exuded clouds of Joy.

"Well, this is certainly a change from your deep mourning," Freddie observed drily.

Fiona chose to ignore him. She favored Ben with a dazzling smile as she continued her stately progress down the stairs. "Come on, Ian," she called over her shoulder. "We don't want to be late." Ian grimaced and followed her out of the house without saying a word.

Freddie, who had been speaking quietly to Martin, came over to Ben. "I have an engagement this evening, too," he began. "Though nothing as elegant as theirs. I've had a word with Martin. Would you mind terribly having supper in your rooms this evening?" He smiled apologetically.

"Not at all," Ben replied. "I still have some catching-up to do after the trip."

"Good." Freddie clapped him on the shoulder. "They'll bring it up around eight. We have an early wake-up call in the morning — about seven, I'd say. We need to be at the solicitors' by ten. Reading of the will."

"I wouldn't want to miss that," replied Ben. "Enjoy your evening."

He turned down the hall in the direction of the library as Freddie went upstairs. The room was in twilight now, but Ben's eyes were sharp enough to make out the file cabinet. He found to his relief that the glass was undisturbed. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he pulled out the files marked "Freddie," "Flora," and "Ian" and slid them beneath his sweater.

As he turned to go, he stopped to call the Inspector again. By now she would have communicated with someone at the Consulate and would know that they were on the same side of the ocean. But again, none of the numbers he tried worked.

As Ben entered his room, his eye was drawn to headlights in the driveway just below. Another car, probably an MG, was parked in the driveway with its motor running. As he watched, Freddie came down the terrace steps, got in, and drove off. The car stopped just at the edge of line of trees that edged the lane. Ben shaded his eyes from the light in his room and strained to adjust them to the darkness outside. A blonde woman emerged from the trees. Freddie got out and assisted her into the small car. The last thing Ben saw was the car's taillights as it disappeared into the trees.

At 8 p.m. his tray was brought up by a petite, red-haired maid. She smiled at him as she set out his supper on the table by the fireplace. "Will there be anything else, Sir?"

"No thank you, this will be fine." Ben could not help but smile back.

"Just ring when you're finished with your tray, Sir, and I'll be right around to collect it." She indicated a bell rope hanging by the mantel, smiled, and left.

Ben found that he was hungry. The lamb chop, peas, and new potatoes took the edge off his appetite, but he found himself thinking longingly of pemmican. He avoided the tapioca pudding. He seemed to be moving into a world of finger sandwiches and petits pois, and he was fairly certain he didn't like it.

The sprightly maid came back to collect the tray, and Ben settled back in his chair, wondering what they were doing in Chicago. He rubbed the fatigue from his eyes and pulled the folders out of their hiding place behind the chair cushion. Somewhat wearily, he began to read.

The file marked "Frederick MacDonald" contained an account. There was a promissory note, signed by Freddie to Sir Angus, for 10,000 pounds. A record of the account was written out in longhand on a sheet of simple, old-fashioned accounting paper. It recorded regular payments — amounts and check numbers — on a consistent monthly schedule, never varying by more than three or four days. Until earlier this year. The payments had apparently stopped in February, although there was still a substantial amount owed.

The file marked "Ian MacDonald" was thicker. It contained a neatly typed, bound document labeled ‘PROPOSAL." The title page had been lined through with a large X, obviously made with a fountain pen. Across the X the same pen had scrawled the word "RUBBISH!" Ben recognized the clear, firm handwriting as very similar to that contained in Sir Angus' letter to him. He made a mental note to do a closer comparison before flipping idly through the document. It seemed to be requesting research and development money for market research into the feasibility of introducing synthetic fibers (derived from petroleum) into some of the traditional Scottish textiles, such as the Harris tweed. Ben shook his head in disbelief. Rubbish, indeed. The amount requested was fifty thousand pounds.

He laid the proposal aside and picked up the third file, marked "Flora." This folder contained a variety of documents of different sizes. There were bills, receipts, and reports from a local secretarial school that Flora had attended for about eighteen months. She had done well in all her subjects, and one of the documents was a certificate of completion. The quarterly statements were marked "paid" in Sir Angus's handwriting, and a check number was written on the face of each. Each also had a canceled check neatly attached to it.

Interesting, thought Ben. Sir Angus had assisted Flora through secretarial school. Why was she working here as a housekeeper? He continued to flip through the file. Next was a letter from the university in Aberdeen, congratulating Flora on her admission as a student for this fall's term. Ben rubbed his eyebrow and kept reading. There was a statement from the university with no notation that it had been paid, and another letter requesting immediate payment in order to preserve Flora's standing as a student for the fall term. That one was dated June 1, just three weeks ago and a week prior to Sir Angus's death. Ben frowned and closed the folder. As he began to lay it aside on the table, a small piece of paper fluttered down.

The name "Harriet Malcolm, M.D." was engraved at the top of the paper, together with an address and phone number in the small nearby village. Scrawled on the paper in an almost illegible hand was another name: "Howard Law, FRCOG" with an address and telephone number in Aberdeen. A local doctor had referred someone — Flora? — to an obstetrician/gynecologist in Aberdeen. How and why had Sir Angus been a party to such an intimate transaction?

Chapter 12

"I've sent for the car, Cousin Ben," ventured Freddie. Ben stood next to Freddie on the busy street outside the office building that housed the firm of Keith & Gunn, Solicitors.

"Thank you kindly." Ben's eyes never left the traffic. It was almost as though he were still standing on sentry duty outside the Consulate. His outwardly calm demeanor concealed an inner turmoil. Albert brought the car around the corner, and Ben and Freddie were soon settled into the back for the drive back to Gray Manor — or home now, Ben thought grimly.

He turned to Freddie suddenly. "I've left my fountain pen upstairs. I'm going to go up and get it. Can you and Albert wait here just a minute?"

"Certainly."

Ben did not stop for the elevator but took the stairs to the fifth-floor solicitors' offices two at a time. "I'd like to see Mr. Keith," he said to the startled receptionist.

Keith, the solicitor, was just rounding the corner and heard the conversation. "How can I help you, Mr. Fraser? Would you like to step back into the office?"

"Thank you kindly." Mr. Keith held the door for Ben and followed him into the office. As the door closed, Ben said "I'd like for you to check on the matter of some payments Sir Angus may have made to the university here in Aberdeen. I've found bills, but no checks or receipts."

"That's a simple matter," replied the solicitor. "I'd like to call on you privately at the Manor in any case to discuss some of the details of the inheritance." He glanced at his agenda. "Would tomorrow afternoon, say around three be convenient?"

"Yes," replied Ben as they left the office. "Thank you kindly. I'll see you at three."

As Ben left the outer offices, Mr. Keith was joined by his associate, Mr. Gunn. "I like that young man," observed Keith. "He's got backbone." His partner nodded.Chapter 13

Ben emerged to find Freddie already settled in the car. Albert was waiting, as usual, to open the door for him.

"Did you get your pen?"

Ben held it up. "Yes. It was my father's. I would hate to lose it."

The two were silent for a few minutes.

"Quite a bit for you to take in over the course of a single morning," observed Freddie as they made their way through the lunch-hour traffic. "I must say, it came as quite a shock to Ian and Fiona." He chuckled.

Ben turned to look at his cousin. Though he was normally a good judge of character, his instincts seemed to have deserted him in the case of Freddie. He did not know what to make of this man, so similar in appearance to himself. At least Ian had tried his hand at business. Freddie did not appear to have any visible means of support.

Freddie laughed again. "A week ago you didn't even know you had a family over here, much less a house and a business. Now you're going to have to find a way to deal with the lot of us. I don't envy you."

"Do you think Ian and Fiona will be back at the house this afternoon?" ventured Ben.

"I wouldn't count on it. They're holed up somewhere licking their wounds. They'll be back when they've come up with a plan."

Ben's face took on a grim cast as he thought over the morning's events and the family's reactions to them. "And what about you?" Ben asked. "Will you be able to manage on what Sir Angus has left you?" With his simple habits and small salary, Ben regarded the money settled on Ian and Freddie as a not-so-small fortune. But he was beginning to learn that the term "fortune" was relative.

"Oh, I expect so," replied Freddie vaguely.

"Do you stay at the Manor much?" asked Ben.

"Stuck in the country with Sir Angus? Good God, no! I live in London most of the time," replied his cousin. "I get up here several times a year for very, very short visits; just long enough to let the old bastard know I'm still alive. I also manage to spend a fair amount of my time visiting friends. It's one of the ways I manage to be...careful."

The two men passed the rest of the ride in silence as Ben turned the morning's events over in his mind. To his own astonishment and that of his two cousins, Sir Angus had left Ben the vast majority of his substantial estate. In addition to Gray Manor, Sir Angus had large holdings in North Sea oil. As heir, Ben would be expected to manage both home and fortune. Ian and Freddie had each received the income from what appeared to Ben to be generous trusts.

Ben was puzzled by his late cousin's treatment of the butler, Martin. The two men had been children together at Gray Manor, and Martin had been in service to the family for his entire life. Ben was surprised that the old man had not been given the income from a trust similar to Ian and Freddie's. He assumed there was something about the matter in the file marked "Incidental Bequests" where he could deal with it later. At least if any wrongs had been done, it would now be in his power to correct them.

As they turned off the highway, Ben spoke again. "Does Flora have any long-term connections to Gray Manor?"

Freddie laughed heartily. "Good Lord! She's Martin's granddaughter. Lived here since she was a girl." Ben regarded him with astonishment. "The servants don't talk about themselves much, I suppose," Freddie continued as they turned into the lane.
Chapter 14

There was no sign of Ian and Fiona back at the Manor. Ben left Freddie in the hall and went to his room, where he exchanged his suit for jeans, boots, a flannel shirt, and his Stetson. Next he went down the back stairs to the kitchen, where he foraged for two apples and some cheese. He left through the back door and shortly found himself in a large, formal herb garden. Culinary and ornamental herbs of every variety imaginable had been pruned, clipped, and otherwise tortured into growing in an elegant formal knot pattern bordered by gravel pathways. The herb garden occupied almost the area of a city block, after which it gave way to the surrounding woods. Ben knew that the stables were somewhere off to the side. He walked purposefully down the path, rounded the corner of the house, and entered the extensive gardens that fronted Gray Manor.

Though he had found the flower gardens too formal to be comfortable, Ben admitted to himself that they were in their glory in late June. He strolled aimlessly, enjoying the peaceful surroundings. Fragrant old roses seemed to be everywhere, together with a profusion of spring flowers artfully planted so as to entice the wanderer to go further. Over it all, there was the barely detectable tang of the ocean air. Ben found that for the first time since his arrival he was able to empty his mind and relax, focusing only on shape, color and scent. As he rounded a corner, he barely avoided running into an old man crouched on the pathway.

The man got to his feet slowly, turned, and looked sharply at Ben from beneath shaggy eyebrows. He held a trowel in an arthritic hand. "You'd be the new cousin from America," he said sharply.

"Well, Canada, actually. I'm Benton Fraser," replied Ben. "And you are..."

"Edwin. Chief groundskeeper here for over fifty years. You'd be the heir, then."

"I guess so. News travels fast." There was an awkward pause which Ben felt compelled somehow to fill. "The gardens are beautiful. What is it you're doing with those delphiniums?"

Edwin looked startled for a moment, probably surprised that the interloper would know a delphinium from a geranium. "Weeding ‘em. Strange weed to find growing in my delphiniums."

Ben looked at the weeds, then leaned forward for a closer examination. "I know this plant. It grows in the Rocky Mountains. It's aconite."

"Aye. The common name is Monkshood," replied Edwin with a grudging respect. "And I've got no idea how it came to be here."

"Not a native species?"

"Well, it's found in the woods, though it's not common. But it's a queer thing to find it springing up in a cultivated garden."

"What else can you tell me about it? I'm not entirely familiar with it," Ben went on.

"It's a noxious weed," replied Edwin. "In the old days they called it wolfsbane. All parts of it are a deadly poison, both to men and to cattle. Not a plant I want in my flower borders. In the old days they made a nerve medicine out of it. But it takes a great deal of processing to do that."

"You seem to know a lot about it."

"You can't be a gardener all your life without learning something about plants," Edwin replied with some asperity. "I learned about herbs and medicinal plants from my grandmother when I was a boy, sixty years and more ago. Any rate, it's coming out of my border." He removed his tweed cap, wiped his balding head with a handkerchief, and replaced the cap.

"Edwin, I'd like you to leave the plants there for the time being," said Ben after a moment.

"Leave them there? As I said before, this is a noxious weed."

"You'll be able to remove them eventually. I just don't want them moved now. And thank you kindly," Ben called to Edwin's retreating back.

After the old groundskeeper disappeared around a corner, Ben stood for a long moment examining the plants and their neighboring delphiniums. Both plants were tall and spiky, he noted, and both had blue flowers. He plucked a few stems and leaves of the monkshood and wrapped them in his handkerchief before turning down the path that would lead him through the woods and, eventually, to the stables.

Chapter 15

Ben relaxed immediately among the comforting, familiar sights and smells of the stables. He had seen a number of the horses out in a pasture as he and Freddie returned to the Manor at noon. But there were two or three in their stalls here.

A high-pitched whinny and snort, followed by the sound of sharp hooves striking a wooden door, drew Ben's attention to the other end of the large space. He found a fine-looking black stallion in the last stall. The brass plaque on the door read "Firebrand." Firebrand was not pleased with the present company or with his accommodations. He reared and snorted again in his ample stall, showing the whites of his eyes and giving Ben a sidelong look.

Ben looked at his new acquaintance steadily and said quietly, "Hello, Firebrand. You're a good- looking fellow, aren't you?"

The horse was not taken in at all and continued to eye Ben disdainfully, occasionally asserting his very menacing hooves. Ben, undeterred, kept up a steady stream of flattering comments in a quiet voice, never taking his eyes off Firebrand's.

"He's a handful, all right," said a voice behind him.

Ben turned to find a jeans-clad young man who looked a great deal like a younger version of Ray Kowalski. They shared the same experimental dark blond hair and the same edgy look.

"Edwin MacKay," said the young man. "I manage the stables here."

"Benton Fraser. Are you any relation to..."

"He's my granddad," replied the younger man, laughing. "I take it you've met him." Edwin seemed as unimpressed as his grandfather by Ben's new position in life, although he was a great deal more agreeable.

Both men turned to regard Firebrand, who seemed unhappy at being ignored. Edwin whistled, and the horse quieted immediately. "Sir Angus brought him in here from Ireland as part of his breeding program," Edwin went on. "He's not broke yet, nor likely to be anytime soon, I guess."

"Well, I suspect he and I will be seeing a lot more of each other eventually," said Ben, smiling.

"That's right. You're a Mountie." Edwin looked at the hat.

"Well, yes, I am. But we're not mounted any more, not really. And haven't been since long before I joined the Force. I just happen to like horses."

He turned to Firebrand and spoke to him again. "I don't suppose there would be any point in my offering you an apple, would there?" This elicited a tantrum.

Edwin laughed again. "There's no doubt in his mind as to who's the real lord of the Manor."

"Tell me something," said Ben. "Which horse did Sir Angus ride?"

"That'd be Gus," replied Edwin leading the way back to another ample stall with a similar brass nameplate. "He's here."

Gus turned out to be a tall bay gelding. He regarded Ben with interest and accepted an apple, shaking his head courteously when he had finished the treat.

"He's a lot friendlier, as you can see," observed Edwin. "He misses Sir Angus. They were out together almost every day."

"I'd like to take him out for a ride."

A short time later, Ben and Gus left the stable and took a country lane that meandered along between the woods and fields at the edge of the estate. Ben let the horse take an easy pace, content to relax and enjoy the countryside. Rolling pastures housed horses, sheep, and a few dairy cattle. The landscape was entirely rural, and he did not meet a single car or pedestrian. The afternoon sun shone brightly in a sky with only a few clouds.

He allowed his thoughts to run to the morning's events. The situation was obviously far more complex than he had ever imagined it could be. The business would require a firm and constant hand at the helm, and though Ben had no doubt he could master it, he knew that the skills required were substantial. The Manor itself was another question. Sell it out of the family? Turn it over to Freddie? Or Ian and Fiona? Ben grimaced at the thought.

His conversation with the elder Edwin had given him another cause for disquiet. The crotchety old man had certainly been forthcoming with information about the misplaced plant. He had also been very eager to get rid of it. The contents of Sir Angus' personal letter were never far from Ben's thoughts, just as the letter itself never left his person. He instinctively reached for the back pocket of his jeans, where it was carefully folded away.

Ben noticed that the quiet lane was about to intersect the main road. He had no wish, as yet, to meet his new neighbors. So he and Gus turned and rode back down the lane to the stable. He waved Edwin aside and took care of Gus himself. When the horse had been rubbed down and settled comfortably in his stall, Ben returned for a final conversation with Firebrand. The horse seemed to recognize him this time, although he was still aggressive. Ben spent a few more minutes in quiet, one- sided conversation with him before returning to the house through the back door.

He met Martin in the butler's pantry in the corridor that led to the dining room. The old man appeared to be doing something that involved a great deal of silver flat wear. He eyed Ben with what could only be described as distaste. "Family uses the front door," he observed sourly.

"I just came from the stables," replied Ben. "I've been riding."

"Doesn't matter. The family uses the front door. Dinner's at eight," he went on. "The family dresses for dinner. And by the way, you've missed your tea." Martin turned away dismissively and went back to his work without another word.
Chapter 16

Upstairs, Ben looked at his watch and found that it was after six o'clock. Time for a shower, he thought, and a quick run-through of some of the documents the solicitors had given him this morning. There was also the question of what to wear for dinner. He shook his head as he headed for the bathroom.

A short time later he emerged clad in the red long johns that served him as both pajamas and bathrobe. He went to the armoire and studied its contents. There, hanging neatly, were his dress uniform, the gray suit he had worn this morning, several shirts, most of them flannel, and several pairs of jeans. He shook his head. Suit or uniform? He shook his head. "Dress for dinner" certainly meant black tie. Uniform, he decided suddenly. After all, he was still a member of the Force. He reached for his boots, knowing they would require some attention.

Unseen hands had cleaned, brushed, and polished them in his absence until they would pass the most rigorous inspection. Ben's blue eyes were troubled. A small matter, he told himself. Yet he had been taking care of his own boots for more years than he cared to count.

The room suddenly felt close and stuffy, and he went to open the glass doors that led to the balcony. His room faced the front of the house, and he could see the driveway and the gardens beyond. A small sports car — a Mercedes, he noted — was now parked in the drive. Ian and Fiona had apparently just gotten home.

Further away, he could make out two figures in the garden, concealed by the tall shrubs that surrounded them. One, tall and slim, was obviously a male. The other was a blonde woman whose fair hair gleamed in the last rays of the sun. They sat together on a bench near the delphiniums where he had met the older Edwin this afternoon. As he watched, the two heads drew closer together, obviously sharing a kiss.

He turned away with a sigh and picked up the folder marked "Miscellaneous Bequests." He had about an hour before the family would gather in the drawing room for cocktails.

Precisely an hour later, Ben was descending the oak staircase that led to the center hall. As he entered the drawing room, he found Freddie, Ian, and Fiona seated comfortably sipping on their drinks. The conversation stopped as they turned to look at him.

"Good evening, everyone," said Ben.

Freddie was the first to answer. "Evening, Cousin Ben. Name your poison." He got to his feet and headed for the liquor cabinet. "Whisky and soda? Gin and tonic?"

"Thanks. I'll have just the tonic water, please, with a twist."

Fiona threw her husband an amused glance, then looked at Ben appraisingly. "What is it, Ben? You're not allowed to drink while in...what's that uniform again?"

Ben accepted his drink from Freddie and settled into a chair. "Royal Canadian Mounted Police. And in answer to your question, I don't drink as a rule. I find it clouds the intellect." He smiled easily at Fiona.

"Well," replied Fiona in a waspish tone, "I suppose we should be honored to have a... What did you say your rank was, Ben?"

"Constable."

"I suppose we should be honored to have a constable in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police as part of the family," drawled Fiona. "Freddie, how about a refill here?"

When Freddie had replenished Fiona's drink, she raised her glass. "A toast! I propose a toast to Sir Angus." She paused. "He died old and alone, just as he deserved."

"Come on, Fiona," replied her husband. "Let's go get some dinner to soak up all that liquor you've had."

Dinner, when they finally went in, dragged on relentlessly. It was clear to Ben that Ian and Fiona had not recovered from the shock dealt by the will. It was also clear that the veneer was off, and that while the pair did not get along well with each other, they were united in their disdain for him.

Freddie regarded the proceedings in amused silence until he'd had enough. "So, Ian? You never said how you'd done at Ascot. Make your usual killing?"

Ian threw his brother a poisonous look and said nothing. Fiona could not resist the opening. "Yes, Ian. Tell them how you did. How much of Dad's money did you lose this time around?"

Ian took a sip of wine and said nothing.

"The answer to your question, Freddie," said Fiona, "is that he lost his shirt. Again." She subsided into her own wine. The meal ended shortly thereafter.

Chapter 17

When he was finally able to excuse himself, Ben was grateful for the solitude of the library. It was ten- thirty, more than past time to contact the Inspector. He was relieved to hear her voice on the other end.

"Inspector Thatcher."

"Inspector, it's Constable Fraser," he began.

"Yes, Fraser. I've been expecting to hear from you. I've been in touch with Sergeant Frobisher. How is everything going?"

"I feel a crime may have been committed here," began Ben without preamble. "There's a very real possibility that my uncle was murdered."

"Murdered? Have you contacted the local authorities?"

"No. I have very little to go on as of yet." Ben related the entire story to the Inspector in a few words, beginning with the letter from his uncle, moving on to Ian and Fiona's tattered finances, and concluding with the aconite hidden among the delphiniums.

"Was an autopsy performed on your uncle?"

"No. At the family's request. He was a prime candidate for a heart attack," Ben went on. "Over sixty, overweight, and a real Type A personality. But besides Ian and Fiona, there are a number of other people here who might have wanted to get rid of him. The butler and his granddaughter, for example. And perhaps several of the other servants. Sir Angus was less than generous with them in his will, so there could be some real ill feeling."

"Ill enough to make them want to murder him?"

"Unsure as yet. I'm still sifting through all of this."

"Well, Fraser, if you could use a hand, just say the word. The conference ends Friday at noon. I could be persuaded to skip the final keynote speech and fly up there Friday morning. I had plans to take the weekend off anyway."

"Inspector, I would welcome your help. There's a flight out of Heathrow at 9:30."

"I'll rent a car at the airport when I get there," replied Meg. "Now, how did the reading of the will go?"

Ben had hoped for a little more time before telling her. "Well, Sir Angus has pretty much left everything to me. There are trusts for the two cousins, and some miscellaneous bequests for a few people, but aside from those, I'm the heir. That includes not only the house and grounds, but also his business."

"What business was he in?"

"Oil." replied Ben slowly. "It's a substantial business, Inspector. I have a number of decisions to make."

Meg paused a long moment before her reply. But when it came, it was brisk. "I imagine you do, Constable. Perhaps we can find time to discuss it over the weekend."

"Thank you, Inspector. We'll look for you on Friday."

"I'll be there. Meantime, watch yourself, Constable." And without waiting to say goodnight, she hung up.Chapter 18

Meg Thatcher sighed as she looked down at the phone. The murder concerned her, certainly. But Fraser was a seasoned officer. She had no doubt at all that he was perfectly capable of handling himself and the situation.

She admitted to herself that the news about the inheritance had thrown her. It sounded as though Fraser might be left with very little choice but to leave the Force and devote himself to the family business.

And what was holding him after all? Certainly not his trivial duties at the Consulate. She had caught the edge in his voice. It was the tone of seasoned officer doing what he loved best--investigating a crime. Murder, she reminded herself, was definitely non-trivial.

She also had her own inner voice to deal with — the one that was saying, "No! Don't lose him, Meg. You can't lose him!" She was very good at ignoring that particular voice. But now it rose up and clamored for her attention, refusing to be ignored. Resolutely, she shut it away, picked up the phone, and dialed the Consulate.

"Canadian Consulate, Sergeant Frobisher speaking," said a reassuringly familiar voice on the other end. It was late afternoon in Chicago, and the day's business was coming to a close. Buck Frobisher sat in Ben's cramped office enjoying a cup of bark tea. His friend, or rather the ghost of his friend, Bob Fraser, sat opposite him, and the wolf Diefenbaker reclined on the floor nearby.

"It's Inspector Thatcher," began Meg.

"Ah, Inspector. I've been expecting your call. Good afternoon. Or rather, good evening. How are things in London."

"Fine, Sergeant. I've just spoken to Constable Fraser..."

"How is the lad?"

"Well, it appears a murder may have been committed. He's attempting to gather enough evidence to go to the authorities."

"Murder!" Buck looked over at Bob, who had gotten to his feet. "Anyone we know?"

"Sir Angus Fraser. It seems he may have been murdered."

"I see. Well, Benton is a fine officer. I'm sure he can handle himself."

"I'm certain of that, too, Sergeant. But I'm going up there Friday for the weekend to see if I can assist him with the investigation. You can reach me at Gray Manor after twelve noon, local time."

"I see. Well, good luck. I don't suppose there's anything we can do for you from here."

"Not at all, Sergeant. How are things at the Consulate."

"Fine. Just fine. You'll be happy to know that Turnbull finalized his inventory. I checked it, and it's been forwarded to Ottawa."

"That's very good news, Sergeant."

"He's a good lad, Inspector. His heart's certainly in the right place. But he seems to be a little..."

"The words ‘Swiss cheese' come to mind, Sergeant."

"Exactly. I'll keep an eye on him."

"Thank you."

Buck looked over at his old friend as he hung up the phone. "Did you know anything about this?" he began.

"Well, Benton did mention it to me before he left on Monday. But I'm sure he can handle it. I'm much more interested in what's going on here with Ray and Maggie and that Internet investigation." Bob settled back in his chair. "It seems to me this Internet business is open to all sorts of criminal activity."

"Well, they seem to be moving the case right along," replied Buck.

Bob said nothing. He cherished the hope that something else was moving right along as well.Chapter 19

Ben was up before the sun on Thursday morning. He had slept well, and he admitted to himself that he was relieved not to have experienced the jet lag he had dreaded. By the time he had showered, shaved and dressed, it was about 5:30. That would be 11:30 p.m. in Chicago. A very good time, he thought, to talk to Ray.

The phone at Ray's apartment rang four times and the answering machine picked up. Ben heard his partner's familiar voice saying, "I'm not here, but you know the drill. When it beeps, talk." He hung up without leaving a message.

Ray was at that moment dropping Constable Maggie MacKenzie off at the Consulate. At the door, he looked around carefully, and seeing no one, pulled her into his arms. They kissed for a few moments like two teenagers.

"Good job on the collar, Constable," said Ray finally.

"You, too, Detective," she replied, looking up at him with a smile. "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Count on it," He looked deeply into her blue eyes and kissed her again, with much more intensity. When the kiss ended, they parted reluctantly, and Maggie closed the door.

"Well, it's grand to see one of my children in a romantic frame of mind," said Bob Fraser.

Maggie turned around, startled. "Dad! How much did you see?"

"Enough to know I might get a grandchild out of it," he replied with a twinkle in his eye.

Maggie blushed a very becoming shade of crimson, "What do you think of Ray?"

"For an American, he's okay. He is a good friend and partner to your brother. I think you should continue to see him."

"I plan to, Dad. No matter what you or Ben may think about our relationship."

"Do you think you could move this relationship along faster?" he pleaded, "I'm not getting any younger and I would like to see one of you kids have children."

"You're not getting any older either. Remember, you're dead."

"Don't remind me. It's a fact I have to live with."

Maggie laughed as she saw the look on her father's face. Ben had warned her it was not easy getting in the last word with their father. She looked away to give the dead Mountie a chance to regain his composure. "So, Dad, how is Ben doing?"

"Well, there seems to have been a murder at that castle, or manor, or whatever it is."

"Murder?"

"Oh, don't worry about Benton. He can handle it."

"I don't doubt that for a minute. Well, I'm off to bed. Good night, Dad."

"Good night, Maggie," replied Bob as he disappeared.

To Part Two

Copyright Notice

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