then someone stole it, and you kept it quiet?”
Curt shrugged and angled his head back, looking towards the ceiling.
“Any idea who did it?” she asked.
“Oh, we had ideas . . . Medical students are renowned for their black humor. The story was, it graced the living room of a shared flat. We arranged for someone to investigate . . .” He looked at her. “Investigate privately, you understand . . .”
“A private eye? Dear me, Doctor.” She shook her head, disappointed at his choice of action.
“No such item was found. Of course, they could simply have disposed of it . . .”
“By burying it in Fleshmarket Alley?”
Curt shrugged. Such a reticent man, a scrupulous man . . . Siobhan could see that this conversation was causing him almost physical pain. “What were their names?”
“Two young men, almost inseparable . . . Alfred McAteer and Alexis Cater. I think they modeled themselves on the characters from the TV show M*A*S*H. Do you know it?”
Siobhan nodded. “Are they still students here?”
“Based out at the infirmary these days, God help us all.”
“Alexis Cater . . . any relation?”
“His son, apparently.”
Siobhan’s lips formed an O. Gordon Cater was one of the few Scottish actors of his generation to have made it in Hollywood. Character parts mostly, but in profitable blockbusters. There was talk that at one time he’d been first choice to play James Bond after Roger Moore, only to be beaten by Timothy Dalton. A hell-raiser in his day, and an actor most women would have watched however bad the film.
“I take it you’re a fan,” Curt muttered. “We tried to keep it quiet that Alexis was studying here. He’s the son from Gordon’s second or third marriage.”
“And you think he stole Mag Lennox?”
“He was among the suspects. You see why we didn’t make the investigation official?”
“You mean other than the fact that it’d have made you and the Prof look irresponsible all over again?” Siobhan smiled at Curt’s discomfort. As if irritated by them, Curt suddenly snatched up the pens and threw them into a drawer.
“Is that you channeling your aggression, Doctor?”
Curt stared at her bleakly and sighed. “There’s just one more potential fly in the ointment. Some sort of local historian . . . apparently she’s been onto the papers saying she thinks there’s a supernatural explanation for the Fleshmarket Alley skeletons.”
“Supernatural?”
“During excavations at the Palace of Holyrood a while back, some skeletons were unearthed . . . there were theories they’d been sacrificed.”
“Who by? Mary, Queen of Scots?”
“However that may be, this ‘historian’ is trying to link them to Fleshmarket Alley . . . It may be pertinent that she has worked in the past for one of the High Street’s ghost tours.”
Siobhan had been on one of these. Several companies operated walking tours of the Royal Mile and its alleyways, mixing gory storytelling with lighter moments and special effects which would not have disgraced a fairground ghost train.
“So she has an ulterior motive?”
“I can only speculate.” Curt checked his watch. “The evening paper may have printed some of her tripe.”
“You’ve had dealings with her before?”
“She wanted to know what had happened to Mag Lennox. We told her it was none of her concern. She tried to get the newspapers interested . . .” Curt waved a hand in front of him, brushing away the memory.
“What’s her name?”
“Judith Lennox . . . and yes, she does claim to be a descendant.”
Siobhan wrote the name down, below those of Alfred McAteer and Alexis Cater. After a moment, she added a further name—Mag Lennox—and connected it to Judith Lennox with an arrow.
“Is my ordeal drawing to its conclusion?” Curt drawled.
“I think so,” Siobhan said. She tapped her teeth with the pen. “So what are you going to do with Mag’s skeleton?”
The pathologist shrugged. “She seems to have come home
Curt shrugged and angled his head back, looking towards the ceiling.
“Any idea who did it?” she asked.
“Oh, we had ideas . . . Medical students are renowned for their black humor. The story was, it graced the living room of a shared flat. We arranged for someone to investigate . . .” He looked at her. “Investigate privately, you understand . . .”
“A private eye? Dear me, Doctor.” She shook her head, disappointed at his choice of action.
“No such item was found. Of course, they could simply have disposed of it . . .”
“By burying it in Fleshmarket Alley?”
Curt shrugged. Such a reticent man, a scrupulous man . . . Siobhan could see that this conversation was causing him almost physical pain. “What were their names?”
“Two young men, almost inseparable . . . Alfred McAteer and Alexis Cater. I think they modeled themselves on the characters from the TV show M*A*S*H. Do you know it?”
Siobhan nodded. “Are they still students here?”
“Based out at the infirmary these days, God help us all.”
“Alexis Cater . . . any relation?”
“His son, apparently.”
Siobhan’s lips formed an O. Gordon Cater was one of the few Scottish actors of his generation to have made it in Hollywood. Character parts mostly, but in profitable blockbusters. There was talk that at one time he’d been first choice to play James Bond after Roger Moore, only to be beaten by Timothy Dalton. A hell-raiser in his day, and an actor most women would have watched however bad the film.
“I take it you’re a fan,” Curt muttered. “We tried to keep it quiet that Alexis was studying here. He’s the son from Gordon’s second or third marriage.”
“And you think he stole Mag Lennox?”
“He was among the suspects. You see why we didn’t make the investigation official?”
“You mean other than the fact that it’d have made you and the Prof look irresponsible all over again?” Siobhan smiled at Curt’s discomfort. As if irritated by them, Curt suddenly snatched up the pens and threw them into a drawer.
“Is that you channeling your aggression, Doctor?”
Curt stared at her bleakly and sighed. “There’s just one more potential fly in the ointment. Some sort of local historian . . . apparently she’s been onto the papers saying she thinks there’s a supernatural explanation for the Fleshmarket Alley skeletons.”
“Supernatural?”
“During excavations at the Palace of Holyrood a while back, some skeletons were unearthed . . . there were theories they’d been sacrificed.”
“Who by? Mary, Queen of Scots?”
“However that may be, this ‘historian’ is trying to link them to Fleshmarket Alley . . . It may be pertinent that she has worked in the past for one of the High Street’s ghost tours.”
Siobhan had been on one of these. Several companies operated walking tours of the Royal Mile and its alleyways, mixing gory storytelling with lighter moments and special effects which would not have disgraced a fairground ghost train.
“So she has an ulterior motive?”
“I can only speculate.” Curt checked his watch. “The evening paper may have printed some of her tripe.”
“You’ve had dealings with her before?”
“She wanted to know what had happened to Mag Lennox. We told her it was none of her concern. She tried to get the newspapers interested . . .” Curt waved a hand in front of him, brushing away the memory.
“What’s her name?”
“Judith Lennox . . . and yes, she does claim to be a descendant.”
Siobhan wrote the name down, below those of Alfred McAteer and Alexis Cater. After a moment, she added a further name—Mag Lennox—and connected it to Judith Lennox with an arrow.
“Is my ordeal drawing to its conclusion?” Curt drawled.
“I think so,” Siobhan said. She tapped her teeth with the pen. “So what are you going to do with Mag’s skeleton?”
The pathologist shrugged. “She seems to have come home
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