fishermen of yore are returning and creating havoc to show their displeasure with Scotland’s Past’s plans to turn the village into a living history museum.”
He stepped back, gesturing to a lamppost at the seaward end of the alleyway. Even through the mist, enough light fell across the poster tied to the lamppost for the large black words to be legible.
SAVE PENNARD. STOP SCOTLAND’S PAST.
Kendra read the sign twice, guilt pinching her. No, the big hand-painted letters felt more like a solid kick in the gut, a blow executed with steel-tipped boots.
“What kind of havoc has been going on?” She looked back at Graeme, seeing his anger in the hard set of his jaw, the glint in his eyes.
“Little things at first, they were.” He took her arm, leading her to the end of the alley and out onto the marina walk. Jock had moved off and was now shifting about near the stone slipway, sniffing seaweed and a large, wet pile of fish netting. “Old Widow Wallace, who has the last cottage on the opposite end of the village from mine, found all her washing off the line and down in the burn beneath her back garden. At the time, she thought it was the wind, but a week later a large stone quern she keeps propped against the wall beside her door went missing.
“It was found in the same place.” Graeme glanced ather. “Such a grinding quern is so big”—he extended his arms, showing her the width—“and so heavy a single man couldn’t lift one.”
“I doubt a ghost could, either.” Kendra knew well that spirits
could
move things. But even she doubted that their capabilities could match the weight of a large, superheavy stone quern of earlier centuries. She’d seen them often enough and was sure of it.
“Sounds like teenage pranksters to me.” That she could believe. “But”—this bothered her because she’d always thought of Scotland as a place apart, a world unto itself, and exempt from such troubles as Graeme described—“why would anyone target a helpless old woman?”
His lips twitched. “Widow Wallace might be on the far side of eighty, but she’d bristle if she heard you call her helpless. She’s as feisty as they come and proud of the vinegar in her veins, as she calls it.
“Could be she was harassed because she was the first local to say she’d consider Scotland’s Past’s offer for her cottage.” Graeme shrugged and then called a quick “No” to Jock, who’d started pawing at the fish nets. “She doesn’t like her daughter-in-law, and thought she’d outfox her family by taking the money and living the high life for what years she has remaining. Her son and his wife, whom the widow speaks of as the shrew, wouldn’t inherit her home.”
“If her daughter-in-law is a pill, more power to her.” Kendra liked the old woman, sight unseen. “Has anything else happened?”
“Not to Widow Wallace, and that’s as well because the trouble escalated soon after the incident with her quern.” Graeme glanced to where her cottage must be, at the far end of the small fishing village. High above, on its ledge halfway up the bluff, the lights of Gavin Ramsay’s Spindrift glimmered through the mist. “You may have noticed the blue-painted benches everywhere in Pennard?”
He turned back to Kendra, and her heart raced at his nearness, making it hard to concentrate. “I have, and they’re lovely.”
She looked toward the nearest one, set directly before the water some yards beyond the slipway. With wood-slatted seats and backs but swirled, wrought-iron sides painted royal blue, the benches appeared to be a hallmark of the small fishing village. They were placed at regular intervals along the waterfront and also stood beside several cottage doors, such as at Graeme’s home, the Keel.
The benches were just one of the notes of quaintness that made Pennard special. The haar obscured all the benches except the one by the slipway, but that same mist shimmered along the rocky
He stepped back, gesturing to a lamppost at the seaward end of the alleyway. Even through the mist, enough light fell across the poster tied to the lamppost for the large black words to be legible.
SAVE PENNARD. STOP SCOTLAND’S PAST.
Kendra read the sign twice, guilt pinching her. No, the big hand-painted letters felt more like a solid kick in the gut, a blow executed with steel-tipped boots.
“What kind of havoc has been going on?” She looked back at Graeme, seeing his anger in the hard set of his jaw, the glint in his eyes.
“Little things at first, they were.” He took her arm, leading her to the end of the alley and out onto the marina walk. Jock had moved off and was now shifting about near the stone slipway, sniffing seaweed and a large, wet pile of fish netting. “Old Widow Wallace, who has the last cottage on the opposite end of the village from mine, found all her washing off the line and down in the burn beneath her back garden. At the time, she thought it was the wind, but a week later a large stone quern she keeps propped against the wall beside her door went missing.
“It was found in the same place.” Graeme glanced ather. “Such a grinding quern is so big”—he extended his arms, showing her the width—“and so heavy a single man couldn’t lift one.”
“I doubt a ghost could, either.” Kendra knew well that spirits
could
move things. But even she doubted that their capabilities could match the weight of a large, superheavy stone quern of earlier centuries. She’d seen them often enough and was sure of it.
“Sounds like teenage pranksters to me.” That she could believe. “But”—this bothered her because she’d always thought of Scotland as a place apart, a world unto itself, and exempt from such troubles as Graeme described—“why would anyone target a helpless old woman?”
His lips twitched. “Widow Wallace might be on the far side of eighty, but she’d bristle if she heard you call her helpless. She’s as feisty as they come and proud of the vinegar in her veins, as she calls it.
“Could be she was harassed because she was the first local to say she’d consider Scotland’s Past’s offer for her cottage.” Graeme shrugged and then called a quick “No” to Jock, who’d started pawing at the fish nets. “She doesn’t like her daughter-in-law, and thought she’d outfox her family by taking the money and living the high life for what years she has remaining. Her son and his wife, whom the widow speaks of as the shrew, wouldn’t inherit her home.”
“If her daughter-in-law is a pill, more power to her.” Kendra liked the old woman, sight unseen. “Has anything else happened?”
“Not to Widow Wallace, and that’s as well because the trouble escalated soon after the incident with her quern.” Graeme glanced to where her cottage must be, at the far end of the small fishing village. High above, on its ledge halfway up the bluff, the lights of Gavin Ramsay’s Spindrift glimmered through the mist. “You may have noticed the blue-painted benches everywhere in Pennard?”
He turned back to Kendra, and her heart raced at his nearness, making it hard to concentrate. “I have, and they’re lovely.”
She looked toward the nearest one, set directly before the water some yards beyond the slipway. With wood-slatted seats and backs but swirled, wrought-iron sides painted royal blue, the benches appeared to be a hallmark of the small fishing village. They were placed at regular intervals along the waterfront and also stood beside several cottage doors, such as at Graeme’s home, the Keel.
The benches were just one of the notes of quaintness that made Pennard special. The haar obscured all the benches except the one by the slipway, but that same mist shimmered along the rocky
Similar Books
