but in puzzlement. Her dark eyes suggested that she was frequently puzzled, and the tilt of her chin that she made a habit of asking questions.
"Maggie,” London said, “this is Mick Dewar, Calum's son. Mick, Maggie Sinclair. She's here with a group of students."
"I'm sorry,” Maggie said, and for a moment Mick thought she was apologizing for being there. “I saw your father and Vivian Morgan Sunday afternoon. My student, Rose, found Vivian's body Monday morning."
"Rose? I met her on the staircase. Thought I was hallucinating."
With a short laugh, Maggie pulled out a chair and sat down.
"Gupta asked me if I knew Vivian Morgan, But I dinna ken her from Adam. From Eve.” Mick forced down another bite of sandwich.
"Your father's an amateur historian?” London prodded.
"Aye, like old Malise, right keen on history and tradition."
"Could you tell me what he said when he rang you?"
Mick had repeated the words so many times they played counterpoint to “First Rites” in his gut: From the world, the flesh, and the hounds of hell ... “He was havering about not believing something and then finding it was true. He said the hounds of hell were after him, and they'd be after me if he told me. Then he was going on about a relic."
"A relic?” Distant lightning flickered in London's eyes.
"He didna give it a name. It was the Bruce's, he said, at Arbroath Abbey. His friend Sinclair's father came to his—dad's—father and they shifted it."
"Sinclair,” repeated Maggie, with another pucker at London.
He said, “King Robert the Bruce. And Alexander Sinclair of Stow, near Melrose, am I right?"
"Oh aye, same name for father and son both."
"Was the son killed in an automobile accident fifteen years ago?"
"Aye. He's gone, and his dad, and my grandad and his dad—they're all gone.” Mick's breath caught in his throat. He washed it down with tea. “Dad said that it's our duty to protect it—the relic, I reckon. From, he said—if I understood the Gaelic— Am Fear Dubh . ‘Dubh’ is ‘black,’ but—ah, he was off his head, going on about time coming to an end."
"Not a bit of it.” London's eyes were growing brighter, shot with light. “Calum was, to use the old Scots word, fey. Facing his doom or his destiny. He'd just seen the old family stories in a new light. As for Am Fear Dubh , it means ‘the Black Man.’ The Devil."
That's daft , Mick thought But still a chill oozed down his back.
"Did your father tell you where they hid this relic?"
"Not so's you'd understand. Take the A68 and the A7, he said, to Fairtichill and Schiehallion, the fairy mountain—'sidhe’ means ‘fairy’ in the Gaelic, so that's sensible, at least. But he said ‘the mountain with the triple peak,’ which is dead wrong. And both the A7 and the A68 run south from Edinburgh, not northwest. There's no Fairtichill at all. He started singing, ‘you take the high road and I'll take the low road, past Ercildoune and into the gates of hell.’ Then the line went dead."
"The A7 and the A68,” repeated London. “Ercildoune."
"He was confusing some of old Malise's tales, I'm thinking.” Light footsteps came down the staircase. Rose, a vision in denim, walked past the doorway. She sent Mick another smile. His rigid lips softened in a reply. Then she was gone, her steps absorbed by the distant beat of the music. Or else by the beat of his own heart ... Now wasn't the time to be eyeing the lasses. “My dad's in trouble."
"I'm afraid he is,” said London. “And so are you."
"Why? He didna tell me anything.” Mick shoved his empty plate away.
"Oh yes he did. Several things, amongst them that your grandfather and Alex's father relocated a relic that was associated with Arbroath Abbey. He also mentioned ‘Fairtichill,’ the old Gaelic name of the village of Fortingall, which lies at the mouth of Glenlyon as Schiehallion lies along its course."
"Fortingall, is it? Dad and I always stopped there on our way to see his folk in
"Maggie,” London said, “this is Mick Dewar, Calum's son. Mick, Maggie Sinclair. She's here with a group of students."
"I'm sorry,” Maggie said, and for a moment Mick thought she was apologizing for being there. “I saw your father and Vivian Morgan Sunday afternoon. My student, Rose, found Vivian's body Monday morning."
"Rose? I met her on the staircase. Thought I was hallucinating."
With a short laugh, Maggie pulled out a chair and sat down.
"Gupta asked me if I knew Vivian Morgan, But I dinna ken her from Adam. From Eve.” Mick forced down another bite of sandwich.
"Your father's an amateur historian?” London prodded.
"Aye, like old Malise, right keen on history and tradition."
"Could you tell me what he said when he rang you?"
Mick had repeated the words so many times they played counterpoint to “First Rites” in his gut: From the world, the flesh, and the hounds of hell ... “He was havering about not believing something and then finding it was true. He said the hounds of hell were after him, and they'd be after me if he told me. Then he was going on about a relic."
"A relic?” Distant lightning flickered in London's eyes.
"He didna give it a name. It was the Bruce's, he said, at Arbroath Abbey. His friend Sinclair's father came to his—dad's—father and they shifted it."
"Sinclair,” repeated Maggie, with another pucker at London.
He said, “King Robert the Bruce. And Alexander Sinclair of Stow, near Melrose, am I right?"
"Oh aye, same name for father and son both."
"Was the son killed in an automobile accident fifteen years ago?"
"Aye. He's gone, and his dad, and my grandad and his dad—they're all gone.” Mick's breath caught in his throat. He washed it down with tea. “Dad said that it's our duty to protect it—the relic, I reckon. From, he said—if I understood the Gaelic— Am Fear Dubh . ‘Dubh’ is ‘black,’ but—ah, he was off his head, going on about time coming to an end."
"Not a bit of it.” London's eyes were growing brighter, shot with light. “Calum was, to use the old Scots word, fey. Facing his doom or his destiny. He'd just seen the old family stories in a new light. As for Am Fear Dubh , it means ‘the Black Man.’ The Devil."
That's daft , Mick thought But still a chill oozed down his back.
"Did your father tell you where they hid this relic?"
"Not so's you'd understand. Take the A68 and the A7, he said, to Fairtichill and Schiehallion, the fairy mountain—'sidhe’ means ‘fairy’ in the Gaelic, so that's sensible, at least. But he said ‘the mountain with the triple peak,’ which is dead wrong. And both the A7 and the A68 run south from Edinburgh, not northwest. There's no Fairtichill at all. He started singing, ‘you take the high road and I'll take the low road, past Ercildoune and into the gates of hell.’ Then the line went dead."
"The A7 and the A68,” repeated London. “Ercildoune."
"He was confusing some of old Malise's tales, I'm thinking.” Light footsteps came down the staircase. Rose, a vision in denim, walked past the doorway. She sent Mick another smile. His rigid lips softened in a reply. Then she was gone, her steps absorbed by the distant beat of the music. Or else by the beat of his own heart ... Now wasn't the time to be eyeing the lasses. “My dad's in trouble."
"I'm afraid he is,” said London. “And so are you."
"Why? He didna tell me anything.” Mick shoved his empty plate away.
"Oh yes he did. Several things, amongst them that your grandfather and Alex's father relocated a relic that was associated with Arbroath Abbey. He also mentioned ‘Fairtichill,’ the old Gaelic name of the village of Fortingall, which lies at the mouth of Glenlyon as Schiehallion lies along its course."
"Fortingall, is it? Dad and I always stopped there on our way to see his folk in
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