The Burning Glass by Lillian Stewart Carl Page B

you. My husband, Angus, and I are
antiquarians. He’s responsible for setting up the town museum, as
you probably already know, Mr. Cameron.”
    Whether he knew that or not, Alasdair nodded
sagely.
    “Angus was hoping the excavations some years
ago would turn up the missing bit of the inscription, a carving of
the clarsach, but, sadly, no.” Minty handed the stone back.
    Jean glanced suspiciously at it, but if Minty
had anything up her sleeve, it was more likely to be an extra ace
or two than a counterfeit shard of gravestone. She stuffed the
stone flake into the pocket of her jacket, where its weight pulled
her off-balance. “You’ve seen pictures of the original
inscription?”
    “Yes, there are drawings in the museum made
by Angus’s great-grandfather Gerald. Along with, I’m sorry to say,
a copy of Gerald’s epic poem on the subject of Isabel and
Ferniebank, written in the style of James Hogg’s‘The Queen’s Wake.’
” Minty slipped her jacket off her shoulders and put it on. The
scent of what had to be Chanel No. 5 tickled Jean’s nostrils and
was gone. “Your colleague Miss Capaldi tells me you’ll be joining
us for luncheon tomorrow.”
    “Lunch?” Jean knew that small black holes
infested her brain, but she didn’t think the time of the invitation
had fallen into one.
    “Then Miss Capaldi hasn’t informed you yet.
I’ve taken the liberty of planning a small luncheon instead of tea,
hoping you and the other guests will be kind enough to taste some
of my new creations that are bringing traditional recipes into the
present day.”
    “Oh. No problem.” Jean glanced at Alasdair,
who shrugged slightly in response. The castle opened at noon, but
unless a three-ring circus arrived on the doorstep, he could handle
it alone.
    “Dr. Campbell-Reid will be coming as
well.”
    Rebecca and Michael were both PhDs of
long-enough standing that neither of them bothered answering to the
honorific any more, but Jean assumed that in the ladies-luncheon
context, Minty meant Rebecca. “I’m looking forward to, er, hearing
about the new development in the area.”
    “All of which has brought negative
developments as well, I’m afraid.” Minty’s deprecating smile was
just a bit fixed, but her voice, low and mellow as a cello, didn’t
waver. Neither did her dark eyes beneath their heavy lids.
    Alasdair said, “We’re very sorry to hear of
Mr. Wallace Rutherford’s death.”
    “And the theft of the Ferniebank Clarsach,”
added Jean.
    “These unfortunate happenstances do seem to
come in waves.”
    Happenstance? Jean asked herself. Or even coincidence?
    Alasdair leaped boldly onto another item on
the Stanelaw blotter, one that might imply criminal action. “Have
you had any news of your husband?”
    “He’ll be returning straightaway,” Minty
replied, her lashes dropping over those cavernous eyes.
    Jean darted a glance toward Alasdair, meeting
his glance at her in mid-air. Did that mean Minty had heard from
Angus? If not, why was she giving an estimated time of
reappearance? There might be something to Miranda’s rumor about the
marriage being in trouble.
    After a long pause, Jean did the right thing
and said, “Please come in.” She didn’t actually gesture toward the
flat—Minty might see her crossed fingers.
    “Thank you, no, I shan’t intrude upon your
evening. I wanted merely to bring you a light supper.” Opening the
back of the Rover, Minty produced a wicker picnic hamper the size
of an ottoman. She handed off the basket like Queen Victoria
sitting down, not bothering to look behind her for a receiver.
    Jean and Alasdair both lunged. Jean came up
with the handles of the basket. It was heavier than she’d expected,
and she almost fumbled it. From inside came the clatter of
crockery, hopefully still intact.
    “Very kind of you.” Alasdair relieved Jean of
her burden and set it down at his feet.
    “Thanks,” Jean added, to him as much as to
Minty. She shook out her right arm, wondering