EDINBURGH TURNED out to be a fantastically beautiful city. Well-kept buildings, nice streets, and open squares climbed up the high hills. Many of the streets were wide, and there were a lot of unexpected descents and stairs. They drove up toward Edinburgh Castle, which towered over the city on a high cliff. They parked outside the castle.
Glen said, “This is the Esplanade. A long time ago, people were executed here but these days it’s used for the popular Military Tattoo. In August every year, they have a festival here which involves parades with bagpipe players in kilts and the whole deal. The tourists love it.”
They walked around for a while, enjoying a magnificent view of the city. They were lucky with the weather, as it was sunny and clear, but the wind howled in their ears and was bitterly cold. Irene was thankful that she had her lined jacket with her, but she could have used a thicker shirt. After a turn in the biting wind, she was thankful to sit in the car again.
“How far is it to Rosslyn Castle?” she asked.
Glen unfolded the map they had been given at Avis.
“Between twelve and eighteen miles,” he said. He pointed at a spot south of Edinburgh. “We drive down toward Penicuik. Maybe we should start now and take a look at the castle’s surroundings,” he suggested.
“Let’s do it.”
Irene didn’t have a clue what Penicuik was, but she didn’t care as long as she didn’t have to walk in the wind for a while.
ROSSLYN CASTLE was also located on a hill, though it was not as high as the one on which Edinburgh Castle stood. Extensive fields and meadows spread out beneath the hill. They were already bright green, and flocks of sheep grazed in the meadows. Behind the castle, the Pentland Hills stood as a backdrop.
Before reaching the avenue that led to the castle, they passed a beautiful old church with a sign that identified it as Rosslyn Chapel.
Glen pointed out the chapel’s thick stone walls and richly adorned facade. “That’s Sir William’s Church. Ten St. Clair barons lie buried in their armor in the church.”
If he ever grew tired of the police force, he could become an excellent guide, thought Irene. But she was glad to have come across a colleague who wanted to tell her about the sights, because she never would have learned so much about London and Edinburgh in her short stays if she hadn’t had Glen with her.
A tall coniferous hedge rose up to mark the avenue’s start. It ws pierced by ornate iron gates, through which they glimpsed a large stone house. Glen braked and backed up. “Come,” he said and got out.
Puzzled, Irene followed his orders.
He stood before the gates, pointing at a brass mailbox. “Lefevre” was engraved on it in elegant letters.
“This must be Christian’s childhood home,” Glen said.
He grasped the handle of the right-hand gate and pushed it. The gate swung open on creaking hinges.
“Well, we won’t arrive unannounced,” he remarked dryly.
The grounds inside the hedge were unexpectedly large. They passed a forgotten rake leaning against a fruit tree, and someone had placed a large basket of woven osier a bit farther along. The driveway leading to the front door was covered with coarse gravel, which crunched under their feet.
The gray stone exterior and black slate roof made the mansion appear gloomy. Small windows added to that impression. Thick ivy climbed the walls and enlivened the dark facade.
When they were almost at the door, it was opened. A figure could be glimpsed in the opening, and a female voice asked, “Who are you?”
“Detective Inspectors Huss and Thompson,” Glen said. He smiled his most charming smile and, at the same time, waved his police ID in front of him.
“We’re actually here to meet Andrew St. Clair but since we’re a bit early, we thought we would look around first. Are you Mrs. Lefevre?”
The opening of the door grew wider and a woman stepped out onto the stone landing. Irene was surprised at how young she seemed. She must have been over fifty, but her figure was slender and she was short. Her attitude was apprehensive. Though she stood very straight, she barely reached Irene’s shoulder. Her hair was short, a dark reddish brown color, and the woman’s almond-shaped eyes were dark brown. Her coloring and the expensively tailored dress she wore did not meet Irene’s expectations of a Scotswoman. She recalled that it was the woman’s ex-husband who had been a Frenchman; she was English. But she looked out of place here in front of this gloomy house, in the bitter Scottish wind.
The woman crossed her arms over her chest, either for protection against the wind or against them.
“Yes. I’m Mary Lefevre. What do you want with me?”
Glen smiled again. “Actually, nothing in particular. This is my colleague Irene Huss from Sweden. She’s investigating the murder of Rebecka Schytellius’s parents and her brother.”
The dark brown eyes wandered from them. Glen asked, “May we ask you a few questions?”
“I have a flight to catch. . I was just here to get my bag,” Mary Lefevre said. She didn’t make any attempt to hide her reluctance to answer their questions.
“We’re going to meet with your nephew at one o’clock, so there will only be time for a few questions,” Glen said firmly, but still with a smile.
With a resigned shrug, she opened the door and let them in.
They found themselves in a large, dark wood-paneled hall, whose white ceiling two floors above them was covered by dark beams. A wide stone stairway near the door led up to the second floor. Its railing continued, forming a balustrade which stretched around the whole hall. From the gallery, a person could observe everyone who entered or left through the front door. Irene peered up at the second floor. Closed doors could be glimpsed behind the balustrade.
At the end of the hall was a vast granite fireplace. It was so large, a person could have stood upright inside it. It was obvious that both Irene and Glen were impressed with the fireplace or maybe Mary Lefevre was anticipating this reaction, because she said, “It really is magnificent, but I never use it. It just eats up wood and doesn’t provide any heat. The space heaters are much more effective. There’s one in every room. Plus, I have central heating. Otherwise I would freeze to death in the winter.”
Irene could easily imagine how cold the house must be in the wintertime when the storms whined around the eaves. The windows were so small to allow them to keep the house warm.
Mary showed them into a surprisingly bright and pleasant living room. Light entered through the tall french doors to the terrace and the large picture windows, which must have been installed in recent years. The furniture was pastel-hued and modern.
“Please, sit down,” Mary said, but she remained standing with her back to the picture windows. She had her arms crossed over her chest again. Irene and Glen were forced to sit on the rigid white sofa, which faced the window.
Glen made a vague gesture encompassing thee surroundings. “This really is a beautiful old house.”
“Yes. Building was begun in the seventeen hundreds,” Mary replied.
“It’s a fantastic environment for children to grow up in. Does Christian visit often?” Glen continued in a casual tone.
“Sometimes.”
“When was he here last?”
Mary thought for a moment before she replied. “In March.”
“Have you ever met Rebecka Schyttelius?”
They couldn’t observe the expression on her face, which was shadowed, but Irene could see her slender figure stiffen. “Once. This past Christmas.”
“So she and Christian are a couple?”
“No,” she said sharply.
Glen lifted his eyebrows meaningfully, which had the intended effect. Mary Lefevre felt that she needed to explain.
“She had been sick during the fall and didn’t have the strength to travel home to Sweden over Christmas. Christian didn’t want to leave her alone in London, so he brought her here.”
“I understand. What impression did you form of her?”
