Ashes to Ashes Read Free Page A

at him, and followed. What he called the second floor Americans called the third; in British the first floor was the ground floor. Some people had the knack of making her feel dumb. And she’d thought Ray was exasperating.
    This staircase was a circular one, so steep and narrow the only banister was a rope wound around the central pillar. The stone treads spiraled upward into shadow. The two sets of footsteps, magnified by the thick walls, wafted faintly up the stairwell and died away in the dark recesses of the upper stories. The shaft was a giant chimney flue, stirring with a chill draft like the breath of the house itself. Rebecca tasted acrid dust, musty leather, and furniture polish.
    Michael led the way into a corridor. A solitary light bulb revealed three doors, one in each wall. Michael threw open the one across from the stairwell. “Bathroom and toilet.” The porcelain fixtures were of 1920’s vintage, forty years after the house was built. Fortunately the Forbeses’ taste for authenticity hadn’t extended to chamberpots under the bed.
    “Bedroom.” Michael dropped the suitcases inside the left-hand door. One last ray of sunshine illuminated a canopied bed, a huge carved armoire like something out of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe , a dressing table, and an inappropriate but welcome space heater installed in the fireplace. It looked clean and comfortable; Rebecca hadn’t expected a luxury hotel.
    Something oozed suddenly around her ankles. She jerked, imitating Michael’s electric jolt of startlement. The butterscotch and white cat crouched at her feet, the fur on his neck bristling, yellow eyes focused on some infinite point beyond the confines of the landing or of the castle itself. How did he— that’s right, she’d left the front door open when she’d rushed in.
    “Well,” said Michael, nudging the animal with his toe and getting a disdainful glance in response. “Greyfriars Bobby watchin’ for old James?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Didn’t you know, then, the man was found dead by the caretaker at the foot of yon staircase?”
    Rebecca’s hair bristled like the cat’s. “Here? I— I thought he died in the hospital, I guess.” She cleared her throat. No, there was no chalk mark outlining a body on the broad planks of the floor, just the cat crouching and looking at— at something. “Not surprising a 96-year-old would fall down a spiral staircase. The cat was James’s? What’s his name?” She bent to stroke him. He hollowed his back evasively and glided up the stairs.
    Michael actually emitted a chuckle. “James had more of a sense of humor than his dad. He named the cat Darnley.”
    “For Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, Mary’s second husband?”
    “Always thought old Harry was a bit of a tomcat, myself.”
    “He probably fathered more than James I, you’re right.”
    “James VI of Scotland, James I of England,” Michael corrected. “If you don’t question that James was really Mary’s bairn.”
    Rebecca stared. That was an uncanny shot, coming so close to the subject of her dissertation. If the Erskine letter was really here at Dun Iain, it might answer that exact question. His comment was a good omen, she told herself, and stepped into the bedroom.
    The sunlight brightened a magnificent Sargent portrait, a woman in 1890s Gibson Girl garb, hair piled lavishly on her head, bosom upthrust, jewels at her throat. But her face was thin and pale, her eyes too big, hinting of anguish. The jewels seemed to choke her. The artist had skillfully shown the discrepancy between luxury of dress and poverty of emotion. “Mrs. John Forbes?” Rebecca asked, looking up at the painted face. “The candidate for martyrdom? No wonder she died young; it must’ve been quite a burden putting up with the old crock.”
    “She could’ve flitted anytime.”
    “No, she couldn’t. Back then a woman’s place was with her husband and son. Especially a wealthy woman, with no skills beyond