*
MacLaren Hall was massive, but it seemed to grow even larger as I trailed behind Mrs. Hume, who was impervious to small talk and met any attempt at humor with a stony stare. More like a dour professor than a tour guide, she plodded methodically from room to room, giving a set speech about the contents of each, and achieving with ease the remarkable feat of turning a Scottish lilt into a monotone. If she expected to dull my wits, she was in for a disappointment. She took me past smoky oil portraits and marble-topped pedestal tables, rosewood etageres and musty tapestries, from the dim and dusty attics to the spotless kitchens—she even showed me the linen closets—but there were three places in which we did not set foot. As we passed by Andrew MacLaren’s private suite and the staff apartments, Mrs. Hume merely gestured at the closed doors, as though no more needed to be said on the subject.
But one closed door, the fourth one up the hall from my bedroom, won neither gesture nor comment. We had passed it several times on our way to and from the main staircase, but Mrs. Hume acted as though it were invisible. I dutifully kept my eyes front and center.
After a late afternoon lunch, Mrs. Hume escorted me to the library, where she left me with a selection of dusty books about the history of the MacLaren family. At any other time they would have intrigued me, but at that moment my mind was on other things—such as breaking and entering. I sat for fifteen minutes by the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, then opened the door to see if the coast was clear.
Mrs. Hume looked up from polishing the time-darkened oak wainscoting that lined the hallway. “Yes, Miss Shepherd? May I help you?”
I gave her a frozen grin, then managed, “I wonder if I might trouble you for a cup of tea?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Hume put down her cloth and walked off in the direction of the kitchens, while I closed the door and thought fast. If I went up to my bedroom she’d probably move her polishing operation right along with me. There were miles of wainscoting to polish in MacLaren Hall. What I needed was a diversion. I scanned the room, spied a telephone, and a plan clicked into place. Hurriedly, I dialed, and began speaking the moment I heard Willis, Sr.’s voice.
“It’s Lori,” I said in low, urgent tones. “I can’t explain now, but I need you to do a favor for me. A really big favor, right away. Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Yes, Miss Shepherd.”
“Then write this down.” The phone number of MacLaren Hall was printed on a small card affixed to the phone. “Did you get that?” I asked, glancing at the door. He read it back to me and I raced on before he could ask any questions. “I need you to call that number in about twenty minutes and ask for a Mrs. Hume. That’s H-U-M-E. She’s a housekeeper at a big old place way up in northern Scotland. Keep her on the line for as long as you possibly can, and don’t mention my name or Bill’s or anything about Dimity Westwood. Don’t tell her who you are, either. Can you do that?” Every muscle in my body tensed as I waited for him to give the matter his due consideration.
“I suppose I could present myself as an American relation,” suggested Willis, Sr., finally. “I could, perhaps, be in the midst of conducting an investigation into the genealogy of my family.”
“Perfect!” I said. “You’re a genius, Mr. Willis—and thanks. I’ll explain soon and, remember, give me twenty minutes. I have to go now.” I hung up the phone and was back behind the pile of dusty books in plenty of time to assume a suitably studious appearance. When Mrs. Hume arrived with the tea trolley, I closed the book I had opened at random, and yawned languorously.
“Gosh,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hume, but I don’t think I’ll have that tea after all. To tell you the truth, what I really need is a nap. I believe I’ll go up and stretch out until the men come back.”
Mrs. Hume’s lips tightened, but she conducted me up the main staircase without comment, pausing only to pick up her basket of polishing supplies.
“Is there anything else you require, Miss Shepherd?” she asked when we arrived at my room.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hume, but I think I’ve bothered you enough for one day.” I yawned again, and hoped I wasn’t overdoing it. “Thanks again for the tour. This is a marvelous place.”
Mrs. Hume’s head turned at the sound of footsteps on the staircase. A red-haired girl in a maid’s uniform approached, then proceeded to astonish me by dropping a curtsy to the housekeeper.
“Please, ma’am,” said the girl, “there’s a telephone call for you. A trunk call.”
“A trunk call?” Mrs. Hume queried sharply. “For me? You’re certain?”