Sinclair moved MacCarthy’s chair back and squatted down to look at the rug. “I don’t think he could slide anything under it. The desk covers most of the rug.” He looked up at Michael. “Want to give it a try?”
Sinclair removed the drawers to lighten the weight. The two men each took a side. Gripping the edges of the desk, they bent down and, throwing all their strength into it, hoisted the desk just high enough to inch it off the rug. Dust flew up as they rolled the rug back, and there it was, a large yellowed envelope. For a few silent seconds they just stood there amazed. None of them could figure out how MacCarthy got the envelope under the massive desk.
Sinclair opened the envelope and emptied the contents on top of the desk. Several folded pieces of paper fell out. The first paper he opened was the kill order. Instructions and Isabel’s itinerary were printed in black ink on plain white paper. Sinclair carefully placed the paper into a plastic evidence bag and sealed it to take to the lab.
“Too bad it wasn’t signed,” Isabel said.
Sinclair’s indrawn breath sounded more like a gasp. He had unfolded another piece of paper and whatever he was reading shocked him.
“What is it?” Michael asked.
“You wouldn’t have heard about the Wiley Croft case here in Scotland . . . all about theft of government funds. With all the evidence against Wiley, he was convicted and sentenced to a long term.” He looked at the officer holding the evidence bags and said, “He didn’t do it. The proof is right here. My God . . .”
Those papers went into another evidence bag. Compton MacKenna’s letter was on the bottom.
The seal on the envelope was torn, but the letter was intact. Michael used his cell phone to take a photo of the letter. Gladstone returned in time to hear Isabel read what Compton had written.
The letter was as cold and unfeeling as Compton MacKenna had been. There wasn’t a salutation.
Grace Isabel MacKenna,
I have been watching you and your sisters for a long time, and I have been surprised and even shocked by your progress and success. I find it amazing that you have flourished in spite of the unrefined environment you were raised in. Of the three sisters, I thought that you, the youngest, would have the most difficulty pulling yourself up and getting out of an abysmal home life under the control of a backward, uncultured, common woman.
But you have surpassed my expectations. In the latest quarterly report it was noted that you had decided to put the singing nonsense aside. It was also noted that history was your passion, and that is why I have given you Glen MacKenna. I would have left it to my nephews, but they have not proven themselves to be worthy of such a bequest and would only squander it. Scotland is rich with history, and I believe you will appreciate it.
I have created a financial endowment for the upkeep of the land. This will ensure that its beauty will be maintained and my legacy will be sustained for generations to come. You will find all the pertinent information on the enclosed page.
Your father and I had our differences when it came to preserving our family’s heritage.
There is nothing more important than upholding the prestige of our noble name, a name that has been highly respected throughout generations of our clan. It was my sincerest desire that your father would recognize his obligation to those who came before him.
However, in choosing a wife of inferior lineage, with no breeding and no regard for the high honor given to her with the MacKenna name, he turned his back on me and all his ancestors.
I trust you understand the importance of the MacKenna clan.
I am giving you this land with just two stipulations, and the money designated to preserve the land is contingent upon your adherence to them. Both are equally important.
First and foremost, you will not sell it. Second, to protect my bloodline, the land will always have the MacKenna name.
Compton MacKenna
THIRTY-ONE
COMPTON MACKENNA WAS A REAL PRICK.
Michael didn’t share his opinion of Isabel’s great-uncle. The narcissistic son of a bitch old man had said such awful things about her mother. The look on Isabel’s face showed how upset she was.
He put his arm around her, leaned down, and whispered, “I could be wrong . . .”
“Yes?” she asked.
“I don’t think Compton liked your mother.”
His comment made her laugh.
“Compton wasn’t a very agreeable man, was he?” Gladstone remarked.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Michael said.
Gladstone shook his head. “He certainly disliked your mother.”
“My mother came from a poor family, and that was unforgivable,” Isabel explained.
“Do you still want me to write those two letters for you? You could sign them, and I’ll have them delivered before the night is over.”
Within minutes the letters were composed and printed on Gladstone’s letterhead. The first was addressed to Clive Harcus, giving him ten days to vacate the property, and the second letter was a notice of immediate termination to Graeme Gibson, the groundskeeper. Gladstone signed his name under Isabel’s.
Weary from the long stressful day, Gladstone graciously declined their invitation to dine with them. As soon as the messenger picked up the letters, the solicitor went home.
Tying up odds and ends took another half hour or so. Isabel went to the washroom to freshen up, and then she waited with Michael in the reception room while Sinclair finished giving instructions to the officers he was leaving in charge.
Michael tried once more to reason with Isabel. “I’m still not comfortable taking you into Jolly Jack’s pub. I’ve heard everyone in and around Dunross goes into that pub, including Harcus and his crew. It could get dangerous. You’ve done what you came here to do,” he reminded. “You read the letter, signed the papers, and now it’s time to leave.”
“We’ve been over this,” she said. “With you and Inspector Sinclair watching out for me, I’ll be safe. Besides, don’t you want to hear what Archie Fletcher has to say? I do.”
Michael could think of a hundred reasons why they should get on the next flight back to Boston, but he knew Isabel wasn’t finished.
“Do you know what you’re going to do with the land?” he asked.
She looked defeated when she answered. “I did know. I was going to sell it. Now it looks like I don’t have that choice. I so wanted something good to come from it.”
Sinclair interrupted. “Are you ready to leave?”
They were going in opposite directions after dinner, so Sinclair drove his own car and led the way to the pub.