The Bonnie, Bonnie Bone: Bones, #4

By Leslie S. Talley

The Bonnie, Bonnie Bone

This fourth installment of the Clarice Campion/Miss Letty series finds Clarice, her husband Otis, and their permanent guest, former Silent Screen star, Miss Letitia Lorraine, acting as exchange caretakers/B&B hosts in a Scottish castle which sits on an island in the tidal Firth of Lorn. Otis, drilling through the castle wall in search of a leak, discovers two skeletons. One dates from the 1970s; the other from the 1930s. The older skeleton bears a gruesome relic: a third leg growing from its abdomen. A vestigial twin.

Did the aristocratic family try to hide this deformity?  How many people were privy to this deception? Surely not Earl Randall; they like him. The ninety-year-old Dowager Countess, not so much. Clarice and Miss Letty dig into the archives to try to identify the skeleton.

They are assisted by their children, twins Kitty and Pat, at Edinburgh University for a Semester Abroad; the kids' Scottish friend, Mac; six B&B guests from Virginia; and B&B employee Heather, clued in by her news-gathering Gran.

Their explorations lead them to a tunnel from the castle, under the firth, to another island. Originally an escape hatch in times of siege, they discover a hidden room fitted up as a dormitory or hospital ward. And what about that gap in the earldom for over a hundred years? The village of Killnish, so picture postcard perfect—as though trying too hard to be Scottish—puzzles them, since it looks as if it grew up overnight. And why are there no graves in the churchyard before 1940?

Finally Clarice confronts a killer in the tunnel, but is saved by her B&Bers (she's not dumb enough to enter the tunnel alone!). All must scramble for their lives as the tunnel collapses and water from the firth rushes in.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leslie S. Talley
• Release date: Sep 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393798927

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The Bonnie, Bonnie Bone Copyright  © 2017 by Leslie S. Talley

For information on the cover art, please contact Valerie Tibbs.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. If you are reading this book and did not buy it or win it in a contest by the author, publisher, or authorized distributor, you are reading an illegal copy. This hurts the author and publisher. Please delete and purchase a legal copy.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN-13:978-1546337430

ISBN-10:1546337431

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Printed in The United States of America

Chapter One

When I arrive safely back in Daytona Beach, Florida—if I arrive—I will officially cancel our subscription to Innkeepers magazine. For Otis had once again landed us in the middle of murder and mayhem by agreeing to a stint as exchange innkeepers in a Scottish castle.

What could go wrong? he argued. "Guests who choose to stay in a castle obviously have money [so since when did that turn people into plaster saints?]; they’re educated, if they’re interested in history and architecture and castles [so only stupid people commit crimes?]; and most of them will be fellow countrymen [so snobbish nationalists are o.k. as long as they’re us?]"

I despair.

You’d think past experience would have made Otis the least little bit leery. Our exchange at Castle Keep in St. Augustine, Florida, had netted us break-ins, a dead homeless man, and the skeleton of a slave found in an ice house [Bred in the Bone]. Our glorious exchange in Ireland at Flanagan’s B & B had garnered us one death by stabbing and one by poison [The Closer the Bone]. But Otis is a curious mixture of cynicism and The Glass is Always Half Full. The next adventure over the hill will turn out rosily.

So when our kids decided to spend their second semester abroad at Edinburgh University, spring term, 1994, Otis happily scoured the ads in Innkeepers for a suitable (?) situation.

This sounds perfect for us, Clarice. ‘A tower castle, recently restored, four floors, perfect for a family rental—

You want Miss Letty tripping up circular stone staircases? I interjected.

Miss Letty, a.k.a. Letitia Lorraine, retired star of the Silent Screen, is our permanent guest at our home base, Belgrath House, in Daytona. She’s the third owner of the historic house/B&B and almost as old as the house

But here’s the perfect part, Clarice. We’d have a separate caretaker’s cottage outside the castle, all on one floor.

Thatched, no doubt? Fleas included? I feel it my duty to dampen his enthusiasm. And I had the word of an Irishman about the fleas.

...modern plumbing...

Oh, so I wouldn’t have to squat over a hole cut in the stone, five castle stories up, and let ’er rip?

You’re several centuries behind the times, Clarice, he said, rather frostily. A number of castles have been restored in Scotland, either as hotels or B & B’s or as private residences. Someone buys a ruined castle, and the abandoned title that goes with it, fixes it up, and lets it for summer rental.

I heard Yada, yada, yada, TITLE.

T-t-tiiittle? I stammered.

Otis smirked. I wavered.

Monsters running up and down stone staircases, skinning their shins while I dragged out antiseptic spray and kiddie Band-Aids. Maybe I’d pack a little iodine: it stings. Of course, Otis wouldn’t be the one applying first aid. No, that would be Mom/nursie nurse. Worst of all, Miss Letty backed him up in his foolhardiness.

A change will do us all good. After what we’ve been through. She gazed at me, playing the pity card. Poor abused nonagenarian.

What about Sophie’s school? I said, hunting for another objection. She finally settled into the kindergarten in Ireland, then we ruthlessly dragged her back to Florida, and now we should force her to cope with yet another accent?

Sophie is the foster child Otis and I have taken in since her own family, for various reasons, can no longer care for her.

Miss Letty waved that aside. Irish, Scottish, what’s the dif? Ireland and Scotland are both Gaelic countries. She’ll hardly notice the change.

And, Otis triumphed, joining the fray, the castle is closer to Glasgow than to Edinburgh. So the kids won’t be running home every weekend. Especially since they won’t have a car. So we’ll see them on our terms—when we can drive to Edinburgh.

One way traffic, I murmured. So maybe I wouldn’t have to act as housemother on weekends. Not that I don’t love them.

We forgot that they’d make friends who owned cars.

Springtime in Scotland, we exulted. Except we forgot that the university term would begin in January.

At least no one conceivably wanted to rent a castle in winter in Scotland. So our official duties translated into house, er, castle sitting. Maintenance and so forth. Like frozen pipes. Poor Otis! Served him right.

We arrived at Edinburgh airport, unmet. No one waved a sign proclaiming our last name, Campion. No one was left over at the gate, frantically looking around for a lost party. So alone we braved the baggage claim, car rental, and the drive to Castle Skeldon.

Twenty-twenty hindsight: the name. As close to skeleton as makes no never mind.

We thought that our exchange innkeepers would meet with us so that we could discuss the amenities and idiosyncrasies of our respective establishments. Instead we turned out to be ships, or rather planes, passing in the night.

Disgruntled, we retrieved our bags and headed for the car rental. Otis planned, after an interval, to return our rental and buy a used car at Clunkers-R-Us or some equivalent for the duration of our stay. Meantime, we enjoyed the advantages of a brand new Vauxhall while it lasted.

First order of business for me: lunch, preferably Pub Grub. First order of business for Otis: a smoke, after hours of enforced deprivation. So Miss Letty, Sophie, and I huddled in the Vauxhall while Otis, outside, puffed on his damn pipe. That over, we negotiated the exit from Edinburgh Airport and headed west. We stopped in Kirkliston for bar food. Ever since Otis and I had sampled the Ploughman’s Lunch at the Rose and Crown Pub at EPCOT and our stay in Ireland, we crave that distinctly British dish consisting of some type of meat - usually ham - English cheddar, a pickle, a hardboiled egg, and a hunk of bread, with variations. This place offered mixed berry chutney in addition.

Can’t do you a Scotch egg, our little waitress said. Sorry.

Since we hadn’t a clue about Scotch eggs, we waved that aside. Later, we found out that a Scotch egg is hardboiled, cooled, shelled, wrapped in bulk sausage, dipped in beaten egg and bread crumbs, and deep fried. Heart attack in a fist!

So we arrived at the tidal firth on the west coast at dusk and glimpsed, for the first time, our responsibility for the next five months. Castle Skeldon supposedly sat on a headland overlooking the Firth of Lorn. Except that Castle Skeldon actually sat on an island in the firth. The tidal firth. Access at high tide? Rowboat.

The caretaker’s cottage now, our digs, sat on a headland overlooking the firth. But to fulfill my B & B duties at the castle, I, or Otis, would have to row me over. We’d have to wait for low tide to see what access popped out of the water. Probably algae-covered stepping stones. I didn’t envision a road.

We piled out of the car, Sophie nimbly, Miss Letty gingerly testing her knees. A light gleamed from a window in the cottage. Left on for us? Or someone at home? The door opened quickly and a short stout figure inspected us by holding up a lantern and peering short-sightedly. My interest in him paled compared to the implications of that lantern.

My God, don’t tell me we have no electricity!

The little gnome cackled. Aye, lassie, we do, most of the time. The storm knocked out the power lines two nights ago. But don’t fret. We’re always prepared.

Otis held out his hand. Otis Campion. He nodded to me. Miss Letitia Lorraine. My wife Clarice. And our daughter Sophie.

Randall McNab. Last hereditary Earl of Skeldon.

A pregnant pause. Did that make him the current owner of the castle, who should, by all rights, be winging his way across the Atlantic to Belgrath House? Or the former owner, on his beam ends, forced to—what? Live off the leavings of the new Earl? Scramble around for food and lodging in his own caretaker’s cottage? And where did that leave us?

Er, said Otis, voicing my thought, shouldn’t you be on your way to Florida?

The last hereditary Earl of Skeldon laughed merrily and clapped Otis on the back. Nay, that would be the jumped-up merchant that bought me out and turned my ancestral castle into a Bed and Breakfast. He wants to ‘study the American market and take the pulse of American entrepreneurism.’ Can you believe it?

So the new Earl—

"Not the new Earl. I refused to sell my title. If the gov’mint wants to sell it to him when I’m gone, so be it. But m’father would spin in his grave if I sold the title."

So you live here, I began, feeling my way.

No, no. This is for you. I stay over at the castle. But come in, come in. What am I about, keeping you standing outside.

But, I stammered, how do you get over there? I pointed across the firth where the gray, four story tower loomed in the gathering dark.

"Why, I row, lassie, just as I’ve done all me life!"

He must have seen my aghast look, for he relented. Don’t worry. When the tide’s out, we use the causeway.

He only partially reassured me. I had no problem visualizing Otis rowing across the firth. But this old man? That would be like handing oars to Miss Letty. I studied his weather-beaten face. Scores of years could account for his seamed visage, or the elements in Scotland could make him appear older than his actual age. His thatch of white hair had blown about from the wind coming off the firth. He wore an old tweed jacket, nubbed but serviceable yet, and corduroy trousers somewhat shiny at the knees. His cheeks bloomed with health or high blood pressure. His nose jutted out between plump cheeks. His blue eyes gazed steadily, confidently at us.

A real live Earl, I breathed.

He settled us into our quarters before pushing off to the castle. I’ll be back in the morning and take you across. Show you the ropes, he added. He shrugged himself into a windbreaker, donned the typical Go-To-Hell cap favored by both the Irish and the Scots, doffed it in Miss Letty’s direction, and sauntered off, leaving the lantern behind.

Will he be all right? I whispered.

You heard him: been doing this all his life, said Otis.

Reluctantly, I turned away and surveyed our cottage. The front door opened directly into a small living, or sitting, room. A door to the right revealed a small bedroom with a half bath. Behind the sitting room was a small kitchen—tucked under a loft!

Thought you said this was all on one floor? I said, jabbing Otis in the ribs. Guess who gets to sleep up there? And climb the ladder every night?

I poked and prodded, examined the minimal furniture, stored the foodstuffs we had purchased in the cabinets. I’d have to lay in more ample supplies soon, but for tonight and breakfast, it sufficed. It was only when I sensed a more pressing need that I searched for something lacking. A full bathroom, separate from the bedroom. With deep foreboding I opened the back door. Ah! A good old separate bathroom, all right. Not an outhouse, thank God. More like a concrete block affair you’d find at a campground, with one shower and one toilet. It boasted a skylight, but apparently no electricity. So no heat. So much for modern plumbing.

Welcome home!

I awoke at some ungodly hour, my sleep patterns in disarray. Early as it was, Otis had arisen before me. I smelled the delectable odor of coffee and wondered how he had managed. I hastily threw on warm clothes and stout shoes. I remembered the ladder just in time to avoid stepping off the loft into nothingness. I found Otis at the kitchen table with a cuppa in hand.

Power’s back on, he said.

Gratefully, I accepted the cup he handed me. But first things first. I shrugged into an old coat hanging on a hook on the back door and slipped across to the privy. The seat was so cold I feared freezing in place, but I noticed one thing: a fireplace. Evidently we could build a roaring fire there for bath time.

Needs met, I followed a slate path around to the front of the house and looked out over the firth. The wind blew briskly in my face, a fact I would accustom myself to as time passed. Low tide revealed a broad stretch of mud flats enlivened by clumps of stiff grass hardy enough to withstand immersion in sea water twelve hours a day. The mud rippled, showing the paths of currents and eddies. I discerned a walkway visible now, wide enough for a cart of sorts to pass and composed of large stones fitted end to end. Not my idea of a causeway. It probably required sweeping daily and trips would have to be timed to the changing tides, but at least we needn’t row across every time. I wondered why the Earl hadn’t built up the access to be high and dry at all times, but answered my own question: money. The last Earl of Skeldon was on his last legs.

I studied, in growing daylight, the castle across the way. Not nearly as forbidding as it had appeared at dusk, I noticed it boasted an addition, or ell. Later I would learn it was an L-plan castle, the ell at right angles giving another vantage to fire upon an enemy attacking the gates. The stones blackened from age, and my housewifely instincts wondered about the judicious use of many gallons of Clorox. Or would that damage the stone? A slanted, steeply pitched roof crowned the castle and, rising above on a slender pole, a standard flew announcing the owner at home.

Except he wasn’t. Supposedly he had arrived at Belgrath House in Daytona Beach, Florida, and even now slept in our cozy bed. The previous lord of the castle, however, resided in one of the rooms, on one of those floors, in what capacity? A servant of the new owner? A churl? Somehow I didn’t think so. He didn’t come across as subservient, groveling. He still seemed...lordly. Or lairdly, perhaps, in Scotland. I wondered what complicated deal he had struck with the new owner and what his duties comprised. Part of the ambience? Much like Miss Letty at Belgrath House, granted a room for life in exchange for the house. She still drifted through the rooms with a tour in progress, giving her public a glimpse of the former Queen of the Silent Screen. Perhaps the Earl provided window dressing in a like manner.

The Earl and the Queen had much in