Chapter 5
FINN
The Impossible Patient
(Or the Impossible Patient)
I pull up in front of McGregor Castle wondering whether I took a wrong turn somewhere and accidentally ended up in an episode of Downton Abbey.
The place is enormous.
Massive.
Turrets rise toward the gray sky, mullioned windows reflect the clouds overhead, and an immaculate gravel driveway winds all the way to the main entrance.
The kind of building that says, Our ancestors slaughtered yours in the Middle Ages, and we’re still very proud of it.
Then again, maybe that’s just my murderous mood talking.
I check my phone again. The message had been fairly alarming.
UNKNOWN
Medical emergency at McGregor Castle. Elderly patient. Possible cardiac symptoms.
Exactly what I need after rescuing a mud-covered woman who thanked me by telling me to go to hell.
I grimace at the memory of our less-than-friendly exchange.
Brilliant, Finn. Truly brilliant. Saving someone’s life only to insult them afterward is exactly the kind of thing that’ll improve your reputation around the village.
I push open the car door and step out, medical bag in hand. The rain has eased into a persistent drizzle that turns everything into varying shades of damp gray misery. My shoes crunch against the gravel as I head up the driveway.
Before I even reach the steps, the front door opens.
A man in his sixties wearing a flawless dark suit stands in the doorway. Tall. Ramrod straight. Silver-gray hair perfectly combed into place. He has that calm, neutral expression only professional butlers seem capable of mastering.
“Dr. McLeod, I presume?” he says in a composed voice.
“That’s right. I received a call about an emergency.”
“Indeed. Mrs. McGregor is expecting you. I’m Jamison, the butler. If you would follow me.”
He steps aside to let me enter, and I walk into a hall that looks more like a museum than a private residence. A monumental staircase rises before me, the ceiling stretches several stories high, and stern portraits of dead people in formal clothing stare down from the paneled walls.
You do not belong here, Finn.
I shove the thought aside and focus on the task at hand.
Elderly patient.
Cardiac symptoms.
That’s what matters.
“Mrs. McGregor is in the sitting room,” Jamison informs me as he leads me through a hallway filled with objects probably worth more than my annual salary. “She insisted on receiving you there rather than in her bedroom.”
“She’s able to move around?”
“Oh yes. Mrs. McGregor is remarkably robust.”
There’s something in his tone.
A subtle note I can’t quite identify.
Amusement?
Irony?
We stop in front of a dark wooden door, which Jamison opens ceremoniously after knocking once.
“Dr. McLeod, ma’am.”
I step inside and discover a surprisingly cozy room despite its size. A fire crackles in the hearth, spreading welcome warmth through the space. Green velvet armchairs sit around a dark wood coffee table.
And seated in one of those armchairs is a woman around eighty years old watching me with piercing blue eyes.
Maggie McGregor.
She wears an immaculate tweed suit, a pearl necklace, and her white hair is pulled into a severe bun. A teacup rests in her hand as she sips calmly from it.
For someone supposedly experiencing “possible cardiac symptoms,” she looks remarkably comfortable.
“Dr. McLeod,” she says with a broad smile. “How kind of you to come so quickly.”
I approach cautiously, every instinct on alert.
“Mrs. McGregor. I was told you were experiencing concerning symptoms?”
“Sit down, dear. You’re making me dizzy standing there like a fence post.”
Not really a request.
More of an order with barely a layer of politeness painted over it.
I sit in the chair she indicates with a wave of her teacup.
“Tell me about your symptoms, Mrs. McGregor.”
“Oh, call me Maggie. Mrs. McGregor was my mother-in-law, and she was utterly unbearable, God rest her soul.”
She sets down her teacup with a delicate clink against the saucer.
“I had palpitations this morning. Dizziness. And pain... right here.”
She places a hand vaguely over the left side of her chest.
So vaguely it could be anywhere between her heart and her stomach.
I pull out my stethoscope.
“How long have you been experiencing these symptoms?”
“Oh, difficult to say. Three hours? Maybe four. Time flies when you get older.”
I rise and step closer.
“I’ll need to examine you. With your permission.”
“Of course, of course.”
I place the stethoscope against her chest over her blouse. Her heartbeat is steady.
Seventy-two beats per minute.
No detectable arrhythmia.
No suspicious murmur.
“Take a deep breath for me, please.”
She obeys. Her lungs are clear. No wheezing. No crackles.
“Again.”
Still nothing.
I step back and pull out the blood pressure cuff.
“I’m going to check your blood pressure.”
“You know, doctor,” she says while I wrap the cuff around her arm, “you’re much younger than Dr. McKinnon.”
Ah.
There it is.
“Yes, I am.”
“But I don’t mind. Youth brings fresh perspectives, doesn’t it?”
I focus on the reading.
One twenty-eight over seventy-eight.
Slightly elevated, but nothing remotely alarming for a woman her age.
“Your blood pressure looks fine,” I say while removing the cuff. “No immediate signs of concern.”
“How reassuring.”
She smiles at me.
That smile makes me uneasy.
There’s something... calculating about it.
“You’re staying at the village boarding house, aren’t you?” she asks.
I pack away my equipment, thrown off by the abrupt shift in topic.
“Uh... yes. Temporarily.”
“Oh, but that’s quite far from the medical clinic. And I imagine the rooms are rather small. Not especially comfortable for a man your size.”
I’m not even particularly tall.
Six feet at most.
“It’s... adequate.”
“Adequately uncomfortable, you mean.”
She laughs softly like she’s just made the funniest joke imaginable.
I sit back down, confused.
Something about this doesn’t add up.
The symptoms she described—palpitations, dizziness, chest pain—should leave traces. Elevated blood pressure. Irregular heartbeat. Something.
But there’s nothing.
“Maggie,” I say slowly, “are you still experiencing the palpitations now?”
“No, not at all. You must’ve scared them away with your magical stethoscope.”
She winks at me.
What exactly is happening here?
“The dizziness?”
“Gone.”
“The chest pain?”
“Disappeared like magic.”
I stare at her, trying to understand.
Either this woman had a brief anxiety episode that resolved on its own, or...
Or she’s lying.
But why would someone fake cardiac symptoms?
Attention?
That doesn’t fit her demeanor at all.
She doesn’t seem worried.
She doesn’t seem sick.
She seems...
Satisfied.
I frown.
“I’m going to be honest with you,” I say carefully. “I can’t identify the cause of your symptoms. They may be related to temporary stress or indigestion, but I’d prefer to see you again tomorrow just to make sure everything’s alright.”
“How diligent!” she exclaims with enthusiasm that feels wildly disproportionate. “Dr. McKinnon never would’ve come twice.”
Of course he wouldn’t.
Because he would’ve figured out in thirty seconds that there was absolutely nothing wrong with you and trusted his own judgment.
“I prefer to be cautious,” I say while closing my medical bag. “Especially with symptoms this... vague.”
“Vague,” she repeats with a tiny smile. “An excellent word choice.”
I stand, eager to leave this room and this woman who makes me feel like a mouse being observed by a cat.
“If you experience palpitations or pain again, don’t hesitate to call me immediately. Even in the middle of the night.”
“You’re adorable, Dr. McLeod. Absolutely adorable.”
Jamison appears in the doorway as if summoned by magic, ready to escort me out. I turn back toward Maggie.
“Get some rest. I’ll send a message later this evening to check on you.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m in excellent hands.”
I follow Jamison into the hallway, relieved to leave behind that sitting room and those unnervingly sharp blue eyes. We cross the grand hall in silence, my footsteps echoing against the polished floors.
“Is Mrs. McGregor often ill?” I ask.
“Madam has the constitution of an ox,” Jamison replies in a perfectly neutral tone. “She’ll bury all her doctors.”
I stop abruptly.
“Then why—”
I don’t finish the sentence.
There’s no point.
Jamison won’t say a word. Butlers never betray their employers. It’s probably written into their contracts somewhere.
We reach the front door. Jamison opens it, letting in a gust of damp cold air.
“Thank you for your visit, doctor. I’m certain Mrs. McGregor appreciates your attention.”
I’m about to step outside when something catches my eye on the wall of the hall.
A large framed photograph.
A family picture, clearly taken at a wedding. Dozens of people pose in front of the castle, smiling and elegant.
And there, in the front row slightly to the left—
My heart jolts violently in my chest.
It’s her.
The woman from the road.
The one I pulled out of the ditch less than an hour ago.
The one I insulted by telling her she didn’t know how to drive.
She’s wearing a green dress that highlights her auburn hair. She’s smiling at the camera, though the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
She looks proud.
Independent.
Fierce, even.
“That’s...” I begin.
“The McGregor family,” Jamison says, following my gaze. “The photograph was taken at Mr. Callum McGregor’s wedding last year.”
“And who is that young woman?”
I gesture toward her figure while trying to sound detached and professional.
“That is Miss Mary McGregor, Madam’s granddaughter. A newly qualified veterinarian. She recently returned to Glenfield to take over Dr. MacNeil’s clinic.”
Mary McGregor.
Veterinarian.
Granddaughter of my impossible patient.
And the woman I “rescued” before informing her she was an incompetent driver.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
“I see. Thank you for the information.”
“You’re very welcome, doctor.”
Is it my imagination, or is there amusement flickering in the butler’s eyes?
I leave quickly, practically running down the steps and across the gravel driveway. Once inside my Land Rover, I stare at the castle through the rain-speckled windshield, trying to process what the hell just happened.
I start the engine and pull onto the winding road leading away from the estate. In my rearview mirror, McGregor Castle looms against the lead-colored sky, imposing and mysterious.
And somewhere inside it sits a manipulative eighty-year-old woman.
The worst part is that I still have no idea why Maggie McGregor faked cardiac symptoms to get me there.
The only thing I know for certain, as I drive back toward the village beneath the rain beginning to fall once more, is that my life just became infinitely more complicated.
Welcome to the Highlands, Finn.
Where even saving someone can spectacularly backfire on you.