Chapter 11
Clementine
The Night Glenfield Rewrote History
From now on, I will never again forget that when Ailsa shows up at my door wearing that Cheshire Cat smile and carrying two bottles of wine, she's plotting something.
“Let's just go grab a drink at the pub,” she says, making herself comfortable in my living room as if she lives here. “You can't stay cooped up in this place every night.”
“I'm not cooped up. I'm working. Besides, we don't need to go anywhere since you brought wine.”
My boss wasn't exactly thrilled when I asked for more time off, but he didn't refuse. Probably because I promised I'd keep up with my workload anyway...
“You're hiding,” she corrects. “And the wine is for another night.”
“I'm not hiding. So you're planning to spend more evenings with me?” I ask, continuing both conversations at once.
“You haven't left the manor in two days. So yes, I fully intend to spend time with you while you're in the Highlands.”
“I have things to do. The manor isn't going to inventory itself.”
Ailsa grabs my notes and places them out of reach.
“The manor can wait. Your social skills, on the other hand, are dying of loneliness. Come on. Get dressed.”
I sigh.
Ailsa has a remarkable ability to turn suggestions into orders without anyone quite understanding how it happened.
Twenty minutes later, I find myself standing outside The Grumpy Sheep.
“Ailsa...”
“You're going to love this,” she says, pushing open the pub door. “It's fun, completely chill, we'll have one drink and head home.”
What I see when I step inside is anything but chill.
The pub is packed like it's World Cup Final night.
Every table is occupied, extra chairs have been crammed into every available corner, and Ewan is weaving between groups with the expression of a man who already regrets opening for business tonight.
“Ailsa,” I say slowly. “Why are there so many people here?”
She's already moving deeper into the room.
A banner hangs above the bar.
THE GRUMPY SHEEP QUIZ NIGHT — SPECIAL EDITION: LOCAL LEGENDS
I catch up with her.
“You knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Ailsa.”
She adopts an innocent expression, but I'm fairly certain she's lying through her teeth.
“I may have vaguely heard something about a quiz. Possibly. That changes nothing. We're just having a drink and—”
“We're participating in this quiz, aren't we?”
She smiles.
“The team needs you.”
“What team? I'm not on a team. I'm not even from here. I'm French, I'm only here for two weeks, and the only local legend I know is the one about a sheep breaking into my bedroom at three in the morning.”
But Ailsa is already sitting at a table, and somehow I'm swept along by the human tide until I end up in a chair that someone apparently reserved for me without consulting me.
My teammates introduce themselves one by one.
At the same time, I learn that Old Angus MacDonald's dog still has a tick that the village veterinarian, Mary McGregor, will remove tomorrow; that one of Mrs. MacLeish's guest room doors no longer closes properly; and that a black sheep named Ragnar recently made an unfortunate excursion into the McKenzie distillery.
The owner, Keira McGregor—another one of Cameron's cousins—shakes my hand with the enthusiasm of someone who's just recruited a star player.
“A French woman! Perfect. You'll handle the Europe questions.”
“The theme is local legends,” I remind her.
“You never know.”
Across the pub, at a table on the opposite side of the room, Cameron McGregor settles in with several people I don't recognize.
He notices me too and flashes a smile so devastatingly attractive that I instantly regret coming.
I quickly look away.
That's when Moira MacTavish stands, clears her throat, and bangs a wooden spoon against the bar three times—a spoon she apparently brought from home specifically for this purpose.
“Good evening, everyone! I'll be your host tonight!”
A murmur ripples through the room.
Behind the bar, Ewan briefly lifts his eyes toward the ceiling.
“As every month,” Moira announces while unfolding a stack of wrinkled papers, “The Grumpy Sheep Quiz pits Glenfield's greatest minds against one another.”
“And the rest of us too!” someone shouts.
“Indeed, the rest of you too. Tonight's theme is: Local Legends. Ten questions. The winning team will receive...”
She dramatically raises something above her head.
“...The Grand Trophy of Knowledge!”
“That's just a bottle of Talisker wrapped in aluminum foil,” Old Angus mutters beside me.
He says it loudly enough for the entire pub to hear.
“A trophy is a trophy, Angus,” Moira replies without looking at him. “Show some respect.”
She examines her first sheet, flips it over once, then twice, sets it down, and picks up another.
“Question number one. What is the name of the loch located three miles north of Glenfield, reputed to house a mysterious creature first sighted in... in...”
She squints.
“What year was it again, Angus?”
Old Angus sighs.
“I'm participating, Moira. I can't help you.”
“I know. I'm only checking my notes.”
“1887,” someone calls from another table.
“1887!” Moira repeats confidently. “First sighted in 1887. You have thirty seconds!”
Our table huddles together.
I obviously have no idea what the answer is.
Old Angus writes something down while grumbling.
Ailsa confidently declares, “Loch Calder.”
Moira collects the answer sheets, drops one beneath a table, retrieves it, and finally announces:
“The correct answer is... Loch Calder. Everyone got it right. Therefore nobody gets a point.”
Silence.
“What do you mean nobody gets a point?” someone asks.
“If everyone has the same answer, nobody is separated from the others. On to question two.”
“That's not how quizzes work.”
“That's how my quiz works,” Moira replies. “Question two!”
I look at Ailsa.
She simply shrugs with a mysterious smile.
“Question two. According to local legend, which Scottish clan hid a treasure beneath the foundations of a building in Glenfield?”
The pub immediately erupts.
“The Campbells!”
“The MacTavishes!”
“Moira, you're a MacTavish! You can't ask that question!” Old Angus shouts.
“I ask objective questions,” Moira says, offended. “The answer is the MacKenzies.”
“That's false!” Keira yells. “That rumor was invented by the Campbells so they could search our cellar!”
“My grandmother searched your cellar in 1974,” someone else says. “There were only potatoes.”
“Suspicious potatoes.”
“What exactly is a suspicious potato?” I ask nobody in particular.
I turn toward Ailsa.
“Is it usually like this?”
“No,” she replies. “Tonight is actually pretty calm.”
Moira bangs her spoon three more times.
“Quiet! Question three. What were the names of the couple who lived in Fraser Manor about one hundred years ago and who, according to legend, still haunt the property?”
Everyone starts talking at once.
“Brodie and Mairenn Fraser, obviously,” Old Angus declares with the confidence of a man who might have personally known them.
“That's right. Brodie and Mairenn,” Moira confirms.
Then she places her papers on the bar and addresses the room with the expression of someone who has decided the quiz can wait.
“But let's really talk about them. Because what my mother told me about that couple doesn't match the story people tell around here.”
“My version is the true one,” Old Angus announces.
“Oh really?” Moira replies. “Since you're such an expert, how did they die?”
The room instantly divides into factions.
“Pneumonia. Both of them,” Old Angus says. “It's documented.”
“Documented where?” Duncan Fraser asks from my left.
“In my head. I mean, I remember hearing about it. My grandfather told me...”
“That's not a reliable source, Angus.”
“That's what my father said, and his father before him.”
“Your great-grandfather mixed everybody up,” Moira says. “Mairenn didn't die of pneumonia. She died of a broken heart.”
“A broken heart?”
Moira nods vigorously.
“Brodie left one morning and never came back. She waited six months for him. Then she stopped eating.”
“Is your story supposed to be romantic or tragic?” asks Mary, the veterinarian, from Cameron's table.
“Both,” Moira says firmly.
“Wrong!” Duncan slaps the table. “Brodie never left. Mairenn left him. For a man from Glasgow.”
The entire pub gasps.
“A man from Glasgow?” Old Angus repeats, sounding personally offended.
“An architect.”
“And Brodie?” someone asks.
“Brodie drank for three years and then fell down a staircase,” Duncan replies.
“The main staircase or the servants' staircase?” Moira asks, pen poised.
“What difference does that make?”
“It makes all the difference when determining the location of the haunting.”
I stare at my hands.
Then at the ceiling.
Then at Ailsa, who is drinking her beer with the absorbed expression of someone watching her favorite soap opera.
“They didn't die separately,” a voice suddenly says from the back.
It's Cameron.
I frown.
Something feels different about him tonight.
“Connor is so handsome,” Ailsa whispers.
“Connor?”
My friend nods.
“Cameron's twin!”
My lips form a shocked O.
“They died the same night,” Connor continues. “At the manor. Together.”
“Together?” Moira asks.
“Together,” Connor repeats with a vague gesture. “It's romantic. That's all anyone needs to know.”
“We need details,” Duncan argues.
“We do not need details,” Mary counters.
“I need details,” Moira says.
Ewan sets a glass on the bar with more force than necessary.
Nobody notices.
That's the exact moment Cameron rises to his feet.
Calmly.
With the particular confidence of someone who knows exactly what he's doing.
“They didn't die,” he says.
Total silence.
“Well. They died. Obviously. Everyone dies. But they never... left.”
He lets the word hang in the air.
“The older villagers know this. Fraser Manor isn't haunted because they died there. It's haunted because they chose to stay.”
Someone gently sets down a glass, and in the silence that has swallowed the pub, the sound seems impossibly loud.
“Brodie and Mairenn Fraser loved that manor more than anything. More than their own lives. So they stayed. And they're still there.”
A collective sigh moves through the room.