Chapter 6 Lex #2
Admittedly, I’d found Tag to be quite tense every time I saw him.
I’d begun to think his tight shoulders and the way his gaze continually swept our surroundings were merely habits of a man accustomed to constant threat assessment.
“What about?” I asked, softening my tone before quickly realizing we were in the midst of investigating a threat on par with the development of a nuclear bomb. “Err, I mean specifically.”
“We’ll find out later,” he whispered, putting his palm on the small of my back as we left the alcove and entered the conservatory where brunch was being served.
David and Sullivan sat by tall windows overlooking the estate grounds, deep in conversation.
Gus perused the serving dishes at a buffet table, while Mairi Drummond stood nearby, talking with one of Tag’s staff members.
Despite being invited as a guest, Mairi maintained a certain reserve that spoke of decades spent navigating the complex social hierarchy at Ashcroft. The recent revelation of her true relationship to the family seemed to have done little to erase her old habits.
I glanced around the room but didn’t notice Dr. McLaren or the man I’d seen in the background of yesterday’s video call. Seconds later, they entered through a set of French doors that led in from an outdoor seating area.
“Margot!” Dr. McLaren approached, and we joined hands. “How serendipitous that you’re here this morning.”
I fought to steel my expression despite the turbulent emotions—relief at seeing my mentor, confusion at finding her here of all places, and the lingering hurt over her abrupt retirement that had left me feeling so adrift. Particularly since it came just as the Labyrinth investigation began.
“Dr. McLaren,” I managed, accepting the older woman’s embrace. “It’s a lovely coincidence to see you here.”
“Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?” Dr. McLaren said with the enigmatic smile that had always preceded her most important lessons.
We cheek-kissed, then she turned to an older gentleman dressed in a tailored tweed jacket who was examining an antique pocket watch with unusual intensity.
“Brose, this is the woman I was telling you about earlier, my protege. Margot Sterling, meet Ambrose Ashcroft.”
“Lovely to meet you,” he said, taking my hand and kissing the back of it. As our eyes locked, I couldn’t help but think he looked less like the eccentric uncle in person than I’d expected and more like a distinguished academic.
“Ambrose,” Con greeted him. “I didn’t realize you’d be joining us,” he lied.
The older man smiled thinly. “Niall always invites me. I simply choose to accept when it suits me.”
Tag appeared at Con’s shoulder. “Ambrose has been pestering me again about selling him a few pieces from the east gallery.”
“Still on about those, is he?”
Later, when we were well out of Ambrose’s earshot, Tag confided, “He asks every time he visits. Same routine—claims they’re crucial for some exhibition he’s curating. I’ve told him for years they’re not for sale.”
“Persistent old codger,” Con replied, his voice low. “Never quite takes no for an answer, does he?”
Sullivan approached, offering a welcome distraction. “Good to see you again, Lex. How are you finding Scotland?”
“Cold but captivating,” I replied, watching as Tag drew Con aside, their heads bent in serious discussion.
Throughout brunch and in between topics of conversation with Dr. McLaren, who I was seated beside, I observed the group dynamics with both personal and professional interest.
These people—apart from Ambrose, my mentor, and me—operated as a unit, bonded by lifelong connections and shared secrets.
Gus and David maintained a continuous awareness of their surroundings despite the casual setting.
Sullivan, though newer to their circle, had adapted to their hypervigilance.
Tag moved with contained power, every gesture precise.
Once we were all seated, Mairi appeared to relax, morphing into the woman who’d watched the four men grow up and loved them all equally.
Ambrose remained the anomaly even with Dr. McLaren’s company.
He spoke knowledgeably on various subjects but occasionally drifted mid sentence, his gaze turning vacant before he resumed with a slightly different cadence.
When questioned directly, his responses came after small but noticeable delays, as if processing it through some internal filter.
I caught him watching me several times, his assessment uncomfortably penetrating. When our eyes met, he merely smiled and returned to his meal.
Shortly after brunch, he announced they’d be returning to Ashcroft.
“I will as well,” said Mairi, standing when he and Dr. McLaren did. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal to do before tonight’s festivities.”
“Festivities?” Sullivan questioned.
“Just a small gathering of local artists and friends—on behalf of Evelyn’s visit, of course,” Ambrose said with a dismissive wave. “Nothing that would interest any of you.”
“We’ll speak tomorrow,” Dr. McLaren said, squeezing my hand before thanking Tag and following Mairi and Ambrose out.
“How bloody awkward was that?” Tag said, leading us out of the conservatory.
I couldn’t have said it better. In fact, I expected, any moment now, that Con would also announce we were leaving, after which we’d continue our discourse about my consultation with Dr. McLaren. Not that I had any intention of backing down about it.
“Here is the library,” Tag announced as we entered a room that, unlike Blackmoor’s masculine space, had been preserved with the monastery’s original character—soaring ceilings, stained glass casting colorful reflections cross ancient stone, and endless shelves of historical texts.
“I’ve pulled a few volumes that mention the tunnel systems,” he said, motioning to several journals that were spread across a massive oak table. “Some date back to the 1720s.”
For the next two hours, we pored over fragile manuscripts and architectural drawings.
“The network is more extensive than I realized,” Con said, examining a partially obscured map. “If these markings are accurate, the tunnels extend beyond our three estates to several points along the coastline.”
“Strategic for smuggling during the uprisings,” Tag said. “The Jacobites were nothing if not thorough in their planning.”
Sullivan leaned closer, studying the faded markings. “I’ve read about similar networks beneath Edinburgh and Glasgow. The scale of these secret passages throughout Scotland is remarkable.”
“My grandfather used to tell stories about smugglers using these tunnels well into the nineteenth century,” Tag added. “Though I always assumed he was exaggerating.”
Con chuckled. “I said something similar to Lex about my grandfather. I thought he was batty. It’s interesting to me that my father never mentioned anything about them.
He had to have known.” He traced an imaginary line on the ancient paper without actually touching it.
“I wonder how many are still navigable. I would expect most would have collapsed or flooded over time.”
By late afternoon, David and Sullivan departed for Ashcroft, followed shortly by Gus.
“Something is going on with Nightingale. Typhon is tight-lipped on whatever it is,” Tag said, walking Con and me to the main entrance.
“Any theories?” Con asked.
Tag shook his head. “I’ve been unable to make contact. I’ve a bad feeling in my gut, as they say.”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Con offered.
“Appreciated,” Tag answered gruffly.
I thanked him for inviting us to brunch when he continued walking with us out to Con’s vehicle.
“Talk tomorrow?” Con said to Tag before opening my door.
“We should do,” he responded.
I was anxious on the drive back to Blackmoor.
More than I should be. Then again, like Tag, I had a bad feeling in my gut.
I let my mind drift as I gazed out at dusk settling over the Highland landscape, the winter sky deepening to indigo as Con navigated the winding roads as someone would who’d driven them all his life.
“Will you return to London tomorrow?” he asked, breaking the silence.
The question caught me off guard. “I’d like to meet with Dr. McLaren, but afterwards, I suppose I should.”
He kept his eyes on the road. “If you’d like, I can arrange the helicopter for you. Perhaps, err, just to collect anything you might need?”
His assumption that I would immediately return made my traitorous heart skip.
“That’s considerate, but I should focus on tracking down Orlov.
I’ve been distracted by the tunnels when my expertise would be better applied to verifying whether he’s truly alive.
” And the fact that Labyrinth appeared to be developing advanced AI integration, I added in my head.
Con pulled through Blackmoor’s gates, his profile illuminated by the dashboard lights. “You’re right, of course.” His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “Though something tells me the tunnels are relevant to Labyrinth’s operations. A trip to Edinburgh might prove useful.”
We were still in the car, discussing the logistics for my return to London, when my mobile pinged with an encrypted message. The sender field showed only scrambled characters. Heart racing, I decoded the contents, then felt ice flood my veins.
Your investigation into Project Labyrinth threatens interests beyond your comprehension. Cease immediately or face the consequences. Not everyone at Blackmoor is what they appear.
“What is it?” Con asked.
I handed him the mobile. His face hardened as he read the message. “Someone has your secure number.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “Someone who knows exactly where I am.”
His protective response was immediate. “You’re not going anywhere tomorrow.” His fingers brushed mine when he returned the mobile. “Not until we identify who sent this.”
Our eyes met in the dim light, tension shimmering between us that had nothing to do with the threat.