Murder at Midnight Read Online Free Page A

“At Loch Arkaig just north of Fort William, and never recovered.” He winked at the Frasers and said no more.
    Rex looked at the couple expectantly. “Care to share what you know?” he asked.
    “Well, it’s really quite exciting,” Ken took up again. “And it’s mainly thanks to Humphrey that we are in possession of a valuable clue.”
    “A clue to the whereabouts of the treasure?” Cleverly’s guest, Margarita Delacruz, exclaimed, her dark figure appearing as out of nowhere. It was the longest string of words Rex had yet heard her speak, and she delivered them with barely an accent.
    “Now it must be said,” Ken Fraser continued, as though wrapped up in the sound of his own pedantic voice and oblivious to her question, “that most of the clansmen took the secret of its location to the grave, even under dire torture. One of the chiefs had his tongue cut oot!”
    “How could he divulge the secret if his tongue was cut out?” Helen asked sensibly.
    “The money was to go to helping Charlie’s supporters escape the English Duke of Cumberland, known as The Butcher, and to aid those who’d been wounded at Culloden and dispossessed of their property. The survivors of the battle, which took place near Inverness, incidentally, hid oot in caves in the Highlands, and the loyal clansmen got money to them at great risk to themselves. The rest of the French gold was buried by the south banks of Loch Arkaig.”
    Rex was still waiting for the clue, which Ken, by design or distraction, was not being forthcoming in supplying.
    “So, what was the clue?” Julie asked for him. She and Drew had been listening in on the conversation. By now, even the two lovebirds in the window seat were eavesdropping, as was Zoe, though pretending not to as she sat on the arm of a chair, swinging her foot beneath the hem of her green chiffon dress. Alistair’s young partner had gravitated toward the group with his tumbler of twelve-year-old malt and stood beside the black-clad figure of Margarita Delacruz, who struck a theatrical pose as she listened intently to Ken, her black lacquer cigarette holder extended in one slender, manicured hand. Only Ace Weaver remained by the hearth, asleep in his wheelchair.
    “I’m getting to that,” Ken snapped, clearly wishing to proceed at his own pace and hold the floor for as long as possible.
    “Sorry I asked,” Julie retorted.
    “Not all the Jacobites were as honourable, however. A Fraser, one of ours, I regret to say, was spying on the diggers and absconded with thousands of French guineas and gold bars, about ninety pounds’ worth in weight, which he hid in a couple of beer kegs.”
    “Which was very ingenious,” Catriona said. “Our ancestors were known to like their booze, so this was the perfect decoy!”
    Everyone laughed except her husband, who attempted a smile but seemed annoyed by the interruption. “Fortunately the thief died of gout before he could spend most of it. In a deathbed confession to his priest, he revealed that he had reburied the treasure he’d stolen from the loch.”
    “But where?” Alistair’s partner asked, eyes wide with curiosity.
    “Ah, John, we did not ken that until the priest’s writings turned up in an estate sale last year. The family had kept the old papers in an antique chest, not thinking there was anything remotely important in them. Most of the stuff was in Latin and Gaelic. But Humphrey here, erudite historian that he is, was able to acquire them, at least temporarily, and translate them. The name Fraser came up in the priest’s diary along with a description of the deathbed confession, and there was a poem in the collection, as well. The diary entry referred to a riddle that the dying Jacobite recited before he gasped his final breath.”
    “Well?” asked Margarita throwing up her hands in a Latin gesture of impatience. “Tell us the clue!”
    “Humphrey, would you do the honours?” Ken asked pompously. “After all, you translated the