first of the nightmares or something else was very wrong.
After pulling the painting back to where I’d found it, I wrapped it in the concealing cloth and started down the stairs, deep in thought. Why was a valuable sixteenth-century painting hidden away in a tiny attic room where no one would ever see it? And how had Professor MacCleod found it? More importantly, where was the passageway Katrine Murray and I had seen in our dreams? Running my hands over the walls, I could detect no indentation, no hidden panel or alcove, nothing that would lead me to believe this room held the secret of the tunnel.
Kate was nowhere in sight when I replaced the key. I thought about keeping it in my room and decided against it. There was no reason to assume that my housekeeper couldn’t be trusted to open the door in the morning for tourists and lock it up at night. She probably had no idea that the portrait even existed.
Back in my room, I pulled on a robe and began brushing out my hair when a thought stopped me. Professor MacCleod said he had first seen the portrait over ten years ago hanging at the top of the secret stairs. Kate had lived at Traquair all of her life. She must have seen it. Why, then, hadn’t she reacted when she saw my face for the first time? She must have noticed. The resemblance was unmistakable.
In the hall, the phone rang. I tensed, waiting for the second ring. Then and there, I decided that the first thing I would do with Ellen Maxwell’s money would be to install a telephone in my bedroom. It rang a third time. Tossing the brush aside, I walked into the hall and picked up the phone before the fourth ring.
“Hello.”
“Christina,” a familiar voice said.
“Dad.” Relief flowed through me, weakening my knees. I had to sit down. “I’ve been so worried. Is everything all right?”
“I’m not sure.”
I frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Is there something wrong with your phone, Chris? It sounds as if someone else is on the line.”
Immediately there was a telltale click. “I think we’re all right now,” I said dryly.
“Never mind. I’d planned on telling you the news personally.”
The muscles in my back tensed. “Is anything wrong? It isn’t Mom, is it?”
“There’s nothing wrong, honey. Your mother’s had quite a shock, and strangely enough, it has to do with the house you’ve inherited.”
“Do you want me to come home?” I asked.
“No, of course not. We’re coming there the week after next. I’ll call you when we reach Edinburgh. Don’t change your plans. If we can’t track you down, we’ll rent a car.”
What could possibly be shocking enough to convince my thrifty father to buy two plane tickets to Edinburgh during the peak of the tourist season?
I hung up the phone, tightened the sash of my robe, and walked downstairs. There was a phone in the kitchen and another in the library. I unplugged the cords and stuffed them into my pocket. It was a futile gesture, really. Kate probably had a phone in her suite. But she would know why I’d done it, and she would know that I wouldn’t stand for her interference. There were other housekeepers in Scotland, and even if the position proved hard to fill, middle-class American women weren’t as helpless as British ladies. If the situation called for it, I wasn’t above scrubbing out a toilet or two myself.
The next morning I arranged for my own private phone line to be installed in my room. Two men came out that afternoon. I answered the door myself. Ushering them past a white-faced Kate, I led the way up the stairs to my bedroom. Thirty minutes later they were gone, and I walked back downstairs for the confrontation I knew would come.
Kate sat on a chair, her hands folded in her lap. I sat on the sofa across from her and picked up a magazine. I didn’t have long to wait.
“Are you unhappy with my services, Miss Murray?” she asked, her lips tight and angry.
“Not at all.” I closed the magazine and placed it on the table. “Why do you ask?”
Two bright red spots appeared on her cheeks. “In the past, it has been my responsibility to arrange for all services necessary here at Traquair.”
“What services are you speaking of?” I asked, meeting her gaze across the coffee table.
“Repairs, utilities, ordering supplies, paying the invoices for utilities.” She waved her hand in a nebulous arc. “Everything.”
“I’m