The Blue Hackle

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Lillian Stewart Carl. The Blue Hackle

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Chapter One

Jean Fairbairn peered over the railing of the footbridge. If sufficiently motivated—chased by bloodthirsty swordsmen, for example—she could have dangled by her hands from the walkway and dropped into the rocky, muddy gully that had once been a moat. She’d be skewered anyway, but giving up and going quietly had never been part of her vocabulary.

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White gulls sailed overhead, stained pink by the ray of sunlight. Of sunset. “My old granny,” said Alasdair, “she was fond of saying that gulls carried the not-yet-departed spirits of the dead.”

“Hopefully my old rellies are well and truly departed. I’d rather read ghost stories than end up in one.” Greg raised his arm to inspect his watch, a massive number that probably displayed stock quotes as well as time and date. “Well then, I’ve got time for a squint at the old castle first. It’s straight on, is it?”

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