Secrets of a Scottish Isle

Book 5: Jane Wunderly Mystery

by Erica Ruth Neubauer

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Private Investigators

Synopsis

The latest installment in the new Jane Wunderly Mystery series featuring an American widow turned private investigator in 1920s Europe.

Isle of Iona, 1927: Cast away on a remote locale, Jane’s latest assignment depends on concealing her identity and blending in at an occult gathering. Not even her fiancé, Redvers, can be too close as she uncovers the truth about Robert Nightingale, enigmatic leader of the Order of the Golden Dawn—a group made up of supernatural ceremonies, influential people, and an undefinable darkness. When a woman tries to escape to the mainland only to be found murdered in the moors, the shocking scene reveals it’s easier to join the Golden Dawn than it is to leave.
 
Jane, set on solving the crime and catching the next ferry with Redvers, realizes she may be among the few still grasping reality. One high-ranking member searches for the killer by attempting to access otherworldly planes of existence, while others become immersed in a strange solstice ritual. Then there’s Nightingale and the rivals who discarded him to start a new temple. As a second death brings fresh clues into focus, Jane needs to navigate a frightening dilemma—playing along won’t help her crack the mystery, but revealing too much could be a fatal mistake . . .

Release date: March 26, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

The black hood that had been placed over my head felt suffocating, even though I could actually breathe just fine. They had also wrapped a rope around my waist three times, which bothered me nearly as much as not being able to see anything—which was the point, of course. Both made me uncomfortable in a way that was visceral, which was likely the intended purpose. I knew where the members of the Order of the Golden Dawn were because I could hear their voices as they chanted, but I couldn’t see what they were doing.

And the whole reason I was here was to keep an eye on them.

Someone came forward to fetch me, smelling strongly of incense. I thought that my other senses were probably heightened because I couldn’t see, but it was also possible that the person just smelled that strongly. It wasn’t a pleasant aroma. Whoever it was sprinkled my head with something; I could feel little drops hitting the black hood over my head. “Child of Earth, arise and enter the Path of Darkness.”

It was a man. Not Robert Nightingale, the man I was supposed to be investigating, but one of the other “officers” of this order. I hadn’t quite caught all their names before I was brought into the abbey where this ceremony was being conducted.

I got up off my knees, with some difficulty since the floor was hard stone and I couldn’t see anything to balance myself. I was going to have bruises on my knees and shins, that was for certain. The man took my arm and led me forward. They all were silent, and I remembered that this was where I was supposed to recite the lines that I’d studied.

“My soul is wandering in darkness, seeking the light of occult knowledge,” I said, stumbling a little over the words. I’d worked hard at memorizing them, but they simply didn’t come naturally to me.

I felt my hand being placed on something that was hard and felt triangular in shape. Now it was Nightingale’s voice asking a series of questions.

“Do you promise to keep secret everything in relation to the order, to maintain kind and benevolent relations with all the fraters and sorors of this order? Do you promise to neither copy nor allow to be copied any manuscript lest our secret knowledge be revealed?” Nightingale paused dramatically.

“I do.” I felt uncomfortable saying the words, feeling as though I was at some kind of dark wedding and had just bound myself to something sinister.

“Do you promise to not suffer yourself to be hypnotized or mesmerized or placed in a state of passivity, to never use occult powers for any evil purpose, and to persevere through the ceremony of admission?”

“I do.” I had a lot of questions about everything he’d just said, though now obviously wasn’t the time to ask. I would try to find out later what all of that meant.

“Do you swear that, if you violate any of these oaths, you will voluntarily submit to a deadly and hostile stream of power set in motion by the chiefs of the order, by which you should fall slain and paralyzed without visible weapon as if slain by a lightning flash?”

This time, I was the one who paused, since I was uncomfortable agreeing to any of that, but I forced myself to do it anyway since it was what needed to be done for the job. “I do,” I ground out, hoping that my voice sounded normal and that none of the members had noticed my hesitation.

But now I felt something heavy, cold, and metal at the back of my neck. It was there for only an instant and then was gone, but it was long enough that my blood ran cold. I’d been assured that there wasn’t any sort of blood sacrifice or even bloodletting associated with this order, but just how certain could I be? We’d had very little time to prepare for this assignment before I dove right in, and I felt as though I was woefully unprepared.

I was bodily turned, then my hood was suddenly removed, only to find that I was staring at the point of a sword glinting in the light from a lamp held by the chief of ceremony. Then I was in darkness once more and being turned yet again. I was stopped, seemingly faced in the opposite direction, and my hood was again removed. This time, I was being threatened with a large scepter that had wings sprouting from either side at the top. I had only a moment to register what I was seeing before my hood was pulled down tight again.

I was getting quite tired of this back and forth with the hood. Not to mention being spun in circles.

Then I heard Nightingale’s voice again. “I come in the power of light. I come in the light of wisdom. I come in the mercy of the light. The light hath healing in its wings.”

Voices all around me joined in, as someone urged me back to my knees. It took all I had not to grumble about getting back down onto the stone floor—at least with the hood they couldn’t see me grimacing. “Inheritor of a dying world, we call thee to the living beauty. Wanderer in the wild darkness, we call thee to the gentle light,” the voices intoned. I noticed that someone to my left was clearly tone-deaf.

I was once again helped to my feet by someone grasping my left arm, and my hood was removed, I hoped for the last time. I found that I was now standing under a circle of wands and swords, held by the various members gathered around me.

Nightingale stood before me, draped in a robe the color of fresh blood. “Child of earth, long hast thou dwelt in darkness. Quit the night and seek the day.”

My first thought was that I had, in fact, been in darkness too long, because of the hood they’d placed on my head. But I held my tongue and tried to appear somber.

“I consecrate thee with fire.” A man in a black robe stepped forward and waved incense at me. I did my best not to cough.

“I purify thee with water.” A woman also wearing a black robe stepped forward and made the sign of the cross on my forehead with a wet thumb before sprinkling my head three times with more water.

Then Nightingale clapped loudly, once, making his final pronouncement. “Fortier et Recte, we receive thee into the Order of the Golden Dawn.”

And with that, I was initiated.

“Fortier et Recte is an interesting choice for a name,” Robert Nightingale said to me afterward. I didn’t have anything to say in defense of my initiate name, but Dion Fortune came to my rescue, sparing me from having to make up something on the spot.

“I think it’s a wonderful choice. In Latin, it means ‘bravely and justly,’ and aren’t those qualities we should all strive for?” Dion’s stance was slightly aggressive, and I got the feeling that she and Nightingale butted heads frequently.

Still wearing robes, the members of the order—myself now included—were milling around the medieval abbey church where my ceremony had taken place. It was cold—the stone building was unheated, although it had been restored in the last decade, so at least it had a roof. Much of the rest of the buildings at this ancient site were still in ruins, however, and I was grateful for what cover we had as it was March and the temperature on this remote Scottish island bordered on something just short of frigid. During the day, the perennially overcast sky didn’t help much either. I was wearing heavy clothing beneath my white robe—the color for an initiate—but even with my woolens, I longed to get back to my small room with its cozy fire.

I also wished dearly that my fiancé Redvers were here with me, but we were trying to ensure that we weren’t seen together by any members of the order while on the island. The islanders themselves would obviously need to see Redvers, and perhaps even the two of us together, but Golden Dawn members were best avoided so that no one reported back to Nightingale that I wasn’t here alone. I needed to get close to Nightingale and learn everything I could about the man and his occult activities, and that was best accomplished if I didn’t have a mysterious paramour lurking about the island.

And Nightingale knew who Redvers was. Which was the reason why I was the clandestine operative and very much on my own within this group.

“It’s fortunate that you were able to join us on Iona and do your initiation ceremony so close to the solstice,” Nightingale was saying. “The island itself has mystical powers. The veil is thin here, you know.”

I got the feeling that this was a man who loved to explain things to people, especially to women. Unfortunately, I was a captive audience, so I nodded while Dion rolled her eyes and moved away from us to join another group of members clad in robes of various colors. I found that I was jealous of the woman and her easy escape, but reminded myself that my goal here was to do exactly what I was doing, so I stayed with Nightingale and nodded some more.

“Ordinarily, we would require that you be a much higher grade to join us for the solstice ritual, but you do come highly recommended by Madame Blavatsky in America.” Nightingale’s blue eyes regarded me for a moment. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the name Blavatsky had caught the attention of a few of the members nearby, but Nightingale was on to his next question before I could wonder about it. “Why didn’t you initiate there?”

It was easy to recall the story I’d practiced over and over in my head in case this exact question came up. “I felt it would be more powerful to have my initiation with the original chapter. And especially in a place that has so much power in and of itself, as you said.”

Nightingale sniffed, apparently satisfied with this answer. He’d seemed to accept my letter of introduction when I’d met the group here on the island as well, even though it was entirely forged, as was my backstory. Since Blavatsky was still in America, we’d hoped I could find out all I needed to know about Nightingale before he tried to contact her, which he might decide to do if I wasn’t convincing enough. With that foremost in my mind, I decided it would be smart to direct the conversation away from myself and my dubious occult connections.

“What can you tell me about the veil here? How do we know it’s particularly thin in this place?” I wanted to ask how the group was able to conduct any sort of ceremony in a Christian chapel—even after hours—since it felt distinctly sacrilegious, but I kept to safer questions.

Nightingale launched into a long explanation of the island’s history, including St. Columba and early Christianity, while I tuned out, watching the other members out of the corner of my eye. They weren’t the object of my investigation, but I was still curious about the type of people who would join an order like this.

Dion Fortune was quite high in the group, part of the inner circle. It had come as a surprise to me that women were accepted into the order at all, let alone allowed to become high-ranking officials. She was a tall woman, broad in stature with equally broad features. She eschewed any type of ornamentation or makeup and might have been considered plain except for the intelligence in her sparkling brown eyes. They were the focal point of her face.

The only other woman present was Netta Fornario, a quiet woman in her twenties with frizzy black hair and so many large necklaces displayed on her chest that I wondered whether they hurt her neck. She had a scattered air about her, as though she was always thinking of otherworldly things, which I supposed that she was. Netta and I were staying at the same cottage and had shared a few words over breakfast that morning, but I wasn’t sure any of what we’d spoken about had actually registered with her.

The rest of the individuals present were men. The order allowed women to join, even encouraged it, but the membership was still predominantly made up of men. And of the men present, the only other one that I recognized was William Butler Yeats. He’d won the Nobel Prize in Literature only a few years earlier, and I found it hard to believe the man was involved with this type of group. I hadn’t spoken to him, but found my eyes repeatedly drawn to him; his gray hair was slightly long and slicked back, and his Irish lilt was easy to pick out from the crowd, as were the little round glasses perched on his nose.

I tuned back in to what Nightingale was telling me, pausing the agreeable bobbing of my head, just in time. “And it’s fortunate that you’ve joined this faction of the order.”

This caught my interest. “As opposed to?”

Nightingale pursed his lips. “Mathers’s wife, Mina, has taken her group—smaller than ours, of course—in a direction that I think her late husband would find very disagreeable. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it.”

I knew from my preliminary research that Mathers had started the Order of the Golden Dawn, but it sounded like there had been a great deal of infighting and that the larger order had broken into factions. It didn’t have any direct effect on my investigation, so I’d only heard the barest sketch of what had happened and why.

“I heard some rumblings, but I wanted to get your expert take on it. Were you close with her late husband?”

Nightingale’s chest puffed up. “Very. I was his right-hand man, you know. I moved up in the order more quickly than anyone ever has before. Only took me a matter of months to move through the ranks and become a chief. I found the skills easy to master, but I’m a special case. You shouldn’t expect to advance so quickly.”

“That’s quite impressive,” I said. Not because it was, but because that was what he wanted to hear. “I can certainly learn quite a lot from you, which is why I just knew that this was the order I should join.”

Nightingale looked like a bird preening his feathers at this compliment. He really was predictable, which was exactly what I would report back to Redvers and his people. If Nightingale succumbed this easily to flattery, I didn’t think he would be very useful in the field. It made him entirely too easy to manipulate.

The cold broke up the gathering not long after my initiation ceremony. I walked alongside Netta back to the McCrary cottage, following the windswept dirt path bordered on either side by low stone fences. We didn’t speak much along the short walk, both of us instead concentrating on our footing on the uneven path. There were a few other members going our way, but most had split off for their various lodgings. The island had only two hotels, which had filled quickly, so a handful of the two hundred inhabitants of Iona let out rooms in their homes for travelers such as ourselves. It meant that, as a group, we were scattered around the small village of Baile Mòr and the surrounding area.

When we arrived at the cottage, our hosts had already retired for the evening, so I went straight to my room, waited a few beats to ensure that Netta was in for the night, and then very quietly ventured back out again. I had a date to keep, despite the cold and the late hour.

I’d initially suggested meeting Redvers at a little stone chapel called St. Oran’s set a bit apart from the abbey, but he’d pointed out that it was entirely too close to one of the hotels in town and we might be seen by other members of the order. We’d agreed to meet at yet another stone chapel instead, St. Ronan’s, on the other side of town near the ruins of the nunnery. I managed to avoid running into anyone who might recognize me and pushed open the heavy wooden door to the chapel, leaving it open while I lurked just inside. I was grateful that the roof here had been restored; if it hadn’t, I might have insisted on meeting at St. Oran’s Chapel, despite the danger of being seen there. A roof might close out the light, but it offered just enough extra protection from the cold and wind.

Moonlight, cold and pure, streamed through the open doorway. I had a flashlight, but I turned it off to preserve the battery—it was rare that I was able to see on the island without its aid, and I was grateful that the cloud cover had cleared up, at least for now. I was listening carefully, but heard nothing approach and was startled when a man in a black cloak swept through the doorway. He tipped his hood back and gave me a grin.

“How did it go, darling?” Redvers asked.

“Don’t you think the cloak is a bit dramatic?” I asked, but stepped forward for a kiss.

Redvers held me close, and my senses tingled the way they always did when he was near. “I don’t want you to be the only one having fun with cloaks and robes,” Redvers said. He loosened his hold on me just enough that he could see me in the moonlight streaming through the open door. “How was the ceremony?” he asked again.

“It was strange. I was blindfolded, and I think I’m going to have permanent bruises on my knees.”

“Suffering for the cause,” Redvers said. “Very noble. Have you learned anything?”

“Yes,” I said. “Robert Nightingale is insufferable.”

Redvers chuckled. “We already knew that.”

I nodded. We did already know that. “I genuinely think his arrogance is a drawback. He is much too easily manipulated by a little flattery.”

“I think the same could be said of a lot of men,” Redvers said.

“But not you, of course,” I teased.

“Of course not.” Redvers smiled, then became serious for a moment. “That’s a good observation, although not enough to completely disqualify him. Plenty of men out in the field have outsized egos.”

Nightingale kept volunteering his services to the British crown as an agent, claiming that his various “contacts” abroad would make him a valuable asset. But the crown, and Redvers’ employers, were decidedly skeptical, especially given his high ranking within the Golden Dawn. Which was what brought me to this island—I needed to learn what I could about the man and his “contacts.”

I’d learned some time ago not to bother asking too many specific questions about Redvers’ employers. I had my own conclusions about them, and that sufficed. For now, anyway.

“Are you certain Nightingale knows who you are?” I asked, already knowing the answer, but somehow hopeful it would change from the last time we’d covered this ground. This case would be entirely more palatable if I could be seen with my fiancé.

Redvers chuckled. “He does. I’m afraid we have a mutual acquaintance in London that outed me.”

“One of his ‘contacts’?” I frowned. “I hope that person was given a talking to.”

Redvers’ face became quite serious. “That person won’t be a problem in the future.”

I studied him for a moment. “He won’t be . . . eliminated, will he?” I could hear that my voice had gone up ever so slightly.

Now Redvers tipped his head back and laughed. “We’re not in that business. Well, not necessarily. No, he was just spoken with and relocated to a place where communication is more difficult.”

“Banished to a tiny island then, I assume. Why can’t we just do that with Nightingale?” I said wistfully. I was sure the man had some redeeming qualities, but I’d yet to see any.

“Not that simple, I’m afraid. We’ll need to learn his contacts and just what this group is all about. You’ll have to spend some more time with him, I’m afraid.”

I sighed. “I know.”

He tugged me back into him. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Oh, I know you will.”

The next morning, I awoke alone in my bed and sighed. The sooner this assignment was over the better—I’d gotten quite spoiled over the last several months, sharing a bed with Redvers. It had become more comfortable than sleeping alone, something that I never thought I would say after my disastrous first marriage. Life was ever surprising.

I washed up in the small bathroom in the hallway and dressed in a knit sweater and a wool skirt, adding a pair of thick tights and my flat-soled, leather T-strap shoes. I headed downstairs to the dining room for breakfast and found Michael McCrary, the owner of the cottage, just sitting down to eat. This was unusual; the family had normally eaten and were cleared out by the time the guests came down for their meals.

“You’ll excuse me, lass,” McCrary said as his wife Fiona bustled in with a bowl of piping-hot porridge for her husband as well as a plate of eggs and sausage. “Had to see to some trouble with the sheep this mornin’ and didnae get to my breakfast.”

“No trouble at all,” I said. “It’s your home.” I was doing a better job of understanding the McCrarys after a few days of staying with them. The thick Scottish accent had given me quite a bit of trouble when I arrived, and even now, it took me a moment to untangle the words in my head before I could respond.

Fiona returned, a plump woman with thick brown hair pulled into a bun on top of her head and nearly always wearing an apron. “Here’s your dram,” she told her husband, setting a little glass before him.

Michael grunted his thanks, then took the glass and dumped it into his porridge. He caught me looking at him, openly wondering what the liquid was he’d added. Syrup?

“A wee dram of whiskey in the porridge warms the insides,” McCrary said, nodding once and then setting into his meal.

I’d never heard of adding booze to breakfast cereals, but who was I to say what a farmer should or shouldn’t add to his morning meal? I took a moment to study the man. He was what one would expect of a Scottish sheep farmer, dressed quite practically in a wool sweater and thick trousers. His hair had long since gone gray, and his face was quite ruddy, evidence of many years spent outdoors in the wind and sun. Despite this, I estimated him to be only in his early fifties.

Fiona hurried back into the room carry. . .