Page 269 of The Protective Gryphen

The one old man whistled.

“That man has to be filthy rich. Ravensmire wasn’t cheap. We all assumed she’d go to ruins before being bought.”

Oh, well, they could say that.

“Is he going to strip it?”

Ian gave them another tidbit since he’d already done that with the minister.

“It’s a she, not a he, who owns it, but that’s all that I can tell you.”

That intrigued them.

They began guessing, and the were so far off. They wouldn’t guess Elizabeth anytime soon. Most people, thanks to the media, regarded her as arm candy. She was Jackson James’ wife, and they rarely cared she had her own career and money.

When the bartender brought them their food, he put the plates down in front of them.

“Not many Americans come in here and gets neeps and tatties,” the older man said. “They ask for fucking fish and chips, to constantly confuse us with the Brits.”

The other man shoved him.

“Come on, Lad. We have some good fish too. Let’s not pretend they have the rights to it.”

“You’re right,” he stated.

Ian was curious.

“What is it?” Ian said, tasting it, and it was delicious. “I think I could eat this all day.”

“Turnips and potatoes, mashed,” the one older man offered. “Just what the doctor ordered for the soul.”

Well, sign him up.

He ate his venison, and Gryphen did too. When Gryphen felt bad about eating in front of them, he jerked his head toward the bar.

“If you want lunch, it’s on us. Just keep telling us about the castle.”

The one man thanked him.

“While we appreciate that, we ate, but you keep the beer flowing, and you’ll get an earful.”

Oh, there was no doubt.

“Some say Duncan came home with his new lover, and shoved her out that window, and some say she took her own life. Then, there are some who say she had a secret lover, and he’s the reason she died. No one knows. It’s a mystery. The only thing everyone agrees on, is that he said she wouldn’t be buried there.”

Oh, they were aware.

Ian had questions.

“Did anyone see a lover? Was there any mention of her?” he asked.

The men shook their heads.

“All the history says he raised his son alone, and died just surrounded by his servants, his man at arms, and his son. He was buried in the castle.”

“Who took over then?” he asked.

“Callum Granndach. He married a woman, and had a son of his own. He died of illness, and so on and so on, until, again, the nineteen hundreds. One must catch a cold in a drafty castle.”

---