Mungo's Murder, Mayhem & Mystery Tour (1/3)

I

“I’m very sorry, Jock,” said Morag with a barely perceptible quiver in her voice, “But I’m handing in my notice. I cannae go on like this.”

Jock McIntyre looked at her sharply. This short, stocky woman with strawberry-blonde hair and rosebud lips was the best guide in his stable. Aside from her encyclopedic knowledge of ‘esoteric Edinburgh,’ she was famous for her unflappable competence in a crisis. She’d soldiered through rowdy hen’s parties, meltdowns and medical emergencies. She’d worked nights in snow and ice, gale-force winds and the rare heatwave without blinking an eye. Now tears were gathering in her eyes, something that had not happened in the fifteen years of her employment with Darkest Edinburgh Tours.

“Ach, Morag, come on, it’s nae sae bad as that. Shite happens but life goes on,” there was a wheedling note in his voice.

“It’s a wee bit more than ‘shite’ Jock. They found another body this morning.”

Driven by a mixture of personal affection and professional self-interest, the manager of ‘Darkest Edinburgh’ took her hand and pressed it, looking appealing into her eyes, which were a striking vitreous blue. The expression in them now was mulish. He knew he had his work cut out for him.

“I thought ye were made of sterner stuff, Morag,” he scolded. “I’ll admit that two…incidents in as many weeks—aye, it’s upsetting. But look at this way…from our point of view it might be a good thing. Add a bit of spice to the tourist experience. After all, we are ‘Darkest Edinburgh’, right?” He laughed weakly. “The tourists like that sort of thing.”

“Spice?!” She shook her head in disbelief. “This is murderwe’re talking about Jock. And not some historical murder either—here and now. I’ve got two weans and a orphaned nephew to think of. What will they do if their mam is brained in the vaults?”

“Morag,” said Jock, with some difficulty—praising people did not come easily to him—“I’ll be honest. You’re the best we’ve got. I’ll give ye a payrise, hen. Just you name your price. Just until they catch the killer, mind,” he quickly added.

“Goodbye, Jock,” Morag sighed. She did not look back on her way out.

II

At about the same time that Morag was handing in her notice, Sandy Colhoun of Kentville, Nova Scotia, arrived in Edinburgh. She was twenty two and this was her first trip outside of North America (she’d been to the Grand Canyon on a school trip in sixth grade). It was also her first trip alone and she was almost crazily excited.

On her way in from the airport she’d drunk in everything eagerly—the cloudy sky, the demure fields demarcated by mossy stone walls, the Leith catching the cold white light…it was like an old painting! And then there was the city itself—the grand old buildings and the row houses with funny chimneys. If she squinted she could imagine it looked just the same as it had when Sir Walter Scott was churning out the good stuff.

The taxi dropped her off on Princes street in the shadow of the imposing castle fort that was perched on top of a steep rocky crag. She stepped onto the footpath right next to the monument to Scott himself, who was ensconced in his spidery gothic spire, his high sensitive forehead and his loyal dog Maida at his feet. From lower down in the gardens came the mournful wail of bagpipes.

“I was right,” she whispered. “This is my spiritual home!”

Blissfully, she walked—nay, floated—to her hotel across the street.

The young receptionist Mungo Murdock looked up and blinked, thinking that a hard night’s drinking at Banshee Labyrinth was making him hallucinate again. This was not the usual sort of vision though; they were usually spiders or gremlins. This was a smiling, raven-haired, pink-cheeked vision in some sort of charming tartan dress.

“Good morning,” the vision smiled. Its voice was suitably enchanting. American? He liked America.

“Hello,” said Mungo, like one in a dream.

“I would like to check in, please. My name’s Sandy Calhoun.”

“Certainly.” Realizing that he was not hallucinating after all, he shook himself into action.

“First time in Edinburgh, miss?” he asked.

“Yes, first time in Scotland actually. I only just arrived. My ancestors were from here, you know.”

“Really?” He’d heard the same claim fourteen times already that morning but this time he felt a glimmer of genuine interest. “Calhoun, now that you mention it. Yes, that’s a very Scottish name, isn’t it? Might I suggest, then,” he said, emerging from behind the reception desk, “A visit to the National Library of Scotland? Librarians will be able to help direct you to any archives you need. And,” he touched her elbow, gently guiding her to the stand of tourist brochures, “There is a tartan museum and gift shop where you can buy stuff with the tartan of your clan on it. And here’s a place where you can get an art-print of your family tree.”

“Thanks! You know, I’m pretty well versed in my family tree stuff. Our family goes back centuries. Did you know I’m even a distant relative of Walter Scott?”

Mungo smiled indulgently.

“But what I’m really interested in,” Sandy continued, “Is the city’s dark side.”

“Sorry, what?” said Mungo.

“You know: ghosts, legends, old crimes. That sort of thing.”

“Ah yes,” he said. “Well, you’re in luck. There’s plenty of that here.”

“This looks perfect,” said Sandy, grabbing a brochure entitled ‘Darkest Edinburgh’.

Mungo suddenly looked startled.

“Oh, ah, I wouldn’t recommend that one actually. In fact, I don’t know what those are still doing there. I was supposed to take them away yesterday.” Hastily, he collected the rest of them up and used the bunch of papers to gesture at another brochure called “Spooky City Bus Tours”.

“How about this one?”

Sandy looked at a cartoon red double-decker bus over which a white blob hovered, representing a ghost.  She grimaced.

“That looks like it’s for kids,” she said. “I want the real deal. Electromagnetic field detectors, cemetery visits, that kind of thing. I heard a lot about Edinburgh on that TV show Ghosts of the World, do you know it?”

“Er, no,” he said. “Is it good then?”

“It’s great!” she said. “Actually, as I recall they mentioned this same tour in one of their shows. They said it was amazing. Why don’t you like it?” He winced slightly at the accusatory note in her voice.

“Well,” he did some quick thinking—his specialty. “The truth is, they’re the competition. I do my own tours, you see. Bespoke. All the cemeteries, haunted houses, Auld Reekie, Greyfriar’s Churchyard. It’s the top end of the ghost tours, you see, starts at midnight, all that.”

“Really?” Sandy said, thrilled. “What do you mean, like, I could book one of your tours? Is there a website?”

“Oh no! I don’t advertise,” Mungo said quickly, “I’d be overrun. It’s a well kept secret…and quite expensive.”

Her face fell and he quickly adjusted.

“But, seeing as you’re a guest here, I could probably arrange a discount...”

“How much?” she asked.

“Oh, ah, twenty pounds?” he said.

“Get out of town! That’s nothing! You’ve no idea how much I’ve wanted to do this, since I was practically a little girl.” She promptly fished a fresh twenty-pound note out of her handbag and passed it over to him, beaming.

“OK, right,” said Mungo, extemporizing. “I’ll send you a text. I have your phone number here, obviously, and…will send you all the details.”

“Wonderful!” Sandy said. “Thank you so much!”

As she bounced over to the elevators, Mungo’s supervisor Mr. Lean appeared.

“What’s wonderful?” he said suspiciously. “Have you been chatting up the guests again?”

“No, of course not,” Mungo lied.

“What’s that you’ve got?” Mr. Lean pointed to the brochures Mungo was holding. “I thought I asked you to get rid of those brochures yesterday. What are they still doing here?”

Mungo dropped them in the wastepaper basket at his feet.

“Good,” said Mr. Lean, who straightened his cravat in a nervous gesture. “We can’t go sending the guests off to their deaths, can we? We want them to see ghosts, not to become them,” He chuckled as Mungo rolled his eyes.

“Returning to his computer, he started composing an email, subject line “MUNGO’S MURDER, MAYHEM & MYSTERY TOUR”.