The old house in Edinburgh settled in the night with protesting creaks and squeaks. For fourteen-year-old Robin Bridge, tossing and turning in a soft feather bed, it seemed as if sleep would never come. Ideas raced through her head. In the bed next to hers, her twelve-year-old sister, Jo, snored softly. Robin closed her eyes, then opened them and stared into the darkness, remembering how the Bridges had ended up in this Scottish mansion, trying to solve the mystery of Uncle Ambrose’s missing will.

* * *

Just the day before, the Bridges had been in Paris and she had studied the map of Europe for an interesting place to visit.

“Spain would be fun,” she said. “I always wanted to go there.”

“How about Italy?” asked Jo. “Then we could have lots of pizza.”

“You’re always thinking about your stomach,” said Robin.

“If I don’t think about it, nobody else does,” replied Jo.

“Let’s wait for your father, girls,” said their mother, pushing back her thick red hair. “I’m sure he’ll have some ideas about where we spend the last week of our vacation.”

The Bridges had started the summer in London, and then Robin and Jo had gone to Paris on an educational tour while their parents had attended conferences in Rome. With a week of vacation left, the Bridges were together again in Paris. They were determined to travel to a new place for the week.

“Jo and I could go back to London,” suggested Robin.

“You just want to see Vic again,” said Jo, making kissing noises. Robin had met her pen pal, Vic, in London, and the two of them and Jo had had many adventures together.

“Don’t be such a brat,” said Robin, throwing a pillow at her sister. “Vic is my pen pal, nothing else.”

Jo heaved the pillow back. “Pen pal! That’s for sure! You two write a lot of letters—like every day.”

Robin was about to leap on Jo, when her mother held up her hand. “Stop!”

“Stop what?” asked Mr. Bridge, coming into the room.

“Nothing,” muttered Robin and Jo, while Mrs. Bridge rolled her eyes.

“Let’s go to Italy, Dad!” cried Jo.

“No! We’re not going to Italy!” exclaimed Robin. “We’re going somewhere else.”

“That’s right, Robin,” said Mr. Bridge, “we are going somewhere else.” He smiled at Mrs. Bridge and his brown eyes sparkled.

“I can’t imagine where,” she said.

“I’ll give you a hint,” Mr. Bridge announced. “It’s someplace where they speak English.”

“London!” cried Robin. “Wait ’til I tell Vic!”

“No, it’s not London,” Mr. Bridge said.

Robin frowned. “Then I don’t know where we’re going.”

“We’re going to Edinburgh, in Scotland,” he said.
“Why?” asked Robin, gloomily.

“We have a cousin there, Angus McDougall,” answered Mr. Bridge.

“I never heard of him,” said Jo. “I thought I knew all our relatives.”

“None of us has ever met him. He’s sort of a distant cousin,” Mr. Bridge explained. “When I knew we were going to be in Europe, I sent him a note. Now he’s invited us to his house for the week.”

“Does he have any children?” Jo asked.

“No, he’s single and still quite young,” said Mr. Bridge. “He’s in his early thirties and just inherited an old mansion in town. He said it’s very comfortable with lots of room for us.”

“It doesn’t sound very exciting,” Robin remarked. “What’s there to do in Edinburgh?”

“It’s rich in history,” said Mrs. Bridge. “There’s a wonderful castle and lots of writers come from Scotland, including Robert Louis Stevenson.”

“The one who wrote Treasure Island?” Robin asked.

“Yes, plus Sir Walter Scott and Robert Burns . . . ”

* * *

Robin listened to the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall and thought about how they had scurried to pack for the short plane ride. She remembered the drive into town. They had all craned their necks looking at the countryside.

* * *

“It doesn’t look very different from home,” Jo commented.

“Wait until we get to town,” said Mrs. Bridge. “I hope Cousin Angus will show us around.”

“He said he had to see his solicitor today,” Mr. Bridge noted. “We’ll meet him at the house.”

But when they got to the house, a big, dignified white stone building with sparkling glass panes at the top of the front door, Cousin Angus wasn’t there.

“Ah, yes, sir, he told me you were coming,” said the young woman of about twenty with short red hair who greeted them. Her green wool skirt matched her sweater and she wore a strand of pearls around her neck.

“He’ll be back soon. I’m Nelly, the housekeeper and cook. I’ll show you to your rooms.”

“Thank you, Nelly.” Mr. Bridge began to lift their bulging suitcases, but Nelly waved him away.

“Munro will see to those,” she said.

A skinny boy who looked as if he was just out of high school sidled in. His rosy cheeks got redder when he saw the girls, but he grabbed the bags and lightly ran up the steps.

Nelly led them up the stairs to the first landing. “This is your room,” she said to Mr. and Mrs. Bridge. “Please let me know if you need anything.”

Mrs. Bridge gasped. The room was painted a soft cream color and trimmed with dark wood. It had a four-poster bed hung with cream-and-pale-blue curtains, and the same curtains framed windows that sparkled with tiny, diamond-shaped glass panes. A fireplace was decorated with glossy blue tiles, and a luxurious blue-and-gold Persian rug covered the floor. Rich, dark oil paintings highlighted the pale walls, and beside the bed was a glass lamp resting on a gleaming old chest.

“What a beautiful room,” Mrs. Bridge said.

“Thank you, madam. And now I’ll show the girls their wee room.”

“Wee?” muttered Jo. “Must be really tiny.”

But when Nelly threw open the dark wood door, Jo shrieked. Then she sighed and said, “This is the bedroom I always wanted.” She jumped on one of the twin beds, covered with pink frilly bedspreads, which flanked one wall, their headboards almost hidden behind piles of white, lace-trimmed pillows.

Robin saw that under a bay window of the same tiny,diamond-shaped panes that she’d seen in her parents’ room, green silk pillows lined a window seat. As if in a dream, she walked over to a dressing table with a white lace skirt and a heart-shaped mirror. She was about to sit down when something jumped from the white chair and nearly attacked her.

“Aaagh!” she cried.

“Ah, that’s just Lorna Doone,” said Nelly. “Naughty cat! She’s always sneaking in here for a nap.” She made a shooing gesture towards the white tabby, who put up her tail and stalked out of the room.

“Lorna Doone?” asked Robin. “Isn’t that the name of a book?”

“I suppose so,” remarked Nelly. “I’m not much for reading, but Mr. Ambrose was very fond of books. Shall I help with your unpacking?”

“Oh, no, we can unpack ourselves,” Robin said. “We don’t have that much.”

“Very well. Dinner’s in half an hour.” Nelly turned and left.

“When she said ‘wee room,’ I thought this would be small,” Jo said. “It’s lots bigger than our room at home.”

“I think she meant it was smaller than Mom and Dad’s.” Robin began unpacking her books, putting them on a small white table near her bed.

Jo quickly finished hanging up her clothes and started thumbing through Robin’s books.
“The Mystery of the Old Clock, The Purloined Letter, Secret Codes of World War II . . . you’ve got a lot of mysteries here. Are they any good?”

“They’re great,” said Robin, enthusiastically. “I love to see if I can figure out the mystery before the end.”

“Well, here’s a mystery. What do you think they’ll give us for dinner?” Jo asked.

“Take a look in the guidebook. It talks about Scottish food,” Robin said, handing her their guide to Scotland. She picked up one of her mysteries and began to read.

“Scotland’s most famous dish, haggis, is an ancient folk recipe for using up the cheapest cuts of meat,” Jo read aloud. She put down the book and wrinkled her nose. “It sounds awful.”

The girls jumped at a sharp knock on the door.

“Here are some extra blankets,” said Nelly. “It can get very cold at night. Are you sure you don’t need a hand?”

“No thank you,” answered Robin politely, “we’re fine.”

“Nelly, what’s haggis?” asked Jo.
“It’s kind of hard to explain,” said Nelly. “You start with a sheep’s stomach . . .” She broke off, grinning, when she saw Jo’s face.

“Sheep’s stomach!” shrieked Jo. “I’m not going to eat sheep’s stomach!”

“Do you eat it all the time?” Robin asked hesitantly.

“It’s a special dish. Some people wait all year to eat it, particularly on holidays,” Nelly said. “It always gives me indigestion and keeps me up. I wouldn’t want that—particularly if I were sleeping in this room.”

“What’s wrong with this room?” Robin asked.

“There’s some that say that McDougall’s wife haunts it. That’s her picture there. You see, a wee bairn was born to them, but it died when it was a day old. After McDougall’s wife passed on, some have claimed they saw her come back to this room to search for the babe. This was the nursery, you know,” Nelly said, smugly. “I wouldn’t sleep here for anything.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Mrs. Bridge reassured them, coming in at the end of the conversation.

“To each his own.” Nelly tossed her head and left the room.

“I came to see if you girls are ready to go downstairs for dinner,” said Mrs. Bridge. Robin had already picked up her book and was eagerly reading. “Robin . . . Robin,” her mother called.

“Earth to Robin,” Jo said. “Wake up. Brring! Brring!”

Robin jumped as Jo danced around her.

“It’s not necessary to be annoying,” Robin said, putting her book down. “I heard you.”

Mr. Bridge joined them in the hall and the family walked down the thickly carpeted stairs. Bouncing from step to step, Jo glanced at the family portraits that were hung on the wall.

“Nobody looks very happy here,” she said. “Well, maybe he does.” She pointed to a more modern portrait at the end of the staircase.

Munro was waiting for the Bridges at the bottom of the stairs. “That’s Mr. Ambrose McDougall, the late owner of the house,” he whispered, shyly hanging his head. “Please follow me to the dining room.”

“Here you are! Welcome to McDougall House.” A tall, thin man with thick black hair stood in the doorway of the dining room, waiting for them. He wore a beige sweater and tweed pants and his green eyes twinkled as he looked them over.

“Cousin Angus, it’s good to meet you at last,” said Mr. Bridge, extending his hand.

“Cousin Robert, my pleasure,” boomed the man in a deep voice. “And I gather this is your fine family?”

Mr. Bridge introduced him to Mrs. Bridge and the girls. Angus shook hands with all of them.

“You’re just what this gloomy old house needs,” Angus said to Robin and Jo.

Robin looked around at the dining room, paneled in dark wood. Several antlered deers’ heads were mounted on the walls. Silently she agreed with Cousin Angus. The dining room was creepy.

But Mrs. Bridge said, “The upstairs is charming. Our rooms are lovely.”

“Oh, that’s the influence of Uncle Ambrose’s wife, Mary. After she died, he kept everything the same, and never allowed anyone to change it. But the downstairs has always been dreary,” Angus said. “Well, enough about the house. How do you like Scotland so far?”

“I’m kind of disappointed,” Jo said.

Robin gasped and Mrs. Bridge frowned at Jo.

“And why is that?” Angus asked.

“Well, Cousin Angus, we’ve been in Scotland for half a day now and I haven’t seen one person wearing a kilt and I haven’t heard any bagpipes!”

Angus threw back his head and laughed. “And a right lot of idiots we’d look if we marched around in our kilts playing bagpipes at the bank or the greengrocer’s. We save those for special occasions.”

Jo looked thoughtfully at Angus. “You don’t look a lot like Dad,” she said. “He’s short and you’re tall. He’s got brown hair and yours is black and your eyes aren’t the same color. But you laugh the same way.”

“I’m very glad to claim you as relations,” Angus said. “My parents died a few years ago and I’ve no brothers or sisters. So I was happy to hear I had more family.” As they took their places around the large mahogany dining table, he smiled at Jo and Robin and said, “We’ll have to think about how to give you a real taste of Edinburgh. You’re staying the week, right?” He looked at Mr. Bridge.

“If that’s all right with you,” Mrs. Bridge said. “We don’t want to impose.”

“Oh, you’re not imposing,” stated Angus, suddenly looking grim. “A week is fine. But I can’t offer you more. I’m afraid we’re all going to be thrown out of here at the end of the week.”