Dressed to Kilt

by Hannah Reed

  “Immensely,” I replied. “The food is delicious, the whisky is the best I’ve ever had the pleasure to drink, and everybody has been warm and delightful.”

  “I agree with you. A perfect evening.”

  “It’s too bad your sister couldn’t be here to see the results of her efforts.”

  Patricia knitted her brows in concern. “Henrietta has been quite ill,” she said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. She seemed well enough earlier today, although she did have a serious cough.”

  “She puts on a good face, she does. But the truth is that she’s far from healthy. I wish Bridie would quit making so many demands on her. Henrietta has done enough for the Dougal family. It should be her turn for a bit of pampering and care.”

  A moment passed when I thought Patricia might elaborate on her sister’s health, but the topic seemed to be closed, so I asked, “Where were the two of you from originally? Glenkillen or elsewhere?”

  “A small village on the northern side of Loch Ness called Tainwick. Have you heard of it?”

  Had I? It sounded familiar, but I wasn’t sure. “No,” I decided. “I don’t think so.”

  “Henrietta left Tainwick and came here to the distillery when she was quite young. I was twenty-four, so she would have been nineteen.”

  Her recollection amazed me. I could barely remember the most significant of dates, or ages when events occurred, so I was always fascinated by those who could dredge up less memorable happenings. Although some were wedged in my head for eternity—my mother’s date of death, for example.

  “And you stayed on in Tainwick?” I asked.

  “No, I’d gone to Edinburgh to university, and shortly after finishing I met Connor.” Her gaze shifted to the few morsels still on the dessert plate in my hand. “What’s that you’re eating?”

  “You have to try one of Katie’s brownies,” I took her then to Katie, who stood alone once more, Leith having moved off to circulate. “If you don’t do this for a living, you should.”

  “It’s more o’ a hobby than anything,” she said. “My real interest is in Highlands history and local families. I’m hopin’ tae write a book one day on mysterious happenings in the area.”

  That was impressive. If she lived in the village, I would enjoy talking with her about her aspirations. “I’d like to continue this conversation later,” I told her.

  “You won’t find much mysterious in these parts,” Patricia said. “You need a larger population base for that—Edinburgh or Glasgow.”

  Gordon joined us as I relinquished my plate to a tray, and he handed me another small glass of whisky that I vowed not to touch to my lips. I said to him, “I’d like to see the distillery. Can that be arranged?”

  “This tasting room is attached tae the warehouse where we store the oak casks until they’re ready to be bottled. Right through those doors.” Gordon gestured to a heavy set of doors to the right of the bar. “The still house where fermentation takes place is much more complex and worth a more lengthy private tour at another time, but I’d be happy to show ye the warehouse.”

  “Now?”

  “Right now, if that suits ye.”

  “Leith,” I said, catching my escort’s attention. “Would you like to see the warehouse?”

  “I’ve been inside it many times. You go along. I’ll be right here.”

  “Patricia?” I asked.

  “I think I’ll stay here and chat up Leith.”

  So it was decided. Untouched glass in hand, I followed Gordon into the vast stone-walled building attached to the tasting room. An aroma of earthy oak wafted through the air. Casks were mounted on shelving, rows and rows against every available wall. Only the closest bank of overhead lights was lit; the rest of the room was in deep shadow.

  Next to me, Gordon reached for a panel of light switches on the wall. “There we go. That’ll make yer viewing a wee bit easier.” And the room came alive with light. My eyes swept along the shelves as I savored the combined aromas of the aging whisky and oak barrels hanging thickly in the air.

  “That door over there,” Gordon said, gesturing, “leads tae the rest o’ the distillery.”

  We walked farther inside. In the farthest corner of the warehouse, I noticed several large wooden vessels of some sort, definitely not casks, because they had a different shape, more like open tubs than closed barrels.

  “What are those back there in the far corner?” I asked. One of those tubs had been moved directly below the very last cask on that wall.

  “Discarded washbacks. Washbacks are where the fermentation process begins,” he explained after a brief glance in that direction. “With fine barley, pure river water, and yeast. We’ve gone to using stainless steel since. But let me tell ye a little about the casks themselves.”

  Something propelled me away from my tour guide.

  “We get the casks from the States,” Gordon was saying behind me. “Properly seasoned. ’Tis a great secret to fine whisky making and the exact sources are not shared amongst the distilleries here.”

  An object seemed to be protruding from the top of the washback, but I couldn’t be sure. Warily, I walked toward it, no longer listening to Gordon.

  Was that an arm hanging over the top rim?

  I sped up, my heels clicking loudly, the warning Bridie had received burning sharply in my mind. You only get one warning. And Bridie’s parting words to her son, spoken aloud so anyone could have overheard. Fetch me, she’d told Archie, after the tasting. Implying that she might be following through on her own threat to sell out. If only she’d told them the truth beforehand. What had I been thinking to leave her alone?

  I reached the end of the row, heart hammering in my chest. The whisky glass slipped between my fingers and I heard it shatter on the stone floor.

  My eyes took in the cask, stored above the washback. It had been opened, tapped to allow its contents to stream into the tub below it. I remembered later the intense fragrance of it, how I’d always enjoyed that malty, smoky effervescence. But at that moment, it was overpowering.

  Without hesitating, I grabbed the arm and tried to haul the rest of the body out. But the weight was too much for me. Strong hands joined mine, voices surrounded me, other guests, whisky sloshing everywhere, and before long we had pulled out the drenched form of a woman.

  Leith and several of the other men tried to revive her, taking turns administering CPR while others hurried off to call the police. Finally they realized their efforts were hopeless and gave up.

  Gordon, sitting on the floor of the warehouse, let out a cry of anguish, tears flowing freely down his face.

  Because his aunt and Bridie’s longtime companion, Henrietta McCloud, was lying dead in his arms.

  CHAPTER 6

  “But why Henrietta?” Bridie asked with a tremor in her voice. It was the question we all wanted answered. “She never caused a moment’s trouble as long as she lived here, not tae me nor tae any others. If anything she was a wee bit reclusive, never complaining about anything or anybody.”

  It took only a moment or two more for her to remember the threatening note.

  “I thought fer certain that the warning was fer me!” Bridie exclaimed, sitting in a chair in the same room where she and I had had tea this morning when her companion had served us. Now Henrietta McCloud was dead. Drowned in a vat of whisky. At the inspector’s request Bridie turned the note over to him. The distraught woman was barely in control of her emotions as he studied it.

  I felt more miserable witnessing Bridie’s anguish than I’d been since finding the dead woman. Bridie and Henrietta had been close for years and years. Telling Bridie that her longtime companion was dead had even been difficult for the inspector. I’d stood beside him, my knees threatening to collapse beneath me, and now, if she broke down, I might, too.

  Bridie went on, “And all along som
eone was after Henrietta. When she brought that awful note tae me, we both assumed it was fer me. Poor Gordon and Patricia. I need tae go tae them.”

  “That isn’t possible at the moment,” Inspector Jamieson told her. “They’ve gone with the body. And the warning and its intended recipient are still tae be determined.”

  Several hours had gone by since the shocking disclosure and the subsequent follow-up—guests interviewed in the tasting room, the body and crime scene examined, results logged, items bagged for further study. Finally, Henrietta’s body had been removed, after which the warehouse had been cordoned off.

  Sean Stevens had been dispatched to the distillery to perform for the first time in his new capacity as constable-in-training. Because I was a special constable, only a volunteer after all, my role at the scene normally would have involved less-critical tasks than those performed by the inspector. I’d have comforted the victim’s family, kept witnesses gathered together, and remained alert for abnormal behavior. Although we all were acting abnormal considering the circumstances.

  However, as the unfortunate person who discovered the body, I was front and center instead of backstage, forced to relate my story multiple times, what there was to tell. Way too little, much too late.

  I’d been so sure when I’d reached into the vat and begun pulling the body out that once the dead woman’s face was revealed, it was going to belong to Bridie Dougal. So when Henrietta’s openmouthed face had surfaced from the depths of the whisky vat, followed by the rest of her body still clothed in her black housedress now water soaked, its pressed white collar limp, it had taken me a few minutes to process that fact.

  When I did, I’d been shocked for a second time. The first time being when I realized it was an actual body inside the tub. Then it was so unexpected that the drowning victim was Henrietta when I fully expected to pull out Bridie.

  “Who would do this?” Bridie, very much alive, repeated. “And why? Do you think it was a case of mistaken identity? That Henrietta was thought tae be myself? It can be dark in there without the lights on, ye know.”

  I bit my lip, because I wanted to answer, to say that it couldn’t have been a case of mistaken identity. Bridie was diminutive; Henrietta, though frail, was tall. They were as different physically as the lanky Inspector Jamieson and the much shorter Sean Stevens. But it was Jamieson’s place as head of the investigation to answer, not mine.

  It certainly wasn’t a case of mistaken identity, but there still was some concern (remote, though) expressed privately with the inspector that Henrietta’s death could have been the elimination of a barrier of safety. She’d acted much as a bodyguard, and anybody getting to Bridie had to get through Henrietta first. Unlikely, we agreed, but still a concern.

  I’m not sure how the inspector would have addressed Bridie over mistaken identity, because Sean chose that moment to speak up.

  “Haud the bus,” Sean said, spreading his arms wide as though actually attempting to stop the wheels of a bus. “Ye might be ontae something there, Bridie Dougal. But let’s take it a step further down the path. Some bloke mighta mixed up the sisters. That other one is a politician’s wife, eh, and that might have something tae do with it. She mighta been the recipient o’ the note and shoulda been on the receiving end. Instead her sister got it.”

  Leave it to Sean to come up with a theory none of us had considered, although usually we hadn’t for good reason. I expected an unlikely scenario from someone like Bridie, who’d never dealt with a situation like this, but Sean had jumped right onto the same bandwagon. He has a heart of gold, but he isn’t the sharpest when it comes to detecting and the tedious process of rational elimination.

  Sean tends to affect a stiff and proper pose whenever he wears the official uniform, which he does proudly on every occasion he can, and this was one of those occasions. The inspector, on the other hand, is rarely decked out, preferring a less obvious show of authority. Tonight he had on beige trousers and a white oxford button-down rolled at the sleeves.

  A look of pained annoyance crossed the inspector’s face, an expression not uncommon when he was dealing with Sean. “Please give us a moment. I need tae have a private word with Sean and Eden,” he said to Bridie, leading the way to the hall, where he turned to Sean.

  “So,” he said to his constable recruit in a controlled, low tone, “ye think somebody sent a warning that was found by the deceased, as would be expected, since she always brought in the mail, according tae Bridie here. And somehow the warning was intended fer Patricia Martin? And, tae top it off, the killer followed her all the way from Edinburgh tae murder her in the distillery and then managed tae botch the job by doin’ in the wrong sister?”

  I added another point. “And what plans would Patricia have that she needed to stop? And why threaten her through Henrietta? And without addressing Patricia specifically in the note, how could anyone have guessed the warning was for her?”

  “Eden’s right,” the inspector said, scowling at Sean. “That won’t do.”

  “It could be her politician husband who thought he was doin’ away with the wife,” Sean insisted.

  “We’ll leave the speculation fer now,” the inspector said, glaring at Sean. “And if ye have any more bright ideas, ye need tae express them tae me in private, not go blathering tae others.”

  From past experience with him, I was well aware that he didn’t approve of voicing theories in public, where the rumor mill would grind and churn out something altogether unsavory and most likely untrue.

  He went on addressing Sean. “Why don’t ye tell the lot in the tasting room that they can go fer the time being. But not tae leave the village. I’ve already made that clear, but another reminder won’t hurt.”

  “I’ll put it tae them firmly that no one is tae go against yer orders,” Sean said, hustling off on his new mission to warn the group against travel.

  Staying in Glenkillen wasn’t going to be an issue for those who worked daily at the distillery. Most of tonight’s invitees were local and affiliated with the distillery in some capacity. I’d learned that Archie and Florence owned a home in Glenkillen and that they were renting out one of their bedrooms to Gordon until his financial situation improved to the point that he could purchase his own home.

  Nor was it a problem for Janet Dougal, the tactless American, who had checked into the Whistling Inn upon her arrival in Glenkillen. Her departure date was a week out. Hopefully the case would be solved before then and she could be on her way.

  The victim’s sister, Patricia Martin, also had booked into the inn, and her original idea had been to depart by train after spending a few days with her sister. Little had she known that those days would be spent planning her sister’s funeral.

  Katie Taylor would have had an hour’s drive home after the event, and based on the weather conditions, she had made arrangements in advance to stay with a friend for the night. She’d be imposing on that friend for a little while longer.

  We rejoined Bridie and the inspector said to her, “Ye shouldn’t be alone tonight. Where is Archie?”

  “He’s seeing to his wife,” I answered for her. Florence had come completely undone at the sight of the dead woman and was demanding her husband’s constant attention.

  Bridie glanced at me. “I agree with ye, Inspector,” she said. “I shouldn’t be alone until ye track down the person who did this tae Henrietta. I could be in danger. The guest room adjacent to my bedroom is made up, and I would rest easier. Eden?”

  Thankfully, Jamieson caught on instantly, the same moment I realized she wanted me to stay with her. “I hardly think ye’re in mortal danger,” he said, “but we’ve all had a terrible shock, especially yerself losing yer friend and companion in such a violent manner. I’ll have Constable Stevens stay until yer son is available. Perhaps Archie can drive his wife home and return fer the night.”

  Bridie sniffed. “That’s not
aboot tae happen when his wife wants him home.”

  “Then I’ll speak tae my constable about staying the night as ye said a bedroom is made up and ready fer a guest.”

  I shot the inspector a look of gratitude as we left the house to return to the distillery, a short enough walk under different circumstances, but this night we would drive in the inspector’s police car. Before we got inside it, he turned sharp, intuitive eyes on me. “It’s not yer fault this happened, ye know,” he said softly while our breaths fogged in the cold night air.

  How could he know that I was racked with guilt, plagued by my inability to prevent what had happened? Well, why not. Nothing much got past him. “This is my fault,” I said with a catch in my throat, tears threatening. “I had advance warning. I was right there all night. And Henrietta was killed right under my nose!”

  “We both took Bridie’s claim more lightly than we should have,” he assured me, assuming his own share of blame for the oversight. “If I’d had a crystal ball we woulda been on high alert. In law enforcement we do what we can.”

  “Maybe if I hadn’t been drinking.”

  “Don’t haver on with that nonsense. The note was vague, not even specific tae a certain person. And what was supposed tae happen if the warning wasn’t taken seriously? Fer example, the sender didn’t threaten tae throw anybody under a gritter, now did he? And Bridie didn’t ask ye tae be her bodyguard, only tae make some observations. And I was clear as well from our little chat that ye weren’t tae act officially.”

  That was probably the longest speech the inspector had made since we’d met. By now, we’d driven around to the front of the distillery and parked near the entrance to the tasting room. The inspector didn’t turn off the engine. Instead he let it idle while we talked.

  “Henrietta had asked to speak with me after the tasting,” I told him, although that had been one of the first things I’d explained during our initial conversation right after the death.

  “Aye.”

  “What do you think that was about?”