by M. B. Shaw
Reluctantly, Kathy left. Jock waited till she was out of earshot before turning back to Iris. ‘I’d like to know what the hell you think you’re playing at,’ he hissed, more quietly but every bit as venomously as before.
‘In what regard?’ Iris asked levelly.
‘I’m talking about your little visit to my old friend Edwin Brae,’ Jock seethed. ‘I already made it clear to DI Haley and his superiors that I won’t stand for this sort of harassment.’
‘I’m sure you did,’ said Iris.
‘Edwin’s old, and ill. He has the right to be left in peace,’ Jock ranted.
‘With respect,’ Iris defended herself, ‘Mr Brae knew in advance what it was I wanted to ask him about, and he was perfectly happy to talk to me.’
‘Mr Brae doesn’t know his own name half the time,’ Jock snapped. ‘He’s in no mental state to make those decisions.’
‘What decisions?’ asked Iris. ‘It was a friendly chat, not a police interview. I was curious about what he remembered, that’s all, and I can assure you, there was no harassment on my part,’ Iris insisted. ‘In fact, we had a very pleasant exchange.’
‘Is that so?’ Jock’s colour and voice were both rising, like a slowly boiling kettle.
‘Yes,’ Iris said steadily, her nerves receding in the face of Jock’s boorish entitlement. ‘It is.’ He was clearly used to getting his way, especially with women, and while Iris didn’t enjoy confrontation, after years of bullying behaviour from her ex-husband she had learned how to stand up for herself when she needed to. ‘He certainly had a lot of nice things to say about you.’
‘About me? And what business do you think you have to be gossiping about me, Miss Grey?’ Jock exploded, the last remnants of his self-control cracking like a dropped egg.
‘Baron Pitfeldy, two women were brutally murdered and buried here on your estate, during the time that Edwin Brae managed it,’ Iris shot back. ‘You’ve succeeded, shamefully, in my view, in having the police investigation into those murders shut down. But you can’t stop ordinary people like me continuing to seek the truth. Until whoever murdered those women is brought to justice, their deaths are everyone’s business, mine included. Two women are dead, for God’s sake.’
‘I daresay they are,’ said Jock, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘But Edwin doesn’t know anything. Why can’t you all just leave him alone?’
Wow, thought Iris. He really cares. It hadn’t occurred to her that Jock’s concern for Edwin might be genuine. She’d assumed he was simply trying to cover his own tracks, afraid that the confused old man might blurt out something embarrassing or incriminating. But now she saw that at least part of his anger did seem to stem from a brotherly protectiveness towards Edwin that she couldn’t totally condemn.
‘The man’s brain’s a damned cabbage,’ he continued his impassioned plea. ‘It has been for years. Whatever he might have known once, Miss Grey, I can assure you he doesn’t know it now.’
‘All right,’ said Iris. ‘I won’t bother him again.’
Jock gave her a disbelieving look, followed by a stiff ‘Thank you’.
‘But I assume you won’t mind answering a few questions?’ Iris continued. ‘After all, there’s nothing wrong with your brain, is there?’
‘My brain? Of course not,’ Jock grumbled.
‘Good.’ Whipping Beatrice’s photo out of her shoulder bag before he could protest, Iris thrust it under Jock’s nose. ‘This is one of the victims. Her name is B—’
‘I know her name,’ said Jock, turning away. ‘Kathy told me.’
‘So do you recognise her?’ said Iris.
‘No.’
Kathy returned from downstairs and reappeared in the doorway just in time to witness the exchange.
‘The least you can do is look, honey,’ she chided Jock. ‘That girl died here.’
Grudgingly, Jock examined the picture before turning back to Iris. ‘No,’ he said calmly. ‘I don’t recognise her. Satisfied?’
‘You’re sure you’ve never seen her before?’ Iris pressed.
‘Positive. And now if that’s all…’
‘Actually, it isn’t,’ said Iris, determined to grill him as hard as she possibly could while she had the chance, and with Kathy as a witness. ‘Do you remember an au pair girl named Isabella?’
Jock’s frown deepened. ‘What the devil does that have to do with anything?’
‘Who’s Isabella?’ asked Kathy.
‘She was a young Italian woman, like Beatrice,’ Iris explained. ‘She worked here at the castle one summer, when Rory and Emma were teenagers.’
‘I remember her vaguely,’ said Jock, his irritation building. ‘I remember she was lazy and we had to send her home. But I fail to see what on God’s green earth she has to do with any of this.’
‘Have you ever been to Venice, baron?’ Iris asked, shifting gear. She hoped that if she fired questions quickly enough, and if Jock got angry enough, he might inadvertently let something slip.
The anger part, at least, seemed to be working. A muscle on Jock’s temple began to twitch, and his face contorted, as if resisting the urge to punch Iris was causing him physical pain. But he wasn’t a stupid man. When he spoke, it was slowly and deliberately.
‘No,’ he told Iris. ‘Never. Tell me, was it Rory who brought up Isabella? Or have you, by chance, been talking to my ex-wife?’
Kathy gave Iris a wounded look. ‘Have you? Spoken to Fiona?’ she asked.
Iris nodded.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Kathy asked.
‘Yes,’ Jock piled in, ‘why didn’t you tell Kathy? Seeing as the two of you are such close friends. Or do the confidences only work one way, Miss Grey? Hmmm?’
‘What about this man?’ Iris held out her phone and the image of Massimo Giannotti that she’d googled for Kathy earlier. ‘Do you know him?’
‘That’s enough,’ Jock said firmly. Walking over to Kathy, he put an arm around her. ‘I want you to leave now, Miss Grey. I understand that you see yourself as some sort of warrior for justice. But these questions are ludicrous, and I won’t consent to being interrogated like a bloody criminal in my own home.’
‘Fine by me,’ said Iris, calmly starting to gather up her things.
‘What? No!’ said Kathy, sounding increasingly distressed. ‘There’s no need for this to get so hostile. We’re on the same side.’
‘With respect, I don’t think we are,’ said Iris.
‘Something we agree on at last,’ Jock chimed in snidely. Turning to face Kathy, he added: ‘I know it’s hard for you to hear, darling. But the fact is, Iris has been using you to try to get at me. Running off to see Fiona behind your back? Behind both our backs? Falling for whatever spiteful nonsense the silly cow has been spewing about me? About both of us, I daresay. Just you wait. It wouldn’t surprise me if in a few weeks’ time she starts trying to accuse you of these damned murders. She can’t be trusted.’
Iris and Kathy exchanged glances, but for once Iris couldn’t read the younger woman’s expression. She saw the anxiety, and the pain. But whether Kathy agreed with Jock or not about her and her motives, she couldn’t tell. Shaken but dignified, she left the room.
For almost a full minute after she’d gone, Kathy and Jock remained in silence, frozen in their places like two actors in a scene who’d both forgotten their lines. In the end, it was Kathy who spoke first.
‘Why did you lie to Iris just now?’ She laid the accusation softly, like a gift set down on a pillow.
Jock walked over to the far window, the one that looked out towards the moor. Opening it to clear the noxious smell of Sam Sam’s vomit, he took a deep breath of crisp, cold air before replying.
‘I didn’t lie.’
‘Yes, you did, darling,’ Kathy replied patiently. ‘You said you’d never been to Venice.’
‘Ah.’ Jock rubbed his forehead exhaustedly. ‘That.’
‘Yes. That. I know you’ve been to Venice. That’s where you bought t
he mask in the study. That hideous, beaked plague-doctor thing you wanted to wear at Halloween.’
She waited for him to explain, to say something. But instead he simply sighed deeply and turned away, looking back out over the moor.
‘In fact, I think you must have been there several times,’ she went on, piecing things together as she went. ‘That lovely painting of the saint you have hanging in baby Mary’s old room? Didn’t you tell me once that that came from Venice? St Theodore, that was it. It was special to you for some reason. I distinctly remember you saying so.’
He held up a hand in a ‘stop’ motion. ‘You’re right,’ he said wearily. ‘I did lie about Venice.’
‘Why?’
‘I told you already,’ he snapped. ‘Because I don’t trust Iris as far as I can spit. And it’s not as if I owe her an explanation.’
‘Nuh-uh.’ Kathy shook her head. ‘I’m not buying it. There’s more to it than that, I know there is. What else did you lie about?’
‘Nothing. I swear to you…’
‘Don’t swear when it isn’t true!’ Kathy lashed out, turning on him angrily. ‘Don’t you dare. You knew her, didn’t you? You knew Beatrice.’
‘Kathy, please.’ He pressed his hands to his temples, a look of desperation in his eyes.
‘No. Don’t “Kathy, please” me, Jock.’ Her heart was pounding, but she had to keep going. She had to know. ‘I understand if you don’t trust Iris. But if you don’t trust me, then I can’t marry you.’
‘I DO trust you,’ he insisted, close to tears. ‘I trust you with my life. My God, if you only knew, Kathy. You’re the first person I’ve trusted since the day Mary died.’ Shaking, he sat back down on the sofa.
Taking a deep breath, Kathy sat beside him.
‘Then tell me the truth,’ she said simply. ‘The whole truth. I think I have a right to know.’
‘You do,’ he said quietly, clasping her hand. ‘You do have a right to know. And you also have every right to leave me, if you choose to. Because I know I’m putting you in an impossible situation. But the fact is, my darling, I don’t have the right to tell you the whole truth. Even if I want to, and I do, more than you know. But there are some secrets that are not mine to tell. Promises I made, long, long before we met, that I can’t break.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’ asked Kathy. Although to Jock’s surprise, she didn’t sound angry.
‘Won’t, I suppose,’ he admitted.
A knock on the door made both of them jump. ‘Only me. I’m here to clean up.’ Mrs Gregory stood in the doorway with a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other, like a creature from another world. ‘I gather one of the dogs has been sick again.’
‘Not now, Mrs G,’ Kathy said politely.
‘But you asked me to come up,’ the housekeeper said sourly. ‘Do you know how many stairs…’
‘Are you deaf?’ Jock roared, turning on her furiously. ‘She said not now.’
Mrs Gregory turned white before beating a flapping retreat, like a frightened bat.
‘I don’t want to lose you,’ said Jock once she’d gone, turning back to Kathy.
‘I don’t want you to lose me either,’ said Kathy, laying her hand over his. ‘And I understand if you can’t tell me everything. I can’t tell you everything either. But this is murder, Jock. It doesn’t get any bigger than that.’
‘I know that.’ He swallowed hard.
‘So what can you tell me?’ Kathy pressed. ‘Why don’t we start with that?’
Jock paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘I can tell you that Venice was a part of my life a very long time ago. Before Mary was born. And that after she died, I – we – Alice and I – tried to find solace there again. But it wasn’t to be.’
‘OK,’ said Kathy, stroking the back of his hand. ‘But what about later? During your marriage to Fiona. You went back?’
‘Not with Fiona. By myself.’
‘Why?’
‘I had friends there,’ he mumbled awkwardly. ‘One friend in particular.’
‘A woman?’
‘No, actually.’ He looked up at her and she could tell at once he was telling the truth. ‘There was never anyone – not there…’ His voice trailed off.
‘Did you know Beatrice Contorini?’ Kathy asked him bluntly.
‘No. I didn’t know her.’
‘But you recognised her picture?’
A look of anguish flashed across his face. ‘Yes. I recognised her picture. But that’s all I can say.’
‘OK,’ said Kathy after a pause.
‘Really?’ Jock’s eyes widened in delighted surprise.
‘Yes.’ She respected his loyalty to whomever it was he was protecting. Past secrets were something that she understood all too well, nor did she subscribe to the notion that marriage necessitated sharing everything with one’s spouse. New vows did not negate all the old ones, after all, and friendships could be as sacred as any other bond of love. But there were still some things she did need to know. If she were going to stay, and still be able to look at herself in the mirror. ‘But Jock, I need you to tell me the truth about something. About a few things, in fact.’
‘All right,’ he said cautiously. ‘What?’
Kathy took a deep breath. ‘Did you ever – hurt your first wife, Alice?’
‘No.’ He looked astonished by the question. ‘Absolutely not. Never.’
‘OK,’ said Kathy. ‘Next question. Did you kill Beatrice? Or the other woman we found up at the bothy?’
He clasped both her hands tightly, his eyes welling with tears, willing her to believe him. ‘No. I didn’t.’
‘But you know who did?’
‘I never said that,’ he replied with a sharp intake of breath. ‘What I do know is that what Iris Grey is doing, raking up the past, will bring nothing but sorrow to people who don’t deserve it. And I’m not speaking about myself here.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Iris may believe that justice for the dead justifies destroying the lives of the living. For all I know, you may believe it too. But I don’t. So I’m asking you – begging you – not to tell her what I’ve told you today.’
Kathy took his hand in hers. ‘I won’t tell her.’
Jock started to tremble, overwhelmed with emotion.
‘You’ve told me you didn’t kill Beatrice, and I believe you. I’m on your side, Jock. I won’t share anything with Iris.’
‘Thank you,’ he gasped, clutching her hand like a life raft. ‘Oh, my darling, thank you.’
‘But I am going to see her again,’ said Kathy.
‘What? Why?’ Jock asked, pained.
‘For one thing, because she’s my friend and I can’t simply cut her off. And, for another, because I want her to finish the portrait. It’s only a few weeks till the wedding rehearsal dinner. I’d like it to be done by then.’
Jock was about to protest again – he couldn’t understand why a painting should be so important to Kathy, and he desperately wanted the Grey woman gone – but then thought better of it. Whatever her reasons, Kathy clearly felt strongly about both the portrait and her friendship with Iris. And at the end of the day, what did it matter if she did a couple more sittings? She’d already more than proven her loyalty to him; offered him her trust when he’d done nothing at all to deserve it. Stayed with him, when any other woman would have left. If Kathy stood by him, Jock felt, he was untouchable, invincible.
Asking her to marry him truly had been the single best decision of his life. Once she was Lady Pitfeldy, once the portrait was completed and Iris was gone, all his troubles would be over. It wasn’t long now.
* * *
Later that night, while Kathy sat fussing over the dogs by the parlour fire – neither had vomited again, but even Jock had to admit they didn’t look right, and had booked a follow-up appointment at the vet’s tomorrow – Jock slipped out for a walk. He often took a quick turn outside before bed, after supper and before his Drambuie nightcap, even in winter. The crisp night air and starry s
kies helped to clear his head of the day’s stresses. And today had been more stressful than most.
He’d apologised to Eileen Gregory for his loss of temper earlier, and had promised Kathy that she and Iris could finish the portrait together. No more had been said about Venice, or Alice, or the bodies buried in the bothy, and he trusted that it wouldn’t be. Kathy believed him. She was on his side. In the end that was all that mattered.
Even so, as he crunched over the frosty gravel in front of the castle, Jock found himself inexorably drawn in the direction of the woods. He wouldn’t go as far as the bothy itself. Not in this cold. But he wanted to be closer to it, and to the lonely pines, to the silent corners of this ancient estate where he’d been born and his father had been born, and that was as much a part of him as his own bones and blood.
He felt sad in so many ways that Kathy’s dogs had found those remains. Part of his sadness was for himself. But another part was for the dead women; for the shattering of their peace, and of what should have been eternal rest in what Jock considered to be one of the most beautiful spots on earth.
Passing the stable yard and the last of the castle’s lights, he turned on his torch to light the way, when he felt his phone buzzing in the pocket of his Barbour jacket.
A text. No one ever sent him texts.
Intrigued, he clicked it open.
We need to talk. You know why. Call me tomorrow on this number. Massimo.
Jock clamped his hand over his mouth, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass. Then, with a shaking hand, he deleted the message.
He would not call Massimo Giannotti tomorrow, or ever. The man was dead to him. Dead. But dead was no longer enough, it appeared. Thanks to that cursed Iris Grey, the past was coming to get him in his old age, insidious and fatal, like tendrils of ivy around a withered elm. First it was bones, rising up out of the earth. And now ghosts, long dormant, were shaking off their chains and marching on him, like Macbeth’s Birnam Wood marching to the hill of Dunsinane.
But Jock MacKinnon wouldn’t crumble. Wouldn’t weaken. After a lifetime of broken promises, he was going to keep this one. He would fight back, fight them all, to his dying breath. He would protect the ones he loved. And he would win, too. Safe in his fortress. Safe with his beautiful, loving, loyal fiancée.