The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  When McMahon summoned Lucy for a second time, she trailed out of the drawing room, looking tired and fragile. I wondered if she was at the top of McMahon’s suspect list. Worryingly though, McMahon had also spent a great deal of time with Josh.

  While Lucy was gone, Fergus told us the inspector seemed to think the murder weapon was a knife from the kitchen, an eight-inch carving knife now missing from the knife block. Pierre claimed it was there when he closed up the kitchen the night before. I remembered the chef’s expertise with a knife, but I couldn’t imagine why he’d want to murder Duncan. As far as I knew, they hadn’t even met before.

  When the clock struck three, I wandered over to the tray of sad-looking sandwiches and picked out the most appealing one. Egg and cress, not my favorite, but I was hungry enough that I felt a little faint. And a glance at Fergus’s aura reminded me that I would need all the energy I could muster to get through the next day or two.

  As I poured myself another cup of tea, voices were raised in the dining room next door, and then I heard Lucy shouting in the entry hall. As one, Josh, Fergus and I crowded into the doorway to see what was going on. Lucy was standing face to face with Inspector McMahon, stabbing her finger into his chest to make her point. “I didn’t kill Duncan, and you can’t keep me here. I have a job to go back to in London.”

  McMahon took a step back, out of reach of her finger. “Miss Cantrell. It would be helpful to me if you were to remain here within easy contact. However, if you really must return to London, then by all means do so. There’s no problem as long as you keep us informed of your whereabouts.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  She turned away and hurried up the staircase. I followed, calling her to wait for me. Finally, I caught up with her in the picture gallery where I grasped her arm and pulled her to a halt. We faced each other underneath a portrait of a man with a thick black mustache. His eyes glinted down at us from underneath a red plumed hat.

  “I’m sorry about Duncan. I truly am,” I said.

  “I can’t stay here,” she said. “I don’t know any of you. My only reason to be here was Duncan.” She gulped in air, and tears trickled down her cheeks. “And he’s dead. You understand that I just need to get away?”

  “Yes. I suppose so. But there will be a funeral, most likely up here because Fergus is Duncan’s closest relative. You’d want to be here for that, wouldn’t you?”

  Lucy sagged against the wall. “I’m not sure. Yes, probably, but I think I’ll come back when the arrangements are made. That will take a few days, won’t it?”

  “Yes. Are you sure you can’t stay? I need all the help I can get. If the Fabergé egg is at the bottom of all this, your knowledge would be invaluable. We could work together to save Fergus.”

  Lucy bowed her head. “I’m sorry. But this place… too many bad memories now. You’re smart, Kate, and you have Josh. You can save Fergus.”

  She started walking again. I kept pace with her until we reached her room. A few steps further on, Duncan’s door was festooned with yellow “Do Not Cross” tape. The police had been up and examined his room already.

  “How are you getting back to London?” I asked. Our flight had left an hour previously, without Josh or me on board.

  “I’ll take the rental car back to Glasgow and catch a train from there.” She glanced at her watch. “If I’m lucky, I’ll be home around midnight. I have an early class tomorrow.”

  She opened her door and gestured for me to follow her in. I leaned against the chest of drawers while she dragged her case from the wardrobe and threw her things into it. After a brief trek into the bathroom, she returned with her toiletry bag and jammed it on top of the clothes. She was rushing, moving fast. When she came over to clear the chest of drawers, I moved to give her space. She swept her make-up from the wooden surface into a plastic bag, the kind you use at airport security. As she sealed the bag, I noticed the press clipping.

  “That’s what gave Duncan the idea to look for missing Fabergé eggs?” I asked, nodding towards the piece of paper.

  Lucy glanced at the clipping. “Yes. His financial situation is— was— worse than I wanted to say in front of Josh. Duncan was grasping at straws, really. All that stuff he came up with to save the castle? Even if Fergus had agreed, Duncan couldn’t have achieved it, I don’t think. He’d burned a lot of contacts in London.”

  I thought about that for a moment but I couldn’t see a connection between his financial state and his death, or any kind of link to Fergus. I sighed, admitting to myself that I was no further forward than I’d been when we arrived three days ago.

  “I should go,” Lucy said, picking up her briefcase. “I’ll see you again soon, though.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay? We could look for the egg together.” Excited by the thought, I caught hold of her hand. “If we find it, we can save the castle.”

  Lucy’s hand lay limp in mine. “For me, it’s over,” she said. “I don’t care about the egg anymore. Duncan is dead, and Fergus is selling to Stanton Knox. If a treasure were hidden in the castle seventy-five years ago, it will most likely stay hidden for another seventy-five years.”

  I let go of her hand, feeling guilty. She was dealing with Duncan’s death. They’d had a fraught relationship, it seemed to me, but that didn’t mean Lucy hadn’t loved him. “I’m sorry,” I said. “That was insensitive.”

  “Don’t be daft. It’s not your fault. I know you want to help Fergus.” She tilted her head to one side. “I don’t know what to make of you, Kate Benedict, with your bizarre aura-sightings and your impulse to save people. Not, I would remind you, that you’re doing a very good job of it.” She smiled. “But that’s beside the point. I think you’re a good person and Josh is lucky to have you. I hope Fergus survives long enough to see you two get married.”

  I blushed. “Oh, that’s not in the cards. Not yet, perhaps not for a long time. We’re both focusing on our careers right now.”

  “Ah, the career thing.” Lucy turned to zip her case closed. “A chimera, if you want my opinion. Like chasing a unicorn.”

  “But you have an amazing career going,” I said, remembering what Duncan had told us over dinner on Friday evening. “You have tenure at a great university, and it seems as though you’re studying and teaching something you love. Not everyone gets to do that.”

  “It’s not all roses. But I have to run.” She flung her arms around me in a quick hug. “Stay in touch. Keep me up to date on what’s happening here, won’t you?”

  And then she was gone, flying out of the door and dashing along the corridor towards the spiral staircase. I perched on the edge of the bed, suddenly lonely and, if I had to be honest, rather lost. She was right. I wasn’t doing a good job of helping anyone. Duncan was dead and Fergus was still in danger. Feeling sorry for myself wouldn’t change anything, however, so I pushed myself up off the bed, determined to keep going. As I walked towards the door, I noticed a piece of paper on the floor under the chest of drawers. I reached under and picked it up. It was a business card. “Remy Delacroix, Antiquaire,” I read. There was a phone number but no address.

  I sat back on my heels, flicking the card with my finger. A French antiques dealer. Was this the man who’d sold the Fabergé egg to the collector in Paris six months ago? How would Lucy have his business card? Intrigued, I slid the card into my pocket and went to find Josh and Fergus.

  They were in the drawing room, where DCI McMahon had joined them. Displaying old-fashioned manners, he stood up when I arrived, and then settled back in his seat. Fergus was reviving a dying fire, taking kindling and logs from a basket on the hearth and placing them in a stacked arrangement over the embers. The kindling caught, and flames sprang up, flickering blue and yellow. Fergus watched the fire for a minute and then sat on a sofa opposite the inspector. McMahon had been quiet until then, flipping through pages in his notebook and jotting a note or two.

  “Miss Cantrell got away all right?” he asked me. />
  “Yes, she’s trying to reach London tonight, in time for work tomorrow.”

  “And you? You don’t have to be back at work?”

  I glanced at Josh before answering. “We should be, but we’re planning to stay on for a while. To keep Fergus company.”

  “Do you have any leads yet?” Fergus asked McMahon. He was nursing another glass of scotch, swirling the amber liquid around.

  The detective didn’t seem ready to commit to anything. “There were many people in the castle at the time of the murder. I have more work to do and will need the pathologist’s report before I’m in a position to do more than conjecture.”

  A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a volley of sparks. Fergus jumped up to prod the errant log back into place while Arbroath raised his head to see what was happening and then settled down again. The fire was throwing out heat now and filling the room with a welcome glow. The fearsome bear peeked out between the flames, his eyes glowing red.

  “The most urgent question for me is motive,” McMahon said. “Why was Duncan killed? If we could answer that, we’d be closer to finding our killer. Many people had the opportunity to kill Duncan, but how many had a reason to do so?”

  “Josh and I have been talking,” Fergus said. “We think it might be related to the estate sale. We’re in the midst of drawing up contracts. Other than myself, Duncan had the most vested interest in the outcome of the negotiation. I feel as though there has to be a connection.”

  “You think Stanton Knox has something to do with it?” McMahon asked, his eyes glittering with interest.

  Fergus leaned the poker against the blackened brick of the hearth and went back to his seat. “There’s no logical reason to believe that, no.”

  Josh squeezed my hand, looked from me to McMahon and back again. Was he asking me to tell McMahon about Fergus’s aura? My stomach clenched at the thought of it. McMahon had a calm and pleasant personality. He listened closely and didn’t hector anyone. He was, it seemed, comfortable in his skin, assured that he could do his job well. But he was a middle-aged Scot, shrewd and down-to-earth. A discussion of my paranormal talents was unlikely to go over well.

  Still, Fergus’s aura was swirling, and Duncan was dead. “Inspector McMahon, there’s something else…” I sat up straight and cleared my throat. “I believe that Fergus is in great danger. The killer may well strike again, and soon.”

  McMahon’s expression didn’t change. He watched me, his eyes the color of the rain-laden sky. “What makes you think that Fergus is a target?”

  “I can see signs that predict death,” I said. “Fergus has an aura. That’s what I call it anyway. It’s air that swirls over his head and…” I stopped to lick my lips. My mouth had gone dry. Fergus had slumped back against the sofa cushions, as though distancing himself from what I was saying. Still, McMahon sat motionless, his expression inscrutable.

  Hurtling on, I described how the auras worked and told McMahon that I feared Fergus had only a short time left unless we could defuse the threat to him. “We have to find the killer before he gets to Fergus.”

  When I’d finished, silence fell, broken by the crackle of logs and the soft snoring of Arbroath who lay on the rug at Fergus’s feet. The inspector looked from Fergus to Josh. “You both know about this aura?”

  When the two men nodded, McMahon seemed to sink into a trance, his eyes on the fire, his fingers tapping his notebook. After a minute or two, he stood and tugged his jacket back into place. “I’d like another chat with Josh, if that’s okay. We’ll use the dining room.”

  Josh blanched but got to his feet.

  “Why?” Fergus demanded.

  McMahon held up a hand. “Just a few minutes, if you don’t mind.” He gestured to Josh to lead the way.

  Once they had gone, Fergus jumped to his feet and paced the room. “What the bloody hell—” he muttered. I was feeling nauseous. Had I implicated Josh by exposing the fact that Fergus was in danger? With Duncan dead, Josh was now the heir to the estate, or what would be left of it once the loans were paid off, and McMahon was clearly searching for a motive. While Fergus paced, I sat with my head in my hands.

  Finally, Josh and McMahon returned. “I appreciate everything you’ve all shared with me,” the inspector said. “You’ve been very cooperative. I’ll leave you now and return as soon as I have more information.”

  We waited until we heard the front door close before asking Josh what McMahon had discussed with him.

  Josh waved a hand dismissively. “He’s simply being thorough. Obviously, he realized that I will inherit now if anything happens to Fergus, but we can easily produce evidence to show that the estate is barely worth anything. Certainly not enough for me to wander around bumping off my relatives.”

  “I’ll have a word with him,” Fergus said. “It’s utterly ridiculous.”

  Josh shook his head. “Just let it go. Things will work out.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. What we have to do is identify the real killer,” I said. “That’s the best way to keep Fergus safe and to get you off the suspect list.”

  20

  After McMahon had gone, the three of us sat in silence for a few minutes. The evening was drawing in, the gloom deepening, but no one moved to switch on a light. “It was brave of you to tell the inspector about your auras, Kate,” Fergus said at last. “Even if it may have led him to the conclusion that Josh is after the estate.”

  I cringed. So far, all I’d done was make things worse. Or no better at least. Duncan had been murdered, Fergus was still at risk, and now Josh was a suspect. Not exactly a shining record of success. And, although it felt selfish to even worry about it, I was going to miss another day, or two or three, of work. Josh had called Alan earlier to let him know we wouldn’t be at the office in the morning. According to Josh, Alan hadn’t been particularly concerned, beyond griping about having to reschedule a client meeting. But Josh, in Alan’s eyes, could do no wrong. I, on the other hand, was the object of a more critical gaze. I knew that my work was good, and that my clients and workmates liked me, but the amount of time I’d taken off over the last couple of years had caused some serious difficulties— delayed meetings, missed deadlines, frantic all-nighters to catch up. Sometimes, the burden would shift to a colleague, which made me feel like a horrible person or at least a bad co-worker. But I knew I’d feel far worse, and maybe the world would be a slightly worse place, if I walked away from an aura and did nothing to help.

  Josh roused himself from his chair and stood up. “Let’s take Arbroath out for a walk. I need to stretch my legs and breathe some fresh air.”

  Fergus was on his feet and heading for the door before I could respond. We were putting on our jackets in the entry hall when Mrs. Dunsmore came up to ask Fergus what he wanted to do about dinner. “Pierre’s still here,” she said. “And he’s happy to cook whatever you want.”

  “Isn’t the kitchen still off-limits?” Josh asked.

  “Yes, it is, but he can use the small kitchen near the butler’s pantry.”

  I remembered seeing that on our first tour of the house. Josh said that in the ‘good old days,’ the servants’ meals would be prepared in there while the main kitchen was being used for the upstairs dinner.

  “I’m not sure I can eat,” Fergus said, to which Mrs. Dunsmore tutted and shook her head. “Rubbish. Ye need to keep up your strength. This isna the time to be starving yourself.”

  Fergus looked at Josh and me. “What do you two want to eat? Sandwiches or a proper dinner?”

  I was hungry, and I guessed Josh would be too. It always amazed me that he ate as much as he did and had not an ounce of fat on him. “I could eat dinner,” I said.

  “Me too. I’m starving,” Josh said.

  Mrs. Dunsmore clapped her hands together. “Good. That will give Pierre something to do, to stop him brooding. He’s worried. The police spent a long time questioning him, you know, because of the missing carving knife. It might well turn out to be the murd
er weapon. Poor man. As if he hadn’t already been feeling bad enough about what happened to Nick.”

  Fergus patted Mrs. Dunsmore on the shoulder. “Don’t be distressing yourself,” he said. “The police have to do their work and they will find the killer. Why don’t you let Pierre know that we’d all appreciate a nice dinner.” He glanced at the clock. “It’s six. Let’s eat at eight so he’s not too rushed.”

  While the housekeeper hurried off to give Pierre the good news, Josh and I followed Fergus outside. Arbroath galloped ahead, more like a small pony than a dog. It was drizzling, and I pulled up the hood on my coat. The patter of rain on the fabric was soothing. It reminded me of camping holidays with my parents. It always poured down, it seemed, but I’d loved the sound of raindrops on canvas. Josh and Fergus strode in front, talking quietly to each other. The lamps on the gateposts in the distance shone through the misty darkness that blanketed the grounds.

  Walking slowly, I thought back over the events of the day. Duncan was dead, Lucy had gone. Lucy had confessed that they were both searching for a Fabergé egg that she believed had been purchased by Fergus’s grandfather— although she had also insisted that she could be wrong. I wondered if Lucy had mentioned the egg to McMahon. I’d have to ask him next time I saw him. She’d said Duncan was short of money. Did that have something to do with it all? I should have mentioned it to McMahon too and would do so next time I saw him. Of course, my credibility with him was shot now that I’d confessed to seeing auras. I sighed, pulling my hood closer around my hair.

  Arbroath started to bark, his deep-throated yowls breaking through my rain-accompanied meditation. Fergus called to him, but the dog ran off, hurtling himself into the trees that lined the drive.