The Merciless Dead

by John Burke

  ‘Lucky sod.’

  Lesley watched him stomp out with that familiar lopsided gait of his, then sauntered back into the library for another study of the Bewick sketches.

  Beth had gone, but Luke was stooped over his laptop on the long table with its usual stacks of papers and printouts. As Lesley came in, he jolted backwards and banged his right hand on the table, while grabbing a sheaf of yellowing documents in his left fist and waving them in the air — for Luke, an incredible misuse of hallowed paper. His sudden cry was like an explosion in the hush of that sanctum.

  ‘It’s the wrong Rosses!’

  Before Lesley could ask what this was about, Jacques Hunter appeared in the doorway. ‘We’ve got to get busy.’ His voice, unlike Luke’s hysterical outburst, was powerfully magisterial. ‘Mr Ross doesn’t feel he can wait any longer. He’s coming over.’

  13

  James Fergus Ross’s private jet was due to arrive at Prestwick mid-afternoon on the Monday. All work in the Ross Foundation was sidelined except for a weekend spent tarting up the Drovers Court facilities and the airing and polishing of the old man’s personal office in the Foundation building. Ogilvie was in his element, fussing to and fro, checking and double-checking. By the end of the first morning he had grown hoarse, with every three or four words coming out in sudden high squawks. Then Jacques Hunter would sweep aside his orders and substitute others.

  Beth had gone through sessions like this before, though without Jacques Hunter and Morwenna Ross to add to the turmoil. Years ago, old Jamie had heard of a Greek shipping tycoon who maintained a permanent suite in a Park Lane hotel in London and paid a full-time assistant with the sole duty of getting out of storage whichever of his art works he fancied having around him during a stay, all set in the exact spots he favoured. Beth had been appointed to this post on top of her other duties, and although there had been no explicit instructions this time she thought she could guess well enough which treasures he was likely to favour.

  As she was supervising the setting up of two Renoirs and a Dufy above three ormolu tables carrying a Fabergé egg and an assortment of Jacobean glass she became aware of a tall man standing at her shoulder, as if in turn supervising her own movements. Ogilvie had already fussed in and out twice. This man was calmer, almost a statue which old Mr Ross might have decreed should be installed here.

  Jacques Hunter said: ‘Very efficient, Miss Crichton. We can just hope it’s not all wasted on him this time.’

  ‘He’s usually been quite happy with the way I lay things out for him,’ said Beth frostily.

  ‘I don’t doubt that. But he’s not the way he was. I’d hoped we’d be hearing his laser treatment would have cleared up that opacification, but it seems there’s been an infection. Endophthalmitis.’ The words came out like an incantation learned by heart and repeated with a religious finality. ‘And now a sharp decline. Too damn sharp.’

  ‘And he’s even more impatient to see how the restoration work’s going, while he’s still got some vision left?’

  ‘You’ve got it. But already, Mrs Ross and myself have been learning to act as his eyes and ears.’

  And being very selective about what he sees and hears, for your own good. Beth hoped her thoughts weren’t too resonant to be picked up by this all too well organized executive.

  ‘I think,’ Hunter went on, ‘we must set up a reception for Mr Ross. Give him a couple of days to settle in, and then — let’s say this coming Thursday, OK? He’ll be expecting some kind of big hello, even if he doesn’t recognize half the faces any more.’

  ‘In spite of that recent murder?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with us?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’ Beth was flustered. Too many questions still hung over it, especially questions she still couldn’t ask herself about Randal Grant. ‘The victim … that Ferguson man … he’d been involved in lots of business troubles with Mr Ross. And with his wife once being Mr Ross’s … I just thought maybe … well … people might think it’s not really a good time.’

  ‘A thoroughly lousy character.’ Hunter was emphatic. ‘Nothing to do with us. Right, young lady. When you’ve finished here, perhaps you’d best be getting on with a guest list.’ It was not a suggestion but an order. As if to soften it, he added: ‘It’s on record that you’re very smart at knowing who’s who and what they can contribute.’

  Ogilvie was determined to shoulder his way into this, at any rate. The moment he came across Beth drawing up her list he was full of suggestions; but lacked Hunter’s authority to make them a direct order.

  ‘We’ve got to have the Canadian commercial attaché. He’d never forgive me if we —’

  ‘I think a personal note from you would do the trick,’ Beth said cunningly.

  ‘And someone from the cultural side, of course. To tie in with the Nova Scotia and Cape Breton pipers, and the Clan Societies we’re in regular touch with.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Beth. ‘Yes, of course.’

  She let him drone on about a television feature and the possibility of getting the local MP to attend while in her mind she ran through the names of business leaders who had met Ross on earlier occasions, and the Ross employees on both sides of the Border of high enough status to be invited into the awe-inspiring presence.

  ‘Must go and check we have the proper Canadian whisky everywhere. Always insists on Valleyfield Schenley. You know, of course, that one of the Ross enterprises has been supplying staves to the cooperages of Nova Scotia and Quebec distilleries.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Beth again. She had included the information in enough publicity leaflets and handouts at trade fairs to need no reminding.

  When Ogilvie had gone off to harry some other members of staff, she had a quiet moment to draw up her own mental list.

  Including the matter of a photographer to record the entire proceedings.

  Monday lunchtime she bought a few sandwiches from the delicatessen round the corner from Randal’s studio. As she pushed his door open he tried to put his arms round her, but she brushed him aside.

  ‘I haven’t got long. We’ve got to talk.’

  ‘With our mouths full?’

  ‘The big boss is on his way over. Arriving this afternoon. And there’s to be a big reception for him on Thursday.’

  ‘Ah.’ He looked oddly distant for a moment, as if trying to drag events into focus. Then he turned away to get a bottle of Meursault from the fridge, and two glasses from the shelf in the cramped kitchenette. When he came back he sounded his usual airy self. ‘So you’re in charge of the festivities.’

  ‘Television coverage, yes. The press, the VIPs, all my usual routine.’

  ‘Including photographic coverage?’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’

  ‘I thought we had a deal.’

  ‘Yes, but … well, there’s this awful business about that man Ferguson. I mean, with you involved in it, and involving me —’

  ‘Sweet Beth, you’re not involved in anything you don’t want to be.’

  ‘Why did you tell that policeman I was with you when you did the shoot for Mrs Ferguson?’

  He put his glass down very slowly on the table. ‘I never so much as mentioned your name.’

  ‘Well, somehow he knew.’

  Again he tried to put his arm round her, but she edged away. Then she felt a rush of something she couldn’t control because she didn’t know what she was most upset about. ‘Randal, doesn’t this make things too difficult?’ It came out in a desperate wail. ‘I mean, if some reporter wants to make a story out of you being at the reception and it’s known you were … oh, you know, ‘helping the police with their inquiries’ over the Ferguson murder … doesn’t it complicate things?’

  ‘Not so far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘But if someone wants to make a thing about the dead man being an old business rival of Mr Ross, and having stolen his wife away from him? And here we are, the Ross Foundation, employing a suspect
in the murder case.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m a serious suspect. I was merely taking photographs.’

  ‘And was it true that that magazine commissioned you to do that particular feature?’

  He tried one of his relaxed, impish grins, but it lacked conviction. ‘No. I thought it up myself. Convinced the divine Nadine, anyway.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because I thought it would make a good feature and I’d be able to sell it easily enough.’

  ‘But why drag me into it?’

  ‘To impress you with my talent, of course, and get a commission from you. That was the real reason behind the whole shoot.’ He waited a long moment, then said forcefully: ‘Oh, nothing of the kind. I wanted to see you again. And Beth … I want to go on seeing you. Over and over again. All the time.’

  She looked at him, longing to forget Drovers Court and the Ross Foundation building, and all the hassle of it, and spend the rest of the afternoon here with him.

  He sensed it, and again reached out for her, and for a brief eternity she let herself collapse into his arms. Then she pulled herself away. ‘It’s time I was back at the treadmill.’

  ‘Beth. Darling Beth, forget them. Let’s forget the wThole picture deal. What matters is us. Does that sound too corny?’

  ‘Yes, it does.’ Now they were both laughing, and she was saying, ‘But I’ll bear it in mind. Only before I go, let’s fix the time for you to show up on Thursday.’

  ‘So the job’s still on?’

  ‘You know perfectly well it is, damn you.’

  On the way back, she tried to talk herself out of wondering if it really was true, after all, that she was being used as just a pawn in his career game. Against the chill of that, she was wrapped in the warmth of his nearness, still with her, still tantalizing.

  The library door was open. Luke was sitting on the far side of his table, staring out like a timekeeper checking on employees’ punctuality. ‘Just time for a quickie, was there?’

  ‘Luke, please. Let’s not —’

  ‘It’s all right, Beth. You don’t owe me any explanations. But I still … I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.’

  She went on, to find that most doors were like Luke’s — open, waiting for the first sound of Mr Ross’s arrival.

  *

  Everybody had rehearsed the appropriate level of enthusiastic welcome, according to status in the hierarchy. But everybody was shocked.

  James Fergus Ross, for all his philanthropic activities, had once been a fearsome figure. His entrances were always awaited with shivers of apprehension about his possible mood. His mere approach was enough to frighten any members of staff into wondering which of their possible mistakes had come to light; what irrational mood could make him fire a dozen men and women at one go; what abrupt, impossible demands he might make within seconds of arriving. But today was different. Voices were awkward, there were some shocked whispers, and some shuffling from side to side as he approached.

  The imperious autocrat had shrunk.

  He moved slowly, hunched over a walking stick almost as gnarled as himself, as if imitating an arthritic old shepherd or drover from some Wilkie painting. On each side he was supported — almost literally supported — by two six-foot heavies who might have been battle-scarred discards from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Shrivelled as he was, he looked as if he needed medical carers rather than pugnacious minders. And close behind the stooped figure, Morwenna Ross and Jacques Hunter looked unreasonably tall and healthy — ready to seize power immediately it became necessary, thought Beth. And then do battle with each other for final command?

  Hunter made a long, grave survey of the groups of employees assembled in the hall and on the main staircase. ‘Mr Ross is tired after his flight. But he’ll want to talk to all of you — all of us — as soon as he’s got his breath back.’

  Ross shuffled towards the lift, on his way up to that holy of holies, his office at the top of the building. When the lift doors had hissed shut behind him, there was an echo in the querulous whispers that ran around the hall.

  ‘Doesn’t look too bright …’

  ‘Remember the way he used to storm in through that door and let fly when he was halfway across the hall?’

  Each department expected a summons. Always there had been an inquisition. Sometimes grudging praise; more often searching questions and sharp condemnation. This time, the long-awaited, apprehension-loaded arrival had fizzled away into a nothingness almost as disturbing as the usual immediate confrontations.

  Luke Drummond had anticipated a grilling over the updating of worldwide records of Ross Foundation activities, and had prepared a folder of key information. Beth Crichton was ready to show her own display file of PR material, and was wondering uneasily whether old Jamie had been shown Randal Grant’s photographs of the Ferguson interiors and what questions he might throw at her.

  There was no summons; no grilling.

  Ogilvie, the only one to be summoned to the presence for any length of time, emerged to pontificate about Mr Ross’s keen interest in the progress made on the croft reconstruction, his immediately helpful comments, and his wonderful grasp of each little detail. Ogilvie’s interpretations were never altogether reliable.

  Later Mr Ross was escorted to Drovers Court. No word came back as to whether he approved of the layout of his treasures which Beth had prepared; but neither was there a word of disapproval.

  A television interview she had set up showed the old man in a more impressive aspect. Skilful lighting and a flattering camera angle made him look not so much shrunken as taut, coiled up ready to strike, his eyes bright as if staring a challenge rather than trying to bring things into focus. His voice was filtered and boosted to emerge as a confident, domineering growl. Yes, he was delighted to be back in the country of his ancestors, involving himself personally in this historic project. No, in spite of some trouble with his eyesight and the usual stiffnesses of old age he had no intention of retiring. There were still too many things to do.

  ‘You’ll remember, sir, how John D. Rockefeller was asked towards the end of his life whether, looking back, he would prefer to have had good health rather than all that money?’

  ‘Sure, I do seem to have heard that someplace. And he said the money, right?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. And yourself?’

  Ross scowled down at his knees. There was a delay, long by TV interview standards. When he raised his head again his voice was shaky and less assertive than usual. ‘A family,’ he said. ‘A real family. That’s what I’d have liked to have. Someone to follow on.’

  Watching beside Beth in his studio, Randal Grant muttered something she didn’t catch. She said: ‘What was that?’

  He turned the volume down. ‘Just thinking. From what I’ve heard, he had a family, but managed to break it up. Old hypocrite.’

  ‘I thought the trouble was that the older son died in an accident. Hardly old Jamie’s fault. And wasn’t there something about the other son —’

  Randal turned the sound back up as the old man finished the interview on an assertive note, boasting about Ross Enterprise’s big investment in two new biofuel programmes within their forestry operations in Quebec.

  ‘Now,’ said Beth, ‘let’s wrap this up. About tomorrow’s big do —’

  ‘We could talk about it in bed.’ Randal put the remote control down. ‘Afterwards.’

  ‘We could talk about it first.’

  ‘No. First things first.’

  She had been sitting too close to him as they watched — too close to be able to pull away now.

  *

  Lesley Torrance had been in the library at the time of old Jamie’s arrival, and caught only a glimpse of him limping past the open door. Nobody had bothered to call her out to introduce her. She was not greatly concerned, yet there was something slipshod about the whole set-up: a sense of let-down, things not quite coming together in spite of all the bustle and build-up.

  S
till, she and Nick had been formally invited to the reception in Drovers Court. Perhaps here the threads would be pulled together into a coherent pattern.

  *

  Standing beside her on a balcony above the ballroom, Nick said: ‘All right, fill me in. That fussy little twit with the shiny cranium must be Simon Ogilvie.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘After your description, I could have picked him out on any identity parade.’

  Ogilvie had arrived early, and was dodging from one fresh arrival to another like a sheepdog rounding up groups of individuals and chivvying them towards different corners of the room.

  ‘And that fantastic female just coming in,’ said Nick. ‘That couldn’t be the Beth you’ve told me about?’

  Lesley leaned past him. ‘Indeed it couldn’t.’

  The female in question was dressed in a lime green two-piece with blouson sleeves which didn’t really belong to the outfit but which, Lesley thought cattily, were probably meant to disguise flabby pink arms. Her bouffant hair was a wildly improbable apricot colour.

  ‘I don’t know, but I’d guess … yes, there she goes.’

  The woman looked around and then headed purposefully for Simon Ogilvie.

  ‘I’d heard of her,’ said Lesley. ‘Now I know why they always refer to her as Mrs Apricot Ogilvie.’

  The next arrivals were Morwenna Ross and Jacques Hunter, coming in together almost like a married couple yet maintaining a few unvarying inches between one another.

  ‘That has to be Hunter,’ guessed Nick. ‘Married?’

  ‘Only to his work, they say.’

  The two were followed, as if their appearance had been a signal, by six waitresses carrying silver trays of drinks. For a few minutes the guests made a pretence of being mildly surprised by the array of glasses; then three or four accepted a drink as a polite gesture, and conversation grew louder.

  Nick began humming to himself.

  ‘Just a minute,’ Lesley protested. ‘You’ve not been commissioned to write the incidental music without telling me, have you?’

  ‘Just playing around with a suitable theme. Not too brash. No signs of them being ready for a highland reel so early in the evening.’