by John Burke
‘And you’d heard nothing at all? Seen nothing?’
‘Nothing.’ There was an odd croak in Mrs Dunbar’s throat, and her hands were trembling again. ‘We wasnae expecting the laird and her ladyship back until late on the Monday — tomorrow, that is. Cook had been told she could take a week of her holiday, and as for me … well, there was nothing I was called on to do, so …’
‘You had a snooze, after the coachload had gone.’
‘Aye.’ Mrs Dunbar grasped at this. ‘Aye, that’s just how it was.’
‘And when you woke up. Miss Crombie was here.’
‘I didnae hear her come in, but when I went upstairs I could hear her. She was so upset.’ She began to sniffle, and reached for a handkerchief, crumpled and less clean than everything else in her spotless sitting room.
Leslie went off to phone a repeated request for Forensic and their photographer to get a move on. It was a Sunday, and the house wasn’t exactly within easy reach. But she had a return call within half an hour, and was happy to learn that the SOCO in charge would be one she had worked successfully with before. He had helped solve the theft of two antique mirrors on the evidence of a few shreds of gilding scraped off against a van door. Just the sort of man they needed here.
When she was assured the team was on its way, Lesley went to see the couple at the main gate.
*
The curtains in the lodge twitched as she approached. By the time Mr McKechnie answered the door, his wife had settled herself on a sofa with her hands folded tightly in her lap. The sofa was too large for the little room, and too high for Mrs McKechnie, whose feet only just touched the ground, so that her lap sloped forward and there was no relaxation in those folded hands.
Mr McKechnie sat beside her and patted her knee. He was a big man, taking up more than his fair share of the sofa. His feet in their heavy black-soled shoes were planted firmly on the floor. He would make a threatening sight, trudging in the wake of visitors to the house.
‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ he said solemnly.
They might almost have been doing just that since the crack of dawn — sitting there stiff and uncomfortable, summoning up strength to face the inquisition.
Lesley sat in a chair with a creaking wickerwork seat which Mr McKechnie had indicated. She tried to put them at their ease.
‘Now, I’d be most grateful for your help. Will you please tell me in your own words what happened. And if you can remember exact times, so much the better.’
Mr McKechnie, like Mrs Dunbar, was proud of his position in the Crombie household. He described every inch of his progress through the house, the appearance of each room and corridor, the timing of most tourist visits and this one in particular, and his part in shepherding stragglers to keep them up with the main body. Nobody escaped his gaze. Nothing had so far been snatched since he started his patrol.
Lesley wanted to hurry him along, but adjusted her pace to his, nudging him the way he nudged those dawdlers on visiting days.
At last he reached the last details of how he would report to Mrs Dunbar while his wife cashed up in the refreshment room and handed over the proceeds to Mrs Dunbar, who kept separate cashboxes for the restaurant and the ticket proceeds.
‘What would happen to the money?’ asked Lesley.
‘There’s a safe down the cellar steps from the kitchen. Both the cashboxes go in there, along with the ledgers. Mrs Dunbar keeps the key on her bunch of keys, and the laird has one as well.’
‘Was the money stolen along with the paintings and the rest?’
‘Ye’d have to ask Mrs Dunbar that. But I doubt they’d have been able to get into that safe without spending a lot of time on it.’
‘And when you’ve handed over your particular responsibilities, that’s that? You come back here?’
‘We come back here,’ Mr McKechnie confirmed.
Somebody, thought Lesley, must have stayed behind. Someone from the tourist coach, hiding until the main body of visitors had left and Mrs Dunbar had done her rounds: on his own while his pals were already in position in the grounds, waiting for him to open the doors from within and let them in.
‘Did you notice anything unusual — anything out of the ordinary routine? Or spot anybody you’d seen before, who didn’t seem to belong?’
Mrs McKechnie summoned up the courage to speak, in a highpitched whine which gave away her Glasgow origin. ‘There were two coaches yesterday. One of them was late in leaving. We’d got back here before it went.’
‘Was that a common occurrence?’
‘It’s been known,’ said Mr McKechnie. ‘People go strolling in the grounds and lose track of the time.’
‘Or was it largely empty,’ Lesley suggested, ‘with nobody noticing what might have been slid into the deep baggage compartments?’
‘Didn’t have any chance o’ noticing that. Tinted windows, ye know the thing — ye can see out from inside, but the passengers are high up and it’s difficult to make out much from outside.’
‘Just darkened our windows for a wee moment,’ added his wife, ‘and then it was awa’ doon the road.’
‘And in any case,’ said Mr McKechnie, ‘surely the stuff hadn’t gone when the coach left? Mrs Dunbar would have done her rounds to make sure there was nobody left on the premises, and she’d have noticed.’
Lesley was even more certain that somebody must have stayed behind, hidden, waiting until Mrs Dunbar had finished trotting around and settled herself for that snooze.
But how could he have predicted that she would be sound asleep and out of harm’s way when he wanted to let his cronies in?
Lesley would have liked to know more about that delayed coach, but the McKechnies had nothing further to offer.
It was time to see what the schoolmaster had to contribute.
On her way to the side gates she was intercepted by PC Kerr, looking pleased with himself. He led her to a spot near the blank wall of stableyard beside the coffee bar, with overhanging trees clustering close to the white-harled stonework. Some of the lower branches had been snapped or bent, and there were tyre marks on the ground below.
‘Judging from the wheel base,’ said Kerr weightily, ‘I’d say it was some sort of van stood here. And footprints leading to it through the yard from the kitchen door.’
‘And heavier footprints on the way back. Carrying heavy weights. Nice work, constable.’
A vanload rather than a coachload?
And all of it carried from the kitchen door — with Mrs Dunbar snoozing so close at hand?
*
The lane from here led directly to the west gates and lodge. To her left a partly overgrown path wove its way through undergrowth and some tangled coppices. A hundred yards on, a crudely painted board nailed to a tree said: DANGER. KEEP OUT. Beyond it was a glimpse of a huddle of stone which must be the family chapel and vault, as neglected as the coppices.
Angus Murray must have seen her coming — must have been waiting and watching, just like the McKechnies — and was ready to greet her in the open doorway, below a lintel carved with a much eroded heraldic shield.
He was a short man with short arms and large hands, cropped white hair and a smartly trimmed white beard. ‘A lady officer?’ he said; and it was half a polite welcome and half a long practised schoolmaster’s sneer. ‘Please. Sit ye down. Anything I can do for the wellbeing of the community, consider it done. This is a shocking business. Truly shocking.’
Lesley wanted to waste no time in preliminary fencing. ‘Mr Murray, can you give me the clearest possible précis of your movements yesterday during visiting hours and in the immediate aftermath?’
‘Ah.’ He settled himself contentedly in what was obviously his favourite armchair.
Equally obviously, he was a pedant who would positively enjoy showing parties of reverential tourists around Baldonald House and lecturing them in well-modulated phrases resonant with a knowledge the rest could never hope to achieve.
‘Tell me abou
t yourself,’ Lesley invited. Her old superior and hassler, DCI Rutherford, believed in attacking every witness as a potential suspect. Frighten them within a few seconds. Lesley Gunn favoured letting a witness do the talking, while she waited. Make them feel relaxed. If they were innocent and anxious to be helpful, it eased the way. If they weren’t, there was so often a crucial little clue, sometimes the unexpected bonus of a real giveaway.
Mr Murray needed no further bidding.
He lived here at a nominal rent in return for contributing ‘in my own wee way’ to the smooth running of the estate. He was highly regarded as a guide — ‘highly regarded’ was his own wee way of putting it — and also produced much useful background material ‘in my own wee machine shop’.
‘Perhaps you’d like to inspect it?’ His white eyebrows arched like the thatch over dormer windows.
He led the way through to his office.
The lodge was small; the sitting-room necessarily small, the office a cramped space
— a truly wee room, thought Lesley — triangular in shape, tucked as it was into an angle of the building. One wall carried rickety bookshelves bending under the weight of booklets, history books, and note pads. To reach the shelves you would have to squeeze round a table carrying an array of equipment. Mr Murray was in a mood to lecture again. He proudly explained the functions of his high-spec PC and his digital camera, flat-bed scanner and full-screen computer with colour printer. Retired he might be, but clearly he kept himself occupied and up to the minute. He reached past his battery of hardware to pluck a handful of leaflets from the end of a shelf, and showed how they could be mounted on small wooden boards like table tennis bats for distribution throughout the various rooms. And there were menus for the refreshment room. ‘I suppose I’ll have to revise all the leaflets now,’ he said resignedly, but clearly looking forward to the task. ‘There’ll be so much missing from the house.’
It was time to move on from the background briefing to the immediate problem. ‘On that subject,’ said Lesley, ‘what exactly was your afternoon like, yesterday?’
‘Very busy. Busier than usual, but then, the season’s just livening up. We had to cope with two coachloads of trippers. Though of course one mustn’t call them that, must one? Let’s say visitors, shall we, eager for contact with a more gracious world than their own, yes?’
She could imagine the boom of his pedagogic voice as he condescended to the shuffling herd of people who had paid their money and put themselves in his charge — a more respectful and responsive audience than his school classes could ever have been.
They went back into the sitting-room, and he held forth again. His story confirmed the overall timetable established by Mrs Dunbar and the McKechnies.
‘And there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary?’
‘Nothing that I observed.’ And then he said: ‘Except for the van being still here rather late.’
‘The van?’
‘Well, I took it to be the usual van from the Eskdale meat and game supplier.’
‘Delivering on a Saturday afternoon? Is that usual?’
‘Now you come to mention it’ — Murray made a steeple of his fingers and looked very earnest — ‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’
‘In any case, why would it have been delivering to the house? Lord and Lady Crombie were away, and the cook had been taking a week’s holiday. That I do know.’
‘Quite. But it may have been because yesterday was so busy. The refreshment room may have run out of food.’
‘An emergency delivery of lamb chops or game pate when it’s nearly closing time? You say it was still here rather late.’
‘Aye.’
‘Whereabouts did you see it? Near the refreshment room, or the kitchen yard, or —’
‘I didn’t see it. Not while we were looking after the visitors. Not until it was leaving. And that was long after I’d come back here.’
‘It went out through those gates?’
‘Aye.’
‘And you’re sure it was the tradesman’s van?’
‘It was white, that’s all I saw. I assumed it was the butcher from Eskdale. Only …’ He paused, looked even more earnest and anxious to be helpful. ‘Now I come to think of it, I didnae notice any lettering on the sides. The usual delivery van has the butcher’s name and phone number. Mark you, I had only a wee glimpse, through that window.’ He nodded towards the side window, half obscured by a grey lace curtain. ‘I wasn’t expecting anything to go past that late in the afternoon.’
Lesley made her way back to the house to check on this piece of information with Mrs Dunbar and the McKechnies.
She found the two women bustling up and down stairs with plates of cold meat and bowls of salad. Lord Crombie tried to flatten himself against the wall to let them pass, but was too hefty to manage it easily, and edged to one side as Lesley approached.
He stared at her, trying to place her in the middle of his abject miseries. Then he said: ‘Ah. Yes. You’ll be joining us for lunch?’
‘That’s kind of you, but I think you’ll have a lot to talk about. On your own.’
‘Nonsense. Where else would you eat, anyway? There’s nowhere round here for miles, except the Tam Lin. You’ll have to make do with scraps, though. No cook until this evening. Not expecting us back.’
‘No, really, I wouldn’t dream of —’
‘I’ll not have you starving. An empty stomach won’t help you in your enquiries.’
He was doing his best to be jovial about it. She could not possibly refuse him.
Food was laid out in an improvised buffet on the long table in the main reception room. Brigid Crombie looked surprised at Lesley’s presence, but then caught her husband’s eye, and decided it was a perfectly reasonable arrangement. If the master of the house did not contemplate sending the detective down to the servants’ quarters for a snack, she was content to agree with him.
‘Thank you, Mrs McKechnie,’ said Hector Crombie. ‘You’ve worked wonders.’
‘Thank you, Mrs McKechnie.’ His wife’s version of gratitude had a tinge of making it clear that for one person at any rate it was time to get below stairs.
Lesley hurried to intercept her at the door. ‘Mrs McKechnie, can you clarify one little point? How long was the butcher’s van here yesterday afternoon?’
‘The van? I didnae see any van.’
‘You weren’t running out of supplies in the refreshment room? Phoning for an urgent delivery?’
‘We work things out better than that,’ said Mrs McKechnie starchily. ‘Rabbie would no’ ha’ been asked to make any deliveries yesterday afternoon.’
Then whose van had been driven past the west lodge late that afternoon? And what was inside it? Gloomily Lesley thought that although she couldn’t yet answer the first question, she was pretty sure of the answer to the second one.
The SO CO was waiting for her in the hall when she made her excuses and left the lunch table early. ‘Shouldn’t take long to make a selection between the overall prints and those of the residents and staff. Then we can whizz ’em off to the Index.’
And if they were lucky, the National Criminal Fingerprint Index would trace a parallel with any known villains who specialised in this particular line.
If we’re lucky, thought Lesley without any great optimism.
6
All through the makeshift lunch Hector Crombie remained silent apart from the clumping of his feet as he plodded about the room with a plate in his hand, glancing at spaces on the walls and then forcing himself not to look. Brigid ate with the quick, dabbing skill of one accustomed to balance plate and glass at cocktail parties without interrupting either the flow of conversation or the intake of nibbles. Caroline had positioned herself by the window, staring moodily out.
Detective Inspector Gunn had politely distanced herself from the others, but Greg was sure that she was unobtrusively sizing them all up. He tried making his own private assessment of her. Although she was a pla
in clothes officer, her dark blue jacket and skirt, white blouse and blue stockings had the trimness of a uniform. Her hair was short and as closely fitting as a light brown helmet. There was nothing of the heavy-footed copper in her: her hips swayed very gently, her grey eyes were sharp but unthreatening as she glanced at him, presumably trying to fit him into the dramatis personae.
In the end Greg had to break the silence. He was no part of this. Brigid had brought him here; it was to Brigid that he would make his adieus.
‘Look, perhaps I’d better leave. You won’t want me hanging around while —’
‘You’re staying.’ Brigid interrupted her eating for only a few seconds, without even dropping a crumb. ‘I suppose we’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Give you time to do some sleuthing, eh, Inspector Gunn? Then we can get back to the book.’
Greg thought that this at any rate might provoke some comment from her husband. But he was far away in some sad twilight of his own. Then suddenly he came awake, staring at his right hand as if aware for the first time of another loss. Something was undoubtedly missing.
‘Dammit, we haven’t got anything to drink. Caroline, do go down to the cellar. Bring up a couple of bottles of claret. Plenty of stuff to choose from.’
‘No,’ said Brigid sharply. ‘It’s not worth the bother. We don’t want to start drinking at this time of day.’
‘We certainly do.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Hector. Help yourself to a whisky and be done with it. The rest of us can manage. Don’t bother with the claret, Caroline.’
Caroline turned away from the window, put her empty plate on the end of the table, smiled briefly at her father, and went out of the room.
There was an awkward pause, a silence even more oppressive than it had originally been.
DI Gunn said: ‘Lady Crombie, I realise you still haven’t got over the shock of this theft. But in preparing my report to our experts in the field I really do have to sit down with you and sort out precisely what has been lost, and what individual items are worth.’
‘I thought I’d made it clear to you that my stepdaughter knows more about the history of the different pieces.’