Death by Marzipan

by John Burke

  19

  The stone hulk of Black Knowe tower house, at least, had stood up to the gales and destruction without so much as a scratch. Lesley got out of her car into the shadow cast down the slope, and for a moment was ready to panic. She ought to have rejected Sir Nicholas Torrance’s invitation. There was nothing here for her.

  Yet that was silly. She knew perfectly well that she would have been unable to resist the chance of seeing him again.

  ‘In the first place,’ he said as he held her hand firmly in his, ‘I really must apologise for not coming to your rescue when you phoned. After what I’ve read since … I mean, you do seem fated to get caught up in the rough stuff, don’t you?’

  ‘Nobody could have predicted the outcome.’

  ‘If I’d rallied round, we might have sorted matters out a lot sooner.’ He smiled that half sheepish, half endearing smile of his. ‘Or maybe not.’

  He led her to a chair below Alma Tadema’s fanciful painting of the Bareback Lass.

  Although between them they had proved the whole legend of the Lass to be a fake, and although the picture owed more to the artist’s voluptuous imagination than to any historic reality, Lesley was glad to see it still here on the wall. It belonged. And although Sir Nicholas had entered his inheritance so recently, his patrician features seemed, too, to have belonged here for centuries.

  He was wearing mottled brown tweed slacks and a short-sleeved terracotta shirt. He must have been away for a short holiday: his face and arms were lightly tanned. Lesley was captivated, as before, by the music in his voice; and for a silent but waiting accompaniment there were the keyboard she remembered and the clarsach on its stand in the corner.

  He said: ‘After my being so offhanded, it was good of you to come. Because now I’m asking you to come to my rescue. And not just me, but some other needy folk in the Borders.’

  ‘You want my department’s advice on security,’ she guessed. ‘The Baldonald House thefts have put the wind up the lot of you.’

  He was looking disconcertingly at her lips as she talked, with a touch of self-reproach for something he might have missed, all through his own fault.

  ‘That latter bit’s got some truth in it,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s not by any means the whole truth. You’ve heard about conditionally exempt works of art, of course.’

  ‘Of course. Estate owners can escape inheritance tax on any of their heirlooms if they allow the public to see them. They don’t have to display them publicly, just let punters make appointments to see a particular work. And then,’ she added drily, ‘ensure those appointments are made as difficult as possible.’

  ‘But legislation’s on the way to compel owners to have their designated treasures on regular public display, not just viewable only after a minefield of difficulties.’

  Lesley had already heard whispers of dismay across the estates of the landed gentry at the proposed strictures. There were pieces of conditionally exempt Chippendale, paintings, prints, sculpture and jewellery scattered throughout Scotland, all of them a security risk and a much more serious risk if the doors of the treasure houses were flung open. Expert thieves were assuredly already checking on the web site which listed all the paintings and objets d’art available for inspection. With a new insistence on public display if there was to be tax exemption, an increase in private collections being open to the public would demand much tighter security everywhere.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I can see the problem. You’re all going to have to get together and work out a mutual scheme for safeguarding your tax perks.’

  ‘Full-time surveillance is what we’re after, yes.’

  ‘Well, that lets me out. I can’t help you. The police can’t offer that: not for any single building on the off-chance of a raid, let alone a whole string of them.’

  ‘Lesley.’ He had seated himself in the old oak chair below the reivers’ lances forming a deadly fan on the wall. She tried to shield herself from the subtler, much more dangerous weapon of his voice. ‘We wouldn’t want bits and pieces of advice, the occasional consultation, someone showing up when there’s been trouble and it’s too late to stop it. What I’m suggesting is a fulltime job for you. In charge of five of our local residences.’

  ‘You’re suggesting I should leave the Force?’

  ‘Police priorities rarely coincide with our own. Don’t blame them. But someone like yourself, working independently but still keeping contacts with your old associates … don’t you see, we’d all be better organised that way.’

  ‘And it’d be my head that’d roll when a garden gnome went missing.’

  ‘You’d have a free hand. No chief inspectors and superintendents to shove you around. You’ve got the whole thing at your fingertips. Set up an overall security system. And for starters, complete computer cataloguing of the contents of all the stately homes and other historic buildings in the group, a sort of aristocratic Neighbourhood Watch. And exactly what each one of us needs to do for our particular premises. Telling us what facilities you need. No,’ he smiled: ‘not telling us — ordering us?’

  Lesley thought of working exclusively with things she loved, being a sort of personal guardian of great portraits, beautiful china, a custodian, chatelaine, loving helpmeet…

  ‘You could have your own quarters in Black Knowe, if that suited you,’ said Nick Torrance, ‘and work from here.’

  He sat back and waited. He was in no hurry. She longed to accept, and he knew it, and was patient … but too complacent, too sure of her, damn him.

  *

  Ishbel met Greg and Kate at the head of the steps, just as Caroline had met Greg when he first set eyes on Baldonald House. Unlike Caroline, she did not at once look in command, a part of the house’s history. The long façade was not a family backdrop, taken for granted over the centuries, but a great burden liable to weigh down on her. But she smiled bravely, and let her father kiss her.

  ‘So you’re off.’

  Their two cars stood side by side on the drive. He waved towards the Laguna. ‘Come back with me. For a while. You can’t stay here with no one to talk to.’

  ‘I have to stay here. For Caroline’s sake. At least until after the funeral.’

  ‘It’ll be ages before the trial. And what can you hope to do after that, here on your own?’

  ‘I shall just have to see.’

  She was not waving her arms about any more. Her hair was tied tautly back.

  ‘Ishbel, I haven’t had a chance of getting to know you. I know a lot of it’s my fault, but —’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Kate. She wasn’t talking to him but to Ishbel. ‘Don’t encourage him, whatever you do. Any minute now he’ll be in full cry as the guilt-ridden father. He’s so good at becoming other people, he’ll make himself really and truly miserable.’

  When Ishbel smiled at her, it was becoming a proud, self-confident smile. She took an unhurried step towards Kate, kissed her with all the grace of a hostess bidding farewell to guests at the end of a dinner party, and said: ‘Look after him. If he has any sense, he’ll ask you to marry him.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Greg spluttered. ‘You hardly know us, and here you go dishing out ideas that … I mean, what on earth makes you think —’

  ‘Empathy?’

  Even more the gracious hostess, Ishbel watched the two of them go down the steps towards their waiting cars.

  Greg said: ‘Look, I’m sorry if — ’

  ‘Where do we stop for lunch?’ asked Kate coolly.

  ‘I … look, we’ve got to talk.’

  ‘Over lunch.’

  ‘There’s that nice place in Boroughbridge. The Black Bull.’

  ‘Meet you there.’

  She got into her driver’s seat and closed the door. He followed her down the drive, and waited until they were well out on to the main road before overtaking her, then wondered why he had felt it so important to do so.

  His car phone buzzed.

  ‘One thing I’ve been meaning to men
tion,’ said Kate. ‘You’re going to need some work to keep you occupied.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Maybe we can think about selling serial rights in as much of Brigid’s book as you can sort out.’

  ‘And get those businessmen on my trail? I’m beginning to think I’ve had enough of Brigid and her marzipan sweeties.’ He slowed over a blind summit and made sure she was still at a sensible distance. ‘Look, don’t you think that trim little detective might have some interesting tales to tell?’

  ‘No,’ said Kate fiercely. ‘I’ve noticed the way you’ve been looking at her. And I don’t fancy it.’

  ‘Any other helpful suggestions, then?’

  ‘I’d better start rooting around to find some marvellous male hunk you could ghost for. Then maybe some of that would soak off on me. Rewarding to be in bed with a macho stranger.’

  ‘Speaking of going to bed together.’ His mouth was dry. ‘What do you think about that idea of marrying me?’

  There was a long delay. At last she said: ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It would be an interesting role to play. Me, myself, just for a change.’

  ‘Never mind taking the clothes off. Would you really take the masks off?’

  He nearly grazed a tractor edging out on the road without pausing at the junction. Although they could still have heard each other, he waited until Kate had overtaken the tractor and was in his mirror again before saying: ‘I promise. I do.’

  ‘You know, I think I could learn to love you.’

  ‘You mean all this time you haven’t?’

  Her car crept closer to his, but until she was within a distance frowned on by the Highway Code, she did not reply. ‘This is no way to communicate. Let’s leave it till lunch.’

  ‘Or dinner. And stay the night.’

  ‘Somewhere.’ Quite deplorably she accelerated, gave his back bumper a heavy thump, and then fell contentedly back.

  *

  DCI Rutherford was impatient for DI Gunn’s return, even though she had been perfectly entitled to her day off. The moment she appeared he grated: ‘You know what this bloody funeral’s going to lead to?’

  ‘An interment in the family chapel, if they’ve shifted the loot out of the way. What else?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what else. That other business you came up with. While all the big cheeses in the county are at Crombie’s wake, one of their houses is going to be targeted.’

  ‘That’s what I was told, yes.’

  ‘But there’s been this last-minute shift. The lairds and ladies won’t be away at a service in Selkirk. It’s all been switched to Westerlaw, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Right. I don’t see that that’ll make much difference, though. The gang, whoever they are, must have heard. Either they’ll call it off, or —’

  ‘Or they’ll bash on regardless. And I do mean bash. And if I knew where, I’d have a TSG and as many SAS volunteers as I could muster.’

  Lesley thought of Nick Torrance and how right he was to see the growing need for surveillance and protection. Gangs here were gearing up to emulate those in France, where raiders on the most richly endowed châteaux had violent entry down to a fine art: in and out through reinforced fences with their bolt and wire cutters, their ladders and shotguns, all within four or five minutes, stealing to order and knowing where everything was. Coping with a spreading plague like that would be a challenge. Protecting things like that would be a worthwhile profession.

  Why hadn’t she said yes on the spot?

  ‘But I’ve got another job just for you,’ said Rutherford.

  ‘Somebody’s defaced the chief constable’s photograph in HQ foyer?’

  ‘You’re deputed to provide a presence at the funeral.’

  ‘Lord Crombie’s?’

  ‘The very one.’

  It was already common knowledge that, with the Hon. Caroline Crombie in custody, General Sir Lachlan McIver, Brigadier of the Royal Company of Archers, had insisted on taking over all the arrangements for his old friend’s funeral. Under no circumstances should it be skimped. The Baldonald House chapel was unfit for use, and Caroline had not had time before her arrest to finish clearing out and making safe the family vault. Sir Lachlan took over all responsibility. The service would be held in the chapel of his home, Westerlaw Castle; and the coffin would then be taken to the thoroughly cleaned family vault. And Sir Lachlan insisted on Caroline being present. It was not a matter of her being concealed, allowed like some medieval leper to look upon the service through a squint. She was the late Lord Crombie’s daughter, and at her father’s funeral she should take the place of honour.

  ‘And it’s been made clear that a police presence will be negotiated’ — Rutherford mouthed the words as in a smutty recitation — ‘on the understanding that it shall be discreet and preferably using plain clothes officers. Sir Lachlan will himself be personally answerable to the Sheriff Principal for looking after the prisoner and delivering her back into custody after the ceremony’.’

  ‘I think that’s very civilised.’

  ‘You’ve been well in with the family. We’ll get a policewoman in plain clothes to drive, and you and the Crombie girl’s dyke can travel with her in the same car. I’m relying on you to see she doesn’t make a break for it across the fields.’

  ‘She won’t.’

  ‘We have to be sure.’

  ‘I’m sure about Caroline Crombie,’ said Lesley: ‘what she’s likely to do, and what she’s not likely to do.’

  ‘Fancy yourself as a psychologist, Lez?’

  ‘And don’t call me Lez.’

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve never really thought of you as one of those.’

  ‘Then don’t make it sound that way. And let’s not allow anything to rob this funeral of its dignity. It’s all a sad business, every aspect of it.’

  ‘Then let’s sort out our arrangements, and get it over with.’

  20

  There was a great digging into cupboards and wardrobes all over the region. In preparation for the day of the funeral there was a great sorting out of kilts, sporrans, military decorations and, in case the ceremony went on too long, hip flasks. A Rolls was wheeled out and polished ready for the day. One newly knighted whisky distiller decided it would be more fitting to leave his latest BMW in the garage and bring his father’s lovingly preserved Armstrong Siddeley out of retirement. A number of estate cars went under the pressure hoses to remove a year’s good honest dirt.

  It was felt by many that it would be much more fitting for Lord Crombie and his lady to be buried at the same time. Yet there was also an uneasy awareness that Lady Crombie was undeserving of the honour. Hector Crombie had died as he had lived — decently, conventionally, in his home. A stroke was almost as much a part of noble tradition amongst men of his generation as being killed in action. Brigid Crombie had had the bad taste to get herself murdered, which was somehow a reflection on her as much as her killer; and in any case the coroner would not release the body until police investigations had been concluded.

  The Westerlaw Castle chapel was in a seventeenth-century wing, with a flamboyant ceiling of Biblical scenes painted by two Dutch artists. The Old Chevalier had paid a fleeting visit as the true King of Scotland, despite the throne of the Union being otherwise occupied, to touch members of the castle staff and a few selected local peasants against the King’s Evil. At the same time he had graciously endowed the building with a Communion table, hidden away during some contentious periods but long since restored to its rightful place.

  Lesley, seated immediately behind Caroline in a pew as hard and narrow as even John Knox could have wished, spent most of the brief service unobtrusively studying the de Wet altarpiece and the walls hung with paintings of saints which had somehow escaped the Reformist iconoclasts. She wondered if Sir Lachlan was one of Sir Nicholas Torrance’s beleaguered clique; and listened with only half an ear to the hymns, prayers and tributes while sizing up the problems of securing all this again
st brutish invasion. Today the intrusions would be quite different from those suffered by the McIvers in the distant past.

  Other members of the congregation shifted in their cramped pews to snatch a glimpse of Caroline’s profile and maybe detect in it all the stigma of a ruthless murderess. Some shook their heads in sympathy, having heard glimmerings of the real story.

  At last the coffin was lifted by four members of Lord Crombie’s club, and two of his regiment. The two old soldiers in the middle appeared in imminent danger of strokes themselves, and progress was slowed less by reverence than by lameness.

  Caroline travelled behind the hearse in Sir Lachlan’s Bentley, while he came third in his Jaguar. The Bentley’s driver was a policewoman in plain clothes and a chauffeur’s cap. Lesley Gunn and Ishbel Dacre sat in the back. A few of the women among the mourners had looked askance as Ishbel held Caroline’s arm tightly all the way from the chapel to the gate and the line of cars. Their disapproval had nothing to do with Caroline’s killing of two people who were, by their standards, beyond the pale — or at any rate below the salt. In the old code of the Border reivers, a family insult had to be avenged in blood feud, and nobody thought the worse of the avenger for it. But the women did flinch at the undisguised relationship between Caroline and Ishbel as the two of them headed for the same car. Still, in coming here the mourners had deferred to the dictates of Sir Lachlan, and nothing was said aloud. Not here and now.

  The cortège proceeded down the main drive and out on to the narrow road covering the eight miles between here and Baldonald House. Workmen unblocking a drain jammed by pulped vegetation and mud stopped work to remove their caps as the cars rolled past.

  Lesley’s radio bleeped suddenly, sounding twice as loud as usual in the funereal silence.

  Ishbel glared at her. ‘Couldn’t you have left that cursed thing at home, just for once?’

  Rutherford’s voice crackled into the car. ‘I’ve had another tip-off from our pet snout. The raid’s all set up, just the way Fenwick said it would be. Only now we know where it is.’

  ‘Guv, you do realise that right now I’m —’