Tasha ignored him and inspected the footprints, which revealed the victim wore modern shoes that were irrefutably a woman’s. Then a tiny dart, half-hidden under a shrub, caught her eye. She carefully picked it up, sniffed it, smelled something, which alerted her suspicions, and wrapped it in her scarf.
Just then a young man’s voice shouted McGloury’s name from the road. Tasha looked up to see Tom waving excitedly as he pedaled his bicycle off the road toward them.
Before he could speak, McGloury stalked angrily toward him. “Oh, at last! I know one tardy ghillie that’s about to find himself seeking employment at another croft!”
“Aye, it’s late I am, but there’s a big to-do in the village.” He started to explain as Tasha listened with interest.
Chapter Fourteen
Millport Village, The Spotted Dog
The body was laid across the bar and draped with a sheet. Tasha uncovered the face. It was Coira, the blonde from the Hermes. She was almost a caricature now, with her face twisted into a hideous grin, her eyes unnaturally wide open. Mother did not recognise her. In all fairness, she was rather pre-occupied the one time she saw this woman, and the blonde was simply another face in a large crowd. Mother liked to give the impression that absolutely nothing escaped her notice, for she did see far more than most, but she wasn’t infallible. “Who was she, Inspector?”
She was speaking to Inspector Ian Taggert. He was in his mid-thirties, ruggedly handsome, dressed for the outdoors (with American-style cowboy boots), standing behind her and referring to his official notebook. Also present was bulky Constable Blake, the local officer.
They were in the Spotted Dog, Millport Village’s sole pub, a long, simple establishment. Unadorned wooden tables and chairs took up most of the room. A short bar was at one end and a stone fireplace was across from it. The place was empty (not surprising as it was prohibited hours), except for the potman, who was closing the shutters, ending the show for the crowd at the window.
Ian answered her. His accent was not western Scotland, but Western America. “No one ’round here knows her. A fisherman found her in the firth. The local sawbones said death by drowning.” He flipped shut the notebook.
Tasha liked Americans. She was a great admirer of America despite the occasional flippant remark she might make. Mark Twain was among her favourite authors. “An American. How charming,” she said, noting his hands. “And one that rides horses and tosses a lariat. A cowboy! Aren’t you a little far from your watering hole, Inspector …” Her voice trailed off, giving him an opening.
“Taggert. Ian Taggert. An’ I reckon you can call me Ian, ma’am. There’s no getting ’round that I was reared in Montana, but I was born here on this island. My folks emigrated to the States when I was a young ’un.”
“And you couldn’t resist the tug of the old sod. Delightful. Now, when you get this young woman’s autopsy report …”
“I don’t reckon there’s a need for an autopsy, ma’am.” He was being polite.
“What compelling curiosity.” Mother was not being polite. She sensed resistance and was determined to cut through it rapidly. She flashed her most endearing smile and moved some hair away from the girl’s neck revealing a tiny, discoloured, puncture wound. Tasha noted, with satisfaction, Ian’s amazement. “I ‘reckon’ you realise that those facial contortions did not result from drowning and that the state of rigor mortis is too advanced for the cold water of the firth. Eh, ‘partner’?” She jabbed the girl with her finger—the skin was like wood.
Ian strained to keep himself under control. “Don’t let the drawl flim-flam you. I know my job.”
“How reassuring,” said Mother engagingly, “I needn’t add, in that case, that she has been poisoned by some powerful vegetable alkaloid administered by…. well, why go on? You tell me.”
He stared at her, near eruption. Mother, ignoring his mood, held up the dart to his face. “By this!” she said in quiet triumph.
Ian took a deep breath. “I’ll just take that, ma’am.”
She withdrew her hand. She’d made her point, now was the time to make peace. “Look, ‘sheriff’ …” She couldn’t resist that one. “Why don’t we arrange a little ‘horse-trade’? Your full co-operation for mine.” Mother was hoping he’d accept her offer; it would make things easier. Also, while Mother’s intellect told her heart not to be influenced by rugged good looks, her heart often told her intellect to “stuff it.”
He glared at her silently. He not only didn’t like her, but didn’t even want to like her.
“No, then.” She started to leave. “Then get your posse together and happy trails to you!” Mother had read enough American dime-novel Westerns to know the lingo.
Ian, just as Tasha was certain he would, barked, “Hold on!” His tone softened, “All right … I know who you are and what folks say you can do, but I’m trail-boss here, ma’am. Know that!”
Tasha nodded and handed him the dart. “Boss … please have this analysed and see if you can identify the girl. I’ll pursue my own little errands and meet you here this afternoon.” Ian was about to explode, but Mother warmly shook his hand. “I’m sure we’ll get on famously, Ian.”
He scowled at her. She patted the face of the grotesquely grinning corpse. “Keep smiling,” she said cheerfully and then, collecting her unopened parasol from a nearby table, strode out of the bar.
Ian gritted his teeth then frowned at the dart. He handed it to Blake. “Well … take it! See if the local doctor can find out what it is.”
“Just like the lady said, sir?”
Ian growled and nodded.
Chapter Fifteen
Millport Island Woods
Mother trod a snaking path through the lush woods when she came to a fork in the road. She pressed a button on her parasol. The end of the handle flipped open revealing a compass inside. She picked the path on the right, strode on, and soon emerged into a clearing. Facing her on the other side of the small field was another ancient shrine, in the twisted form of a great, gnarled oak tree. Just visible through the overgrown moss and vines was an agonized face carved into its trunk, much like the ruins at McGloury’s croft.
Mother stepped closer to investigate, treading though a path of leaves and shrubs. Suddenly a voice cried out, “Stop there, lassie!”
She peered into the forest, following the voice, and in the shadows saw someone hurrying toward her. She took a step in his direction when he shouted in haste, “Dinnae you move!” A ratty-looking grub of a man, wearing a seedy Tam-o’-shanter and carrying a heavy shotgun, walked into the light. He knelt down, keeping his eyes on Mother. He picked up a thick fallen branch and tossed it to her feet. The ground exploded as the jaws of a trap, meant for small game, shut, clutching the branch in an iron grip.
He grinned at her. “Now that would have been one well-turned ankle.”
Mother gave him one of her penetrating and examining gazes as he set down his shotgun and reset his trap. She noticed his ragged attire, calloused and scarred hands, pale skin, ruddy nose, furtive movements, and his continually darting eyes. They told her quite a story.
She shook her head. “Poaching so soon after your release from prison is an exceedingly risky line of business.”
Alarmed, he reached for his gun, but Tasha was faster and snatched it from his grasp, adding, “You’d find you had a firmer grip if you consumed less alcohol.”
He narrowed his eyes at her cagily. “How long have you been spying on me.”
“I’ve never laid eyes on you, Mister …?
“MacMurdo. What do you want?”
“Why not let me ask the questions? This is Laird MacGregor’s property?”
MacMurdo gnashed his teeth then grudgingly nodded. “Aye. And it’s prison again if he finds me on it.”
“An occupational hazard of poaching. What is that tree?”
MacMurdo shrugged. “That?” He gave dismissive laugh. “Just an old cult shrine. We’ve got ’em thicker than my mother’s porri
dge.” Then he returned to more pressing matters. “Please let me go. I wouldna’ survive another stretch from the Assizes.”
“I’ll forget I ever saw you for two favors.”
He scowled at her suspiciously. “Go on.”
“First, keep your eyes open and report to me anything unusual you see at night. I’m sure a poacher can do good work after dark.”
“You said two favors.”
She handed him back the shotgun. “Show me the way to Laird MacGregor’s. I’m lost.”
MacMurdo levelled the gun at her. “Aye, good and lost. Step into the trap.”
“Manners,” she warned him sternly.
“Please step into the trap,” he repeated with a grin.
Mother nodded graciously, stepped toward the trap, stopped and asked, “Which foot?”
He didn’t see the humour and brandished the weapon. Tasha moved one foot closer to the trap and then, with a fluid movement, kicked in a section of the branch MacMurdo had used earlier, springing the trap again. Before MacMurdo could recover his surprise, she reached over and once more pulled the shotgun from his hands.
“Did you know that thirty-four percent of released convicts never profit from their past mistakes?” She lunged toward him. The startled man jumped backward and tripped over a branch to fall backward to the earth. Mother offered her hand to help him up.
“Do we have an agreement, Mr. MacMurdo?”
He grasped her hand and she pulled him to his feet, but didn’t loosen her grip. “Shall we shake to seal the bargain?” Mother’s circus background had given her a grip of iron, and the little man was instantly on his knees in pain.
“It’s a bargain!” he cried.
Mother increased the pressure. MacMurdo felt the bones in his hand starting to bend as she asked sweetly, “Word of honour?”
“Aye. Anything you like!” he yelled in torment.
She let go, and he clutched his hand, gasping. Tasha cocked her head down the path. “Now don’t take advantage of me just because I’m a woman.”
“This way,” he said as he guided her, touching his hand tenderly with his fingers and wincing.
As they followed the serpentine path, MacMurdo, wary, kept a constant vigil all around, uncomfortable forging deeper into the Laird’s domain. Tasha asked MacMurdo how well he knew the Laird. The poacher gave a disparaging laugh. “Know him! You cannae know a stranger.”
“Then he’s not an islander?” asked Mother.
“He was born here, that’s true enough, but the man’s practically a Sassenach. He didnae stay long, public school, life of a toff, couldnae care less about the crofters …”
“He was very concerned about Mr. McGloury stealing his sheep,” observed Tasha.
MacMurdo snorted. “Pride! Just pride! As if he knew a dam from a mutton, or even cared, sitting high on his horse, proud as you please! It wasnae the sheep. It’s what’s his is his! His sort’s all the same.” MacMurdo gestured to the lush forest all around them, the greenest and most fecund part of the island. “You think this grand estate would miss the wee game caught in my traps? It’s pride and greed!”
“The Laird returned to claim the estate when his father died?”
“And left again … and then again … he’s a wanderer, that one. Mark me, I’ll wager he couldnae put a name to more than ten faces on whole of this island.”
They emerged around a curve in the path to a dirt road. MacMurdo pointed. “Just a wee bit that way. You’ll pardon if I dinnae come along.”
“Of course. Now remember to keep your part of the bargain.”
She handed him back his shotgun. He instinctively grasped it with his hurt hand, grimaced at the weight, and hastily shifted hands, groaning. Tasha reached for his injured hand. MacMurdo promptly moved it away, but she was too fast and took his wrist, soothingly rubbed his hand. She gave his wrist a little squeeze. He grimaced and nodded as Mother blithely walked down the lane without looking back.
As Mother rounded the curve, she cleared the thick trees and spotted the manor. She marched to the front door of a huge, ancient, vine-covered pile that emerged from the surrounding forest, lifted the heavy iron knocker and let it fall against the massive door. She could hear the echoes from inside.
A husky butler opened the door. She handed him her card and he invited her in, leading her past a huge hearth with a blazing fire to a door in a dark hallway. “Wait here, please. I’ll announce you.”
She entered as the butler left, closing the door. Tasha examined the large room. The objects about her revealed that Laird MacGregor was manifestly a well-travelled man, for there were mementoes from all over the world on display.
One particular item drew Mother’s interest. Mounted on the wall, above two matching sets of Japanese armour, were two South American Indian shields, and between them a blowgun.
Mother reached for the primitive weapon, but just as her fingers touched it, the door behind her opened. An attractive, but very stern woman in her forties walked in. She held Tasha’s card in her hand and glared at Mother with almost manic intensity.
With no preamble or introduction, the woman said in a harsh voice: “Angus tells me you want to see my husband. What about?”
“I can discuss it only with your husband.”
“You must be one of his London friends. What brass coming here.”
“You are mistaken. I am here on business.”
She flung the card at Mother. “You lying strumpet! Get out of here! You must think I’ve lost my wits, everyone on this fool island does. Do you suppose I’ve no eyes?” She suddenly yelled for the butler.
The hallway door began to open. Without taking her eyes off Mother, the woman announced, “This guttersnipe is leaving!”
The door fully opened and Laird MacGregor glowered into the study. “You’re mistaken, Nessie. This lady’s a friend of McGloury’s.”
Nessie didn’t believe a word and sneered at Tasha. The Laird entered and said gently, “She’s here on business.” He put his hands on her shoulders and she wrenched away.
“Don’t take me for a simpleton! You always liked them full,” she said bitterly.
MacGregor glanced at the door and gave Angus, now present, an almost imperceptible nod. Tasha saw it, of course.
Angus cleared his throat. “Pardon, but your mother is asking for you.”
Nessie glared at Tasha, then her focus wavered between Mother and the door, torn between leaving and remaining. MacGregor moved to her and said with tenderness, “You’d better see what she wants.”
With a final glare at Tasha, Nessie silently glided out the room. Angus followed her out, closing the door quietly.
MacGregor turned his attention to Tasha. He stated, in a mixture of suspicion and embarrassment, “My wife is … eccentric.”
Tasha raised her eyebrows but took the chair he offered. MacGregor pointed to a decanter of port. She nodded and he poured drinks for them both.
He handed Mother her glass. “You will excuse me if I am blunt, Eliza …”
“You may call me Tasha, Captain Crocker.”
“So that’s your game. Blackmail to keep my London life hidden.”
“Do you believe that?”
He contemplated her over his glass in confusion. And then another reason suggested itself. His eyes twinkled; he put down his drink and placed his arms around Tasha. She gently pushed him away.
“We are not those people now,” she said. “You are Laird of Millport Island.”
“And you?”
“A private consulting detective.”
He retrieved his drink and gave her a hard look. “What does McGloury want you to do?”
“You two seem to have differences.”
“The man’s a thief.”
“And you desire his land?”
The Laird downed his drink to and refilled the glass. “I’ll not deny that. I’ve been trying to purchase it for years. The older brother, Rupert, even agreed to sell it to me.”
“I understand that the croft had been deserted for some time.”
“Aye. Rupert lived in Glasgow.”
“But you don’t own it. What happened?”
The Laird scowled into his drink. “We had agreed on terms. My solicitors had sent Rupert the bill of sale to examine. Then the old man suddenly turned up here early, very early, one morning. It was storming and the passage must have been a rough one, but he came just the same. I’d never seen a man so terrified. He’d the fear of the devil in him. He ripped up the papers and refused to discuss it. But I was persistent. With that croft my land would reach the sea. I offered five times what it was worth. He finally consented. I was to go to Glasgow that Wednesday to settle the matter with his solicitor.”
MacGregor poured another drink and began pacing the room. “I was told that the police found him, sitting dead in his study, a monstrous, sardonic grin on his face and his body stiff as stone. At his feet was the severed head of a goat …” The excited gleam in Tasha’s eyes made him stop.
She pressed her fingers together and leaned back. “So the croft passed to Rupert’s younger brother. He now lives there and won’t sell.”
“The man’s impossible. He doesn’t know the first thing about sheep, except how to steal mine.”
“I have heard that your neighbours hold a rather low opinion of your skills in that avocation.”
The Laird bristled. “Perhaps I’m late in assuming my responsibilities, but I am assuming them now.”
“Why now? I’ve heard you have very little attachment to Millport Island.”
“It’s my home … and there comes a time in a man’s life when that means more than perhaps it once did. So here I am. But we were discussing McGloury stealing my sheep.”
Tasha shook her head. “You are not the only one around here losing sheep. So is McGloury, and that’s only the beginning of his troubles.”
Lady Sherlock Page 7