Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  What the hell difference did it make, Gemma wanted to shout—lunch, high tea, low tea—with Donald dead and Hazel taken off to the nick?

  Biting her lip, she said as evenly as she could, “Is there anyone else who could give me a lift, or loan me a car for a bit?”

  “Sorry,” said Martin Gilmore, looking up from his empty plate. “I left my old banger in Dundee. John collected me at the station.”

  Gemma looked at Heather, who was pushing untouched eggs round her plate with a fork. “I’ve got to get to the distillery,” Heather responded, a tremor in her voice. “And I’ll need Pascal’s help.”

  “Then I shall ride with you,” said Pascal, “and Gemma can drive my car.” Like Martin’s, Pascal’s appetite seemed undiminished by the tragedy, nor had he lost his manners. He stood, fishing a key from his trouser pocket. “It’s the black one, a bit of a beast.”

  Gemma had noticed the car, a new model BMW, polished to perfection. Under other circumstances she would have hesitated to drive such a car, but she accepted the keys with alacrity. “I’ll be careful,” she promised, and wished that scraping Pascal’s paint were the worst of her worries.

  Retracing the drive she’d made less than two days before with Hazel, it looked to Gemma as if she’d entered a different world. The mountains that had floated hazily in the distance now seemed to brood, their peaks wreathed in cloud, and the river that had sparkled silver in the sunlight now flowed sullenly against its banks.

  And if she had thought Aviemore less than charming on a golden evening, the drizzling rain rendered it less salubrious still. There were a few fine Victorian houses along the main street, but they were overshadowed by the souvenir and coffee shops, and the mock chalets hawking ski wear.

  Gemma found the police station without difficulty, a new building of honey-colored stone next to the car park. The sergeant on duty was a good-looking man with silvery blond hair, a lilting Highland accent, and a helpful manner, but Gemma soon discovered that the public-friendly policing went only so far. Not even the production of her identification convinced him to let her talk to Hazel, and after an hour’s wait in the anteroom, she went out into the street again, seething with frustration.

  Ducking into a restaurant across the street from the station, she took a table by the window. When she’d ordered coffee and a sandwich to mollify her suddenly protesting stomach, she took out her mobile and rang Kincaid. To her relief it was he who answered, rather than Kit or Toby. She didn’t think she could bear to talk to the children at the moment.

  She poured out what had happened since she’d spoken to him earlier that morning, her voice rising until she caught a few other patrons staring at her. Shifting her body towards the window, she forced herself to whisper. “He must have something else, some sort of evidence, but he won’t tell me what it is, and he won’t let me see Hazel—”

  “Gemma, calm down,” Kincaid said soothingly in her ear. “I’ll admit your chief inspector hasn’t been very accommodating, but you really couldn’t expect him to share forensic information with you. Whatever he’s got, I’m sure there’s an explanation. It will just take—”

  “But Ross could bully Hazel into something. I’m telling you, you haven’t met him. She needs some sort of representation. Is Tim coming?” Of course, Tim would have to be told about Hazel and Donald, but she only hoped he would support her, considering the seriousness of her situation.

  There was a moment’s silence at Kincaid’s end, then he said quietly, “I didn’t speak to Tim. He’d gone away for the weekend, and there was no way to contact him.”

  “Gone away?” Gemma repeated, wondering if she’d misheard. “What do you mean, gone away? What about Holly?”

  “His parents came to stay at the house. I spoke to his mother. Apparently, Tim had a last-minute invitation to go walking with some friends. He won’t be home until this evening.”

  Gemma watched the rain falling in the street, glistening on the hoods and umbrellas of the few resolute shoppers hurrying by. “I don’t believe it,” she said at last, flatly. “Tim’s so conscientious; he always makes sure he can be reached in case of an emergency.” Her imagination raced. What if Tim had somehow learned about Donald, decided to do something stupid—no, she couldn’t voice that fear, even to herself. “You’ve got to find him, Duncan. Talk to him—”

  “I’ll go back tonight. If he hasn’t turned up by then, I’ll put Cullen to work on it. In the meantime, Gemma, you’re not doing Hazel any good by staying in Aviemore. Go back to the B&B, talk to the others, see what you can learn. And Hazel has family there—a cousin, didn’t you say? Maybe there’s a family solicitor who would act on Hazel’s behalf.”

  “Yes, but—” Gemma stopped, unable to come up with an argument. She knew Kincaid was right, but she felt suddenly deflated and near to tears. Her determination to storm Ross on his own patch had kept her going, in spite of her fear and her shock, and she was afraid to let it go. “All right,” she said quietly, making an effort to keep her voice steady. “Ring me tonight, then.”

  “I will. Don’t worry, love,” he added, with an easy affection that came near to undoing her. “And, Gemma, I’m catching the early train tomorrow. I should be in Aviemore by midafternoon.”

  “Up ye go, then,” said Alison patiently as she climbed the stairs in Chrissy’s wake. She knew better than to offer to help her daughter in her slow progress, or to pass her by, even though her hands were smarting from the weight of the supermarket carrier bags.

  It was their usual Sunday routine. A trip to the supermarket for the week’s shopping, and before that, a visit to her mum in Carrbridge, complete with a tea of bread-and-butter sandwiches and store-bought cakes. Chrissy loved her grandmother and never seemed to tire of the fare, but today her usual sunny chatter had been subdued.

  Alison knew it was last night’s row with Donald that had upset her, and she was furious with herself for having taken Chrissy to the bed-and-breakfast. She hadn’t meant it to turn into a shouting match; hadn’t meant even to ring the bell. She’d only wanted to see the place, to see if Donald was there, to see if what Callum had told her was true.

  But then she had caught a glimpse of Donald in the lamplit sitting room, pouring his precious whisky for the pretty, dark-haired woman, gazing into her eyes like a lovesick sheep.

  She remembered Chrissy tugging at her hand as she strode towards the door, but she was past reason then, burning to tell the bastard what she thought of him. All her dreams had gone up in smoke in that moment, and it was knowing herself for a fool that made it harder to bear.

  Now it was all clear, all the little slights and excuses. He had been ashamed of her, and she had been too stupid to see it. He’d never meant to move her into the house at Benvulin, never intended anything more than for her to warm his bed and pass the time until something better came along.

  And then last night she had burned her bridges by telling him off. She’d no hope of salvaging anything now, not even a parting guilt-induced gift.

  Chrissy reached the top of the stairs and unlocked the door with her own key. The flat was cold and smelled faintly of the cabbage that seemed to constitute the daily diet of their downstairs neighbor. From now on, thought Alison, this would be their life; tea with her mum, shopping at the supermarket with an anxious eye on every penny, a week’s work under the cold, fishy eye of Mrs. Witherspoon—and then it would start all over again.

  Then, as Alison watched Chrissy putting away the cornflakes in the cupboard and carefully placing apples in a bowl, her little face intent, she felt ashamed. She had Chrissy, that was what mattered, and somehow they would get on.

  “We could watch a video tonight,” she suggested brightly. “Something special. And hot cocoa. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, baby?”

  Chrissy turned and looked at her, her gaze unexpectedly solemn. “It’s all right, Mummy. You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to make up for Donald.”

  “But…I thought…I though
t you’d be disappointed. The pony…”

  Chrissy shrugged her thin shoulders and slid a carton of milk into the fridge. “I never really believed it. It was like a story in a book. It’s okay, really it is.”

  “But, baby…” Alison brushed at the sudden tears threatening to smear her mascara.

  “Can we watch Spirit: Stallion of the Cimmarron?” Chrissy asked, closing the subject.

  “Again?” asked Alison, choking back a half laugh, half sob. When Chrissy glared at her she added, “Okay, okay. I know I promis—”

  The knock on the door made her jump. “What the hell…,” she muttered, crossing the room and yanking the door wide.

  Callum MacGillivray stood on the mat, looking exceptionally clean and brushed in MacGillivray tartan, his expression pinched and anxious.

  Alison felt the blood rise in her face. “What do ye think you’re doing here?” she said furiously. “Go to hell, Callum. I don’t want to see you.”

  “Alison—”

  “Could ye not have left me to make a fool of myself in my own time?” She started to slam the door, but Callum thrust out a strong arm. “Alison, I’ve got to talk to ye—”

  “You’ve done enough damage. I’ve nothing to say.”

  “Alison, I’ve something to tell ye. It’s bad news.”

  The fear swept over her then, clenching her gut. Her knees seemed to dissolve and she found herself clutching the doorframe, unable to speak.

  “Chrissy, I think maybe ye should go to your room,” Callum said gently, but Chrissy shook her head and stepped closer to her mother.

  “No,” she whispered. “It’s not Max, is it, Callum? Or Grandma?”

  Some small detached part of Alison’s mind almost laughed at her daughter’s priorities. Would she, she wondered, have the dubious honor of coming before the horse?

  “No,” she said, in a calm voice that seemed to come from somewhere outside herself. She forced herself to focus on Callum. “It’s Donald. He’s dead, isn’t he? And you bloody killed him.”

  12

  The sharp constraint of fingertips

  Or the shuddering touch of lips,

  And all old memories of delight

  Crowd upon my soul tonight.

  —ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,

  “I Saw Red Evening Through the Rain”

  Carnmore, April 1899

  WILL STOOD IN the door of the warehouse, gazing at the ranks of casks. He had discovered in the past few months that this was the one thing that gave him a sense of satisfaction, of completion. Some of these casks now were his, his legacy, as the ones before had been his father’s.

  He breathed in the scent of oak, of hard-packed earth, and even on this cold April day the ever-present vapor of maturing whisky. This was his life, his world, embodied in barrels and hogsheads, stamped with the Carnmore seal. He had put away his books, and along with them his dreams of university in Edinburgh, of studying medicine. The promise he had made his father bound him more tightly than any physical constraint, and he had determined that he would commit himself well.

  Will poured over his father’s ledgers and account books, he questioned the men, absorbing details of the distilling process he had never thought to notice. They were patient with him, these men who had been his friends since childhood, and he noticed that as time passed they listened more and more readily when he offered an opinion. He could only hope that he would live up to their expectations.

  Closing and locking the warehouse doors, he started out across the yard towards the office. He had paperwork to do, there were orders to be filled, but just for a moment he stopped at the edge of the yard and looked out across the Braes.

  They were strip-burning the heather up on the moors—late this year because of the persistent rains in March. The smoke rose in curls, and he caught the smell of it, sharp and acrid on the dry air.

  Since he had put aside his books, he had begun to feel the land like a living thing, a presence that never left him. The life and rhythm of it pulsed in his blood, in his skin, the tips of his fingers, the soles of his feet. When the first buds appeared on the trees, he’d felt the hard nodules on the ends of his fingers, masked by velvety skin. He felt the water moving through the earth, the green shoots pushing upwards, the delight of the lambs frisking in the fields.

  He told no one, afraid they would think him mad.

  It was the same in the distillery. He felt the whisky at every step, from the malting of the barley to the final distillate—and he knew when it was right. He began to wonder if his father had found grace with God after all, and so been allowed to bestow a last gift upon his son. What other explanation was there for what had happened to him?

  This uncanny awareness did not extend to people, however. Watching his mother as she went about her daily tasks, he was unable to penetrate her reserve. It was not that she seemed desperately unhappy, but that his father’s death had changed her in some basic way that Will couldn’t fathom.

  And then Rab Brodie had come calling from Benvulin. It was almost fifteen miles from the Speyside distillery to Carnmore, and Will wondered if the condolences Mr. Brodie had come to offer merited such a ride. Brodie had walked round the distillery with an assessing eye that made Will uncomfortable, but it was the man’s easy condescension that made Will’s skin prickle.

  He knew from the men’s gossip that Benvulin had not fared well in the Pattison’s disaster, and if Brodie was struggling to keep his own distillery afloat, what possible interest could he have in Carnmore?

  After another futile visit to the police station, where even the friendly sergeant’s patience seemed to be wearing thin, Gemma retreated to the car. She considered going round the town, trying to find a witness who had seen Hazel early that morning, but she had to admit that the likelihood of finding anything on her own was slim.

  She knew she should take Kincaid’s advice and go back to the B&B, but it galled her to do it. She couldn’t banish the thought of Hazel, alone in an interview room, or worse, being badgered by Chief Inspector Ross, after what she had already been through that day.

  Gemma made an effort to put herself in Ross’s position. Wouldn’t she have done the same, with the information Ross had?

  No, she couldn’t summon the detachment, she was too close, and yet the effort brought with it a small worm of doubt. What had Hazel done last night? Had she argued with Donald? And why had she left so precipitously this morning? Where had she been at the moment Donald was shot? Two days ago it would never have occurred to Gemma that Hazel might hide secrets. How well, she wondered, did she really know her friend?

  Unwilling to follow that train of thought any further, Gemma started the car and drove out of Aviemore, heading north towards Innesfree. As she crossed the bridge over the Spey, she realized that her wipers were squeaking. The rain had stopped. Looking up, she saw that a clear ribbon of sky had appeared beneath a dark and forbidding bank of cloud. In the distance, the hills glowed impossibly green, and it suddenly seemed to Gemma that the morning’s violence had been a dream.

  How could such a thing have happened in this place, where beauty took the breath away? She shivered, as if someone had walked over her grave, and turned up the car’s heater.

  As she neared the B&B, she saw that the crowd had dispersed except for a few stragglers and an isolated television van. Slowing for the turn, she remembered that Heather had meant to go to Benvulin. Why not go there and talk to her, ask about the solicitor as Kincaid had suggested?

  Gemma drove on, finding that it seemed logical to go on to Benvulin, but she knew that what drew her most was the chance to return to the place where she had felt closest to Donald Brodie.

  Graced by the late-afternoon sun, Benvulin looked much as it had the day before, except for the two police cars parked in the drive alongside Heather’s Audi. Deciding to try her luck first in the office, Gemma went up the steps and entered the small stone building next to the old mill.

  This was not included in the vi
sitors tour, Gemma quickly surmised. It was a real, working office, crammed with file cabinets, computer desks, and the piles of paperwork that any business generated. There was no one in the first room on the right, but from the size of the desk and the memorabilia on the walls, she assumed the office was Donald’s. A large, carved sideboard held an array of Benvulin whiskies and a tray filled with crystal tumblers. For an instant, Gemma imagined Donald sitting in the leather-backed chair, half turned towards the window so that he could survey the domain he had so loved. She blinked, shook her head to dispel the vision. Donald Brodie was gone.

  She went on, and in the next room along the corridor she found Heather Urquhart. The woman sat hunched over her desk, her face covered by her long, slender fingers. At the sound of Gemma’s footfall, she looked up, startled, and snapped, “What are you doing here?”

  Heather looked so miserable that instead of making a retort, Gemma sat down and said gently, “You must be having a dreadful time of it. What are the police doing here?”

  “Searching the bloody house. For what, I don’t know.” Sarcastically, Heather added, “A note inviting Donald to a secret assignation in the meadow, signed with the murderer’s name?”

  Gemma had to smile. “They should be so lucky.”

  “Well, then, what are they looking for?”

  “Details,” Gemma said slowly. “Details of a life. All the bits and pieces that make up the whole, and they hope that when they put it all together, they’ll see a pattern that will point them in the right direction.”

  “They’ve taken away the computers. You’d think they’d realize we still had a business to run.”

  Gemma hesitated, then said, “I can’t speak for Chief Inspector Ross, but it’s not usually the aim of the police to make life difficult for those trying to deal with a tragic death. They just want to solve the case—and so do you. The consequences of not succeeding are terrible for everyone concerned with the victim. Trust me on this.”