Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  “You told Tim’s mother—”

  “As little as I could. That it was a stressful situation, and I thought Holly might be better with her grandparents. Will you tell Hazel? And I’ll ring you from the train in the morning.”

  “Wait.” The rush of her anger had drained away, leaving her feeling shaken and hollow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s—it’s been a beastly day.”

  “I know.” His voice was gentle. “Get some rest, love.”

  “Tell the boys I miss them.”

  There was the slightest pause before he answered. “Right…They miss you, too.”

  When he’d rung off, she sat for a moment, wondering if she had imagined his hesitation. Another sliver of worry lodged itself in her heart. Was there something wrong at home that he had failed to tell her?

  On reaching the B&B, Gemma drove past the front of the house and parked near the barn. She’d seen the pale blur of faces through the uncurtained sitting room window, but she was determined to freshen up a bit before she returned Pascal’s keys. And she wanted to check on her room, see what sort of mess the forensics team had made.

  They had left the lights on, she thought with a flicker of irritation as she stepped inside. Turning, she gasped in surprise. Hazel stood by the bed, her suitcase open, a half-folded nightdress clasped against her chest.

  “Hazel! You’re back. I’ve been so worried—”

  “He had to let me go. Someone saw me in the railway station this morning, just at the time you reported hearing a gunshot.”

  Relief flooded through Gemma. “Thank God.” Then she remembered what she had to tell Hazel, and her heart sank. “Hazel—”

  “I’m going home. There’s a late train.” Hazel put the nightdress carefully into her case. “Chief Inspector Ross said I could.”

  Gemma pulled out the dressing table chair and sat down. “Hazel, there’s something you have to know,” she said reluctantly, knowing there was no way to cushion the news. “Duncan went to see Tim this evening. Tim knows about you and Donald.”

  “Oh, Christ.” Hazel sank down onto the bed as if her knees had given way. “But how—”

  “He didn’t say. I’m sorry.”

  Hazel gazed into space, her expression desolate. “I had meant to tell him, but in my own way, and in my own time. But now…how am I going to face him?”

  Gemma felt a moment’s qualm at the idea of Hazel going home to her angry and disillusioned husband. But surely she was safer there than here, where Donald had been murdered. “Don’t,” she told Hazel. “Go back to London, but don’t see Tim just yet. Pick Holly up from Tim’s parents and go to our house. Then, when Tim’s calmed down a bit, you can meet him on neutral ground.”

  “That’s good advice.” Hazel’s smile held a bitter irony. “I might have given it myself, once. What about you?”

  Gemma hadn’t reconsidered her own plans. With Hazel cleared by the police and off to London, there was nothing stopping her from going as well. She could ring Duncan tonight and tell him not to come—she could, in fact, pack her things and get on the train with Hazel.

  Except that she found she couldn’t. She had known Donald Brodie, and had liked him, and someone had murdered him, had shot him while she slept a few hundred yards away. She could not—would not—leave it in other hands.

  “I think I’ll stay,” she said slowly. “At least another day or two. If John and Louise can’t keep me here, I’ll find a room somewhere else. I want to see things…wrapped up.”

  Standing, Hazel went to the bedside table and picked up a bottle of Scotch Gemma hadn’t noticed. It was, she saw, the last-issue Carnmore that Donald had given Hazel the previous night. Hazel cradled it, as if it were a living thing, stroking the label with a fingertip. “You intend to find Donald’s killer yourself,” she said quietly, not meeting Gemma’s gaze. “Do you think I would do less for him?”

  “No, of course not, but—”

  “As long as I know Holly’s all right, I’m staying, too.” She looked up, and Gemma saw an unexpected resolution in her eyes. “I’ll see Donald buried—I owe him that.”

  13

  The friends are all departed,

  The hearthstone’s black and cold,

  And sturdy grows the nettle

  On the place beloved of old.

  —NEIL MUNRO, “Nettles”

  Grantown-on-Spey, May 1899

  EVERY YEAR, SINCE Livvy had left her father’s house to marry Charles Urquhart, she had come back to Grantown in May and September for an extended visit. Usually, both Charles and Will had accompanied her, but as Will had grown older, he and his father had several times made their own expeditions.

  These annual fortnights had been a necessary and much-anticipated element of Livvy’s life. There was shopping for staples and household goods not readily available in the Braes or Tomintoul, the refurbishing of their wardrobes, the time spent cloistered with her father in his study, the visits with her two aunts and her father’s neighbors, the catching up on the latest in fashion and gossip. Always Livvy had made the transition from coun-try to town easily enough, but this time, on their arrival in Grantown in mid-May, she found herself restless and out of sorts, unable to settle to any of her ordinary pursuits.

  First, there were the condolences to be got through, trial enough, so many months after Charles’s death, even if kindly meant. But as the days regained their ordinary pattern, she felt more alien, rather than less. She began to realize that although she and Charles had not spent much time together on these visits, she had been unconsciously aware of the solidity of his presence, and it was this that had kept the two parts of her life linked together. Now she was adrift.

  She had moved back into the room she’d occupied as a girl, hoping to find some connection with the person she had once been, sufficient unto herself, but that long-ago girl eluded her. The days were lengthening, and she found it difficult to sleep, as she always did at this time of year. But now, she felt feverish as well, stretched, her senses raw with exhaustion.

  Her father insisted that she and Will should accompany him to an upcoming dance at the Grant Arms Hotel, so she filled her time with sewing, making over a gown of her aunt’s. It was a dusky purple, a suitable color for a widow. Livvy reduced the puff of the sleeves and added a bit of lace to make it more stylish; this would, after all, be her first formal outing without Charles.

  Her father took Will to the local tailor’s shop to be fitted for evening clothes, his first, and in the evenings Livvy helped him practice his dancing. Will was now, after all, the man of the house. If it was time for Livvy to face the world on her own, it was time for Will to give up boyish pursuits and take his place in Highland society.

  None of these preparations, however, eased Livvy’s discomfort as the night of the dance arrived. It had been seventeen years since she’d appeared in public without the armor of a husband at her side, and she felt as awkward as a girl. She stood just inside the door of the ballroom, watching the dancers glide by in a shifting blur of pattern and color. The air was filled with the scent of perfume, of warm bodies and hot candle wax, a tincture as dizzying as laudanum.

  Will swung by her, looking quite the beau with old Mrs. Cumming on his arm. When had he grown so tall? He had become a man in this last year, in more than looks, and Livvy felt a rush of pride. The girls would be noticing him soon, if they hadn’t already. In fact, Livvy saw one of the Macintosh daughters cast a simpering eye his way, but Will fortunately seemed oblivious. He caught her eye over Mrs. Cumming’s shoulder and smiled, his usually serious face alight with his pleasure.

  Then Livvy felt ashamed of herself for indulging her own vanity. She was thirty-five years old, and widowed; she should be past worrying about such things. It was Will that mattered now, with his life spread before him.

  But then Rab Brodie spun by her, with his angular sister, Helen, and her pulse quickened in spite of herself. When Rab returned after the next interval and offered her
his arm, she hesitated only a moment. There was no impropriety, after all, in dancing, and if a little voice whispered in her ear that by such small steps the mighty are fallen, she pretended not to hear.

  Gemma woke to the sound of whimpering. Her first thought was of the children, then, as consciousness came flooding back, she remembered where she was. She sat up, blinking.

  It was past daybreak; a pale light filtered in through the drawn curtains. In the next bed, Hazel tossed restlessly, moaning now. Then the moan rose to a scream, and Hazel sat bolt upright, panting, her eyes open but unfocused.

  “Hazel!” Gemma leaped from the bed and crossed the gap between them, grasping Hazel’s shoulder.

  “No. No!” Hazel cried out, flinching, and it was only when Gemma shook her firmly that she seemed to realize where she was. She looked up at Gemma, her face streaked with tears.

  “It was just a dream,” soothed Gemma, patting Hazel as she would one of the boys. “Try not to think about Donald—”

  “No, it wasn’t Donald,” Hazel said, shaking her head. “Oh, Gemma, it was the strangest thing. I was in our old house, at Carnmore, except that it wasn’t exactly our house. Some things were the same, but others weren’t.” She frowned. “The kitchen was red, I remember that, and there was a rocking chair by the stove.” Rubbing at her bare upper arms, she began to shiver. “I know that doesn’t sound frightening, but I was terrified. It was as if I was seeing things through someone else’s eyes, and I couldn’t get back to myself. And then—” She stopped, swallowing hard. “Then I was in the distillery, and there was a fire—maybe it was the kilns. I’m not sure, but I was frightened—not as myself this time, but as her—”

  “Her?”

  “Yes.” Hazel nodded, looking surprised. “I’m sure of it, I don’t know how. She was afraid, and then there was shouting, and blood, and the smell of whisky…the smell of whisky everywhere.” She shuddered. “God, I feel sick.”

  “What you need is a cup of tea,” Gemma said briskly, padding over to the kettle. She sloshed it, decided there was enough water for two cups, and switched it on. “It’s only natural you should have nightmares, after what’s happened.”

  “Yes, but it…it was so real. Not like a dream at all, yet at the same time I knew I was dreaming. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it.”

  Gemma put two tea bags into the comfortably mismatched flower-patterned cups Louise had provided. “Was there ever a fire in the distillery?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  As Gemma made the tea, she thought of the photo she’d seen in Heather Urquhart’s office, and of the little that Heather had told her about the distillery. “I have an idea,” she said, handing Hazel her cup. “Will you take me to see Carnmore?”

  “What?” Hazel stared at her. “Now?”

  Gemma glanced at the clock on the bedside table, then opened the curtain until she could see out into the garden. It was not yet seven, and the sun was shining. “Yes. Why not? We’ll skip breakfast. We could pick up something on the way.”

  “But—What about—” Awareness of what the day would hold flooded back into Hazel’s face. “Shouldn’t we be doing something—”

  “There’s nothing we can do this morning but wait.” Gemma had stayed awake, worrying into the wee hours of the morning. As she considered each angle of the case, she ran smack into her own helplessness. She couldn’t call on the firm’s solicitor to learn the disposition of Donald’s will; she couldn’t attend the postmortem; she couldn’t query the forensics results, or the findings of the house-to-house inquiries. Any little morsel of official information would have to come by the grace of Chief Inspector Ross, and Gemma suspected she would do well to get a crumb.

  There was a bright spot—Heather had promised to ring her when she’d heard from the lawyer, and that information might give her something to go on with. And she would chat up the other guests, but she sensed that would be better done when she could get them on their own, and once the police had finished with the property. The presence of the team completing the search of the area would not exactly invite confidences.

  As for suggesting that Chief Inspector Ross inquire into Tim’s movements, she had decided to wait at least until Kincaid arrived after lunch, in hopes that Ross would be thorough enough to request London’s help without her having to interfere.

  She had rung Kincaid before going to bed, letting him know that Hazel had been released but that she and Hazel both intended to stay on a little longer.

  “You don’t have to come,” she’d added, but without much conviction.

  After a moment’s thought, he’d said, “You’re determined to have a hand in this case, aren’t you, whether the local force likes it or not.”

  “Something like that,” she’d admitted. “There’s another thing—Hazel wants to stay for Donald’s funeral, and I won’t leave her here on her own.”

  “I don’t suppose it will make any difference if I remind you that it’s inadvisable, and that if the Northern Constabulary complains to your chief, you’re going to have a hard time talking your way out of this.”

  “Um, no. I’ll call Notting Hill first thing in the morning; tell them I’ve been delayed. I can afford to take a few personal days.”

  Kincaid had given a barely audible sigh. “Right, then. If you’re staying, I’m coming up. We might as well put our heads on the block together. And, Gemma,” he’d added before ringing off, “do be careful.”

  Turning now, she saw Hazel gazing into space, her teacup tilting absently, her face already pinched with strain. “Sitting round brooding is the last thing you need to be doing,” Gemma said decisively. “Can we get to Carnmore and back before lunch?”

  “Oh, yes, I should think so.” Hazel’s expression seemed to brighten a bit at the prospect.

  Gemma was already pulling on her clothes. “Good. While you get ready I’ll leave word where we’ll be.”

  As John, having assured Gemma that she and Hazel could stay a few more days, insisted on giving them toast and more tea, it was close to an hour before they got away. The morning was still fine, however, and when Gemma cracked open the car windows, the air had a rain-washed, flinty sharpness and smelled faintly of peat smoke.

  Following Hazel’s instructions, she drove through Nethy Bridge, as she had the previous day, but this time she turned right before she reached Grantown, taking the way that led up into the hills, away from the gentle valley of the Spey. “It wouldn’t be so far if you could travel as the crow flies,” Hazel said. “But then, it’s seldom possible to do things directly in Scotland.”

  The road snaked as it rose, and within a few miles the landscape had changed entirely. To Gemma, the moors seemed wild and desolate, alien as the moon—and yet she found them unexpectedly, searingly beautiful. The scene touched something in her that was both new and ancient, awakening a longing she hadn’t known she possessed. For the first time, she wondered how Hazel could have borne leaving.

  Beside her, Hazel sat silently, picking at the hem of her pullover. They hadn’t discussed Donald or Tim since the night before, but Gemma knew there were things she must ask.

  “Hazel, do you mind telling me what happened between you and Donald on Saturday night, after you left the dining room? Did he tell you about the woman who came to see him?”

  “Alison. He said her name was Alison. We had a row over her. I told him I couldn’t believe he’d asked me to come here, to risk my marriage, when all the while he was keeping someone on a string.” She shook her head. “What a hypocrite I am, as if I hadn’t been holding on to Tim as a sort of insurance.”

  “But you—the place in the woods—I thought that you and Donald—”

  Hazel flushed. “So you saw that, too. The police found a thread from my sweater—that’s why Ross took me in. Oh, Donald talked me round. He was always good at that.” She gave Gemma a look of appeal. “That was the first time, you know, since all those years ago.”

  “But if you—t
hen why did you leave yesterday morning—”

  “I couldn’t face seeing Donald again. I’d made up my mind that it couldn’t go on, that I had to go back to London and sort things out with Tim. But Donald could be so persuasive…I was afraid he would talk me out of it. So I ran away. I should have known it was too early for the train.”

  When she’d negotiated a particularly hair-raising pass, Gemma said, “Hazel, about Tim—Did you see him this weekend?”

  “See Tim?” Hazel gave her a startled look. “How could I have seen Tim? He was in London.”

  “The thing is…Tim may not have been in London. He had his parents come and stay with Holly over the weekend. He said he went walking in Hampshire, but when Duncan asked him about it, he was rather…vague. There were some things that made Duncan think he might have come to Scotland.”

  “Tim?” This time Hazel gaped at her. “You think Tim was here?” The implication sank in. “You think Tim killed Donald? You can’t mean that!”

  “No, of course not,” Gemma reassured her. “But I’d feel better if I was sure Tim went off for a weekend on his own in Hampshire. Hazel, how do you suppose he learned about Donald?”

  “I don’t know. There was nothing—I didn’t—” Hazel clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, how could I have been so stupid? There was an old photo. I left it under my office blotter, along with Donald’s card. But even if Tim saw those, why would he have thought anything of it? I mean…” She looked away, as if embarrassed. “I tore up Donald’s notes, and there was nothing else…”