Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  Kincaid slid onto a stool with the graceful economy of movement Gemma always found surprising in a man his height. “Something smells wonderful,” he said, sniffing, and Gemma focused on the cooking aromas that had been tickling the edge of her awareness…onions, floury potatoes, smoky fish.

  “It’s Cullen Skink.” John chuckled at her startled expression. “That’s not as bad as it sounds, believe me. It’s a Scottish fish soup or stew, made with smoked haddock, potatoes, and milk. Martin and I drove to the east coast this morning to get a real Finnan haddock. There are several small smokehouses that still prepare the fish in the traditional way; that’s a slow, cold smoking with no artificial colorings or flavorings added. We bought fresh mussels as well; they’ll go into the pot at the last minute, along with butter, fresh parsley, and pepper.” The electric kettle had come to a boil, and as he spoke, John spooned loose tea into a large crockery teapot.

  “You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble for us,” Kincaid said. “All this must be hard for you.”

  John had his back to them, reaching for the mugs hanging on a rack. He hesitated for a moment, hand in the air. Then he seemed to collect himself and, lifting down a mug, said without turning, “Yes. Donald was a good friend. I still can’t believe he’s gone.” He busied himself with the tea things. “Have ye any idea when they’ll release his…body…for the funeral? Christ—I never even thought—did Donald go to church?”

  “Heather will know,” said Pascal, lowering himself a little stiffly into the chair next to Gemma. “It is Heather who will have to make the arrangements for the funeral, yes?” He shook his head. “It is too much, I think, but there is no one else.”

  How terribly ironic, Gemma thought, that Donald had not seen fit to remember Heather in his will, when it was she who must act on his behalf. Why had Donald left her nothing? Was it mere carelessness on his part, as he had been careless of Alison Grant’s feelings? Or had he felt betrayed by Heather’s relationship with Pascal? Had Heather’s pressuring him to sell the distillery to Pascal’s company angered Donald?

  Perhaps even more to the point, thought Gemma as she accepted a steaming mug from John, was not why Donald had left Heather out, but rather why he had chosen to make such a grand gesture towards Hazel. It was one thing to seduce a former lover—it was quite another to leave her the controlling interest in your family’s business. And why had he done it so long ago? If he had meant to make up for his father’s treatment of Hazel, he had gone a bit over the mark.

  “…soon, I should think,” she realized Kincaid was saying, “if they’ve finished with the postmortem and the forensics testing.”

  Beside her, she heard the sharp intake of Pascal’s breath as he shifted in his chair.

  “Are you all right?” she asked softly, seeing him wince.

  “Yes. It’s just my back. It’s playing up a bit.” The Englishness of the last phrase sounded odd in Pascal’s accent.

  She was about to compliment him on his fluency when the back door banged open and Louise came in through the scullery, her arms filled with green boughs.

  “Oh, I didn’t realize…” Louise came to a halt, and Gemma had the impression she wasn’t terribly pleased to find an unscheduled gathering in her kitchen.

  “Let me get you a cup of tea, darling,” John put in quickly. “This is Gemma’s friend, Duncan, come up from London.”

  “Oh, of course,” said Louise as Kincaid stood and gave her his friendliest grin. She glanced down at her burden as if wondering how to free a hand.

  “Let me help you,” offered Gemma, jumping up.

  “We’ll just dump these in the sink.” Louise smiled her thanks as Gemma took some of the greenery.

  “Mmmm…What are these?” asked Gemma as the scent reached her nose. “They smell lovely.”

  “Rowan, juniper, and elder.” Louise dropped her portion into the deep farmhouse sink. “According to my gardening books, the ancient Celts brought these branches into the house in May, to celebrate Beltane, the Celtic rite of spring. They’re considered protective trees.”

  “As in warding off evil spirits?”

  “Well, yes.” Louise blushed a little. “I know it sounds silly, but they do smell nice, and I thought I could arrange them in vases, instead of flowers.”

  “I think it’s a brilliant idea.” As Gemma watched her sort the boughs, she noticed that Louise’s hands were dirty and bleeding from several small scratches, and she had broken a nail. As careful as Louise was in her appearance, it surprised Gemma that she would go out without gloves.

  “Did you know that the hazel tree was special as well?” asked Louise. “It was the Druids’ Golden Bough. They believed it was the root and symbol of wisdom.”

  “A hard name to live up to, then,” suggested Gemma.

  Louise glanced up at her in surprise. “Yes. I suppose so. But Hazel does have a way of making you think she’s invincible, doesn’t she? Where is she, by the way?” Louise added, glancing round the room.

  “In the barn, talking to Heather.”

  Louise raised an eyebrow at this but merely said quietly, “Has she heard from her husband?”

  Gemma was saved from answering by John Innes setting a cup of tea at his wife’s elbow. As Louise turned to him, asking if he had made all the arrangements for dinner, Gemma heard the faint sound of a piano.

  “Is that coming from the sitting room?” she asked John.

  “Aye. That’ll be Martin. He can bang out a tune or two.”

  This was more than a tune or two, Gemma thought, listening. The notes wandered up and down the scale, segueing into snatches of melody that teased her memory.

  After giving Kincaid a quick glance, she asked John, “Is there enough tea for Martin?”

  He nodded towards the pot. “I was just about to take him a cup.”

  “I’ll do it for you.”

  Mug in hand, Gemma wandered into the sitting room. Martin sat at the old upright piano, his back to her, his hands moving across the keys as if of their own accord. Bars of late-afternoon sunlight fell across the carpet, illuminating the muted tartan.

  “Martin,” she said softly, “I’ve brought you a cuppa.”

  He jerked as if stung, twisting round to look at her. “Jesus. You gave me a fright.” The color drained from his already sallow face, leaving the blemishes on his cheeks an angry red.

  “Sorry.” She held up the mug. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I’m just a bit jumpy these days, that’s all.” He started to get up, but she waved him back to his seat.

  “Don’t stop on my account, please. It was lovely. I didn’t know you played.” Crossing the room, Gemma set his mug next to the dog-eared sheet music on the upright’s stand.

  “Bloody thing needs a good tuning.” Martin turned back to the keyboard. “My mum gave me lessons. All part of a proper middle-class upbringing,” he added, with a note of derision. His fingers moved over the keys again, picking out a faintly Scottish air.

  “But you play by ear, don’t you?” asked Gemma, the certainty forming as she listened. “That’s not something you learn from lessons.” She looked at him with sudden envy, forgetting his spottiness, his youth, his awkward behavior, seeing only a gift she would have made a pact with the devil to possess. Perching on the edge of the chair nearest him, she said, “Is this your job, back in Dundee?”

  Martin snorted. “There’s no money in this. Oh, I pick up a few bob, filling in on a gig, but it’s not going to pay the rent.”

  Why was it, she wondered, that people never seemed to appreciate what they had? Martin had shrugged off his talent as if it were no more worthwhile than sweeping floors. Nor had he answered her question about his job, she realized, and that aroused her curiosity.

  “Martin, I know it’s none of my business, but I’m surprised you haven’t gone home. I mean, it’s not as if you knew Donald…”

  “Nor did you, before this weekend, and you’re
still here.” His glance was sharper than she’d expected. Shrugging, he added, “I thought I’d lend John a bit of support. It’s not as though he’ll get it from any other quarter.”

  “You mean Louise?” Gemma studied him. “Is there a particular reason you two don’t get on?”

  “Besides the fact that she’s a bitch? She’s always treated me as if I were a bug that needed squashing. What bloody right has she? He’s my brother.”

  “Yes, but it is her house, too.”

  Martin flushed at the note of reproof in Gemma’s voice. “You mean I should be grateful for her charity?”

  “No, I mean you should have better manners. This is about more than a weekend cookery course, isn’t it?”

  Martin gazed down at the keyboard as the silence stretched. “It’s just that I’ve got no place else to go at the moment,” he admitted at last. “And I don’t like being made to feel a nuisance.”

  “No place to go? You mean—”

  “I lost my bloody flat, okay? And my job. Actually,” he amended, “it was the other way round.”

  “Oh, that’s rotten luck,” said Gemma. “It could happen to anyone.” She thought back to their earlier conversations. “But you must have some other options. I thought you said your mum lived in Dundee. Couldn’t you—”

  “My mum’s not speaking to me. I’m not exactly in her good books at the moment, but at least she doesn’t seem to have shared her feelings with Louise. There’s no way Louise would have passed up ammunition she could have used against me.”

  Gemma frowned. “Wait a minute. What ammunition?”

  Martin gave her a sideways glance. “Why should I tell you?”

  Gemma considered for a moment, tilting her head, then said, “Because it sounds to me as though you could use a friend, and I don’t think you’re as tough as you make out. And because”—she reached out with her right hand and played a bar of the first thing that came into her head, which happened to be Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring, the piece she had been working on at her last piano lesson—“we have something in common.”

  “Ouch,” Martin said, falling in with the next measure. “That was a low blow. I think it’s been scientifically proven that one can’t behave badly while listening to Bach.”

  Gemma grinned. “Then stop it and tell me what happened.”

  He looked up at her, his hands still. “I worked in a music shop, in Dundee. It was all right, but then I got busted for selling X-tabs to some of the customers. It was stupid, I know,” he added, as if to forestall her. “My boss fired me. When I couldn’t pay my rent, I lost my flat. And I’ve got no way to pay for legal counsel when my trial comes up.”

  Refraining from agreeing with his own assessment, Gemma asked, “Does John know?”

  “Yeah. He’s been really good about it.”

  “You never were interested in cooking, then, were you?”

  “No, that’s not true,” Martin said, sounding hurt. “There’s this bloke I know that might take me on at his restaurant. I thought if I could learn something from John, I’d have a better chance at it.”

  “And what about Louise? Does she know?”

  “What do you think? You don’t imagine she’d let someone less than perfect take up space in her precious house? What surprises me,” Martin added thoughtfully, “is that she ever condescended to take on John.”

  “John? Why wouldn’t—” Gemma stopped, listening as the low murmur of voices coming from the kitchen suddenly rose in volume. She recognized Heather’s clear alto. Hazel and Heather must have come in from the barn.

  Then, the sound of car tires on gravel snapped her attention back to the front of the house. Looking out the window, she recognized the car, an unmarked Rover. Bloody hell. It was Ross, and she didn’t want to talk to him about Tim Cavendish in front of Hazel.

  “Martin, sorry,” she said, giving him a fleeting pat on the shoulder. “I’ve got to have a word with the chief inspector,” she added, already half out the door.

  “You won’t tell him about me?” Martin called after her.

  “I’ll wager he already knows. You should have told him yourself.”

  She ran out into the drive as Ross and Sergeant Munro were getting out of the car. “Chief Inspector. I left you a message,” she said a bit breathlessly. Skidding to a halt on the gravel, she lowered her voice and added, “It’s about Tim Cavendish, Hazel’s husband. Have you requested that the Met interview him?”

  Ross looked at her with disfavor. “Inspector James, I’m perfectly capable of—”

  “Have you?” she repeated, past caring if she was rude. “Because he wasn’t in London over the weekend, and he doesn’t seem able to verify his movements.” She saw Ross’s hesitation as he took this in, and pressed her point. “And he knew Hazel was planning to see Donald Brodie over the weekend.”

  “Och, all right,” Ross said with obvious reluctance. “Munro, call in and have them ask London to run a check on the man. Now, Inspector, if you don’t mind—”

  “There’s more. Tim’s not answering the phone or the door, even to his family.”

  “I can’t say I blame the man for not wanting to talk to his wife.” There was a note of bitterness in Ross’s voice.

  “It’s not just that. He won’t talk to his parents, and they’re keeping Holly, Tim and Hazel’s little girl. I haven’t said anything to Hazel; I didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily.”

  “You just wanted to worry me,” Ross said, sounding aggrieved.

  Gemma stared at him. Had she actually seen the corners of his mouth turn up? He looked tired, she realized as she studied him. Even his graying hair seemed to have lost some of its bristle.

  “I’ll request a welfare check,” he told her. “And now, if you don’t mind, lassie, I’d like to see John and Martin Innes.”

  Carnmore, August 1899

  LIVVHY HAD JUST rolled out a fresh batch of oatcakes for the girdle when the knock came at the kitchen door. As in most country houses, the front door at Carnmore was seldom used. Wiping her hands, still slightly greasy from the bacon fat she’d kneaded into the oatmeal, she called out, “Come in!” Will had gone down to the burn with his fishing rod, taking a well-deserved hour off from the distillery, and Livvy assumed it was one of the hands with a question.

  “Livvy?”

  For a moment, she saw only a shape in the doorway, framed by the bright light of the August afternoon, but she would have recognized the voice anywhere. “Rab! What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Have I caught you at a bad time?” He stepped forward, his features gaining definition, and she saw that he was dressed for riding. She hadn’t seen him since the night of the Grantown dance, and since then she had pictured him in evening clothes.

  “Oh, no, come in, please. Forgive my manners. It’s just that I was surprised to see you.” She was suddenly aware of her disheveled hair and her workaday shirtwaist. Her hands were red and raw from scrubbing preserve jars, and she suspected she had smudges of flour on her nose.

  “I had business in Tomintoul,” Rab said, taking off his hat. “It seemed a shame not to pay a call when I was so near.”

  “So near! Rab Brodie, it must be all of ten miles from Tomintoul to the Braes,” she protested, warm with pleasure.

  “And a very pleasant day for a ride.” He smiled at her, his eyes sparkling above the flush of sunburn on his cheeks. His boots and trousers, she saw, were dusty from the road, and he had loosened his collar.

  “You must be thirsty. Sit down and I’ll make some tea. You’ve caught me in the middle of baking—I hope you don’t mind yesterday’s oatcakes.”

  “How are you keeping, Livvy?” he asked as he sat at the scrubbed oak table. “You look well.”

  “I’ve been berry picking this week with some of the women from the village,” she said, laughing. “I’m as sunburned as a fishwife, but, oh, it was lovely, and I’ve berries to spare. I’ve made a blaeberry preserve, and we’ve fresh cream. We can have a
bit with our tea, if you like…” She realized she was babbling and concentrated on setting out the best rose-patterned teapot, with the matching cups and saucers. The china had been her wedding gift from her father.

  “That’s a bit grand for the kitchen, isn’t it?” asked Rab, nodding at the cup she’d set before him.

  Livvy felt a rush of mortification. “Oh, how stupid of me. Of course we’ll go into the sitting room. We have visitors so seldom—”

  “Nonsense.” Rab settled back in his chair. “I won’t have you stand on ceremony for me, Livvy. This is a comfort I don’t often enjoy at home, and I’d much rather be treated as a friend than as a guest.”

  Livvy doubted he ever set foot in the kitchen at Benvulin—nor did his wife, except to give instructions to the cook—but she acquiesced. She spooned still-warm fruit preserve into a dish and topped it with a ladle of cream from the jug. When she had set the dish before Rab, she sank into the chair opposite and watched him with anticipation.

  “Don’t tell me you’re not joining me?”

  “I’ve been tasting all day,” she told him, although the truth was, she didn’t want to waste a moment of this visit in eating when she could be listening, and talking, and storing up the conversation to remember later. “I’m afraid I’ll turn blue if I have one more berry.” Realizing she’d forgotten the oatcakes, she jumped up again and fetched a plate of the crispy, triangular cakes, then poured the tea.

  “Livvy, sit,” he commanded her, laughing. “You remind me of a whirling dervish.”

  She complied, folding her hands primly in her lap. “All right, then, I’ll be a proper hostess. How are things at Benvulin, Mr. Brodie? And Margaret, is she well?”

  “Margaret’s taken the children to London for a month. Her uncle has a house there, and she thought the children needed civilizing.”

  “And your sister?”

  “Helen’s managing admirably, as usual. She keeps me in line.” He spooned berries and cream into his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment as he savored the combination. “Nectar of the gods,” he pronounced, with a grin.