Hesitating, torn between the desire to let Louise talk and the fear that she might act, Gemma almost left it too late.
Hearing an odd note of excitement in Louise’s voice, Gemma charged in, tire tool raised, shouting, “Put it down! Put the spade down!” just as Louise swung hard at Hazel’s head.
Hazel ducked, her reflexes saving her all but a clip across the top of the scalp, and then Gemma was on Louise with a fury she hadn’t known she possessed, screaming at her as she pushed her to the ground, pinning her across the chest with the tire tool.
Louise went still as Gemma sat astride her, panting. “Two against one,” Louise said. “That’s not fair. But then life’s always bloody unfair, isn’t it?”
21
Peaceful bounty flowing
Past like the dust blowing,
That harmony of folks and land is shattered.
Peat fire and music, candle-light and kindness…
Now they are gone
And desolate these lovely lonely places.
—DOUGLAS YOUNG
GEMMA HAD MANAGED to bind Louise’s hands with a frayed bit of rope Hazel had found in the barn when they saw a pulse of blue light through the snow. The Northern Constabulary had arrived.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Gemma said a half hour later, as she and the chief inspector watched Louise being shepherded into the marked car. Ross and Munro had driven behind it at a furious pace all the way from Aviemore, he’d told her, afraid the snow might shut down the road altogether.
“I’ve been in this job long enough to know the truth when I hear it, lass, though I’ll not easily forgive ye for stealing a march on me with Callum MacGillivray. I was on my way to hospital when I got your message.”
“He might not have told you,” Gemma said, feeling comfortable enough now to tease him a bit.
“Oh, aye, there is that. I suppose there is a place for the feminine touch. But that one…” Shaking his head, he watched the car holding Louise pull away. Gemma had related to him Louise’s revelations, as well as describing her murderous attack on Hazel. Hazel, still bleeding freely from a scalp wound, was being ministered to by a very competent Sergeant Munro. “With that one,” Ross continued, “it’s a fine thing ye had your wits about ye.”
“I only hope you’ll find some physical evidence to back up what she told us.”
“Don’t ye worry, lass. We’ll find it, now that we know what we’re looking for,” Ross had assured her.
The next day the police search team had turned up Louise’s gardening gloves, buried in the carrot patch in the garden. The gloves tested positive for gunpowder residue and, under forensic examination, revealed minute traces of human blood and tissue—Donald’s.
The snowstorm had ended almost as quickly as it had begun, and by Thursday, the day of Donald’s funeral, even the slush had vanished. The May sun shone out of a clear, blue sky, and the birds sang blithely as Donald Brodie was laid to rest in the Grantown churchyard. Standing between Hazel and Heather, Gemma found that she was glad she had known him, however briefly. A complicated man, neither saint nor sinner, but a man whose passion for life, for the whisky he made, and for one woman made him well worth mourning.
As for the bones in the warehouse at Carnmore, Ross had authorized a forensics team to remove them from the site. A DNA sample had been taken from Donald’s body; if the remains were found to match, Rab Brodie would be buried beside his great-great-grandson.
On Friday morning, Hazel took Gemma to the railway station in Aviemore. The little wooden building looked more than ever like a gingerbread house, and the still-snowcapped peaks of the distant mountains were as crisply white against the blue of the sky as those in Toby’s drawing. It was a beautiful country, thought Gemma, the sort of country that got into your blood and stayed.
They sat together on the platform bench, waiting for the London train in companionable silence, until Hazel said, “I’ve been thinking about John. He suspected, didn’t he, that it was Louise? He knew she took the gun out occasionally, and he knew she’d been behaving oddly. No wonder he seemed terrified.”
“What will he do now, do you know?” asked Gemma.
“He told me he meant to sell the farmhouse. Legally, Louise owns a half interest in the property, and he told me he couldn’t bear to share anything with her, even if only on a piece of paper.”
“But he’s worked so hard. It was what he’d always wanted.”
“I know. I’ve been thinking about that, too.”
Gemma glanced at her friend, recognizing an earnestness in her tone of voice. “You have an idea.”
Hazel smiled. “It would depend on Heather’s agreement, of course. But you’ve seen Benvulin House. It’s a drain on the business as it is, and there’s no one wants to live in a place that size—why not turn it into an elegant small hotel? There are other distilleries that have done the same thing successfully.”
“And you’re thinking the hotel would need a manager?”
“Something like that. There might even be a place for Martin.”
Gemma patted her arm. “It’s a kind thought. Some good should come of this.” She still couldn’t think of Louise Innes without a shudder. “But what about you, Hazel? What are you going to do? That’s the real question.” She knew that Hazel had at last talked to Tim but not what had passed between them.
“I don’t know,” Hazel said slowly. “For now, I’ll stay on a few more days, as much as I miss Holly. I’ve arranged it with Tim so that I can ring her every day.”
“Will she be all right with Tim?”
“I think so, yes. For the time being.”
“Hazel—”
“There’s your train.” Hazel stood as the diesel locomotive came into view, braking for the station. “Don’t worry, Gemma. I’ll ring you. You go home, look after Toby, and Kit. And, Gemma”—Hazel hugged her quickly, then kissed her cheek—“thank you. You’ve been a good friend.”
“Mummy, are you still angry with Callum?” Chrissy had pulled a stool up to the kitchen doorway and perched where she could watch her mother cooking. It was her favorite position, Alison realized, when she had something she wanted to discuss.
Alison turned the sausage in the pan and checked the potatoes before she answered, giving herself time to think. “No, baby,” she said slowly. “I don’t suppose I am.”
She’d heard from Mrs. Witherspoon—who’d heard it from Janet MacGillivray—that Callum had been released from hospital, but he hadn’t rung her.
“And it wasn’t Callum’s fault that Donald was killed?” asked Chrissy, her small face intent.
“No.” Alison answered this one more easily. “It didn’t have anything to do with Callum at all.”
Chrissy nodded once, as if settling something in her mind. She watched Alison in silence for a few minutes, but Alison knew her daughter well enough to guess she had more to say.
“Does that mean I can take riding lessons, after all?”
“Christine Grant, do ye never think of anything but the horses?” Alison said, half laughing, half exasperated.
“Sometimes.” The corners of Chrissy’s mouth turned up. “Especially when I’m hungry. So can I, Mummy, please? Callum said we wouldn’t have to pay.”
“We’ll not be accepting charity from Callum MacGillivray,” snapped Alison, singeing her finger on the pan. “And ye know we can’t afford—” The sight of her daughter’s face brought her to a halt—the disappointment quickly marshaled, the round, gray eyes suddenly expressionless. Was her pride worth that high a price? Alison wondered. “Well,” she said slowly, “maybe we could accept a wee discount, from a friend.”
“Are you and Callum friends, then?” asked Chrissy, with a hopeful note.
“Aye. I suppose we might be. But, mind you, baby, don’t be expecting anything more. Callum and me, we’re…well, we’re as different as chalk and cheese.”
“It’s okay, Mummy.” Chrissy’s serene smile held an unnerving hint of sa
tisfaction.
The long, flat miles between Cambridge and London slipped away, as they had so often in the past, Kincaid thought as he watched the landscape recede in his rearview mirror. He had brought Tess with him when he’d picked Kit up at Nathan’s, and now, after an ecstatic reunion, both boy and dog were quiet.
Glancing into the backseat, he saw Tess stretched out full length, breathing the short, whuffly breaths of doggy dreams. In the front, Kit sat back with his eyes closed, but Kincaid didn’t think he was sleeping. They hadn’t yet had a chance to talk, although Nathan had rung Kincaid from his office and related his own discussion with Kit.
Opening his eyes, Kit said suddenly, “Are Tim and Hazel going to get a divorce?”
Kincaid had given Kit and Nathan a sketchy version of the events in Scotland, but Kit had obviously read between the lines. “I don’t know, Kit. I suspect things are going to be difficult for them, and sometimes…sometimes things don’t work out even when people want them to.”
“What about Holly? Will she stay with Hazel?”
“I think that’s most likely, yes,” Kincaid said uneasily. He hadn’t really thought about how Hazel’s situation would affect Kit, but he saw now that it was another prop gone in the structure of Kit’s existence. “Kit, we won’t lose Hazel and Holly, no matter how things work out.”
Kit looked at him, accusation in his blue eyes. “You can’t promise it.”
“No.” What Kit wanted, Kincaid realized, was a guarantee against fate, and he couldn’t give it. Kit had been buffeted by life, thrown like a football from one family to another, from one possible future to another, with no power to choose anything for himself.
Kincaid thought back to his conversation with Nathan. Nathan had tactfully suggested that Kit be allowed to decide whether or not to have the DNA testing, and although Kincaid had disagreed at the time, now he began to wonder if Nathan had had a point.
No promise in the world could give Kit the sense of security he so desperately needed…but what if Kit felt he had a say in his own destiny?
Nathan was right. Kit was old enough to make his wishes clear, with or without a DNA test. They didn’t need proof to be a family, and it occurred to Kincaid that perhaps he was the one who had required a stamp of approval. Did he honestly think he would love Kit any more if he knew their genetic codes were a match? Or was it that he thought Kit would love him more? Was he still trying to prove something to Ian McClellan, with Kit as the means?
The idea made him grimace. If that was the case, perhaps it was not Kit who needed to grow up and be sensible. He looked at his son and saw all the things that made him who he was, and he knew that there was nothing a bit of saliva could change. “Kit,” he said, “we need to talk.”
At Tomintoul, Hazel went into the village shop and bought the best two flower bunches on offer. They were a bit past their prime, but they would suit her purpose.
She drove on, up into the Braes, then down into the hollow of Chapeltown, beside the Crombie burn. The small churchyard of Our Lady of Perpetual Succor was deserted, but Hazel found the markers easily enough. Will Urquhart lay beside his mother, in the shade of a rowan. After laying a bouquet beneath each headstone, she sat on a stone bench in the sun, her eyes closed, until she felt as if she were bleached down to her bones.
Then she left the car in the car park beyond the church and, taking only her bag from the boot, began to climb the track. The sun rose higher, stripping away the shadows, melting the last lingering patches of snow. By the time she reached Carnmore, she was sweating.
Taking the keys Heather had given her from her pocket, she unlocked the door to the house. Slowly, she walked through the place, assessing the damage and the assets. The structure seemed sound, other than a few warped floorboards beneath the broken windows. Her parents had left some of the old furniture—pieces she now realized might have belonged to Livvy Urquhart. She found that the memories of her childhood in the house had become entwined with her dreams of Livvy, and that she didn’t really mind.
Eventually, she came back out into the sun and sat on a boulder by the distillery gate, weighing her choices. Curlews called in the distance, and once, as she looked up, she thought she saw the outline of a falcon skimming high above.
Donald would have wanted her to keep Benvulin as it was; he had seen her as an anchor against the tide of the future. But Donald was gone, and she could no more bring him back than she could resurrect the woman she had pretended to be in the years of her marriage. Who was she now, and where did she belong?
It seemed almost certain her marriage was damaged beyond repair, and she—how could she go back to counseling others, when she had been unable to help herself?
She looked around her, at the house and the weathered but still-solid buildings of the distillery. It was a hard life in the Braes, an isolated life, one that left its mark for good or ill. But it was her heritage, and her daughter’s. Could she bring Holly here? Could she subject them both to the unknown?
There was a way, if she had the courage. She could sell her shares in Benvulin to Pascal’s company. She could let Benvulin go, let Donald go, and by doing so she could give her cousin Heather the control of Benvulin that she had earned. It might not be what Donald would have chosen, but it was the living that mattered now.
And then, it was just possible that with the money from the sale, she could bring life back to Carnmore. It would mean starting the distillery on a shoestring, but she reminded herself, many Highland distilleries had begun as single stills run by farmers’ wives. She was resourceful, and what she didn’t know, Heather could teach her.
She saw the kitchen painted red, filled with the aroma of baking. She saw the copper stills gleaming in the still-house, and the casks stacked in the warehouse, stamped once again with Carnmore’s name.
Opening her bag, she took out the bottle of Carnmore whisky, her gift from Donald, and a tooth glass she had brought from Innesfree. The whisky felt warm from the heat of the sun, like a living thing, and when she pulled the cork the smell tickled her nose, sweet and sharp.
Carefully, she poured half an inch in the glass and sipped it, holding the buttery liquid in her mouth until it melted away. Then she raised the bottle and let a few golden drops trickle out onto the bare earth, a libation for the past, and for the future.
Acknowledgments
Thanks are due to all the good people at William Morrow for their support and enthusiasm, and especially to my editor, Carrie Feron. Nancy Yost has once again proved herself an agent beyond compare, and Laura Hartman Maestro has provided the charming map.
To those who have read the manuscript, Steve Copling, Dale Denton, Jim Evans, Diane Sullivan Hale, Gigi Sherrell Norwood, and Viqui Litman, I’m sure I couldn’t have done it without you. A final thanks to Jan Hull for being a great friend in a pinch, and to my family for putting up with me in the throes of a book.
About the Author
DEBORAH CROMBIE was born and educated in Texas and has lived in both England and Scotland. Her Kincaid and James novels have received Edgar®, Agatha, and Macavity Award nominations, and her fifth novel, Dreaming of the Bones, was named a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and was selected as one of the 100 Best Crime Novels of the Century by the Independent Mystery Booksellers of America. Her novels have been published in Japan, Germany, Italy, Norway, the Netherlands, France, the Czech Republic, and the United Kingdom. Crombie travels to England several times a year and has been a featured speaker at St. Hilda’s College, Oxford. She lives in a small North Texas town, sharing a turn-of-the-century house with her husband, three cats, and a German shepherd. You can visit her website at www.deborahcrombie.com.
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Resounding praise for DEBORAH CROMBIE’s NOW MAY YOU WEEP and other Kincaid and James crime novels
“Crombie has laid claim to the literary territory of moody psychological suspense owned by P.D. Ja
mes and Barbara Vine.”
Washington Post Book World
“Deborah Crombie always creates evocative settings for her British procedurals…So it’s no slight to the intricately worked out plot of Now You May Weep to say that it pales beside its spectacular locale in the Scottish Highlands…”
New York Times Book Review
“Crombie has an uncanny affinity for the English detective genre. She [creates] a believable mystery in a realistic setting. Her characters are three-dimensional and are drawn with compassion and sensitivity.”
Dallas Morning News
“In the spirit of Elizabeth George…I found Gemma and Kincaid to be excellent company.”
Los Angeles Times
“Captivating…a pure gem guaranteed to satisfy both police procedural and cozy fans…A master storyteller, Crombie weaves together all the pieces, including a parallel story from a century earlier, to create a fabric as rich and history-laden as a tartan plaid.”
Publishers Weekly (*Starred Review*)
“[Crombie] writes about Scotland Yard with an insider’s authority, and her sleuths, Superintendent Duncan Kincaid and Sergeant Gemma James, are two of the most appealing new detectives around.”
Baltimore Sun
“Comparisons with Martha Grimes and Elizabeth George are inevitable…Crombie’s emotionally intense, quietly yet exquisitely wrought gems have taken on new brilliance with each offering.”
Times of London
“A writer who turns out singularly skillful mysteries steeped in British locales…Crombie [always writes] an engaging, richly peopled, satisfying mystery.”
Houston Chronicle
“This police procedural series gets better with each book…Crombie has created some fascinating characters.”
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
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