Death at Thorburn Hall

by Julianna Deering

  Madeline nodded. “I see.”

  “Can I turn around now?” Carrie asked. “Not that I didn’t see everything anyway. What was that about?”

  “I’m not sure,” Madeline said. “Drew thinks that just might be why Mr. MacArthur is no longer married to Mrs. MacArthur.”

  Carrie put a gloved hand on her hip. “I can tell when someone’s after a sugar daddy.”

  “That was not a fatherly kiss,” Madeline agreed, and she tugged at Carrie’s sleeve. “Hurry. We might still be able to see where they went.”

  “Wait,” Carrie protested. “The girl’s bringing back my—”

  “I’m sorry, miss!” Madeline called as she pulled Carrie toward the door. “We’ll come back!”

  They reached the corner where the couple had disappeared, but that part of the street was deserted. Madeline looked up and down the street once more, scanning the names of the different shops. None of them seemed any more likely than the others to be the destination of MacArthur and his young companion.

  “We shouldn’t be following him,” Carrie said, her drawl more pronounced in her agitation. “What if he saw us? What in the world would we say?”

  “We’d say we got turned around going back to the inn and we don’t know which way to go and couldn’t he direct us.”

  Carrie pointed back the way they had come. “But it’s just—”

  “I know it’s just over there. I know any six-year-old could find his way back, but it doesn’t matter if you look helpless enough. Someone like our Mr. MacArthur wouldn’t expect us to worry our pretty heads over directions.”

  Carrie giggled and then caught a sudden breath. “There he is.”

  Madeline tugged Carrie back into the doorway of a jewelry shop and pretended to look in the window. She could see MacArthur’s reflection in the glass. He came out of the bookstore, took a quick look around, and then headed back toward the high street, passing behind but not noticing them. A moment later, he turned another corner and was gone again.

  “Come on.”

  Madeline strode over to the bookstore, a place called Dunst’s, very tiny, even for a place like Gullane. But judging from the window display, it was well stocked. There was a whole stack of copies of a book called Enter a Murderer by an author Madeline had never heard of and whose name she wasn’t sure she could pronounce. Whatever else happened, she was determined to get herself a copy before she left.

  “What are you doing?” Carrie protested, scurrying after her. “We can’t go in there. They’ll know we’ve been following him.”

  “Don’t be silly. How can they possibly know that?” Madeline reached for the doorknob. “We’re just in town for the Open, and you’re visiting from America. We’re looking for some books on local history and, for my golf-loving husband, something about Muirfield. Right? And I want that new mystery.”

  Carrie nodded, despite not looking entirely convinced, as Madeline pushed open the door. There was a jangle of bells, the kind that was a combination of several small bells, clashing together in merry discord. The gray-haired woman behind the counter was placid and plump, her smile slightly shy.

  “Good afternoon, young ladies. May I help you?”

  Madeline forced herself not to look at Carrie and hoped Carrie was wise enough not to look startled. Judging by her accent, the woman was German. That didn’t automatically add up to something sinister, of course, but it seemed rather a coincidence that Mac would have come in here. Maybe he had just wanted a book. But where had the girl gone? Certainly not out the front door.

  “We’re just looking really,” Madeline said. “I hope you don’t mind if we browse.”

  “We wanted some golfing books,” Carrie said, her voice a little higher pitched than usual.

  Golfing books? Madeline struggled not to cringe. Please don’t say anything else, Carrie. Please.

  “Some books about golf? They are very popular during the Open.” The older woman came from behind the counter and led them over to a table where a variety of books on the game were on display. “Did you want something about golf history or how to play? Or perhaps something about our course? Muirfield is nearly two hundred years old, you know.”

  She sold them a book on the Open and one about the Firth of Forth and the Naigo Marsh mystery Madeline had seen in the window. Madeline managed to discourage Carrie’s whispered questions until they had made their escape back into the high street.

  “What good did that do?” Carrie demanded, walking as fast as her short legs would allow. “It’s just a bookstore.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Madeline looked right and then left, preparing to cross the street to The Swan. When she looked right again, the blonde was standing directly opposite them, smoking a cigarette. Seeing Madeline had noticed her, she gave a brash little wave and hurried over to them.

  “You’re Mrs. Farthering, aren’t you? Isn’t it funny our meeting at last? My friend Mr. MacArthur pointed out you and Mr. Farthering to me last week at the tournament. I have to tell you, your husband is perfectly charming. He ought to be in the cinema, don’t you think?” She dropped her cigarette to the street and extinguished it with a brusque turn of her shoe and then smiled at Carrie. “Hello. I’m Lisa Shearer. I work at Dunst’s. It’s not much of a shop, is it? But I guess I should be glad for the work. Anyway, I saw you both and thought I’d better introduce myself.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Madeline said, a bit taken aback. “Yes, I’m Mrs. Farthering. This is my friend, Miss Carrie Holland, who’s visiting from America.”

  Carrie managed a polite nod. “Hello.”

  “Yes,” Lisa said, “I remember you at the Open, as well. Isn’t it just too bad about Lord Rainsby? I understand it was a very exciting third round, and Mac and I were disappointed to have to miss it, but he and Lord Rainsby were great friends. It just wouldn’t have looked the thing if we’d gone.”

  “You didn’t go anyway?” Madeline asked.

  The girl lifted one shoulder. “Not without Mackie. It’s just not as much fun alone.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “I can tell you’d be terribly put out if you had to go about without Mr. Farthering,” Lisa said pleasantly. She put a gloved hand on Madeline’s arm. “He’s the one I’ve read about in the newspapers, isn’t he? Not just in the society pages but for solving crimes and things?”

  “A few times,” Madeline said reluctantly.

  Lisa released Madeline’s arm and put her hand over her heart. “Good gracious me, I think I’d be terribly worried if Mac did that sort of thing. I mean, anything could happen to him.”

  Madeline smiled coolly. “My husband is well able to take care of himself.”

  “Well, of course he is. I can tell by what I’ve read, he’s more than a pretty face. And he’s got that mate of his, Dennismoore or something, to give him a hand.”

  “Dennison,” Carrie corrected, her mouth taut.

  “Yes, that’s the name.” Lisa stopped for a moment, thinking, and then smiled again. “And you’re Carrie Holland. Now I know where I’ve heard of you. You were in that business at Winteroak House, down in Beaulieu. That must have been terrifying.” Her mouth dropped open at the stricken look on Carrie’s face. “Oh, do forgive me, Miss Holland, that was so thoughtless of me. Please accept my apologies. That must have been so terrible for you.”

  Carrie merely nodded her head, but now there was a tinge of anger in her usually sweet expression.

  “And think,” Lisa said, looking with concern at Madeline, “how awful it would be to lose not a brother or a beau but a husband that way.” She shook her head. “I’m so glad my Mackie isn’t the sort to put himself in danger like that. If we were married and he wanted to investigate Lord Rainsby’s death, I’d have to put my foot down. I really would.” She laid her hand on Madeline’s arm once more. “But you know how men are, always wanting to play the hero. They never get over being boys, do they? Even Mac, and he’s hardly a lad anymore.” She g
iggled. “Don’t tell him I said that. Of course, I’m mad about him, just as he is. He pretends it doesn’t bother him, the difference between our ages, but I think sometimes it does. He tries to make himself look as young as possible, and I say who wants to look old anyway?”

  “We haven’t seen much of Mr. MacArthur since the funeral,” Madeline said, her voice intentionally grave. “Do tell him Carrie and I said hello.”

  “I will. And you tell that ducky husband of yours to watch out for himself. His sort don’t come along every day.”

  She brought her hand up to her black felt hat before the wind could carry it off and, laughing, hurried down the street toward the bookstore.

  Carrie’s lips tightened into a fierce pucker. “I don’t know when I’ve ever heard such rudeness.”

  “I don’t know if I’d call it rudeness,” Madeline said. “If that wasn’t meant to warn us off, I don’t know what it was.”

  “Just who does she think she is?”

  Madeline looked down the now-empty street. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  Nine

  Drew made sure to be at the pub just before seven that evening. About a quarter past the hour, Sergeant Ellar Shaw came in and walked past his table.

  “Sergeant Shaw,” Drew said, lifting his half-full glass of cider.

  “Mr. Farthering.” Shaw’s pale eyebrows inched up his forehead. “What a surprise.”

  “Come sit down and discuss the day’s news with me.”

  “I’d be most obliged, sir. Simply as a private citizen, mind you, and not in any official capacity.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t give a fellow a bit of advice, does it?” Drew flashed his most guileless smile. “After all, if I’m not to get myself killed by my meddling as Chief Inspector Birdsong so often recommends, wouldn’t you be willing to do what little you’re able to see that doesn’t happen?”

  Shaw sat across the table from him.

  “Excellent.” Drew beamed at him. “Now, seeing as we both have grave misgivings about the likelihood that your current detainee is in fact guilty of more than petty theft, I was wondering if we might have a brief discussion about one Mr. Reginald MacArthur.”

  Shaw’s affable expression darkened. “Mr. MacArthur, sir?”

  “I’d like to know what you know about him.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Makes maps and such. Friend of Lord and Lady Rainsby. Is there a reason you ask?”

  Drew told him briefly about Lord Rainsby’s concerns.

  “The devil of it is that he was so deuced vague about it all, I didn’t think much of it. Now that he’s been murdered, I wish I’d pressed him for more specific information.”

  Shaw considered for a moment. “But you have your own suspicions, is that it, sir?”

  Drew frowned. “Suspicion may be too strong a word. Wondering is a bit more precise. For example, why would MacArthur claim to have been in Gullane all morning when he’d clearly been at least over to Rosyth and back? And I’ve been wondering since the first day of the Open who that blond girl is.”

  “Blond girl?”

  “I’d say she stands about up to my chin, fair hair, young but not ingénueish. I don’t know a great deal more about her than that. I’ve seen her with MacArthur a few times. My wife saw her going in and out of the bookshop when she was in the village, though she wasn’t sure if the girl actually has any connection with it or was just passing by.”

  “You mean Dunst’s. I think I know the girl you’re talking about. About twenty-five? Easy on the eyes?”

  Drew nodded.

  “You must mean Miss Shearer.” Shaw grinned. “A real pip, isn’t she?”

  “She is that. I’m just wondering what’s behind those obvious attractions.”

  “Anything in particular?” the sergeant asked.

  “Tell me about her,” Drew said rather than answering him.

  “Don’t know much. She hasn’t had any dealings with us at the station. Works at the shop helping out the old lady. Delivers orders when need be. Helps out behind the counter. Lives over the shop, I believe.” Shaw shrugged. “Been here in Gullane eight or ten months, I’d reckon. Maybe a year, but I don’t think it’s been that long.”

  “And the other lady? Mrs. Dunst, I presume?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Clara Dunst. She came here, oh, sixteen or seventeen years ago. War refugee, I’m told, and glad to have got out. Harmless old soul.”

  “Hmmm.”

  If MacArthur was selling information to the Germans and this Lisa Shearer was his contact, where better might she find cover than with an unsuspecting old lady from her own country? It was an enormous assumption to make based on the infinitesimal bit of information he had so far, but it was certainly something he could look into.

  “You don’t know someone called Schmidt by any chance?” Drew asked.

  Shaw shook his head slowly. “Not here, no. There was a fellow in Winchester who sang in the choir. Little chap but with a booming bass voice. That was ten, fifteen years ago now.”

  Drew chuckled. “Any reason Miss Shearer would be in touch with him?”

  “Can’t imagine why,” Shaw said. “Don’t know of him or any other Schmidt being in Gullane. Does she have an interest in someone by that name?”

  “I don’t know.” Drew exhaled. “Just a thought. Do you know if she keeps company with one of the caddies over at Muirfield?”

  Shaw frowned. “Any one you’d especially like to know about?”

  “I couldn’t tell you his name,” Drew admitted. “In point of fact, I never saw him myself. But my wife saw him and Miss Shearer together in the clubhouse on the first day of the tournament. Tall fellow, quite handsome she says, very blond but with dark eyes.”

  “Sounds like Jamie Tyler to me. Still this side of thirty?”

  “I expect. Who’s he?”

  “Lord Rainsby asked the inspector to have him checked over a few months ago. Wanted to find a reason to have the man brought in.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “From what I’ve heard, he was seeing his lordship’s daughter, and that didn’t quite meet with approval. We never found anything, of course, except the man’s a bit of a bounder when it comes to the ladies. But there’s not actually a law against that.”

  “Well, well,” Drew said, “it’s a small world entirely.”

  “And you think he has some connection to Miss Shearer, do you?”

  Drew looked thoughtfully into his cider. “I’m not quite sure. She just doesn’t seem to be what she presents herself to be. I wish . . . Look here, Shaw, you don’t happen to know any Germans, do you?”

  “Germans, sir?”

  “I need to borrow someone who speaks fluent German. Someone who can tell a convincing tale and not give the game away. Any ideas? Obviously, Frau Dunst will not suit the purpose.”

  “Have you tried the German embassy?”

  “Let no one tell you you’re not a droll man.”

  Shaw frowned. “What do you want a German for?”

  “I’d like to carry out a little experiment if I can. I might not really prove anything, but it could be quite interesting.”

  The sergeant considered for a moment. “It’s not anything too hard to do, is it? I mean, you don’t need a sprinter or a weight lifter, right?”

  “A child could do it,” Drew assured him. “The right child, mind you. Do you have someone in mind?”

  “Might have. If it doesn’t take too long.”

  “Not more than a minute. If that.”

  “All right,” Shaw said. “I might have someone who’d suit.”

  “Excellent. I thought you would perhaps have some connections in the area.”

  “As you might expect, most of my connections are related to the force somehow, and you know the inspector isn’t exactly receptive to your methods of investigation.”

  Drew nodded. “And he has persisted in making the most ill-conceived arrests I have ever seen, even—if you’ll par
don the observation and not repeat it to Chief Inspector Birdsong—in Hampshire.”

  Shaw pursed his lips. “You know, sir, I can’t help being a bit sad I left before you started helping out down there. The chief inspector must be a treat to listen to when he goes on about meddling amateurs.”

  Drew laughed. “You have no idea.”

  “Sadly,” the sergeant added, “my inspector doesn’t keep an open mind on the question of civilians participating in investigations, so the usual resources won’t be available. But I think I know someone, just as a private citizen, mind you, who might be just what you’re looking for. What’s the plan?”

  Remembering the bit of telephone conversation he had overheard in the pub, Drew leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I think I know when and where Mr. MacArthur is going to be meeting Lisa.”

  Shaw made a telephone call from the pub and, between him and Drew, the necessary arrangements were made. After it was done, Drew bid the sergeant good-night and made his way to The Swan to have supper with Madeline.

  “She was trying to scare us,” she said, once she’d told him about her meeting with Lisa Shearer. “I think she expects me to ask you to drop the case. And she was abominable to Carrie. I wanted to hit the girl over the head with my handbag.”

  “From what you told me, that was a definite threat. I hope we haven’t landed in a nest of spies like that couple in The 39 Steps the other day. They ended up in Scotland, too.”

  “Ugh, don’t remind me. It was very good, but maybe a little too close to home. I hope Nick took Carrie to something fun. She doesn’t need to be thinking of spies and murder just now.”

  “True,” he said, “but I do. Oh, and remember that caddie you saw Lisa talking to on the first day of the Open? His name’s Jamie Tyler, and he just happens to be the man Lord Rainsby warned away from Joan before she went to Cannes.”

  “Not really.”

  “Yes, really, and don’t ask me how he fits in with Lisa yet, because I haven’t a clue. Tell me, darling, why would a jolly nice English girl who clerks in a bookshop want to threaten anyone? Especially a fine fellow like me?”