Scots on the Rocks

by Mary Daheim

  Mrs. Gunn chuckled. “I didn’t say he was clever. Harry has always behaved foolishly. What would you expect with his parents half a world away most of the time he was growing up? A poor choice on Moira’s part, I must say. Still, the lad had charm and looks.”

  “That’s all he had,” Philip said as Judith heard the sound of glassware and pouring liquid. “Some might be relieved that he’s dead.”

  A brief silence followed. “True,” Mrs. Gunn finally said. “I don’t trust Moira’s judgment. She may act imprudently again.”

  “Patrick?”

  “Yes.”

  “He has a wife. Jeannie’s a lovely girl. Wealthy in her own right.”

  “Not as wealthy as Moira.”

  “Not many are,” Mrs. Gunn pointed out. “Where does Harry’s death leave us? If he was an obstacle…” Her words became inaudible.

  Judith could only catch phrases of Philip’s response. “The plan is…Jimmy’s influence is…if Beth can…out of the way…”

  Judith had stood still for so long that her joints were stiff. Lurching slightly, she fell against the door, causing it to open.

  “Excuse me,” she said as a startled Philip and Mrs. Gunn looked up from their chairs near the unlit fireplace. “I came to collect my cousin’s things. I don’t want to make more work for Mrs. Gibbs.”

  “By all means,” Philip said.

  Judith didn’t dare look at him—or at Mrs. Gunn. She sensed they were both suspicious. She also had the feeling that suspicion of others was only one of the traits they shared.

  “I must apologize,” Judith said as she gathered up Renie’s plate, silverware, the pewter tray, and the salt and pepper containers. “Mrs. Jones was ungracious. She’s very distraught, of course. My cousin and I,” Judith added, lying through her teeth, “aren’t used to violence.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Gunn said with irony. “I thought you were Americans.”

  Judith glanced at Kate Gunn. “Contrary to media reports, we don’t live in constant dread of finding corpses on our doorsteps.” Oh, Judith thought, I really am telling a whopper, but I have to defend my country.

  The other woman said nothing. Judith left the drawing room and headed for the kitchen via the door near the elevator. She had just entered by the old scullery when she heard voices from somewhere in another part of the kitchen.

  “Forget about it, Chuckie,” a woman said firmly. “You always think you’re falling in love. I don’t care how old Phil is. I married your father because I wanted to. Please leave me alone.”

  “You’re unkind,” Chuckie said. “Now I won’t tell you my secret.”

  “You always have secrets, Chuckie,” Beth said in a weary voice. “You shouldn’t listen at doors or hide in closets.”

  “I don’t always have to do those things to have secrets,” Chuckie declared. “But I won’t share my secrets with you anymore because maybe I never loved you. Maybe I love Moira. Maybe I always did.”

  “Then I’m pleased for you. I wish you well.” Beth Fordyce was coming straight toward Judith, who was forced to duck inside the scullery. Beth sailed by and went out of the kitchen. A moment later, the dining room door closed. Beth and Chuckie were gone. Judith put the dinner things on the counter and went back the way she’d come. The elevator seemed like a good idea. She was extremely tired.

  But Judith’s brain wasn’t ready for rest. “Philip and Mrs. Gunn are conspiring,” she announced upon arriving in her room.

  “About what?” Renie, who was setting off a fire in the grate, stood up. “Are you saying that’s relevant to Harry’s death?”

  “Maybe,” Judith said, setting the bottles and glasses on the dresser. “I don’t know what they’re up to.”

  “What would Harry Gibbs have to do with Glengrim distillery or Mrs. Gunn?” Renie asked.

  “It sounds like it’s all connected to business,” Judith explained, pouring the drinks.

  “You know,” Renie said, taking the Drambuie snifter from Judith, “this isn’t any of our business. For once, can’t you back off?”

  Judith thought for a moment. “No. For me, that would be morally reprehensible.”

  “Be practical,” Renie urged. “You’re a visitor in a foreign country. You’re the guest of a local cop. The police in the UK are very competent. You don’t know any of the people involved. Let Scotland’s criminal justice system do the job. Otherwise you’re just in the way and probably in danger. You know how Joe’s going to react to that. It’d spoil the whole vacation. This is our long-planned getaway.”

  “That’s the problem,” Judith said bleakly. “I can’t let anybody get away with murder.”

  8

  The rest of the evening proved uneventful. Renie retreated to her room around eleven. Judith set her travel clock for eight-thirty. But it was well after midnight before she finally settled down. Upon awakening, she couldn’t remember what she’d dreamed, but knew she’d passed a restless night. The comforter was half off the bed and one of the pillows had fallen on the floor. Maybe, she thought, she’d been haunted by poor Harry and the life that had been cut so short.

  After showering, putting on her makeup, and dressing in her new slacks and twin set, she went across the hall to Renie’s room. There was no response to her knock. The door was locked. Judith didn’t blame Renie; she’d locked her own door, too. Her cousin must be sleeping in, as was her habit. It was after nine, and if they were to eat breakfast before Mass in the chapel at eleven, Renie had better get going. Judith knocked harder and called out. “It’s me! Wake up!”

  A full minute passed before Renie staggered to the door. “Is the sun up yet?” she asked in a groggy voice.

  “It’s cloudy, but it’s not exactly dawn. You missed that,” Judith said, closing the door behind her. “Come on, we have to eat.”

  “Oh. Eat.” Renie was wandering around the room in her flannel nightgown. “Breakfast. I remember. Good concept.” She wove her way to the garderobe.

  When the cousins arrived in the dining room half an hour later, the sideboard held another generous repast.

  “Porridge,” Renie said. “Real Scottish porridge. I read somewhere that they have an annual porridge-off around here. Inverness, maybe. They go for the Golden Sprutle.”

  “The what?” Judith asked.

  “Sprutle,” Renie repeated. “It’s the stick used to stir porridge.”

  “Only you would know that,” Judith said, shaking her head.

  “True,” Renie agreed. “I’m a font of useless knowledge.”

  “I’m going to try the tangerine marmalade,” Judith said. “It’s in another crock like the salad dressing with the fancy G on it. Mrs. Gibbs must be a wizard in the kitchen.”

  “Putting up preserves is a lost art,” Renie noted. “Remember how our mothers did it every year? I tried it when I was first married, but it was too much trouble. Canning was always in August, the hottest time of the year, standing at the stove and getting even hotter.”

  “You’re babbling,” Judith declared. “I like it better when you don’t talk before ten o’clock.”

  Just as the cousins were finishing, Mrs. Gibbs entered the dining room. Her cheeks were pale and there were dark circles under her eyes.

  “Father Keith will arrive before eleven,” she said in a toneless voice. “Do ye know where to find the chapel? It’s in the southwest tower. Look for the cross over the door.”

  Judith’s expression was compassionate. “We’re so sorry about your grandson. If there’s anything we can do—”

  Mrs. Gibbs cut her off with a sharp gesture. “What’s to be done? The laddie’s gone to God. Pray for his poor soul, that’s what to do.”

  “Of course,” Judith said. “Have you reached his parents?”

  “An impossible task,” Mrs. Gibbs said. “They never should o’ had the bairn. Free spirits, they call themselves. Worthless, I call them.” She turned and went back to the kitchen.

  “Not fond of Sonny,” Renie remarked, stirr
ing sugar into her tea. “Why can’t parents take responsibility for ending up with rotten kids?”

  Judith shook her head. “Sometimes kids are just bad apples.”

  “Maybe.” Renie checked her watch. “Ten-twenty. I wonder how many people attend Mass in this Scottish Reformed Church country? Which reminds me, speaking of parents. It was Saint Margaret of Scotland who had six kids, and three turned out fine but the other trio was awful. She once remarked that even Ted Williams never batted five hundred.”

  Judith smiled. “I doubt she used those words, since she must’ve died about nine hundred years before Ted Williams was born.”

  “Oh?” Renie feigned innocence. “Maybe Saint Margaret meant shooting from the field. Or pass completions. You get the point, though I’m not sure I agree with it.”

  The dining room door from the passageway opened. Beth Fordyce entered, wearing a very short yellow nightgown. “Coffee!” she exclaimed, her slanting brown eyes widening. “Where?”

  “Try the silver urn,” Renie said. “We’re drinking tea this morning.”

  “What a ghastly night,” Beth said, taking a cup and saucer from the sideboard. “I hardly slept. I’ve never been interrogated by the police. What do I know about Harry’s death? It’d be like him to blow up his own car, from what I’ve heard. He craved attention.” She poured her coffee and sat down a couple of places from Judith. “Phil is wild.”

  Judith was puzzled. “You told us the explosion didn’t kill Harry.”

  Beth nodded. “That’s what I was told. The autopsy’s tomorrow. The Sabbath is sacred around here.” With delicate fingers, she picked up her cup and saucer. “I must dress for Mass.”

  After Beth left, Judith looked at Renie. “So she’s RC. Who else?”

  Renie shrugged. “We seem to have fallen into a nest of papists.”

  “Ordinarily, that’d be fine with me,” Judith said, “but at the moment, I have my doubts about whether these people practice what they preach. Especially,” she added grimly, “‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

  Father Keith was elderly, white-haired, and rail-thin, but he zipped through the liturgy at top speed. The only reference to Harry Gibbs was during the intercessions when the priest asked the small congregation to pray for the dead man’s soul.

  Despite the brevity of the service, Judith had time to take in the age-old beauty of the chapel. The statues of Jesus, Mary, St. Joseph, and St. Fergna probably weren’t the originals, but they definitely dated from the eighteenth or even seventeenth century. The Stations of the Cross in bas-relief also looked as if they’d been added later. Behind the altar the stained-glass windows depicted various saints Judith couldn’t identify. The workmanship looked very old, though a few sections looked as if they’d been replaced after attacks by enemies or Mother Nature. The tabernacle was crafted from ancient gold and studded with jewels.

  Philip and Beth Fordyce, Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs, and—to Judith’s surprise—Mrs. Gunn were in attendance. So were a dozen strangers, though she couldn’t help but notice a pretty young woman in the back pew wearing a gorgeous sable coat. As Father Keith concluded the Mass after the final blessing, he all but darted out of the chapel. Judith surmised that he was a kind of circuit-riding priest who still had at least one more Mass to celebrate in another nearby village or town.

  As the worshippers left the chapel, Judith noticed that Beth had paused to light a votive candle.

  “Hold it,” Judith whispered to Renie.

  “Why?” Renie shot back. “Father Speedo skipped the sign of peace. I wanted to take the opportunity to deck Mrs. Gunn again.”

  “She might have decked you,” Judith said. “Here comes Beth.”

  “Is there a priest shortage in Scotland, too?” Judith asked.

  “Oh yes,” Beth replied, “especially in the Highlands. The few younger priests who are ordained all seem to want to teach. Pardon, I must speak with Will and Marie.”

  The cousins trailed behind Beth as she called to the couple Judith had noticed in the last pew. The woman, who apparently was Marie, exuded a lush air with her fair skin, masses of auburn hair, and all that expensive fur. The man at her side was of average height, with a receding hairline, a long, lean face, and a slightly hooked nose.

  Judith’s observations were cut short by a commotion on the cobbled walkway to her left. Philip and Chuckie were arguing. Or rather, Chuckie was screaming at his father and jumping up and down.

  “I’m not going to hell!” Chuckie shouted. “I get bored in church! That’s why I threw oranges at the priest during Christmas Mass!”

  Philip grabbed his son by the collar, dragging him away from the others. Judith couldn’t hear what Philip was saying, but Chuckie wore a truculent expression and kept shaking his head as he leaned against the half-timbered wall. Judith noticed that Beth had abruptly stopped talking to Will and Marie. Except for Mrs. Gunn, the rest had left.

  “Phil!” Beth shouted. “Let me speak with Chuckie!”

  Chuckie took a couple of swings at his much taller father but missed. With a weary expression, Philip walked off. He’d gone only a few feet before Chuckie raced up from behind and tackled the older man. Philip fell flat on his face. Chuckie sat on him and hooted in derision.

  Beth headed toward her husband and her stepson. “Chuckie, Chuckie, what are you doing?” she asked in a resigned voice. “Get up. I’ll make you some cocoa.”

  “Really?” Chuckie grinned at her as Philip tried to dislodge his errant son. “With biscuits?”

  “Of course. Come along now. Be my good boy.”

  Chuckie sprang off of his father and hurried to take Beth’s outstretched hand. “What kind of biscuits?” he inquired.

  “Your favorites,” Beth said, leading Chuckie away.

  The man called Will was helping Philip get up. The woman named Marie strolled over to Judith and Renie. She spoke in an undertone. “Chuckie’s quite mad, you know.”

  “No kidding,” Renie retorted.

  “He should be institutionalized,” the woman said, brushing her chin against the sable collar of her splendid coat. “These days they treat crazy people with pills. I don’t think it works very well.”

  Philip was brushing himself off while Will looked the other way, perhaps to save them both from the embarrassment of the moment.

  “Are you friends of the Fordyces?” Judith inquired.

  Marie smiled slightly. She was several years younger than her husband who appeared to be close to forty. “Beth and Moira and I all went to school together. My husband, Will Fleming, is the Blackwell Petroleum comptroller. That’s how we met.” Her smile widened, showing dimples. “Will’s very clever. Believe it or not, he can be quite funny.”

  Judith glanced at Will, who was looking anything but amused at the moment. He’d finally walked away from Philip.

  “We should go, Marie,” he said. “The tide will be changing shortly.”

  Marie nodded. “Of course, darling.” She turned to the cousins. “Beth says you’re guests here. You’ve had rather a rude welcome.”

  “We’re used to it,” Renie said.

  “Really?” Marie giggled, then suddenly sobered. “I shouldn’t laugh. It’s quite dreadful about Harry. Still, it’s the sort of thing one would expect of him.” She scooted away to join her husband, who was already at the arched entrance to the castle.

  “Harry’s not getting a lot of sympathy,” Renie noted. “I’m beginning to think I was right the first time—he was a jerk.”

  “I pity him,” Judith said, but shut up as Philip approached.

  “I apologize,” he said stiffly, “for my son. He’s unwell. You mustn’t think ill of him. He has a genetic defect, causing physical and emotional growth problems. I’ve sent him to the best doctors and clinics. When he takes his medication, he’s well behaved and quite bright.”

  “It must be very hard on you,” Judith said before Renie could open her big mouth and spoil what must be a difficult admission for a man like Philip For
dyce. “I sympathize.”

  “Very kind of you,” Philip murmured. “Excuse me, I feel a need to walk the beach.”

  Judith watched him move away, hampered by a slight limp. “Maybe we should go someplace, too,” she said.

  Renie frowned. “Where?”

  “The village? I think I can walk that far.”

  “Everything’s probably closed on the Sabbath,” Renie pointed out.

  “True.” Judith gazed around the courtyard. The sun had come out from behind the clouds. Judith noticed an old sundial in the flowerbed near the door where Beth had left with Chuckie. She strolled toward it with Renie following her.

  “No hands,” Judith noted. “It’s symbolic, don’t you think? This place is really timeless.”

  Renie disagreed. “It’s marking time, a millennium’s worth of centuries. So many people have come and gone, yet the castle remains.”

  Renie stopped as a strange, eerily familiar sound captured the cousins’ attention. Judith looked up. Near the top of the castle’s second story, the great northern diver was perched on a corbel, emitting his haunting cry. The bird preened a bit before flapping its wings and sailing off over the courtyard and out of sight.

  “That weird call,” Judith said softly. “It sounds like the bird is mourning.”

  “Maybe,” Renie allowed. “Or uttering a cry for help.”

  Despite the sun, Judith shivered. “I’m not a fanciful person, but there is something spooky about this place. Maybe it’s all the history.”

  “History is nothing but old gossip,” Renie declared. “Who did what to whom and why and how it all turned into a war or a revolution.”

  Judith frowned. “Maybe. I wonder if there really is a ghost here. Certainly there’s a voice, telling us to open the gate or the window. Where does it come from?”

  “TV,” Renie said. “For not being fanciful, you’re sounding a little loopy. Remember on our first trip to Europe we reached Deauville the night before taking ship for home, we got to the cheap B&B and were terrified before we rang the bell?”