Scots on the Rocks

by Mary Daheim

  Moira nodded once. “I suspected for some time that something was going on behind my back. Much as it galled me, I asked Harry what he knew about it. He insisted he didn’t know anything. Then I humbled myself even further by talking to Jimmy. He can be such a stick, but basically, I trust him. We are kin, after all, and sometimes I feel he acts in my best interests. Jimmy assured me that nothing was happening, and then Morton left for Greece—‘on indefinite leave’ was the official word. I didn’t believe it. I thought he was one step ahead of serious trouble. But now he’s back and creating havoc. Or so it appears.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “I’m so tired. I wish I could sleep.”

  “We’ll go now,” Judith said.

  Moira didn’t respond.

  The cousins left the boudoir. Euphemia was coming down the hall. “Is Madam awake?” she inquired in a husky voice.

  “She’s trying to sleep,” Judith said. “How’s the baby?”

  “Quiet as a wee mouse,” the governess replied. “A good bairn, despite Madam’s fussing. Should I fetch Elise to keep watch?”

  Judith shrugged. “Is that what Mrs. Gibbs would want?”

  Euphemia’s strong jaw jutted slightly. “Perhaps. Though what that silly Frenchwoman would do in a crisis is beyond me. Useless, I say. But I’ll get her—unless she’s had her snout in the cognac too long.” The governess turned on her heel and went in the opposite direction.

  “Not a happy house,” Renie remarked.

  “Tell me about Harry’s parents,” Judith said as they started down the handsome staircase.

  “Good-looking couple, mid-fifties, Dad’s balding, Mom’s got gold highlights in her hair. Well-dressed, well-spoken.” Renie smirked. “I wouldn’t trust either of them an inch.”

  “Are they grief-stricken?”

  “Hard to figure,” Renie answered as they reached the foyer. “I spoke to them for only about ninety seconds.”

  “What did you really tell them?”

  “That Moira had passed out,” Renie said. “They didn’t act surprised. Peggy—Harry’s mother—murmured ‘typical,’ and Matt—the dad—sort of sneered.”

  Judith paused at the entrance. “But not crying their eyes out and wringing their hands over Harry’s death.”

  “They’re stiff-upper-lip types,” Renie responded. “They grieve in private.” She leaned against the door. “I’m famished.”

  “Me, too,” Judith said. “Let’s see if the police really will take us to dinner. It’s going on ten o’clock.”

  The police, however, no longer had food on their minds. “The tide is almost out,” MacRae said after the cousins got into the waiting car. “We’ll take you to the castle. Sorry about the restaurant, but with the inquest set for tomorrow, we should speak with Jocko Morton tonight.”

  “Sure, fine, great,” Renie muttered. “Who needs nourishment?”

  Making a disapproving face at Renie, Judith leaned forward to speak to MacRae. “Did you meet Harry’s parents?”

  “No,” MacRae replied, surprised. “Where were they?”

  “Here,” Judith said. “Moira refused to see them so they left.”

  MacRae considered this turn of events. “Maybe they went to Grimloch. I’d no idea they’d returned from Argentina.”

  “I thought it was Brazil,” Judith said.

  MacRae shrugged. “It was somewhere in South America. It all sounded rather vague. We’ll check with the newly arrived Gibbses before we leave you at the castle.”

  The rest of the short trip from Hollywood House to the beach turnoff was made in silence. Renie sulked; Judith pondered. It wasn’t until they arrived at the water’s edge that anyone spoke again.

  “Five, ten minutes,” Ogilvie said. “The tide’s not quite all the way out.” He smiled at the cousins. “Don’t want to get your feet wet.”

  “I’d walk a mile for a camel,” Renie murmured. “And then I’d roast it with a side of sage dressing.”

  “Ha-ha,” Ogilvie responded politely.

  MacRae was on his cell phone. “Oh yes? Would you tell your son and his wife we wish to speak with them as soon as we arrive? Thank you. We’ll be at Grimloch in just a few minutes.”

  The cousins parted company with the police at the castle. There was no sign of Harry’s parents, but Judith assumed they’d agree to meet MacRae and his sergeant. Heading straight for the kitchen with Renie, they found Mrs. Gibbs putting china away in a glass-fronted cupboard.

  “You must be glad to see your son and his wife,” Judith said. “How long have they been gone?”

  The older woman shrugged. “A year, more or less.” She made quite a clatter stacking soup bowls. “Venezuela, it was. Lived in something called a palafito. Sounds like a sheiling without the sheep. Very lush country, they say. Bugs, I suspect, more than just the wee midges. Spiders, too, and don’t tell me different.” She banged a couple of kettles together for emphasis.

  “They must be terribly upset about their son,” Judith said.

  Mrs. Gibbs didn’t respond. She closed the cupboard with a vengeance and turned her keen eyes on Renie, who was gnawing on a small block of cheese she’d found in the refrigerator.

  “Eat what’s on hand,” Mrs. Gibbs finally said. “I’m for bed.”

  Judith watched her stalk away. “That woman’s made of iron. I can’t figure out if that’s good or bad.”

  “Forget it for now,” Renie advised. “Lots of sandwich possibilities. Grab something and let’s go upstairs. I’m beat.”

  “Me, too,” Judith agreed. “It’s been a long day.”

  “And tomorrow is…” Renie looked at her cousin. “Doomsday?”

  Judith’s expression was ironic. “Let’s hope the doom isn’t for us.”

  Mother Nature rose—or fell—to the occasion Tuesday morning with heavy rain and blustery wind. “Looks like home,” Renie noted.

  “I can barely see the village through the rain,” Judith said, gazing out of the Joneses’ room while Renie put on her makeup.

  “The weather might literally put a damper on a turnout of Moira’s detractors,” Renie said.

  “Like us, the locals must be used to it,” Judith pointed out, pausing in front of the dresser mirror to check her hair. “Even Jocko’s imported non-villagers shouldn’t be daunted.”

  “I’m daunted by being up, dressed, and fed before ten,” Renie complained. “Why can’t they hold inquests in the afternoon, say around teatime? Then we could have a Little Something while they droned on.”

  “A Big Something for you,” Judith said with a wry smile. “Ready?”

  Renie nodded. The cousins headed downstairs to reach the lift. Wind and rain pelted them as soon as they entered the courtyard. Arrangements had been made to transport Grimloch’s residents by police launch at nine-thirty. It would be a short trip, with the outgoing tide.

  The lift had just returned to the top of the cliff. Judith saw four people standing below. She recognized Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs, and assumed that the other couple must be their son and daughter-in-law.

  Renie nodded as they stepped into the cage. “The funeral’s tomorrow.”

  “There’ll be another inquest and funeral for Chuckie,” Judith murmured, seeing Philip and Beth Fordyce hurrying toward them.

  “Wow, what a vacation!” Renie exclaimed in a low voice while Judith prevented the lift from closing its gate on the Fordyces.

  “Thanks,” Beth said. “Such a ghastly way to start the day.”

  Philip said nothing, merely nodding curtly at the cousins and keeping his eyes gazing upward. When they reached the wet, sandy beach, Judith pulled the hood of her cape over her hair and held it in place against the strong wind blowing off of the sea.

  Beth also had a hood on her chic mid-calf belted coat. “This will be excruciating,” she murmured. “Have you met the traveling Grubbs?”

  Judith suppressed a smile. “You don’t like them?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know them,” Beth retorted. “But I know
how they feel about Moira. I’ll introduce you. Try to act pleased.”

  Judith pulled Renie along. “Be civil,” she said under her breath.

  Like the rest of the Grimloch contingent, Matt and Peggy Gibbs were wearing black. Matt was tall and angular, with chiseled features and graying light brown hair; Peggy’s refined beauty was unmarred by age—or alleged jungle hardships. Her hands had long, manicured nails that didn’t indicate recent digging for long-lost artifacts.

  “A pity to have your holiday spoiled,” Peggy said calmly. “You must be eager to seek the sanctuary of your own home and hearth.”

  “We can’t blame the setting,” Judith said, tempted to tell Peggy Gibbs that the hearth at Hillside Manor was one of the few places where a corpse had not yet been found. “We’re very sorry about your son.”

  “A harsh season for sons,” Matthew Gibbs muttered, keeping his hands clasped behind his back and glancing at Philip Fordyce. “The Devil’s afoot, it seems.”

  The sound of the police launch was heard before Judith could actually see it. A few moments later the eight passengers were helped aboard by Sergeant Ogilvie and a couple of constables Judith didn’t recognize. She wondered if the Grimloch tragedies had strained the local police force’s personnel resources.

  The trip to the shore took less than three minutes. A van awaited the group, with another constable and a driver holding umbrellas to shield the octet from the driving rain.

  “Don’t bother,” Renie said to the driver who proffered the umbrella. “I come from rain country. It perks me up. I’m almost awake.”

  Judith and Renie sat together in the van. No one spoke during the short ride up the cliffside and through the High Street. Despite the stormy elements, several residents were going about their business. Judith noticed that the banner over the village green had blown down at one end and drooped like laundry on a broken clothesline.

  As the van pulled up in the car park by the Women’s Institute, a small group of protesters held up hand-printed signs accusing Moira and Patrick of murdering Harry. The dozen or so men and women looked dispirited. They moved their feet constantly, but not in marching tempo. It appeared to Judith that they were trying to keep warm.

  “Not a sellout crowd,” Renie murmured as they rose from their seat. “Or maybe it is. Some kind of sellout anyway.”

  “True,” Judith agreed, “but where’s the media?”

  “At the pubs?” Renie retorted.

  But as soon as the cousins got out of the van and walked around toward the side entrance of the institute’s brick building, they saw a horde of reporters and cameramen standing behind a wooden barricade.

  “Fordyce!” several voices called out, followed by a barrage of questions Judith couldn’t quite catch. Philip kept moving, eyes averted, staring straight ahead.

  Apparently no one recognized the four members of the Gibbs family. Unlike Philip, Judith figured their faces probably weren’t known to the out-of-town media.

  The meeting room was already packed, but seats had been reserved up front for the Grimloch group. Seated between Renie and Beth, Judith scanned the crowd for other familiar faces: Patrick, sitting with a pretty blonde who was probably his wife, Jeannie; Seumas Bell, looking slightly feral, but alert to every nuance in the room; Jocko Morton, wedging his portly frame onto the folding chair with his narrow, beady eyes fixed on the two vacant places on the dais; his brother Archie, looking pugnacious and untidy in an ill-fitting brown suit; Will and Marie Fleming, handsome and poised, holding hands in the first row.

  There was no sign of Moira or Jimmy Blackwell.

  “Maybe they’re still coming,” Renie said. “Obviously the police didn’t catch up with Jimmy yet or we’d have heard about it.”

  Judith nudged Beth. “Is Moira going to attend?”

  Beth shrugged. “I didn’t talk to her this morning. I doubt she can manage. Frankly, I don’t blame her.”

  A moment later, the crowd’s chatter was silenced by the arrival of a white-haired man with a solemn expression and piercing black eyes. With an air of authority, he sat down in the chair that had been placed behind the table. Judith assumed that the other chair was for the individuals who would give their findings.

  The inquest started with the police constables who had been first on the homicide scene. Alpin MacRae stood off to one side of the room, arms folded, eyes taking in every detail of the gathering.

  There was nothing new in their testimony. Judith’s mind drifted, taking in the austere surroundings, including a spinet piano, the flag of Scotland, and the portrait of a grim-looking woman who, judging from the black dress and lace collar, had probably founded the local institute at least a century earlier. Judith also studied the expressions on the villagers’ faces. They were a hardy lot, some of them careworn, a few from the younger set who would seem to be more at home attending a rock concert. An honest bunch, she decided, but perhaps a bit judgmental. Their history of strict, old-fashioned Presbyterianism and their life on the edge of the harsh North Sea lent them an aura of rigidity. Or maybe, she thought, it was just her lively imagination.

  Dr. Carmichael gave the medical findings. “Death was caused by pressure to the deceased’s face with an item that resulted in suffocation.” No, Harry Gibbs had not been in the car at the time of the explosion.

  A young man in tweeds and an old school tie succinctly described the type of bomb that had blown up Harry’s car. “Ammonium nitrate,” he stated, and not that difficult to make.

  The magistrate declared that Harry Gibbs’s death had been caused by the malicious mischief of a person or persons unknown. He immediately adjourned the inquest.

  Renie didn’t lower her voice. “No doughnuts? No cookies?”

  “Shut up,” Judith muttered as they began to file out of the meeting room. “I just realized we’ll have to give statements at Chuckie’s inquest since we found the body.”

  “Then we can insist on being fed,” Renie retorted.

  Judith ignored her. The gathering had suddenly stopped halfway to the exit.

  “There must be a bottleneck,” Marie Fleming said, turning around. “Where are Beth and Phil?”

  Judith tried to find them among the dozen or so people at her rear. “Not anywhere I can see. Is there another way out?”

  Will Fleming looked over his shoulder. “Yes. Off of the meeting room on the side of the building that faces the green. I suspect the Fordyces want to avoid the media. The reporters must be causing this delay by crowding at the front.” He put a hand on Marie’s arm. “Let’s duck out that other door, darling. I’d rather not get waylaid, either. I’ll leave that up to Seumas.”

  “He doesn’t mind talking to the media?” Judith asked as she and Renie followed the Flemings’ lead.

  “Our Mr. Bell can say less by saying more,” Will replied wryly. “He’s a very artful dodger, if a rather good lawyer.”

  There was no chance to question Will further. A few others had the same idea, getting in the way and preventing the cousins from staying close to the Flemings. Outside, the rain had turned into a drizzle and the wind had become only a slight breeze. “Do we have a plan?” Renie inquired after they reached the green.

  “Unfortunately, no,” Judith replied. “But I really don’t want to spend the day at the castle.”

  “Gosh, no,” Renie said in an ironic tone. “It’s much more fun standing here getting soaked.”

  “Okay, okay,” Judith said impatiently. “Maybe we should find a way to get to Hollywood House and see how Moira’s—” She stopped, spotting a familiar figure entering the churchyard next to the green. “Kate Gunn,” Judith said. “I didn’t see her at the inquest.”

  “Why would she be there? Harry had no ties to her,” Renie pointed out. “As I recall, we heard Kate and Moira weren’t close even when Frankie Gunn was alive.”

  Again, Judith didn’t say anything immediately. Instead she kept walking toward the church.

  “Swell,” Renie grumbled. “Ge
tting soaked and having a chinwag in a cemetery. Isn’t there a nice gallows around here someplace where we could stand with a noose around our necks and eat lunch?”

  “You don’t mind the rain,” Judith said, leading the way to the lich gate. “Kate’s by the Gunn family plot. If she’s praying, we’ll wait.”

  “I’m praying for cozy comfort,” Renie asserted.

  Judith stopped by a guardian angel statue that was patchy with moss and missing a few fingers. “Kate’s lips are moving,” she said softly, “but not exactly like a prayer—more like conversation.”

  “Talking to Earwig?” Renie suggested.

  “Eanruig,” Judith corrected. “Yes, maybe. Hunh. She’s wagging her finger and acting agitated.”

  “Does she really expect Earwig to answer back?”

  “Maybe,” Judith allowed, signaling for Renie to hush. Before she could hear any words, Kate turned in their direction. Judith poked Renie. “Pretend to study this tombstone,” she whispered.

  “It’s David Piazza’s,” Renie murmured. “The roses Moira brought last week look pretty beat up.”

  “Speak to Kate,” Judith urged. “She thinks you’ve got the sight.”

  “Half the sight,” Renie retorted. “She’s better off with Marie playing the part of a medium.”

  Judith grabbed Renie’s arm. “Do it.”

  With a sigh of resignation, Renie walked over to the Gunn family plot. Judith trailed behind.

  “Hi, Kate,” Renie said. “The spirits must be on vacation.”

  Kate gave a start and turned around to scowl at Renie. “You! What happened? Your eye!”

  Renie shrugged. “A chronic condition, affecting my vision. In fact, I have no sight at all of the type you mean. I’m a phony. Sorry.”

  Judith stopped abruptly, unable to believe that Renie would blurt out the truth.

  Kate made a menacing gesture. “Fraud! Liar! How dare you? I should’ve known you were evil when I met you in the woolen shop!”

  “That’s pushing it,” Renie said. “I’m kind of crabby, but not evil. My intentions were good.”