Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

by Bonnie MacBird

  Cameron Coupe let out a large, booming laugh. He relaxed into his chair. ‘A good question, sir. If it is not telling tales out of school, I should say the entire family believes in ghosts. Though well they hide it.’

  Holmes said nothing.

  ‘But why cut off her hair?’ I asked.

  ‘It that not obvious, gentlemen? He thought to keep his boys from dallying with the girl. It made her, well, less enticing,’ said Coupe. He flushed uncomfortably as he spoke.

  ‘For a time, perhaps. And what followed? Did you participate in any further ghostly games to keep the various participants in this little drama in line?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘I did not, sir.’

  ‘Were you never attracted to the lass yourself?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘No,’ said Coupe, a little too quickly. ‘I was immune.’

  ‘How was that?’

  ‘The girl did not appeal to me, sir.’

  ‘And where were you during the past four days?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Here, on the property. We were installing a new hot water tank in the mash house, and I took some deliveries of new equipment. Then I attended a distiller’s meeting in Aberdeen.’

  ‘And someone can vouch for your presence here as well as there?’

  ‘Twenty people can do so, Mr Holmes.’

  Holmes nodded. ‘Did you believe she had eloped, then?’

  ‘I had no reason to disbelieve it. Except for perhaps the young man in question. He seemed, well, he was, or rather is a handsome and strong lad, gentle in nature. But not right in the head, and he longed for the girl in a most inappropriate and obvious manner.’

  ‘Did you believe she ran off with this boy?’

  ‘I did, and I still do,’ said Coupe, firmly.

  ‘And then he killed her?’

  ‘That I would be loath to say.’

  Holmes stood to leave and I did as well. ‘One more thing, Mr Coupe,’ said Holmes. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘I am not,’ he replied. I could feel his eyes upon us as we left the room.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Groundsman’s Sons

  t was already near dark when we left to visit the groundsman, one Ualan Moray. Holmes decided to continue with the laird later. We asked and were directed to a small cottage some quarter of a mile to the east of the castle. The man was out, but another son, a small boy of ten or so, was there alone, tending to a large pot of soup. At Holmes’s request, he ran to fetch his father.

  We awaited him in the single large room of this stone cottage, simply furnished, and with the man’s own double bed and two smaller, stacked beds visible behind a makeshift curtain. Soon he arrived, a man of fifty, weather-beaten, with the large, gnarled hands of a hard-working outdoorsman who had touched earth, stone, and wood for years. His small green eyes were bloodshot and squinting, his manner subdued. He wore layers of rough woollen cloth, with a leather vest over the top, and a pair of thick leather gloves clipped to a heavy belt. Holmes gave him our names. He took us in with a sweeping glance and let out a long sigh. ‘I am Ualan Moray. What do you need?’ he asked.

  Holmes told him he was there to investigate the death of Fiona Paisley, and the father bade his boy make us tea. After taking our winter garments, the child did so and then retired out of sight. As we three sat by the fire nursing cups of the strong brew, the old man said the laird had instructed everyone on his staff to cooperate with Sherlock Holmes.

  But it was hard for him to speak. Grief coloured his every movement. Holmes began gently but his initial questions about the man’s son, Iain, were met with silence. Moray at last admitted that his son Iain had disappeared, along with Fiona, on the day her letter had arrived saying she had eloped. And then the poor man stopped, staring into the fire, unable to proceed.

  ‘Mr Moray, I know that this is a difficult task,’ said Holmes carefully. ‘But I must persist if this mystery is to be solved.’

  Ualan Moray looked up at Holmes. Slowly and with deliberation, the man tipped a splash of whisky from a flask into each of our cups, drank his cup to the bottom, and refilled it. Only then did he open up.

  ‘I will tell you the story. But the ending you must tell me. I fear it, I say. I fear it.’

  ‘Let me hear, Mr Moray, and I will see if I can help you. What was the relationship exactly between your son and the parlour maid Fiona Paisley? Can you say?’

  ‘Ach, that lass. Fiona and my son, Iain, were very close since they were wee bairns. Like brother and sister. Played together. Only it changed when they got older. Not right away …’ He drifted off.

  ‘But over time, then?’ prompted Holmes.

  ‘The girls, they are older first, see. She grew into a beauty, sae bonnie and fresh. She had the beautiful red hair, like a waterfall a’fire.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Holmes. ‘You said the friendship changed?’

  ‘Two years ago. Iain, he was seventeen. But Iain … he … Iain has always been young. He …’

  ‘He was stupid, Faither,’ said the child from a corner of the room. I had not noticed him there. ‘He went and got hisself killed.’

  The old man stiffened and turned to his son. ‘Get back to your room, Calum. Do it, now.’ The boy sniffed and moved behind the curtain. He would still be listening, of that I was sure.

  ‘She weren’t a cruel lass, but she teased him, did Fiona. Not mean at first, but Iain didnae understand. He was simple, you see.’

  ‘Simple? Do you mean he was slow? Unusually so?’ asked Holmes, with a gentleness I would not have anticipated.

  The man nodded. ‘Aye. His mother, bless her heart, said the faeries must’a dropped him on his head one night while we were sleeping. He wisnae normal.’

  ‘Can you tell me more? Was he ever violent? Did he hurt things?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘My Iain? Never. Gentle as a lamb. He loved all things, and all people. But most of all, he loved Fiona. He took to following her like a lost puppy.’

  ‘How did Fiona respond?’

  ‘The girl was friendly, then of a sudden went cold. Happened o’ernight. She told him to stay away, she didnae want to play anymore. She didnae want to be followed.’

  ‘What did Iain do then?’

  ‘He stopped following her.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ asked Holmes. ‘If he loved her—’

  ‘Well, he could no longer. She went away somewhere, to school, I think. But then she came back. She were angrier then and wilder. Something changed. She shouted at my Iain.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Iain wis broken-hearted.’

  ‘Angry at her?’

  ‘Nay! He wisnae that kind, I tell you. It went into melancholy. He moved slowly. I couldnae hardly get him out o’bed i’ the morning.’

  ‘Then Fiona was kidnapped,’ prompted Holmes.

  ‘Aye. And Iain was mad with worry. He began tae look for Fiona. He lookit everywhere he knew she might hide.’

  ‘How did he know? You said he did not follow her.’

  ‘Nae, from before. The two of them as bairns, they hid all the time. All those places.’

  ‘Do you know those places?’

  ‘Only a few.’

  ‘I knows ’em,’ said the boy, emerging from behind the curtain.

  ‘Excellent, young man! Calum, is it?’ said Holmes before his father could rebuke the boy. ‘Perhaps you’ll show me.’ He turned back to the groundsman. ‘Is there any dynamite on the property?’

  This sharp detour from Fiona’s case took me by surprise.

  ‘Nay,’ said the groundsman, exactly as the boy said, ‘Aye!’

  ‘Faither, ’tis in the little room,’ said the boy.

  ‘And how d’ye ken that!’ exclaimed his father. The boy shrugged.

  ‘What little room?’ asked Holmes of the boy.

  ‘Ah, well, it is not meant for all to know,’ interrupted the father. ‘We hae some dynamite. I keep it in a little locked room in the back of the garden shed. Where the expensive tools a
re kept. Where no one is to enter,’ he said pointedly at the boy.

  ‘Obviously entirely secure,’ said Holmes with one of his mirthless smiles. We exchanged a glance. Isla McLaren had discovered this ‘secret’ cache as well. ‘And the purpose of these explosives?’

  ‘We used it last year. We cleared an area to build housing for the new men. We expanded the distillery, you see—’

  ‘Yes, you have many new hires, I understand. An interesting crew.’

  ‘That is not for me to say, sir.’ We could see a shudder of disgust. At least one member of this estate did not think of the laird’s charitable hiring policy as benign.

  ‘What of these newer distillery workers? Could any of them have harboured ill feelings towards Fiona?’

  ‘Perhaps, sir, but they are much separate from the castle. I doubt that even that daring girl would hae gone there. My Iain would hae noticed this and stopped her. He would hae told me.’

  Holmes considered this. ‘Back to the explosives, then. You keep this dynamite around, on hand as it were?’ he asked.

  ‘We may hae use for it in the future. And it is safe. Nobel’s newest—’

  ‘Yes I know all about that kind. It will not explode from mere movement. Yet precautions must be taken. Is it kept in a fireproof box? Where, exactly?’

  ‘Little danger, Mr Holmes. That shed is damp and canna catch on fire. Or no’ easily. The dynamite is in a metal box. Protected. The laird is very strict on the matter, sir.’

  ‘Good. Now, what can you tell me of the laird’s late wife?’

  ‘The Lady Elizabeth?’ Ualan Moray looked confused. Holmes nodded in encouragement.

  ‘A sad tale there,’ said Moray. ‘She was a fine lady. ’Tis she that now wanders the East Tower. ’Twas the nursery at one time, from which her wee daughter Anne disappeared. She’s no’ a happy spirit, and wanders there at nights.’

  ‘Her ghost, yes, we have heard,’ said Holmes. ‘What a tragedy!’

  ‘Lockit out by chance on a winter nicht. She froze to death.’

  ‘How is it possible no one heard the lady try to enter?’

  ‘’Tis a mystery, sir. But the laird recently had the castle secured. It wisnae long after he had brought a’ the … veterans and … others … to work here.’

  ‘New locks. I see. Who saw the body? Who found her? Any of the staff?’

  ‘The laird, as I understand it found her. He woudnae let a soul touch her. Carried her in himself. She is buried in the back garden, near the East Tower.’

  ‘Where we are staying, Holmes,’ I said.

  ‘She chose the place long before. To be near if little Anne were to return, it is said.’

  ‘Odd. As groundsman, was it you that dug the grave?’

  ‘I expected to sir, but no. The family did it, privately.’

  ‘You are sure she is dead, then?’ I asked. Holmes frowned at me.

  ‘Her ghaist is the proof, sir.’

  Holmes sighed. ‘There are no ghosts.’

  ‘Perhaps no’ in London. Here things are different, Mr Holmes. But please, sir, my son. I must know about Iain.’

  ‘Yes. Let us return to Iain. Please describe him to me.’

  ‘He were—he is—twenty but looks younger. Light hair, blue eyes. About the height of your friend, here, but bigger in the shoulders, and shorter legs like myself. But strong, my Iain was. Is.’

  ‘Good. Thank you, Mr Moray. I shall do my best.’ Holmes stood up and I joined him.

  ‘Calum, their coats!’ the man called out. The boy came forward laden with our things.

  ‘Mmm. It seems to me that you could keep a better eye on young Calum, here, sir,’ said Holmes, retrieving his blue scarf and untangling it from his coat. ‘How old are you, boy? Ten, I would wager?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Calum.

  ‘Not an age to be playing with dynamite.’

  The boy nodded, and handed us the rest of our outerwear.

  The groundsman shrugged. ‘C’mere, son,’ said he, taking the small boy by the waist and drawing him in close. ‘Listen to the man, then, Calum. Stay clear of the shed.’ Turning to us, he added, ‘He is all I have got.’

  ‘We do not know that yet.’ I offered.

  ‘One more thing, Mr Moray,’ said Holmes, now tying his scarf. ‘When Fiona and Iain supposedly ran away to get married, what did you think had happened?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘I thought maybe she ran away and he followed. But never did I think they were married.’

  ‘You were not worried then?’ asked Holmes, donning his ear-flapped cap.

  ‘Aye, worried. My Iain hasnae the experience of the wider world. We didna know where they went.’

  ‘And now …’

  ‘The girl is deid and my boy missing. Please, Mr Holmes. I hae nae money and I ken you are here on the business of Fiona. But please, find my son.’

  His voice caught. I knew the grief was real.

  Holmes shrugged on his long tweed coat. ‘Thank you, Mr Moray. You have given me much to consider. I intend to get to the bottom of this mystery.’

  The groundsman closed his eyes. ‘’Twas not Iain that killed Fiona,’ said he. A tear leaked from one eye and he brushed it away with a rough hand.

  Holmes turned to the boy. ‘And you, son? What do you think?’

  Calum threw his arms around his father and looked up to meet Holmes’s gaze. ‘Nay. Not Iain. My brother wisnae … he wisnae smart. But he was kind. He was always kind to me.’

  ‘You are lucky to have such an older brother,’ said Holmes.

  ‘He protected me.’

  Holmes knelt before the boy.

  ‘From what?’ he asked, his voice gentle. I was always surprised at the rapport Holmes had with children.

  ‘Anything. Everything.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Scary men who work here. Wolves. Faeries. Falling down. Anything. I love my brother. Can you find him, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘I will try.’ Holmes patted the boy on the shoulder, rose and turned to the father. ‘Mr Moray, I do not think Iain had anything to do with Fiona’s death. But I have just begun, and there is much to discover.’ He paused, searching the groundsman’s face. ‘Was there something else?’ The man nodded.

  ‘There was jealousy, if I may say so, sir, a great deal.’

  ‘Jealousy? Among the family? The servants?’

  ‘Both, sir. You would think the family would be above it. But—nae, I speak out of turn.’

  ‘Do continue, Mr Moray. Your thoughts are most welcome.’ Holmes and I stood bundled, ready to depart. But I knew he would not leave without following up this statement.

  Ualan Moray shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘If you must know, I always thought that Mrs McLaren was a one. Fiona, she talked about how much the lady hated her. Laughed about it, she did. But I told her to watch herself. Something were not right with that woman.’

  ‘Ah, it is Isla McLaren to whom you refer?’ asked Holmes. I thought this question a touch too eager.

  ‘No, the elder Mrs McLaren. Catherine,’ said Mr Moray. ‘But I shouldnae say a word, sir, I am not there to see.’

  Holmes nodded and I will admit to a moment of relief.

  ‘Find my son, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Find Iain, please.’

  As we trudged our way through the snow to the castle, a wind had picked up. ‘Sad story,’ I said. ‘But what an interesting child, that Calum! And then, of course, Isla McLaren found that dynamite, too.’

  ‘Yes, for a secret room, it is not very secret, is it? Yet, I am sure the groundsman was telling the truth about his son. Iain did not kill Fiona.’

  ‘But he had motive. The girl had spurned him.’

  ‘Yes, but cut off her head and bring it to the South of France? He did not make the delivery, that is for sure. He was not the man our French cabby described. This reeks of subtle planning. No, I think not, Watson. But he had some role in this little tragedy, of that I am certain.’

  ‘I fear we will not find hi
m,’ said I.

  ‘Ah. And I fear we will,’ said Sherlock Holmes. ‘I fear it very much, for Ualan Moray’s sake.’

  CHAPTER 17

  Catherine

  ur next interview, by chance, was with Catherine McLaren, Charles’s wife. As we made our way back to the castle, Holmes said that he thought the lady was clearly an alcoholic, and as such too disorganised to plot or carry out such a heinous crime, but that perhaps we might still learn something of use from her.

  ‘Though I doubt she will reveal much to me now,’ he admitted, ‘after my unfortunate revelations about her husband at the hotel in Antibes. I may have need of your charms, Watson.’

  Holmes rarely misjudged a response, but here he had. The lady not only seemed to have forgiven him, but began the interview as though she had altogether forgotten his embarrassing assertions in France. Or perhaps she was thankful that he had drawn her father-in-law’s attention to Charles’s wayward affections.

  We were seated by the fire in her heavily gilded and overheated suite of rooms in the West Tower. Scattered throughout the salon were numerous embroidered pillows. On the walls hung several unremarkable landscape paintings in ornate frames, and a bright floral embroidery project draped, unfinished, over the arm of a chair. Under the window stood a row of crystal decanters of whisky.

  The lady sat before us, bizarrely coquettish if not inappropriate in a scanty green silk gown, over which had been thrown a gold housecoat embroidered in gilt thread. Her blonde curls tumbled girlishly around her shoulders, a look more suited for an intimate encounter than for a formal interview. The fact that the meeting had been prearranged made her choice of attire all the more disconcerting.

  All three of us held cut crystal glasses of whisky. The lady sipped from hers continuously throughout the interview. I felt the situation was awkward in the extreme, although Holmes proceeded as if nothing were amiss.

  ‘Mrs McLaren,’ he began, ‘perhaps you can help us in the matter of the unfortunate Fiona Paisley. Can you tell us anything about this young woman?’

  ‘I had very little contact with the girl, Mr Holmes. You should ask my husband about her.’

  Holmes nodded, and appeared to sip his whisky, allowing silence to fill the space. Holmes rarely touched alcohol while on a case, and I was fairly certain he was not doing so now.