Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘Charles and I see little of each other recently,’ the lady allowed.

  ‘That is a shame,’ said Holmes. ‘Your husband was much affected by what happened in Antibes.’

  ‘Were we not all affected, sir? I mean, my God, that poor girl.’ She closed her eyes and took another swallow of the amber liquid. A moment passed and she took another.

  ‘Madam, I could not help but notice that you and your husband, if you will pardon my indiscretion …’

  ‘Yes, you are indiscreet,’ said Mrs McLaren, an odd smile on her lips. Her mood seemed to flit from one extreme to another. Her smile dropped away. ‘And yes, he and I, well, he has moved his rooms far from mine, and is now in the North Tower, where he knows I will not venture.’

  ‘And why would you not venture there, madam?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘The ghost.’ She took a long drink, draining her glass. ‘He knows me well. The ghost. I will not go there. He sometimes visits here. But—’

  ‘The ghost, madam?’ pressed Holmes, ever so gently.

  She eyed him with the sudden suspicion of the inebriated. Then just as abruptly she dropped this attitude, her eyes scanning the room as if in search of support. They alighted on her whisky decanters and she rose to refill her glass, holding up the crystal decanter to offer us each more. We declined, having barely yet tasted our own.

  She refilled her own glass, then sat again before us and sighed deeply. ‘Only I have seen Charles’s ghost. Everyone has seen the ghost in the East Wing where you stay. You must take care.’

  ‘Madam, thank you, we have been warned. But of this other ghost?’ said Holmes.

  ‘A servant died near your rooms, you know. Fell down the stairwell.’ She leaned to her right towards a small marble-topped table which rested next to her chair. On it were three cloisonné vases, each containing a sprig of rosemary. She took two sprigs out, and held them up. ‘Rosemary,’ said she, handing one to each of us.

  Her hand lingered on Holmes’s own as she gave it to him. He flinched almost imperceptibly.

  Catherine laughed. ‘Really, Mr Holmes. There is something of the schoolboy about you. Take it.’

  He waved the offering away and stood up. ‘Excuse me, madam. Rosemary does not agree with me.’ Nor do ghosts, I thought. As he moved away, he threw me a frowning glance that I understood only too well.

  ‘Madam, thank you,’ I said, and pocketed both Holmes’s and my own small gifts. ‘Rosemary for remembrance?’ I asked, hoping to distract. A vision of daft Ophelia came to mind.

  ‘No! Rosemary protects against ghosts,’ said Catherine McLaren. ‘They think me mad. But it has been a tradition at Braedern for a hundred years.’ She took another drink, emptying the second glass. She held it aloft. ‘Pour me another, Mr Holmes, while you are standing.’

  To my surprise, Holmes brought the decanter back with him, filling her glass and unnecessarily adding more to each of our own. I wondered at the wisdom of this, but the lady seemed mollified. She raised her glass to us in a toast, and we followed suit.

  ‘Carry that with you at all times,’ she admonished, pointing at the rosemary which now protruded jauntily from my pocket.

  ‘Mrs McLaren, we will take care, I assure you,’ said Holmes, resuming his seat facing the lady. ‘But of this ghost in Charles’s rooms – does it not frighten Charles as well?’

  ‘Charles claims never to have seen a ghost in his rooms. He calls me mad! I am not! But the ghost in his room – she is young, and female – serves him well. It keeps his wife away. I will never venture …’ Mrs McLaren’s eyes closed, she swayed slightly in her chair, and I put out a hand to steady her. The lady turned her full attention to me. ‘Doctor Watson, you will understand. You have a great sympathy for the ladies, or so I observe. Charles and I—he used to take me everywhere. To London. To Pa—to Paris sometimes to view the collections. I—we— …’ Her voice caught and a tear rolled down her pale cheek.

  Instantly Holmes pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her.

  ‘Mrs McLaren, it is inconceivable to me that he would wish to distance himself from you,’ said Holmes, the soul of sympathy.

  I had removed my handkerchief to offer it as well, but it went unremarked and I mopped my own forehead instead. The fire was stifling, and I perspired in my winter woollens, made worse by the warming effect of that same fine whisky she had pressed upon us.

  The lady dabbed at her eyes. ‘I am sure he wished to spend more time with Fiona, and others. Oh, Mr Holmes, you were right about Charles in Antibes. But I am right about the ghosts. I know you do not believe. But—’

  ‘If madam will allow me to continue,’ said Holmes in his most conciliatory of tones. ‘You are a very observant lady. I wonder if perhaps you may in fact be the most observant member of the family? Who had reason to hate Fiona Paisley?’

  The most observant? Why did he flatter her so, I wondered.

  ‘I had reason! But I would never hurt the girl. At first I was angry but with Charles, all things pass. And yes, I am observant. Why, yes. Yes, I am!’ Her words were slurred, and she struggled to focus as she addressed Holmes. ‘I observe that you are nervous in my presence. That you are drinking nothing. Is it my deshabille? Is it simply that I am a woman? Well, no matter. I observe that you, sir, are in need of some work.’

  Holmes cleared his throat but did not respond to this odd comment. Instead, he smiled at her in his friendliest manner. ‘Why do you think Fiona was interested in your husband? I would be extremely grateful to hear your thoughts, Mrs McLaren.’

  ‘Hmm. Conquest? Amusement? Fiona Paisley was a forward girl … but what a terrible end.’ Catherine McLaren’s words were slurred. ‘She … her head … Laird Robert, he was the most upset of all the family, did you not think?’ Holmes nodded. ‘It was someone who hated the laird. Hated Sir Robert. Thass what I think.’

  ‘I quite agree, madam.’

  She began to ramble. ‘But who might have done, well, that could be a lot of people. But, no. Most of them are dead.’ She leaned back against the cushions. ‘Perhaps Charles did it.’ Her head lolled back and she closed her eyes. Her dressing gown gaped ominously.

  Holmes shot me a look of mock horror. ‘Really madam! Your own husband? Has he reason to hate his father?’

  She spoke with her eyes closed. ‘Yes and no. But if he killed her, no good reason, really. Act of in—of sudden agg— anger, not planned. That little trumpe—rum —scallop probably demanded something. They were together, yes of course, I knew. Yes, that sounds right. It might have been him.’

  ‘So you think she may have been killed by Charles? A sudden act, before you left for France, then?’

  She answered without opening her eyes. ‘It is possible. He is an impala … imply … he just acts.’

  ‘Impulsive. I see. And yet it took a lot of planning to freeze her head and send it down to the South of France. Cutting off a head is not a casual act.’

  She murmured in the affirmative. Suddenly she sat forward and her eyes flew open. ‘Have you seen his rooms?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Holmes. ‘Why?’

  She giggled. I will admit a deep sense of unease at this woman and her chaotic demeanour. Holmes, however, seemed quite focused on her.

  ‘Watch yourselves, there!’ she said. Her head went back and her eyes shut once more. I took the whisky glass from her limp hand from which it threatened to fall.

  ‘Charles seemed as shocked as anyone. It is the motive and method for the beheading that puzzles me most,’ said Holmes.

  She continued to talk from behind closed eyes. ‘Charles does not have the backbuh … back break … stomach for that,’ she said. ‘Someone else, p’rhaps. Coupe? That terribly handsome man? He wanted Charles’s job. Everyone wants something here.’ She opened her eyes and peered blearily at Holmes. ‘Oh, you tire me enormously. You are very thin. Go away.’ She waved us off.

  I will admit to a pang of guilt as we descended the tower back towards the Great Hall. ‘My
God, Holmes, do you think it is safe to leave her in such a state? And you encouraged the lady!’

  ‘She would be in precisely the same state with or without our visit, Watson.’

  ‘I suppose so. But her theories were so preposterous. She was so drunk it is hard to give credence—’

  ‘In vino veritas, Watson. When spirits rob a person of inhibition, it is often the case that the truth spills forth.’

  ‘Do you mean about Charles? About Coupe?’

  ‘Well, what else could I mean?’ he said testily. ‘I think the lady spoke what is, to her, the truth. And I did not lie about her gift of observation. It is often the most observant who find the need to soften the harshness of reality with artificial means.’

  As Holmes himself did, with morphine or cocaine, I thought. He was now walking so fast, I nearly had to break into a run. ‘What is the hurry?’ I called out.

  If I did not know Holmes as well as I did, I might have thought that Catherine McLaren’s more personal comments had stung him. In vino veritas.

  CHAPTER 18

  Charles

  oon after, Charles McLaren met us in the front hallway of the building, as we were warned that his rooms were difficult to find. Located, as his wife had told us, in the North Tower, they sat at some distance from hers, and quite close to his father’s quarters. They had been formerly his mother’s private rooms.

  Like his brother and father, Charles was tall and powerfully built. His dark, curly auburn hair was worn unfashionably long in the style of our fathers’ era. A thick moustache and wild eyebrows gave him a bear-like appearance. The dazzling smile he bestowed upon us could not hide the hostility and arrogance simmering beneath the surface. While he was dressed impeccably in modern attire, there was something warrior-like about Charles’s demeanour, as if the ghost of a tartan kilt flapped about his legs, and a spear lay hidden somewhere nearby.

  And, as Mrs McLaren had just suggested, there hung the means of beheading a person several times over. Indeed, a formidable collection of antique weapons did line the walls of his luxurious chambers, including any number of knives and swords, shields, a gigantic crossbow and other military relics of both recent and distant origin. And of course, there was the requisite collection of decanters waiting on a sideboard.

  Whisky glasses in hand, we soon stood near a fireplace, above which was festooned a bizarre, complex array of stag antlers and more hunting knives. Holmes had begun the interview by effusively complimenting the man on his recent success in expanding the McLaren whisky business.

  ‘It is true!’ exclaimed Charles. ‘I have done what few could have done. I have gone up against the mighty Buchanan in London to secure some of the more lucrative contracts in the city. And I have doubled our production, without sacrificing quality, I may add. We have gone from being merely a source whisky for the insipid blends of our southern counterparts to producing the best self whisky in the world, if not yet the best selling – in my humble opinion, of course. We will shortly unveil our coup de grace, McLaren Garnet, and we expect with this remarkable new whisky to achieve no less than a warrant to supply the Royal Household.’

  Humility clearly had no place in this man’s worldview. But a Royal Warrant! Every distillery in Scotland must covet that distinction on their labels.

  ‘Laird Robert must be pleased with your accomplishments,’ said Holmes.

  ‘I know my father thinks I am doing a better job than Donal ever would have done. There is no question, none could do it better.’

  ‘He compliments you on this?’

  ‘Well, not aloud. It is not our way. But I am aware of his feelings of pride.’

  Holmes took out his pipe and felt absentmindedly in his pockets for tobacco. ‘Of course, your brother Alistair has been of some help to you, has he not, in some way or other?’ I became aware that he had launched into the guise of fumbling, an effective ruse I had witnessed in the past.

  ‘Ha! Alistair may tell you so. But it was I who demanded the increase in output and even suggested its method. My younger brother lacks imagination and flair. He is like a plough horse, strong enough to hoe the rows, or tweak the distillery with his minor inventions, but he is so consumed with detail that he little sees the importance of big ideas.’

  ‘A curious metaphor,’ said Holmes, finally arriving at the package of shag in his pocket. He began to stuff the bowl of his pipe. At Charles’s frown, he added, ‘Do you mind?’ asked he, distractedly.

  Charles shook his head impatiently. ‘If you must. Continue.’

  Holmes managed to drop some shag onto the carpet. ‘Ah! Sorry.’ He stooped to gather it up, bumping into a nearby table as he did so, setting an ornate lamp asway and some papers tumbling to the ground. ‘Careful!’ Charles quickly grasped the lamp, a rather garish stained glass affair, and kept it from falling. Holmes fumbled with the papers, replaced them on the table with an awkward smile and continued to feel in his pocket for matches.

  ‘Devil take it. My apologies. Have you a match, Watson?’ Holmes then smiled at Charles McLaren. ‘And your wife, Mrs McLaren, has she long had trouble with the drink?’

  The man’s face darkened. He took a sip of his own whisky. ‘Of what relevance is this question?’

  ‘I do not know what is relevant until I view everything,’ said Holmes. ‘Pray be patient, and tell me of your wife, please.’

  Charles grunted, refilled his glass and took a large sip. I handed Holmes my matches.

  ‘Catherine was a fair young lass with great promise, socially, when I married her. Her problems with the drink, come, I think, from her mother’s side, as does her ridiculous belief in ghosts. Ach, the woman is a loss.’

  ‘You no longer take her to London, do you?’ asked Holmes as he now fumbled awkwardly to light his pipe.

  ‘Social life is very important in London if one is to get ahead, but of course you understand that, as a man about town yourself.’

  I coughed, and Holmes shot me a severe look. I cleared my throat.

  ‘My Cathy was an asset when I first began, beautiful as she was, but as the drink began to take hold this asset became a liability. If she were a man, I would have fired her. As it was, I merely left her here.’

  Holmes nodded. ‘I have observed her difficulties.’

  ‘The drinking is a weakness, certainly, but with support some have overcome the curse,’ I said.

  Charles turned a cold stare upon me. ‘And who are you to judge me? The woman has a defect in her construction that I cannot influence. Have you ever attempted to wean someone from destructive, habitual comforts?’

  How little you know, I thought, but said nothing.

  Holmes began to pace, growing in concentration. ‘How long have you been in these rooms?’ he asked.

  ‘Not long, a few months perhaps.’

  ‘You have an impressive collection,’ said Holmes, waving absentmindedly towards the gleaming weaponry.

  I recognized several claymores and what I thought might be a halberd. ‘What is this one?’ I wondered, pointing to a kind of axe with a hook on the back, and long pieces of metal extending along the sides down from the blade onto one third of the shaft.

  ‘That is a Lochaber axe, Watson,’ said Holmes.

  Charles smiled. ‘Well done, Mr Holmes. And a keen piece of weaponry she is. Gets them coming and going. And clever, these long pieces of metal, down the sides,’ he said, with pride.

  ‘Langets, I believe they are called,’ said Holmes. ‘Prevents the head from being cut off.’

  ‘The head?’ I stammered, aghast.

  ‘Of the weapon, Watson,’ smiled Holmes.

  ‘Exactly. You know your Scottish weaponry,’ said Charles, reaching for the dastardly object. ‘Want to heft her?’ Holmes shook his head and Charles replaced it easily on the wall. ‘How is it that you know this detail?’ Charles persisted. I was wondering the same thing myself.

  ‘I attended school briefly in Edinburgh,’ said Holmes.

  Ah, of course.
>
  ‘Where?’ asked Charles.

  Holmes sighed. ‘Fettes. But that is neither here nor there.’

  ‘An acquaintance went to Fettes,’ said Charles. ‘Rigorous place. Not for the faint of heart. Made men of boys, they say. You do not seem the type, Mr Holmes, no insult intended. I thought it was mainly Foundation pupils.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ said Holmes. ‘Beautiful claymore,’ he remarked, indicating another fierce weapon. ‘But let us continue, Mr McLaren, with the subject at hand. What exactly was your relationship with Fiona Paisley?’

  ‘She was beautiful and forward, and pressed herself upon every male member of the household,’ he murmured, taking a long sip of his drink. He smacked his lips, a most unpleasant sound.

  ‘Pressed herself?’

  ‘Flirted, Mr Holmes. A crafty girl. Many of us fell under her spell.’

  ‘And did you press back?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘Do not be vulgar, sir. The girl offered herself, if not directly, then indirectly, by her manner, her words, the way she dressed. As I have mentioned, my marriage bed is a cold one. If I dallied with her, or with anyone for that matter, nary a soul could blame me. I will tell you this, though, I did not kill the girl.’

  ‘Did I suggest you did?’

  ‘I tell you I did not.’

  ‘Who do you think did?’

  ‘I have my theories.’

  ‘May I hear them?’ said Holmes.

  ‘My wife is both jealous and vindictive. She is my first thought. But she has not the nerve, nor the organisation to do so. And then, of course, Cameron Coupe. He thought to be put in charge of the distillery instead of myself.’

  ‘Did he then? He presumed he might take precedence over a family member?’

  ‘Who knows? Although it could very well be my brother, Alistair. He is, shall we say, less noticed by the ladies, and is sorely jealous of me. I believe he may be the only male to have been turned down by that feisty little minx.’

  I shuddered at his words. No respect for the dead here.