Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘It seems you have no theory, after all, Mr McLaren,’ remarked Holmes. ‘You say Alistair is not beloved of the ladies?’

  Charles shrugged dismissively. I thought briefly of Alistair’s beautiful and intelligent wife Isla and wondered at this man’s deluded thinking.

  ‘Perhaps he is jealous because you have the running of the business?’ Holmes said.

  ‘Yes. Alistair, too, assumed it would go to him.’

  ‘Why? You are the elder.’

  ‘He has made a study of our business since childhood, and further with organic chemistry at University. He fancies himself both an engineer, and a master of all pertaining to the making of whisky. Tries to invent things.’

  ‘I see. That explains a certain resentment. But in regards to Fiona, is he not happily married?’

  ‘Happily!’ Charles bellowed a laugh. ‘To that usurping harpie?’

  ‘Isla McLaren? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, have you not noticed? She presumes to have the intelligence and judgement of a man, and will not hesitate to let you know at every turn. She is tiresome in the extreme. The more fool my brother for marrying her.’

  ‘And was Alistair dallying with Fiona?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Perhaps not. But I am sure he made the attempt to “scale her ramparts”.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I caught them once, whispering together in the halls one night. Alistair was attempting to force his attentions on her. She, in turn, was fending him off.’

  If what the man said were true, I felt a pang of concern for Isla McLaren.

  ‘En flagrante, then? You would think Alistair would choose his time and place with more discretion,’ said Holmes.

  Charles laughed. ‘My brother lacks finesse.’

  ‘Do you think the same person who kidnapped Fiona and cut off her hair was the one who killed her?’

  ‘I have no idea. Why not?’

  ‘Well, the first was clearly a warning, a shot fired across the bow,’ said Holmes. ‘The second act smacks of retribution.’

  ‘I suppose if you put it that way,’ said Charles.

  ‘Otherwise why not simply kill her the first time?’

  ‘I have no idea. Mr Holmes, this interview tires me. I do not know who killed the girl, and while what happened in the Hôtel du Cap was shocking, frankly her story interests me very little.’

  ‘Your response when the head was revealed indicates otherwise, Mr McLaren.’

  ‘Well, it was repulsive, that is all.’

  ‘You had feelings for this girl,’ Holmes stated with some force.

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Do not lie to me, Mr McLaren. It is obvious.’

  ‘You are seeing things that are not there. Rather like my wife, Mr Holmes. Do you see apparitions in the night? They are often visible in the East Tower where you are staying.’ Charles’s tone was mocking.

  ‘You do not believe in ghosts, Mr McLaren?’

  ‘Pah! Old wives’ tales. It is a country filled with ghosts if you listen to the uneducated.’

  ‘I see you keep rosemary by your bed,’ said Holmes nodding towards the open doorway into Charles’s bedchamber.

  ‘My wife puts it there.’

  ‘She comes into your rooms, and places it there?’

  ‘Well, no. I do not allow her in here. And she is afraid. A servant does it for her.’

  ‘I see. And you leave it?’

  ‘I like the scent.’

  ‘Mmm. Your wife cares for you. Looks after you, does she? Despite being spurned from your company?’ persisted Holmes.

  ‘Well if you must insist on this indiscretion, Mr Holmes, I visit her occasionally. It is an arrangement that suits me well. I am a busy man but I make time for her even so. And this, despite her despicable habit.’

  His own row of decanters gleamed in the light from an electric sconce. The master of a distillery denigrating his own wife for drink seemed the height of hypocrisy to me. I set my empty glass on the table.

  Shortly after, the interview concluded and we made our way back to the Great Hall. We were alone in the cavernous space. We stood near the large stone fireplace where we first saw Mrs Isla McLaren and the laird upon our arrival. The dwindling fire gave out a faint warmth.

  ‘I like Charles McLaren not at all,’ I said.

  ‘Nor I,’ said Holmes.

  ‘What did you find there?’ I asked. ‘Something on the table?’

  Holmes smiled and took from his pocket a folded pamphlet. It was a monograph on the new forms of dynamite, published by the Nobel company. On it were some handwritten notes.

  ‘Could these be Dr Janvier’s looped “t”s?’ mused Holmes. At my puzzled look, he reminded me of the threatening missives that Dr Paul-Édouard Janvier had received in Montpellier – and the single detail of handwriting that he could recall – the one that assured him that all the letters were from the same individual.

  ‘Those threats could have come from Charles, then,’ I said.

  ‘They may well have, but without the originals to compare, I cannot be sure. Watson, these waters grow ever deeper. The degree of obfuscation in this family exceeds even my expectations.’

  CHAPTER 19

  The Laird’s Sanctum

  s we pondered our next interview, a liveried servant arrived to bid us to the laird’s chambers to complete our interview with our host and client. We duly made our way to the South Tower.

  Laird Robert’s quarters displayed a subtle wealth beyond all the others. The stone walls had been covered alternately by carved wood panels and medieval tapestries. The combination of electric lights, which seemed to have been laid on randomly throughout the castle twinkled here, and a blazing fire and silver candelabra added a warm glow. Thick oriental carpets hushed our footfalls.

  On a side table near a window were the ever-present whisky decanters. The room conveyed immense wealth, taste, and masculinity untempered by the soft touch of a woman. There was a peculiar lack of personal items – no books, pictures, stationery.

  The laird emerged from his bedroom, now in evening attire. He seemed distracted.

  ‘Have a seat, gentlemen, but we must be efficient. I will not be joining you at dinner. I am called away suddenly this evening, to Balmoral. It is an hour from here and I must leave shortly.’

  ‘The royal residence!’ said Holmes. ‘That is propitious!’

  The laird nodded. ‘The invitation is sudden, but long awaited. I feel certain that if I can manage to get one of the family, or at least the Master of the Queen’s Cellars or the Lord Chamberlain, to visit and taste, the Royal Warrant will be ours.’

  ‘Yes, Charles alluded to your hopes riding on the McLaren Garnet,’ said Holmes.

  ‘There is no finer whisky.’

  ‘Then you are pleased with Charles’s management of the business?’

  The laird had poured us each a dram without enquiring whether we wanted any. He handed them to us and took a chair opposite ours next to the fire. I took a small sip. This was the fourth interview with whisky. A wave of sleepiness washed over me and I put the glass down. I can normally drink with any man but even I had begun to feel outmatched.

  The laird sighed. ‘Charles has obtained some lucrative contracts, and a certain presence in London. However he lacks judgement at times and is unaware of his own failings.’

  ‘And what might those be?’

  ‘They are legion. For one, he has not the technical skills.’

  ‘And the younger, Alistair? Does he possess those skills?’

  ‘He does. He has doubled our production in the last two years.’

  Holmes and I exchanged a glance. Charles had neatly taken the credit for that.

  ‘And yet you awarded the stewardship to Charles?’ said Holmes.

  The laird took a sip of whisky. I could see that the subject was an uncomfortable one for him.

  ‘Alistair, despite his gifts, lacks finesse.’

  ‘But paired with his hig
hly intelligent wife?’ prompted Holmes.

  ‘Isla is impressive, I will agree. But I am of the opinion that women are not capable of running a business.’

  ‘Really?’ said Holmes. ‘I understand that Cardhu distillery in Speyside is doing well, with a Mrs Elisabeth Cummings at the helm since her husband died.’

  ‘You are well informed. But she is the exception to the rule.’

  Holmes rose from his chair and, abandoning his libation, began to wander the room, idly, it seemed. The laird, however, was no fool. By now he understood the detective seldom did anything without a reason.

  ‘What interests you there, Mr Holmes?’

  Holmes now stood over a table on which large blueprints had been spread, and was glancing at them with casual interest.

  ‘I see you are planning an expansion of the distillery,’ he murmured.

  ‘I am. It is hardly a secret. Why?’

  ‘Will you be using dynamite to prepare the grounds, to level part of it perhaps?’

  ‘It is rocky land. Dynamite is a necessity.’

  ‘That explains it!’ exclaimed Holmes, straightening. ‘I am so relieved.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There is a large cache of dynamite in a secret, locked room of your garden shed. I say “secret” in jest, as any number of people here know about it.’

  ‘What? I—well of course we keep it on hand. I shall look into its security. But why exactly does this relieve you Mr Holmes?’

  ‘It relieves me that you have good reason for its presence. Were you aware that during your family’s stay at the Hôtel du Cap, a large explosion occurred in Montpellier?’

  ‘No, I was not.’

  ‘The laboratory of the French horticulturalist, Paul-Édouard Janvier, was bombed. He is the leading researcher in his field. Fortunately, no one was hurt.’

  ‘And why is this of relevance to me?’

  Holmes eyed the laird with a cold stare, one eyebrow raised. ‘You are surely aware of Dr Janvier, and his work combating the phylloxera epidemic. You are also no doubt aware of the suspicion with which the French government regards the British on this matter, and in particular three families, of which the McLarens take precedence.’

  ‘This means nothing to me,’ said the laird. ‘Why would I—’

  ‘Please do not waste my time, Sir Robert. I know you have been questioned on the matter. Dr Janvier has been receiving threatening letters. The device used recently was the same make and type as your dynamite. This is a very new product from Nobel. It has extremely limited distribution at this point. Charles had a monograph about this dynamite in his room. In fact, your son—’

  ‘We use dynamite in construction, as I have just explained.’

  ‘As to the bombing in Montpellier, your family have motive, and were nearby when it occurred.’

  ‘That is hardly compelling evidence, Mr Holmes. Circumstantial, I believe you call it.’

  ‘True,’ said Holmes. He continued to stare at the laird.

  The older man finished his whisky and put down the glass abruptly. ‘Let me elucidate. Yes, the troubles with the French wine industry have opened the door to the expansion of Scottish whisky markets. But as for someone here causing the phylloxera disaster? Impractical, if not impossible. Surely you agree?’

  ‘I do,’ said Holmes. ‘But delaying the cure might well help to extend your business development.’

  ‘It seems a foolhardy venture, Mr Holmes. Do I look like a foolish man to you?’

  ‘You do not. Nevertheless, this must be examined. Even your daughter-in-law Isla is alert to these implications.’

  ‘I cannot control what the French think! Or my daughter-in-law either.’

  I suppressed a laugh, and the smallest smile passed over Holmes’s face, then was gone.

  The laird did not share in our amusement. ‘I can assure you I had nothing to do with this incident, nor can I imagine Charles doing so. I would not risk my reputation or my family with such a cowardly act.’

  ‘Well, that is good to hear. No reason to worry about this particular dynamite then,’ said Holmes. ‘Nor the threatening notes that have been received by Dr Janvier.’

  ‘Nor those, either. May I suggest that you confine yourself to the case for which you were hired, Mr Holmes. Find out who killed Fiona and sent her … sent her …’

  ‘Sir Robert, I will do whatever necessary in order to understand what happened to Miss Paisley. The appearance of her head on a platter at the hotel is, I admit, still opaque to the light of reason. Now, if you do not mind, as I said I would need to, I will examine your bedchamber.’

  ‘I must depart soon, Mr Holmes. Please do so in haste.’

  The second room was only slightly smaller than the first. It held thick velvet curtains lined with a tartan wool and an ornate bedstead, with a gilded picture frame above the bed containing a sweeping Highland landscape.

  Once again, there were few personal touches. My eyes landed at last on a small silver frame set on the nightstand. I picked it up. It was a daguerreotype of a young man who sported a profusion of dark hair, a pronounced chin, and a bold, uncompromising stare.

  It could well have been the laird himself as a young man. I handed it to Holmes who regarded it with interest.

  ‘Donal,’ said the laird quietly. ‘My eldest. Lost at Khartoum.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Holmes. ‘And so buried there, I assume?’

  There was a pause. ‘No bodies were recovered,’ said the laird simply.

  ‘I presume Donal attended university before his army service?’

  ‘Why, Camford, the same as yourself, Mr Holmes. Though Donal was older. Perhaps you met there?’

  ‘No,’ said Holmes. He did not bother to conceal his own irritation. ‘You have researched me, I see.’

  ‘It is my way, Mr Holmes. I understood you left under something of a cloud of controversy.’ The laird’s dark eyes bored into my friend with an icy concentration. I was surprised that anyone had heard of this besides myself, and even I had learned of it only recently.

  Holmes took no notice. ‘Back to Donal, if you would,’ said he. ‘This portrait on your nightstand speaks of deep affection.’

  ‘I will admit it, Donal was my favourite. One wishes not to have preferences but it is unavoidable. It was Donal who most resembled me. He did have a temper, but in spite of this it was he who was best suited to carry on the business of this estate. I had high hopes for the boy.’

  ‘I recall reading about that temper,’ said Holmes. ‘A newspaper in Aberdeen reported that he once beat a servant.’

  ‘Insolent fellow, he baited my boy and had it coming. But still, inappropriate. Had Donal lived, time would have mellowed him.’

  ‘That report said the man was “nearly beaten to death”.’

  ‘That was grossly exaggerated.’ In a brusque move, the laird retrieved the picture from Holmes and replaced it on his nightstand. ‘I put Donal’s indiscretions down to youthful vociferousness and energy. That is all.’

  ‘If Donal was intended by you to take over the distillery, how did he end up in the army, if I may be so bold?’ asked Holmes.

  The man looked down at the floor a moment. ‘It was to remove him from some small troubles caused by another. A few years after Camford. I used my influence to get him a commission in the Guards. It was intended to be a more of a ceremonial posting, you understand, for two or three years. To my surprise he seemed to take to the life, and chose to stay on … and it ended in tragedy.’ The laird consulted his pocket watch. ‘But let us attend to the matter in hand, Mr Holmes.’

  Holmes sighed, then moved from the bedside to a window, drew the curtain and looked out. ‘The weather has taken a nasty turn.’ He let the curtain fall and turned back to our host. I expected him to terminate the interview. But instead, he started on an entirely new tack.

  ‘And your late wife Elizabeth? She was a beautiful woman by all accounts,’ said he.

  ‘Aye,’ said the laird,
his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘That she was. But what do the late members of my family have to do with the present issue?’

  ‘And yet there are no portraits of her here, in your room. Nor of your daughter, Anne.’

  The laird flushed slowly to the roots of his hair. His face reflected a changing parade of strong emotions. He turned abruptly from us and strode to a second window, looking out at the gathering storm.

  ‘Mr Holmes. There are things I simply do not wish to contemplate on a daily basis. The death of my wife is one. And little Anne—’

  ‘I am told she disappeared from the nursery one night as a young child.’

  ‘Not quite three years old. One moment she was asleep in her bed. The next, gone. The nurse was beside herself with guilt over it.’

  ‘A search was undertaken?’

  ‘For days.’

  ‘Could the child have wandered off? Are there wells?’

  ‘She was but three. Every avenue was searched, every possibility examined. And no, no wells.’

  ‘There was no note, no ransom demand?’

  ‘None. Elizabeth was … she was inconsolable. Returned every evening to check on her remaining children after that and remained through the night. A thorough investigation proved fruitless. Our little daughter simply vanished.’

  ‘Perhaps it was a kidnapping gone wrong. Had you received threats?’

  ‘None. I cannot bear the thought of harm having come to the child. I hold the fond hope that she was kidnapped and lives on. Healthy. Happy. Somewhere. I had the nursery redone to accommodate guests after my wife’s death and moved the boys to their own rooms, elsewhere.’

  ‘And so you choose to expunge the memory of your wife and daughter by removing all traces of them?’

  ‘I do not see how his can relate to the case.’

  ‘Humour me, sir.’

  ‘Those memories are tinged with pain, Mr Holmes. Have you no ghosts from your past that you wish to keep separate from your present?’

  ‘Do you believe in actual ghosts, Laird McLaren? Ones who roam the halls?’ asked Holmes, avoiding the question put to him.

  ‘Why? Of course not.’

  ‘What of the sightings of your late wife in the East Wing? It is said her unquiet spirit returns with a vengeance. Why?’