Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘The servants will believe any nonsense.’

  ‘But why would she be vengeful?’

  ‘I suppose they think she seeks to understand Anne’s disappearance. She was angry at the time and felt it had not been sufficiently investigated. I assure you it was.’

  ‘But what of her own death some time later? She was locked out on a freezing night?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘It was an accident. A tragedy I must live with for the rest of my life. The outer doors had only recently been secured, the bell malfunctioned, and no one heard her attempts to enter.’

  ‘So we are told. What of her own people? Were there no questions asked?’

  The laird sighed. ‘Mr Holmes, you torture me unnecessarily. My wife had no family of her own. Elizabeth was orphaned by then. No siblings. The police ruling was clear; death by misadventure. I fail to understand your reasoning at this juncture. I must bring this interview to a close or risk being late. If there are more questions, you may find me tomorrow.’

  Holmes nodded, but made no move to leave. Outside the drumming of what sounded like hail had begun to fall on the stone battlements and, presumably, the gargoyles that I had noticed adorning the outside of this area of the castle. A sudden wind blew one of the windows open, and the heavy velvet draperies swayed inward into the room.

  The laird moved to the window and bolted it. ‘Ah. My wife would have taken that as a sign.’

  ‘And you perceive it as what?’ said Holmes.

  ‘The weather,’ said the laird. ‘Now, gentlemen, supper will be served soon, and I must make haste.’

  CHAPTER 20

  Reviewing the Situation

  ome fifteen minutes later I was alone in my room dressing for dinner, with a vow to drink no more whisky that night, when I heard Holmes’s familiar sharp rap on my door. He entered, glanced at my formal attire, and smiled. He was wearing his dressing gown and slippers, pipe in hand.

  ‘Holmes!’ I cried. ‘We are expected in ten minutes for supper!’

  ‘Please convey my apologies, Watson. I am going to remain in my room to think. I have sent down for some soup. You can say I am feeling unwell. But do keep your eyes and ears open.’

  ‘Are you feeling unwell?’ I asked.

  ‘Only fatigued. And I have much to ponder.’ As I continued to dress, he perched himself on a large armchair by the fire and stared into the flames, his legs drawn in close, his pipe glowing. It was a posture I had seen before and I knew it signalled a serious session of brain-work.

  ‘Holmes,’ said I, struggling with my tie as I peered into a veined and silvered antique mirror which reflected only a blur, ‘What I cannot understand is the motive behind sending Fiona’s head to the South of France. It seems that several people had reason to wish the girl dead, but why go to the bizarre lengths of transporting it there?’

  ‘Agreed. It is most puzzling. Such an act speaks of deep-seated hatred. It was meant to stun, to hurt, to wound someone on the receiving end. The act was cold and calculating; it took much planning and complex execution.’

  ‘Perhaps if we could find the messenger—’

  ‘I think not, Watson. It was most likely a hired hand, possibly unconnected to anyone else in this drama, and the disguise and the cold trail leave us few options to pursue. I wager the deliverer did not know the exact contents of the package.’

  ‘Yet he knew to keep it cold.’ I could not see to make the tie behave and squinted into the mirror.

  ‘Yes, but that could be explained, a perishable comestible for example. In any case, it would have been delivered to the family as a gift, and the bribes ensured a reasonable chance of it arriving as intended. Expensive luxuries are often sent to hotels of that kind. We are seeking someone with a long simmering animosity, and a sadistic nature. Our investigation thus far has disclosed a nest of vipers, of jealousies and intrigue here at Braedern. Fiona’s head was a message intended for someone in the family. Consider their reactions.’

  ‘Well, it was shocking enough to horrify everyone, Holmes.’

  ‘Yes. But I thought that the laird was most seriously wounded. And now that his paternity is confirmed – I will admit that it was an immediate theory of mine – he was clearly the most affected there. Many have reason to hate him. First there is his mysteriously departed wife. Can we be sure there are none who wish to avenge her? Both sons feel out of favour. Then there is Cameron Coupe, who by all accounts should have the running of the place – and who apparently thought little or nothing of kidnapping and shaving the girl.’

  ‘But even the laird himself is not free of suspicion,’ said I. ‘Could he not have planned all of this to rid himself of an inconvenient daughter, and at the same time pin it on another person who might be giving him trouble?’

  ‘Bravo, Watson, your theories improve. It is possible, but if so, he is a remarkable actor. Did you notice that he was not surprised that threatening notes had been sent to Dr Janvier? How would he know this? But I digress. On the subject of Fiona, we cannot discount him yet, but my instincts run counter to this theory. We must also look at the persons least affected by the head.’

  My bow tie eluded my efforts a third time. ‘Devil take it, Holmes. Tie this for me, will you? It is difficult to see in here.’

  He got up, squinted, and moved me into better light. As he managed the recalcitrant tie for me, I realized how dim the room was. The corners were shrouded in darkness, and while electric light had been laid in various parts of the castle, it apparently had not in this tower.

  Hail continued to rattle on the exterior of the castle, the wind moaned outside and with the draught, various candles around the room flickered and the curtains moved on the wall. I shuddered.

  Holmes chuckled. ‘Steady, Watson.’

  ‘Merely a draught. A chill.’

  He patted me on the arm and resumed his seat by the fire. I continued with my cufflinks.

  ‘There was one person who reacted least to the delivery of the head, Watson, surely you noticed this?’

  ‘Isla McLaren, do you mean? I would not describe her as having had no reaction. I looked to her immediately and I would be prepared to swear that it came as a severe and horrifying surprise.’

  ‘Yes, followed, however by a remarkably quick recovery.’

  ‘True, but what would be her motive? Holmes, I cannot believe—’

  ‘We should not eliminate anyone at this point. Think, Watson.’

  I pondered this. I liked Isla McLaren and had been impressed by her intelligence, humour and desire to help. But I knew that this perhaps clouded my thinking on the matter. I tried to apply Holmes’s pragmatic approach to this question.

  ‘Hmm. It is hard to imagine. Perhaps if she could somehow pin this on Charles and have him removed from his position, her husband Alistair might be given the running of the distillery?’

  ‘Possibly. What else? Never be satisfied with only one theory, Watson.’

  ‘I do not know, then! Jealousy, perhaps? I do not sense it from her, though.’

  A sudden draught extinguished the candle next to Holmes and he was now silhouetted by the fire. He remained silent.

  ‘All right. I do have another theory,’ I offered. ‘Could this … no, that is a preposterous idea.’

  ‘Relight the candles, would you? Go ahead, speak it. While you may not glow brightly yourself, Watson, our conversations do occasionally serve to illuminate my own processes.’

  I sighed and lit a match. He had made a similar remark during our Dartmoor adventure, but I decided to focus on the faint compliment behind the sentiment. ‘Well, here is an alternate motive,’ said I, ‘one that paid off handsomely. What if the entire reason was to get you to come to Braedern?’

  Holmes swivelled to face me in surprise.

  ‘It certainly worked,’ I added.

  He took his pipe from his mouth and saluted me with it. ‘Why, you are absolutely correct, Watson!’

  I smiled.

  ‘It is a preposterous idea.’<
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  Just as he said this, the candles on the table next to him blew out again, and the room was plunged into total darkness.

  PART FOUR

  A CHILL DESCENDS

  ‘But do none of us believe in ghosts? If this question be read at noon-day, when every little corner, nook, and hole is penetrated with the insolent light – at such a time derision is seated on the features of my reader. But let it be twelve at night in a lone house …’

  —Mary Shelley

  CHAPTER 21

  Dinner

  he dining room of the castle was adjacent to the Great Hall. It, too, was a gothic stone wonder, the walls dotted with a combination of massive oil paintings of moody Scottish landscapes, mounted animal heads, and fanciful brass electrical lighting sconces, all turned down low so that the primary sources of light were the multiple silver candelabra down the centre of a long table. Seven places had been set at one end.

  The polished dark wood floor was laid over with an expensive tartan rug in muted colours. Ever since the Queen had established her residence at Balmoral and publicly embraced all things Scottish, the use of Highland motifs had come into vogue. Even in Scotland, apparently.

  Isla came up behind me as I took in the room.

  ‘Are you enjoying our Highland hospitality, Doctor?’ she asked.

  ‘I have had little time to do so,’ I said. ‘We have been hard at work since we arrived.’

  ‘So I have heard. I have been awaiting my turn to be interrogated by The Great Detective. I confess I am surprised you did not question me first.’

  ‘It is not up to me. However I know Mr Holmes is looking forward to speaking with you.’ In fact he had expressed the opposite to me, earlier.

  ‘Dr Watson, I do think that I could be of help to you.’

  ‘And I agree,’ I said with a smile.

  The lady looked past me to the Great Hall.

  ‘Where is he, by the way?’

  ‘I am afraid he is indisposed, Mrs McLaren.’

  She stared into my eyes with that disconcerting penetration. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

  ‘Not at all, madam. Perhaps he will join us for coffee later.’ I knew that this was unlikely.

  ‘Hmm,’ she said, and took her seat at the table, allowing me to hold out her chair.

  The various family members took their places one by one. I was directed to a seat between Charles and Alistair McLaren. Facing me were Isla McLaren and her sister-in-law Catherine, with a seat left vacant between them for Holmes.

  I passed along Holmes’s regrets which were met with a snort by Charles, and a knowing smile from Alistair. It was my first glimpse of the younger brother since the South of France. His supercilious attitude had not shifted at all. While his intelligence was in evidence, and a sharp contrast to his brother, his arrogant expression never seemed to waiver.

  Holmes had evidently been positioned so that they could observe him. But once I had given his apologies, I was moved to his chair and my old place setting was swiftly removed.

  The laird’s ornately carved seat at the head of the table, however, remained empty, yet with its place set. Was it possible that the household did not know of his trip to Balmoral? Several servants stood at attention along the wall, awaiting signal to begin. It was at this point that I realized Holmes and I had not stopped for lunch.

  Charles gave the servants the signal, and announced ‘Sir Robert will not be joining us tonight. He has been called to Balmoral for a meeting with the Lord Chamberlain.’ Murmurs of pleased surprise came from the ladies. I sensed Alistair already knew.

  ‘Charles!’ said Catherine to her husband. ‘Is a Royal Warrant at last under consideration?’

  Charles flashed her a look of annoyance. ‘It is. And, if all goes well, the family will accept our invitation to sample the new McLaren Garnet. It was intended as a 21 year but has matured beautifully at 18.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said I.

  ‘Or at least casks 12, 51, 253, 647, and 895 have done so,’ remarked Alistair. At my puzzled look, he turned to me. ‘Those are our samplers. I have detected a larger than usual inconsistency in this edition.’

  ‘How can there be a difference among the casks of a single edition of whisky?’ I wondered.

  ‘Many variables. An accident of wood, previous contents, amount of charring inside the cask, position in the maturation warehouse, small variations in the distilling process, any number of things may affect flavour.’

  ‘Then how do you sell a—what do you call an unblended whisky?’

  ‘A “self whisky” is our term.’

  ‘How do you create a run of “self whisky” with any consistency?’

  ‘At the end of maturation, we vat them all together before bottling,’ said Alistair.

  ‘And flavourings can be added,’ said Charles.

  Alistair snorted in disgust. ‘Not if I have any say.’

  ‘In any case, it is superlative,’ said Charles with evident pride.

  ‘Do not take credit, brother. It was put to cask when we were in school. And the decision has been the laird’s, along with Coupe. Our foreman has a remarkable nose,’ said Alistair. Charles bristled at his brother’s remarks.

  ‘Until now, McLaren whisky has met with indifference from the Royal Household,’ said Isla McLaren.

  ‘That is an exaggeration, dear wife. This is an honour sought by every distillery in Scotland. We are merely in a very long queue,’ said Alistair.

  ‘Few distilleries are so near Balmoral geographically,’ said she. ‘We are quite convenient to supply them.’

  ‘Yes, but Royal Lochnagar is even closer and already has the Queen’s favour. In any case,’ said Alistair, ‘the laird has at last received an invitation to a meeting tonight. It is an important first step and bodes well for McLaren whisky. I propose a toast.’ He raised a glass.

  ‘No, that is to me, dear brother.’ Charles stood and raised his glass. ‘A toast to McLaren whisky, our father, and royal connections.’

  The meal proceeded with desultory conversation about the weather, the prize horses owned by the laird, some technical aspects of the distillery, and the results of some local archery contest. The evening was relieved only by an extraordinarily delicious dinner featuring Scottish salmon, venison, a variety of vegetables and a potato dish with local cheese. I focused on that more pleasant aspect of the evening, as each time I tried to engage the ladies on a topic I was overridden by one of the brothers, who vied with each other continually for dominance in the conversation.

  At last we adjourned to an adjacent small salon, lit by a cheery fireplace and featuring a piano. The ladies were incited to perform, and Isla went first, playing a lively polonaise with admirable musicality. Catherine followed with a lamentable and piteous German song, sung in a voice that could etch glass.

  I fortified myself by sampling the various whiskies on hand. But the other two men continued to converse in a corner during this appalling demonstration, an act of rudeness that only inflamed my irritation with them. This left Isla McLaren and myself to feign interest and give the poor creature some token applause at the end of her piteous warbling.

  At last Catherine abandoned the piano and picked up some needlework and a large glass of whisky, sitting herself across the room, nearer the men. With a gesture, her sister-in-law beckoned me away from the salon and into the Great Hall where she took my arm and drew close.

  ‘Mrs McLaren!’ said I. ‘Perhaps we should rejoin—’

  ‘Oh, do be sensible, Dr Watson. My need to speak to you is not personal.’

  ‘Of course not. Forgive me.’

  ‘Listen. I have canvassed the servants about Fiona’s disappearance. There is something strange there. When Fiona eloped, she left all her belongings behind, in her room that she shared with another young parlour maid, Gillian, who relates that shortly after Fiona left, Cameron Coupe entered the room and gathered up all her things.’

  ‘She told you this?’

  ‘
Yes. This is why you need me to help you. Fiona and Gillian were close. They had a kind of pact, or so says Gillian. If either of them married and left the estate, they had promised some of their treasured belongings to each other. When she told Coupe of this, crying of course, Coupe apparently asked her what Fiona had promised her and kindly gave her those items. But what was strange was that Fiona had said nothing to Gillian about eloping.’

  ‘What did Gillian have to say about Fiona’s kidnapping? The hair?’

  ‘She refused to elaborate, saying only that Fiona was deeply distraught and was determined to find out who had done this. Cameron Coupe had agreed to help her, but had made no progress.’

  Coupe, of course, had performed the deeds himself.

  ‘This is strange news indeed. Do you know what items he allowed the girl to retain?’

  ‘Some trinkets and a Bible is all she said. Fiona possessed little of value.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs McLaren. I will relate all you say to Mr Holmes.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘Please ask him to include me in the investigation, Dr Watson.’

  ‘I will make sure to mention it. But Mrs McLaren, Mr Holmes has his own way of working. There are times when even I am in the dark as to his processes.’

  ‘They would be clear to a mind accustomed to logic,’ said she crisply. Then, seeing that I might have taken this amiss, she added, ‘Forgive me, Dr Watson. I meant no aspersion.’

  I smiled. This woman was vastly underrated by her entire family. It was time to return to the room and report to Holmes what I had discovered tonight.

  CHAPTER 22

  Ghost!

  made my way back to the East Tower, eventually managing to locate the spiral stone steps that led to the remote hall and our rooms. This area remained shrouded in obscurity, unlike other areas of the castle, with only oil-lit wall sconces and candles casting a dim glow. Considering this and its haunted reputation, I puzzled again why we had been placed there.

  However I was eager to share what I had learned from Mrs McLaren and approached Holmes’s room, at some distance down the hall from my own.