Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

by Bonnie MacBird

  After a freezing ride downhill to the McLaren distillery, we were seated in Alistair McLaren’s office located within the warren of stone buildings we had visited previously. It was a large airy space, lit through a window and skylight by the cold snowy white of a field outside. To my surprise, Holmes began the discussion with mention of Docteur Paul-Édouard Janvier, and the likelihood of British intervention in the wine industry debacle, a topic he had also raised with the laird.

  ‘It is preposterous. Janvier is correct,’ Alistair McLaren said. ‘Seeding the phylloxera is impractical as a weapon. Slowing the research for a cure, however, that I might envision.’

  ‘The plot to bomb Janvier’s laboratory is said to have originated in Scotland.’

  ‘Ha! Well, we have our reputation as hell raisers, do we not, Mr Holmes? But even so, it seems a futile gesture, in my view. Science will out, and that is that.’

  ‘It is some people’s opinion that the McLarens had a hand in it. Your family was conveniently in the area when the bomb went off. And the dynamite was manufactured in Scotland. The same kind, in fact, that you use here on the property.’

  It was as if we had set off a small charge of said explosive directly under the younger McLaren. He stood up abruptly knocking his own chair over backwards. ‘You will not be accusing me of this, will you, Mr Holmes? Because if you are, God help you! I shall pick you up and throw you straight through that window, and your little bulldog of a bodyguard along with you!’

  I had risen to my feet without thinking and the two of us faced each other. Holmes had remained seated. He sighed.

  ‘Mr McLaren, if I were to accuse any of the McLarens it would not be you. Your brother, on the other hand, might well be stupid enough to think it not only effective, but untraceable.’

  Alistair McLaren paused. Then suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed. ‘Aye, right you are there. Charles is an idiot. And he is constantly looking for ways to gain favour with our father.’

  ‘But he already has the running of the distillery.’

  ‘In name only. He is naught but a figurehead. Fancy dinners in London. Social appearances at the opera and such. But he can’t even maintain the wife, that silly woman Catherine, to assist him with making his way in society. I am the one who runs the place. I am the one who has increased our production and serves now as master distiller. I am the one with taste, knowledge, and—’

  ‘—and, by contrast, a very remarkable wife,’ said Holmes.

  Alistair’s face darkened. ‘Isla. Ach!’

  ‘She is not, I presume, threatened by your temper and posturing, is she?’

  Alistair McLaren paused. To his credit he took the insult in his stride. ‘No. Nor I of her own. But the woman lacks a proper outlet. She is a steam engine trapped in the drawing room.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean hers is an overactive mind. She is bored, and a woman bored is a danger. Her imagination runs wild.’

  Holmes took out a cigarette and searched for matches.

  ‘Not here, Mr Holmes. I allow no smoking.’

  Holmes sighed and put his case away.

  ‘Her imagination, you say? My impression was that your wife prides herself on her logic.’

  ‘Ah, you noted that, did you?’ Alistair smiled. ‘For a woman, perhaps, she is logical. But she has not enough to occupy her. The womanly pastimes – she would sooner shoot a tiger than embroider a pillow. ’Tis a pity she were not born a man.’

  ‘I presume her quickness of mind initially attracted you.’

  ‘Have you never fallen in love, Mr Holmes? Intelligence in a woman can be an aphrodisiac. The mind plays tricks.’

  ‘Hmm. She came to consult me in London, did you know?’

  I started. Why on earth would Holmes reveal this?

  Alistair shifted uncomfortably. ‘Yes, of course I knew.’ I did not believe him.

  ‘Mr McLaren, who do you think killed that girl?’

  ‘I have no idea. Nor do I care, frankly. Fiona’s death, while sad, meant little to me. Many were taken with her, and the girl played upon this. Someone was jealous, I presume. Someone with a touch of madness evidently.’

  ‘An interesting description. Does anyone come to mind?’

  ‘No one in particular, no. Though I hope you catch the fellow, certainly. But one cannot discount Fiona’s own role in her demise.’

  ‘Do you mean to say she brought this upon herself?’

  ‘That would be harsh. Let me simply say that she was one who craved attention and enjoyed creating drama about her.’

  ‘I understand she was superstitious. Ghost stories and the like. She frightened the other servants?’ prompted Holmes.

  ‘Aye. The damned ghosts!’

  ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Mr McLaren?’

  ‘I do not. I am an educated man.’

  ‘St Andrews, correct?’

  ‘I am aware that you do your research, Mr Holmes.’

  Holmes had moved to a bookshelf on a nearby wall and was perusing the books. He turned with a smile. ‘As do you, sir. You are a wide-ranging reader.’ He pulled a book bound in blue paper from the shelves and flipped through it. ‘Hmmm. The Third Annual Report of Her Majesty’s Inspectors of Explosives, 1878. I have read this. Some interesting developments since, wouldn’t you say, Mr McLaren?’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Nobel has—’ he stopped suddenly. ‘You already know that we make use of dynamite here.’

  ‘Mr McLaren, you realize that if I connect a family member to the explosion at the Montpellier laboratory, that person will serve time.’

  ‘Understood.’ Alistair paused. ‘You might want to know that Charles has tried several marginally legal endeavours regarding water rights and distribution, one of which involved an explosion to divert a stream, causing our father to spend a considerable sum on legal fees to bail him out.’

  ‘Interesting. Then your father is not above buying the law, you say?’ asked Holmes.

  Alistair hesitated, then walked away from his drafting table and towards a sideboard, on which were arrayed the ubiquitous whisky bottles and glasses.

  ‘A dram, perhaps?’

  ‘No. The question remains, Mr McLaren.’

  ‘Well, Mr Holmes. My father, like you, wishes for justice. But justice is not always served by the law. Surely you agree. That is, I believe, why he hired a private detective.’

  ‘I am a consulting detective. I consult with the police. He is aware of the difference.’

  ‘Then he surely expects to buy you, Mr Holmes. If he has not done so already.’

  Holmes did not dignify this with an answer. But his tone became more sharp. ‘Something puzzles me, Mr McLaren. Why did you see fit to bring up Charles and water disputes? As well as your father’s questionable dealings. It is as though you are ready to throw both of your family members to the wolves.’

  ‘I did not say Charles did anything wrong. Only that he might have done. And regarding my father, it is good that you know the kind of man you may be dealing with, that is all. Consider it a friendly warning.’

  ‘I am not in need of protection, Mr McLaren,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Again, I would not go so far as to say I suspect Charles,’ said Alistair. ‘I simply do not like my brother. This is no secret. And so, Mr Holmes, it is for you to unravel the mystery, is it not? But do proceed with caution. The laird is used to having his way and once the mystery is solved, if the answer is not to his liking – well, you must comply, or watch your back.’

  CHAPTER 24

  Obfuscation

  t last it was our prearranged time to meet with the instigator of this investigation, Mrs Isla McLaren. Why Holmes kept her for last, I could not fathom. With help from Mungo, we managed to locate her rooms in the South Tower.

  Her warm and welcoming salon was appointed in warm reds with blue and gold accents, crowded by tall bookcases filled with gold tipped volumes, and accented with silk flowers in profusion. But it was books which domin
ated the suite, resting on most every surface, including the small table next to the lady.

  Mrs McLaren the younger now regarded us calmly from a deep blue velvet armchair. The fire cast copper highlights in her hair and the light glinted off her gold spectacles, making it difficult to read her expression. She was truly a beautiful woman despite her studious exterior.

  ‘The McLarens’ fortunes, as you have noted, Mr Holmes, are on the rise. Despite Charles’s shortcomings – and they are numerous – we have made inroads in the London market and a Royal Warrant seems within reach. And yet I fear for our future.’

  ‘Why is that, Mrs McLaren?’ asked Holmes, seating himself in a chair opposite hers.

  ‘The family has an unfortunate reputation, one which has cast a darkness over the name, and one which we struggle to overcome.’

  ‘There are indeed unusual features,’ said Holmes, flashing me a look of subtle amusement. His humour could at times be said to be inappropriate.

  ‘It is hardly a laughing matter, sir. There is what one might call an aura of tragedy. First the disappearance of baby Anne, when the brothers were quite small. A mystery that was sadly never solved. Then, later, the death of his wife, the Lady Elizabeth, followed more recently by Donal’s unfortunate death at Khartoum, which sent the laird into a prolonged melancholy.’

  ‘Of course, there is also Lady Elizabeth’s ghost,’ I supplied.

  ‘And Donal’s.’ added Isla McLaren.

  ‘Ah, I have not yet heard of that one,’ Holmes drawled. His scorn for belief in the supernatural was in clear view.

  ‘Donal’s ghost was reportedly seen in and around the distillery.’

  ‘His ghost, you say?’ said Holmes with a smile.

  ‘Yes. An angry one, reportedly. And with a death attributed to it in the distillery, an asphyxiation by carbon dioxide.’

  ‘Why attribute this to a ghost? It is a very real danger,’ said Holmes.

  ‘The dead man had worked there daily for eighteen years. It was a mistake he would not have made. And the ghost had apparently been seen the night before in that very room.’

  Holmes shrugged.

  ‘Consequently,’ Mrs McLaren continued, ‘several of the older distillery men, all of them believers, deserted the company for other distilleries, one to Glenmorangie, one to Oban, and two as far as Islay. This was quite a loss as they had been with the family for many years, in one case for generations. And of course they took their expertise with them.’

  ‘How did the family respond to this experienced man’s accident?’ asked Holmes.

  Mrs McLaren shrugged. ‘Well, following the death, the sightings of Donal’s ghost stopped, the laird thereafter refused to discuss it. What you may find interesting is that none of the more recently hired war veterans abandoned their jobs, Mr Holmes. The new hires are a rough lot.’

  ‘Indeed. So they were already in place. I am curious, how did your foreman, Cameron Coupe, take to their arrival?’

  ‘Apparently he welcomed them, Mr Holmes. Cheap labour, if I may be so callous.’

  Holmes sighed, and rose from his chair. He began to pace. ‘The laird thinks contact between these men and Fiona was impossible due to various precautions. Would you concur?’

  ‘I would. The laird has turned the castle into a fortress at night. At the distillery, the employee quarters are similarly secured. In my estimation this has been effective.’

  ‘So it appears,’ conceded Holmes.

  Mrs McLaren kept her eyes fixed upon the detective as he moved about the room. ‘I would have been more circumspect had I been given the selection of these men,’ said she.

  ‘Interesting. How so?’ murmured Holmes from across the room, where he now stood admiring one of the bookshelves.

  ‘You have toured the distillery, need you ask? A number of them are disturbed, impaired in such a way as to make them possibly unreliable.’

  ‘Dangerous?’

  ‘Many of the older employees have now left us as a result. The idea was promising, the execution less so.’

  ‘The mental state of veterans is not always obvious, Mrs McLaren,’ I offered. ‘For example, I was much depressed upon my own return from war.’

  Holmes glanced at me with approbation. He changed the subject abruptly.

  ‘What of Lady McLaren, the laird’s wife? You mentioned her story was part of the family’s dark reputation.’

  ‘Yes. Lady Elizabeth’s death was never fully explained, and this earlier tragedy has cast further shadow upon us.’

  He moved from one bookcase to another and asked, rather casually, over his shoulder, ‘I know that the woman froze outside the castle and no one heard her cries for help. Do relate the particulars.’

  ‘Mr Holmes, please sit down.’ He seemed to ignore her and continued looking at the books, his back to her. She shrugged and briefly recounted the story of Lady McLaren’s death by freezing, exactly as told to us by the groundsman and the laird.

  ‘No one heard her attempts to re-enter the castle?’ persisted Holmes.

  ‘The bell malfunctioned.’

  ‘It was examined?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Holmes. There was a defect. The incident was ruled an accident. This was before I came to Braedern in any case. And since her death, her ghost is said to roam the hall near your rooms.’

  ‘Why there, particularly?’ Holmes now stood before a third bookcase, deliberately reading some of the spines.

  Here Isla McLaren’s faced darkened. ‘I wager you have been told already, Mr Holmes. Stop, please. What is it that you find so interesting about my bookshelves?’

  ‘Your books. Continue, please.’

  ‘Holmes, really!’ I exclaimed.

  Mrs McLaren shrugged and gave up for the moment. ‘You recall, Mr Holmes, that I am not a believer in ghosts. But this one story is hard to explain, among the many which I can easily discredit. That wing previously housed the nursery. And it was from there that the laird and lady’s baby daughter disappeared one night.’

  ‘Ah yes, we heard something of this,’ I said.

  Holmes continued his inventory of her books.

  ‘When did this occur?’

  ‘Some thirty years past.’

  ‘Tell us what you know, please.’

  ‘It is little spoken of. But from what I have discovered, Donal was six, Charles four, the daughter Anne was nearly three, and Alistair but an infant. One night, while the nurse slept, Anne simply disappeared. There was no evidence of a break-in, no struggle, and no one heard a thing. She simply vanished.’

  ‘From her bed?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘The nurse slept where?’

  ‘In an adjoining room. The other children were asleep when the nurse came to check on her at 2 a.m. and discovered the child missing.

  Holmes turned from the bookcase to look at the lady. ‘A kidnapping, perhaps? Was a ransom demanded?’

  ‘None, and there was no explanation.’

  ‘What kind of abduction could it be with no ransom?’ I wondered aloud.

  ‘One gone wrong. The child may have died. The kidnappers fallen out. Or it was a theft, pure and simple of a child for someone who wanted her,’ suggested Holmes.

  Mrs McLaren nodded. ‘The poor Lady McLaren, who believed fervently in ghosts, was never the same afterwards, and lingered in the area frequently – in life, and some say she continued to do so after her own death.’

  Holmes turned and now faced a smaller bookcase near her bedchamber. He began to peruse the books quickly, in a curious manner as though mentally cataloguing them at great speed. His thin fingers danced across the spines.

  ‘All right, Mr Holmes, I have had enough.’ She removed her spectacles and rubbed her eyes, clearly fatigued, though from the questions or Holmes’s antics I could not determine.

  He glanced up at her with a distracted smile, did a strange double take at her, then abruptly turned back to his inventory.

  ‘Mr Holmes,’ she repeated, with more f
irmness. ‘I think of books as a window to a person’s private self. The soul, perhaps. I have asked you twice to desist studying mine. Your actions are an intrusion.’

  He seemed not to hear, and pulled a volume from the shelf. ‘You have excellent taste. Ah! Goethe, in the original German. A fine evening’s entertainment.’ He opened the volume and thumbed the pages. ‘But the title page has been torn out! Where did you acquire this?’

  Isla replaced her spectacles. ‘Why does it interest you? At a used bookseller, of course. Mr Holmes, you are transgressing. It is as if you went into my boudoir, opened the drawers there, and began rifling my undergarments.’

  Holmes looked up in utter surprise at this. I felt my own face flush violently.

  To his credit, Holmes closed the book and gently replaced it on the shelf. The lady approached, took the book back out again, and refiled it in its proper place an inch or two to the right.

  He stepped back from her.

  ‘You are not establishing rapport with your suspect, Mr Holmes,’ she admonished. ‘Although I would have preferred you consider me an ally. If you would kindly take a seat we shall continue. If not, I must ask you to leave.’

  Holmes shrugged but duly sat and resumed our conversation, taking a pose so relaxed as to seem insolent. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let us return to the nursery which was in the East Wing. When was it modernised? Particularly the plumbing?’

  Isla McLaren resumed her seat across from us.

  ‘Shortly after the child’s disappearance, the laird moved the other three children elsewhere, and much later, after Elizabeth’s death, he finished the plumbing, and created the guest wing in which you now reside. And yet the Lady’s ghost is said to remain. She is particularly vivid at night.’

  ‘Yes, none of the servants will enter then, except Mungo, who is terrified.’

  ‘They say she is an angry ghost, wanting to find her daughter, wanting to be “let in” – although whether to the house, or to the secret of Anne’s disappearance is not clear. I will admit, this particular ghost gives even me pause.’