I heard splashing from behind the screen.
‘I see these points,’ I said. ‘But could Coupe have thrown the water on you today? Given that you were there, and had discovered the bodies?’
‘It is possible, but I do not think so.’
‘I sense an underlying animosity from the man,’ said I.
Holmes sighed. ‘He would benefit from discrediting us and having us leave, clearly. But I believe we seek a second person, who witnessed Coupe throwing Fiona’s body in the ice pit, then watched Iain Moray enter. This second person then removed the ladder and threw water on the boy. This is a much darker spirit.’
‘The same person who did so to you tonight!’
‘Very likely. What still puzzles me is the motive for sending Fiona’s head to France, Watson. It was clearly a message. But what that message was, I still cannot discern.’
‘It could not have been a family member, because they were all in the South of France,’ I said.
‘No one is eliminated, Watson. The preparation for this deed transpired between Isla McLaren’s visit to us in Baker Street, and their departure for France. Hand me a towel. We will be late for the royal unveiling. It is something we must not miss, Watson.’
‘I hardly think we will be admitted,’ I said, handing him a towel over the top of the screen.
‘Nevertheless, we shall go,’ said Holmes, and I heard him rising from the bath. His movements sounded uncertain.
In spite of my earlier curiosity to view members of the royal family in close proximity, the evening had been too dramatic by far. Exhausted, I now had no wish to participate in these festivities, especially in light of Isla McLaren’s words.
‘Why must we go to this?’
‘Because there is more to learn, Watson.’ Holmes stepped from behind the screen attired in his purple dressing gown, rubbing his hair with a towel. He was somewhat restored, his colour now back to his usual pallor and not the deathly blue of an hour ago. But he was still shivering. I did not like it.
‘Holmes, you are not recovered. You must rest!’
‘Watson, you are totally convincing in the character of my personal physician, but I assure you, I am quite myself, or near enough. Let me see the photograph you brought back with you.’
‘The photograph, yes, of course! In all the excitement I nearly forgot!’ I went to my valise and retrieved it. As I did so, I was reminded of my visit to Fettes. There had not been time to relate this story. I considered doing so at that moment, but some instinct told me to wait. I handed him the photograph. ‘Here, let me point out which one my friend identified as Donal McLaren.’
But Holmes was staring at the photograph in a kind of paralyzed horror. ‘No need, Watson. It is this man here.’ He pointed to the correct man and flung the photograph aside.
‘Who is it?’
Holmes stood staring into space; the wheels were turning and I knew enough to wait. He turned with sudden resolve. ‘Watson, hurry. We must not be late. Refresh yourself as I get dressed.’
‘Who is that man?’
But Holmes was already pulling his clothing from the wardrobe. ‘Make haste, Watson. We will speak of this later.’
‘Could he be the one behind all of this?’
‘Hardly! The man in that photograph is dead, Watson. Twice dead, apparently. It is August Bell Clarion.’
‘Clarion! The man who was a friend to Donal?’ And of course, Holmes’s schoolboy nemesis. ‘Holmes, while I was in Edinburgh—’
‘Later, Watson. Hurry! Bring your Webley.’
‘I left it with you!’
‘Oh, yes,’ said he. Removing it from a drawer, where he had evidently left it, he handed it to me. ‘Do not look at me that way, my dear fellow. Had I been carrying it, it would be at the bottom of the icehouse now!’
I sighed and took it from him. ‘My evening jacket is close-fitting. The gun will be visible in the pocket.’
‘All the better.’
PART SIX
MATURATION
‘Look back and smile on perils past’
—Sir Walter Scott
CHAPTER 32
The Angel’s Share
y the time we arrived at the maturation warehouse, the royal reception had moved there from the dining hall and was well underway. We entered through a side door, and now stood on the landing of a short staircase leading down to the ground level. Raised as we were, and still in the shadows, we had an excellent view of the scene, while remaining largely hidden.
Illuminated by electric lighting, the table was set with two enormous candelabra, garlands and silver quaiches – the ornamental Scottish drinking vessels – with crystal decanters of whisky ready to pour. The liquids sparkled in the candlelight in jewel tones of amber, topaz and garnet. Two kilted bagpipers at either end of the dais were playing a loud and lively Scottish tune I did not recognize.
Centre stage, next to the row of casks we had seen earlier, dressed in full Highland finery with velvet jackets, kilts, sporrans, lace and decorative weaponry, the laird stood with sons Charles and Alistair on one side, and Cameron Coupe on the other. Coupe held in his hand the ‘whisky thief’ we had been shown earlier.
One of the five ‘taster’ casks had been pulled off its rack and now stood upended on the stage, a rope handle having been attached to the round end facing upwards, embellished for the occasion with a festive pine garland.
Seated at one end of this area were the two ladies of the family. In the little time since we had seen her, Isla McLaren had transformed herself. She was now dressed in wine-red velvet with subtle touches of emerald and pearl-encrusted Celtic jewels. She seemed remarkably serene, as if untouched by recent events. Catherine, attired in dark mustard silk and lace, and glittering with the family diamonds, sat stiffly opposite her on the dais. The entire family and its business, so it seemed, were on rather ostentatious display.
With their backs to us, seated in two rows placed in a semicircle facing the dais, was the royal party. As they turned to neighbouring companions, I recognized from newspaper engravings the Duke and Duchess of Amberley, wealthy Hanoverian relatives of the Queen. The Duke, I knew, had extensive influence over the agricultural interests of the Crown and owned property in the Highlands. Two other distinguished gentlemen I surmised were the Master of the Queen’s Cellars, and the Lord Chamberlain. Several glittering ladies and another light-haired gentleman whom I could not quite see rounded out the front row.
A second row of courtiers sat behind these. Velvets, brocades and a great many jewels glittered on the women. Many had touches of tartan in their sumptuous attire, a style the Queen encouraged at Balmoral.
I craned to get a better view of the man obscured from me in the front row. ‘Is that Prince Arthur?’ I whispered to Holmes, thinking it to be the Queen’s son, a career military man a little older than myself. A small thrill of excitement passed through me, and I craned to get a better view, but Holmes tapped my arm sharply.
‘Keep your eyes on Cameron Coupe,’ whispered Holmes. I looked at the foreman. As I did, he seemed to feel our regard, looked up, squinted at us, and froze in what I took to be alarm.
Holmes offered him a little wave. I would swear the man blanched.
The music subsided and Laird Robert stepped forward. ‘Welcome to the heart of our distillery, Your Highness, Your Lordship, Your Ladyship and esteemed members of the court. Here I would like to demonstrate a few of the secrets that make McLaren Whisky the pride of the Highlands. You are seated, of course, in our maturation warehouse, where through the years, the clear liquid of the raw spirits mature, taking on the warm, woody characteristics of the vessels in which they mellow, and flavoured as well by history. Take a deep breath, ladies and gentlemen, and inhale the scent of Scotland.’
The laird next introduced his family, then launched into a complicated description of the special barley, the special water, indeed all the details that went into a McLaren whisky. As he did so, Coupe looked away from us and struggled
to focus on the laird.
The laird finally paused in his speech and turned to his foreman. ‘And now, my chief distiller, Mr Cameron Coupe, will show you how we normally sample the whisky during maturation. We will then open the top of this specially prepared cask to reveal the secret that lends magic to the flavour of McLaren Garnet, and give you all a taste. Mr Coupe?’
Coupe stepped forward, with a respectful nod to the laird. But Charles stepped between them, and took the whisky thief from Coupe. ‘As head of the distillery, allow me.’ He elbowed Coupe aside and turned to the royal guests. Coupe said nothing but acquiesced without a word.
‘Interesting,’ whispered Holmes.
‘Normally, honoured guests, we sample our whisky with the use of this instrument, called a whisky thief,’ Charles said, and proceeded to draw a small dram from one of the four horizontally displayed tasting casks as the laird had done with us earlier, depositing a sample in a crystal glass.
Charles handed it to Prince Arthur, and all heads turned to watch. The royal personage, blocked from our view, apparently liked it. We heard a softly murmured approval followed by restrained applause from the group.
The laird removed the whisky thief from his son’s hand and once again took centre stage. ‘And now,’ said he, ‘I shall reveal another secret to our McLaren Garnet and then serve you all. Not only does maturing in port casks such as these lend flavour, but also crucial is the treatment of the interior of the cask. Here is one that has been opened at one end so that I may demonstrate. Mr Coupe? Open up Number 51, and we shall serve from it for the group.’ He picked up a large silver ladle.
Coupe stepped forward to the upright cask. Charles, feeling upstaged, moved in closer. ‘We char the inside of the cask,’ he announced, ‘which changes the flavour. Too much and a burnt taste ensues, not enough and it is a little too woody.’
But Coupe had taken on a strange posture. ‘One moment, Laird Robert. Something is not right—’ he said, frowning in concern at the cask. He bent down and rubbed at the number with his hand. His fingers came away black. He stared at them, then the cask, in confusion. ‘The number has been written over!’ said he. ‘It is—’
All the colour drained from his face. He rocked back on his heels. ‘Th—this is,’ he stuttered. ‘This is the wrong cask. It is the wrong cask!’
Charles shouldered in to take a look. ‘It is 51, taken from over there! Oh, no, it is 59. A simple error. It matters not a whit. They are all quite good, Coupe, step aside.’
But Coupe was gaping at the cask as though it had turned into the head of Medusa.
Holmes moved forward a step and paused, like a pointer on the hunt. What was all the fuss? I wondered. There was a murmur of confusion from the crowd. Isla McLaren stood up.
Evidently the laird was of the same mind as his son. ‘Step aside, Mr Coupe! Charles is right, all of the casks are good. Your Highness, Your Graces, the whisky varies slightly throughout the run, although we do vat the entire run before bottling for absolute consistency. But every cask is delicious and this is no exception. Open her up, Charles.’
‘No,’ said Coupe, swaying oddly. ‘Do not.’
‘Stand back, Mr Coupe,’ said the laird sharply. ‘Charles?’
Coupe stood back and froze, like a man facing a firing squad. Then a strange smile slowly spread across and distorted his face. It was as if he knew death was imminent, yet somehow welcomed it. A strangled laugh came from the back of his throat.
‘Holmes, what is going on?’ I whispered. I looked but he had moved from my side and, like a cat, had descended the steps silently. He was slinking along one edge of the oblong room, approaching the side of the dais. He glanced back at me, shook his head and held up a hand.
‘Your Graces, gather round, please,’ said Charles unctuously, ‘so that you may see the inside of the cask.’ As the royals and courtiers arose, he continued. ‘Yes, do come closer.’
The honoured guests crowded around the cask. I watched Holmes and wondered what was going on. I craned my neck to see over the standing courtiers to the dais. ‘That barrel is full, is it not? Might his Majesty need some gaiters when you pry it open?’ intoned the Duke. The courtiers chuckled as though this had been the soul of wit.
‘There is no danger of getting wet, sir,’ said the laird, with a smile. ‘We will not dismantle the cask, only lift this specially cut top from it. You see, the cask, once filled, loses a tiny amount to evaporation each year and the liquid will be some inches down from the top. That small loss is called “the Angel’s Share”.’
‘Then there are some very happy angels, I suppose, if this whisky is as good as you say it is,’ said the light-haired gentleman. It was indeed Prince Arthur. The prescribed chuckles were louder at this.
The laird took up a huge, ornate silver ladle in his hand. ‘And now, at last, McLaren Garnet,’ he said. On cue, Isla and Catherine rose and approached from either side with crystal whisky glasses ready to receive the precious liquid. All crowded in closer and for a moment Coupe was obscured.
Then suddenly I noticed that the man had moved to the edge of the crowded stage, sidling towards an exit opposite where I stood. Holmes was half way to that exit now, staying close to a back wall.
What the devil was going on?
Charles grasped the rope handle that had been added to the top of the cask, ready to pull out the cutaway top. He tugged, but it was wedged securely.
The laird turned to look for his foreman. ‘Mr Coupe?’
On the stage, Charles shifted position for better leverage. ‘I can open it, Father. The honour should be mine in any case. As director of the McLaren distillery I am proud to present—’ and here he gave one mighty heave at the rope, then a second, and finally a third. The round cutaway at last came out with a popping sound. There was a pause as everyone stared down into the cask.
A sudden loud thud sounded as the heavy wooden top fell from Charles’s hands to the floor. Catherine screamed and Isla’s eyes widened in shock as a horrified gasp arose from the crowd. A lady in blue fainted dead away as the Duke and Duchess recoiled in utter revulsion, the lady with a scream.
For floating in the deep amber liquid of the cask, the white, froglike face of a corpse bobbed to the surface, with dead bulging eyes and a wide-mouthed look of permanent surprise.
Even from the distance, I knew at once who it was. Young Donal McLaren. Preserved forever in alcohol.
‘Holmes!’ I cried in horror, thinking he may not have seen.
But there he was, dashing towards a side door where I just saw the flash of Coupe’s velvet jacket as the man disappeared.
‘See to the laird!’ Holmes called to me over his shoulder as he ran after Coupe. I turned to see the laird slumped to the floor, leaning against the bottom of the cask.
Scream upon scream issued from the royal retinue. Chairs overturned and a flurry of silks and velvets and terrified faces rose in a tumult around me. Two of the courtiers flanked the Prince and all ran towards the doors. The Prince broke free and I got my first glimpse of him. He reached down to help Lady Catherine from the floor, and he and Isla raised her into a chair.
I had the sense of rushing into headwinds as I battled through the crowd to the cask and the fallen laird.
Standing transfixed were Charles and Alistair, and turning from Catherine, Isla McLaren.
The Prince was now being led away by the two courtiers. I turned my attention to the laird. He lay still, head resting against the side of the upright cask.
‘Sir Robert!’ I said, reaching down to grasp his arm. He slipped off the side of the cask and downward with my touch, and a steward and I caught him and laid him out flat on the floor.
His face was bright red, his eyes rolled back into his head. It could well be a fatal stroke.
‘Has he a private physician? Call him!’ I cried, and a servant ran off. I would need help. I looked up to see only Isla McLaren now standing by my side, staring down at her father-in-law with concern. Past her the ro
om was empty. The royal party had vanished faster than ghosts at a seance when the lamps were lit.
‘How can I help?’ said she.
‘Get something to transport him back up to the castle.’
Charles and Alistair had no doubt followed their guests, perhaps in an attempt to calm them. Catherine was out cold, attended to now by two maids.
I felt the laird’s neck for a pulse. It was shallow and racing. Alive, but for how long?
And where were Coupe and Holmes?
CHAPTER 33
Circles of Hell
hirty minutes later, most of the family were gathered in the library. There was still no sign of Holmes. We had the laird stretched out on a sofa and my medical bag was brought down from the room. Charles paced, distraught and impatient. ‘Donal. My God, Donal!’ He seemed more angry than shocked. Isla McLaren watched him dispassionately.
Alistair entered the room with the news that the royal party had all departed in haste. ‘Who can blame them?’ said he. ‘And in case you are interested, Charles, your wife has been put to bed by her maid – with something to calm her nerves.’ He moved to a sideboard and poured himself a whisky.
He held up the glass, smiled ruefully at the golden liquid, then downed it. ‘We are finished.’
His own wife, standing at his side, nodded.
‘Ridiculous!’ exclaimed Charles. ‘This is merely a setback!’
‘You are an idiot,’ said Isla McLaren. ‘No one will ever touch a McLaren whisky again. Ghosts may frighten some, but an actual corpse sealed in one of our casks? There could be no better recipe for ruin.’
‘She is right,’ said Alistair. ‘I have summoned the police. No way around it given our visitors.’
‘That is unfortunate,’ said Mrs McLaren.
Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder Page 27