“I suppose it is a wee bit far-fetched.” Munro folded
himself back into the spindly desk chair, his face creased with disappointment.
Ross relented. “We’ll have another word with the lassie. And with Callum MacGillivray. But in the meantime”—Ross pulled the reports towards him again and thumbed through them—“I’m curious about Mr. Innes.”
After Innes’s wife had told them during their initial interview that her husband had been out when Brodie’s body was found, Munro had talked to him again. John Innes had confirmed his visit to the farm shop on a neighboring estate but added that he wasn’t sure exactly what time he’d left the B&B. Ross now saw, however, that when an inquiry team had questioned the clerk at the shop, she’d told them Innes had not come in until almost seven o’clock.
Yesterday Ross had not taken the man too seriously as a suspect, but then he’d had Hazel Cavendish in his sights.
Meditatively, he said, “We know John Innes left the house some time before the body was discovered, because Mrs.
Innes had been working in her garden when Inspector James told her the news. Why did it take him so long to run to the farm shop?”
“Did he do something else, maybe dispose of the gun?” Munro suggested. “If he stopped along the road and approached Brodie through the wood, he could have put the gun back in the car and got rid of it anywhere.”
“Wipe the smile off your face, man,” Ross said crossly.
“That’s a dismal prospect. We canna search the whole of Invernesshire.”
“Aye. Except that, since Brodie was shot at such close quarters, some blood or tissue might have transferred itself to the barrel of the gun—”
“And from there to the car,” agreed Ross. Trust Munro to see the bright side. “It’s worth getting a warrant to
have forensics go over Innes’s Land Rover. But why would John Innes want to kill Donald Brodie?” Inspector James had said she thought the Inneses might have cultivated Brodie for his connections, which matched Ross’s own impression. “Is there some way the Inneses could benefit from Brodie’s leaving the distillery to Hazel Cavendish?”
“That I canna tell ye. But I thought yesterday that the man was nervous about more than the discomfort of his guests.”
“Aye,” Ross said, remembering John Innes’s sweaty agitation, and his insistence on getting back into his kitchen. That, in turn, reminded Ross of his own empty stomach. It was getting on past teatime, and he had begun to think longingly of his dinner and a dram, not necessarily in that order, when another report caught his eye.
“Well, I’ll be buggered,” he said, skimming the page.
“It seems John Innes’s wee brother has a record. Why didna someone point this out to me yesterday?”
He had fixed a beady gaze on Munro when one of the female constables appeared at his elbow. Mackenzie, he thought her name was. She had been first on the scene.
“Sir.”
“What is it, lass?” Ross prompted when she didn’t continue. “I havena got all day.”
“It’s the gun, sir. They found a gun in the river, and it matches the description of Mr. Innes’s Purdy.”
Chapter Fifteen
Hunger lives here, alone with larks and sheep.
Sweet spot, sweet spot.
—robert louis stevenson,
letter to Sidney Colvin
John Innes came out to greet them, and when he had been introduced to Kincaid, led them into the kitchen through the scullery. The police, he explained, had finished with their tests earlier that afternoon.
Gemma noticed Kincaid’s interested glance at the gun cabinet as they passed through, but he made no comment.
Turning back, she saw that the hook above the back door, where Louise had been in the habit of leaving her keys, was now empty. A bit late for instituting safety precautions, she thought, a classic case of locking the barn door after the horse had escaped.
“Come in,” John urged them as they filed into the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on.” He bustled about, filling the kettle, pulling two stools out from a little nook under the work island. There were two chairs at the small table under the window where Gemma assumed John and Louise took their own meals.
“Nice kitchen,” Kincaid said with a whistle. To Gemma’s amusement, since he’d refinished the kitchen in his Hampstead flat, he had become a connoisseur of cabinets and cookers.
“Functional,” John agreed. “Although I have to admit I miss the old oil-fired cooker. We lived with it for about a year while we were doing the refurbishing. Cozy, but not practical for the cookery class—besides the fact that cooking on the bloody thing is a challenge in itself.”
Gemma was about to agree, for the much-prized Aga in their Notting Hill kitchen drove her to distraction, when she thought of all the help and encouragement Hazel had given her as she tried to master the cooker. Following her miscarriage, it had provided an excuse for the comforting time spent visiting in the kitchen with her friend. Swallowing, she searched for a change of subject.
“Where’s Louise?” she asked, looking round.
“Gone for a walk,” John told her. “She should be back soon. What about Hazel and Heather? Will they be joining us?” His eyes flicked towards the barn, so Gemma guessed he’d been watching from the window.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly, and saw Kincaid and Pascal Benoit look at her sharply. “They’ve—they’ve some catching up to do.” It wasn’t her business to break the news to anyone about Hazel’s inheritance; Hazel and Heather could share that information when they were ready.
Kincaid slid onto a stool with the graceful economy of movement Gemma always found surprising in a man his height. “Something smells wonderful,” he said, sniffing, and Gemma focused on the cooking aromas that had been tickling the edge of her awareness . . . onions, floury potatoes, smoky fish.
“It’s Cullen Skink.” John chuckled at her startled ex-
pression. “That’s not as bad as it sounds, believe me. It’s a Scottish fish soup or stew, made with smoked haddock, potatoes, and milk. Martin and I drove to the east coast this morning to get a real Finnan haddock. There are several small smokehouses that still prepare the fish in the traditional way; that’s a slow, cold smoking with no artifi-cial colorings or flavorings added. We bought fresh mus-sels as well; they’ll go into the pot at the last minute, along with butter, fresh parsley, and pepper.” The electric kettle had come to a boil, and as he spoke, John spooned loose tea into a large crockery teapot.
“You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble for us,” Kincaid said. “All this must be hard for you.”
John had his back to them, reaching for the mugs hanging on a rack. He hesitated for a moment, hand in the air. Then he seemed to collect himself and, lifting down a mug, said without turning, “Yes. Donald was a good friend. I still can’t believe he’s gone.” He busied himself with the tea things. “Have ye any idea when they’ll release his . . . body . . . for the funeral? Christ—I never even thought—did Donald go to church?”
“Heather will know,” said Pascal, lowering himself a little stiffly into the chair next to Gemma. “It is Heather who will have to make the arrangements for the funeral, yes?” He shook his head. “It is too much, I think, but there is no one else.”
How terribly ironic, Gemma thought, that Donald had not seen fit to remember Heather in his will, when it was she who must act on his behalf. Why had Donald left her nothing? Was it mere carelessness on his part, as he had been careless of Alison Grant’s feelings? Or had he felt betrayed by Heather’s relationship with Pascal? Had Heather’s pressuring him to sell the distillery to Pascal’s company angered Donald?
Perhaps even more to the point, thought Gemma as she accepted a steaming mug from John, was not why Donald had left Heather out, but rather why he had chosen to make such a grand gesture towards Hazel. It was one thing to seduce a former lover—it was quite another to leave her the controlling interest in your family
’s business. And why had he done it so long ago? If he had meant to make up for his father’s treatment of Hazel, he had gone a bit over the mark.
“. . . soon, I should think,” she realized Kincaid was saying, “if they’ve finished with the postmortem and the forensics testing.”
Beside her, she heard the sharp intake of Pascal’s breath as he shifted in his chair.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly, seeing him wince.
“Yes. It’s just my back. It’s playing up a bit.” The Englishness of the last phrase sounded odd in Pascal’s accent.
She was about to compliment him on his fluency when the back door banged open and Louise came in through the scullery, her arms filled with green boughs.
“Oh, I didn’t realize . . .” Louise came to a halt, and Gemma had the impression she wasn’t terribly pleased to find an unscheduled gathering in her kitchen.
“Let me get you a cup of tea, darling,” John put in quickly. “This is Gemma’s friend, Duncan, come up from London.”
“Oh, of course,” said Louise as Kincaid stood and gave her his friendliest grin. She glanced down at her burden as if wondering how to free a hand.
“Let me help you,” offered Gemma, jumping up.
“We’ll just dump these in the sink.” Louise smiled her thanks as Gemma took some of the greenery.
“Mmmm . . . What are these?” asked Gemma as the scent reached her nose. “They smell lovely.”
“Rowan, juniper, and elder.” Louise dropped her portion into the deep farmhouse sink. “According to my gardening books, the ancient Celts brought these branches into the house in May, to celebrate Beltane, the Celtic rite of spring. They’re considered protective trees.”
“As in warding off evil spirits?”
“Well, yes.” Louise blushed a little. “I know it sounds silly, but they do smell nice, and I thought I could arrange them in vases, instead of flowers.”
“I think it’s a brilliant idea.” As Gemma watched her sort the boughs, she noticed that Louise’s hands were dirty and bleeding from several small scratches, and she had broken a nail. As careful as Louise was in her appearance, it surprised Gemma that she would go out without gloves.
“Did you know that the hazel tree was special as well?” asked Louise. “It was the Druids’ Golden Bough.
They believed it was the root and symbol of wisdom.”
“A hard name to live up to, then,” suggested Gemma.
Louise glanced up at her in surprise. “Yes. I suppose so. But Hazel does have a way of making you think she’s invincible, doesn’t she? Where is she, by the way?”
Louise added, glancing round the room.
“In the barn, talking to Heather.”
Louise raised an eyebrow at this but merely said quietly, “Has she heard from her husband?”
Gemma was saved from answering by John Innes setting a cup of tea at his wife’s elbow. As Louise turned to him, asking if he had made all the arrangements for dinner, Gemma heard the faint sound of a piano.
“Is that coming from the sitting room?” she asked John.
“Aye. That’ll be Martin. He can bang out a tune or two.”
This was more than a tune or two, Gemma thought, listening. The notes wandered up and down the scale, segue-ing into snatches of melody that teased her memory.
After giving Kincaid a quick glance, she asked John,
“Is there enough tea for Martin?”
He nodded towards the pot. “I was just about to take him a cup.”
“I’ll do it for you.”
Mug in hand, Gemma wandered into the sitting room.
Martin sat at the old upright piano, his back to her, his hands moving across the keys as if of their own accord.
Bars of late-afternoon sunlight fell across the carpet, illuminating the muted tartan.
“Martin,” she said softly, “I’ve brought you a cuppa.”
He jerked as if stung, twisting round to look at her.
“Jesus. You gave me a fright.” The color drained from his already sallow face, leaving the blemishes on his cheeks an angry red.
“Sorry.” She held up the mug. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I’m just a bit jumpy these days, that’s all.” He started to get up, but she waved him back to his seat.
“Don’t stop on my account, please. It was lovely. I didn’t know you played.” Crossing the room, Gemma set his mug next to the dog-eared sheet music on the upright’s stand.
“Bloody thing needs a good tuning.” Martin turned back to the keyboard. “My mum gave me lessons. All part of a proper middle-class upbringing,” he added, with a note of derision. His fingers moved over the keys again, picking out a faintly Scottish air.
“But you play by ear, don’t you?” asked Gemma, the
certainty forming as she listened. “That’s not something you learn from lessons.” She looked at him with sudden envy, forgetting his spottiness, his youth, his awkward behavior, seeing only a gift she would have made a pact with the devil to possess. Perching on the edge of the chair nearest him, she said, “Is this your job, back in Dundee?”
Martin snorted. “There’s no money in this. Oh, I pick up a few bob, filling in on a gig, but it’s not going to pay the rent.”
Why was it, she wondered, that people never seemed to appreciate what they had? Martin had shrugged off his talent as if it were no more worthwhile than sweeping floors.
Nor had he answered her question about his job, she realized, and that aroused her curiosity.
“Martin, I know it’s none of my business, but I’m surprised you haven’t gone home. I mean, it’s not as if you knew Donald . . .”
“Nor did you, before this weekend, and you’re still here.” His glance was sharper than she’d expected.
Shrugging, he added, “I thought I’d lend John a bit of support. It’s not as though he’ll get it from any other quarter.”
“You mean Louise?” Gemma studied him. “Is there a particular reason you two don’t get on?”
“Besides the fact that she’s a bitch? She’s always treated me as if I were a bug that needed squashing. What bloody right has she? He’s my brother.”
“Yes, but it is her house, too.”
Martin flushed at the note of reproof in Gemma’s voice. “You mean I should be grateful for her charity?”
“No, I mean you should have better manners. This is about more than a weekend cookery course, isn’t it?”
Martin gazed down at the keyboard as the silence
stretched. “It’s just that I’ve got no place else to go at the moment,” he admitted at last. “And I don’t like being made to feel a nuisance.”
“No place to go? You mean—”
“I lost my bloody flat, okay? And my job. Actually,” he amended, “it was the other way round.”
“Oh, that’s rotten luck,” said Gemma. “It could happen to anyone.” She thought back to their earlier conversations. “But you must have some other options. I thought you said your mum lived in Dundee. Couldn’t you—”
“My mum’s not speaking to me. I’m not exactly in her good books at the moment, but at least she doesn’t seem to have shared her feelings with Louise. There’s no way Louise would have passed up ammunition she could have used against me.”
Gemma frowned. “Wait a minute. What ammunition?”
Martin gave her a sideways glance. “Why should I tell you?”
Gemma considered for a moment, tilting her head, then said, “Because it sounds to me as though you could use a friend, and I don’t think you’re as tough as you make out. And because”—she reached out with her right hand and played a bar of the first thing that came into her head, which happened to be Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring, the piece she had been working on at her last piano lesson—“we have something in common.”
“Ouch,” Martin said, falling in with the next measure.
“That was a low blow. I
think it’s been scientifically proven that one can’t behave badly while listening to Bach.”
Gemma grinned. “Then stop it and tell me what happened.”
He looked up at her, his hands still. “I worked in a music shop, in Dundee. It was all right, but then I got
busted for selling X-tabs to some of the customers. It was stupid, I know,” he added, as if to forestall her. “My boss fired me. When I couldn’t pay my rent, I lost my flat. And I’ve got no way to pay for legal counsel when my trial comes up.”
Refraining from agreeing with his own assessment, Gemma asked, “Does John know?”
“Yeah. He’s been really good about it.”
“You never were interested in cooking, then, were you?”
“No, that’s not true,” Martin said, sounding hurt.
“There’s this bloke I know that might take me on at his restaurant. I thought if I could learn something from John, I’d have a better chance at it.”
“And what about Louise? Does she know?”
“What do you think? You don’t imagine she’d let someone less than perfect take up space in her precious house? What surprises me,” Martin added thoughtfully,
“is that she ever condescended to take on John.”
“John? Why wouldn’t—” Gemma stopped, listening as the low murmur of voices coming from the kitchen suddenly rose in volume. She recognized Heather’s clear alto. Hazel and Heather must have come in from the barn.
Then, the sound of car tires on gravel snapped her attention back to the front of the house. Looking out the window, she recognized the car, an unmarked Rover.
Bloody hell. It was Ross, and she didn’t want to talk to him about Tim Cavendish in front of Hazel.
“Martin, sorry,” she said, giving him a fleeting pat on the shoulder. “I’ve got to have a word with the chief inspector,” she added, already half out the door.
“You won’t tell him about me?” Martin called after her.
“I’ll wager he already knows. You should have told him yourself.”
Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep dk&gj-9 Page 24