She ran out into the drive as Ross and Sergeant Munro were getting out of the car. “Chief Inspector. I left you a message,” she said a bit breathlessly. Skidding to a halt on the gravel, she lowered her voice and added, “It’s about Tim Cavendish, Hazel’s husband. Have you requested that the Met interview him?”
Ross looked at her with disfavor. “Inspector James, I’m perfectly capable of—”
“Have you?” she repeated, past caring if she was rude.
“Because he wasn’t in London over the weekend, and he doesn’t seem able to verify his movements.” She saw Ross’s hesitation as he took this in, and pressed her point.
“And he knew Hazel was planning to see Donald Brodie over the weekend.”
“Och, all right,” Ross said with obvious reluctance.
“Munro, call in and have them ask London to run a check on the man. Now, Inspector, if you don’t mind—”
“There’s more. Tim’s not answering the phone or the door, even to his family.”
“I can’t say I blame the man for not wanting to talk to his wife.” There was a note of bitterness in Ross’s voice.
“It’s not just that. He won’t talk to his parents, and they’re keeping Holly, Tim and Hazel’s little girl. I haven’t said anything to Hazel; I didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily.”
“You just wanted to worry me,” Ross said, sounding aggrieved.
Gemma stared at him. Had she actually seen the corners of his mouth turn up? He looked tired, she realized as she studied him. Even his graying hair seemed to have lost some of its bristle.
“I’ll request a welfare check,” he told her. “And now, if you don’t mind, lassie, I’d like to see John and Martin Innes.”
Carnmore, August
Livvy had just rolled out a fresh batch of oatcakes for the girdle when the knock came at the kitchen door. As in most country houses, the front door at Carnmore was seldom used. Wiping her hands, still slightly greasy from the bacon fat she’d kneaded into the oatmeal, she called out, “Come in!” Will had gone down to the burn with his fishing rod, taking a well-deserved hour off from the distillery, and Livvy assumed it was one of the hands with a question.
“Livvy?”
For a moment, she saw only a shape in the doorway, framed by the bright light of the August afternoon, but she would have recognized the voice anywhere. “Rab!
What on earth are you doing here?”
“Have I caught you at a bad time?” He stepped forward, his features gaining definition, and she saw that he was dressed for riding. She hadn’t seen him since the night of the Grantown dance, and since then she had pictured him in evening clothes.
“Oh, no, come in, please. Forgive my manners. It’s just that I was surprised to see you.” She was suddenly aware of her disheveled hair and her workaday shirtwaist. Her hands were red and raw from scrubbing preserve jars, and she suspected she had smudges of flour on her nose.
“I had business in Tomintoul,” Rab said, taking off his hat. “It seemed a shame not to pay a call when I was so near.”
“So near! Rab Brodie, it must be all of ten miles from Tomintoul to the Braes,” she protested, warm with pleasure.
“And a very pleasant day for a ride.” He smiled at her, his eyes sparkling above the flush of sunburn on his
cheeks. His boots and trousers, she saw, were dusty from the road, and he had loosened his collar.
“You must be thirsty. Sit down and I’ll make some tea.
You’ve caught me in the middle of baking—I hope you don’t mind yesterday’s oatcakes.”
“How are you keeping, Livvy?” he asked as he sat at the scrubbed oak table. “You look well.”
“I’ve been berry picking this week with some of the women from the village,” she said, laughing. “I’m as sunburned as a fishwife, but, oh, it was lovely, and I’ve berries to spare. I’ve made a blaeberry preserve, and we’ve fresh cream. We can have a bit with our tea, if you like . . .” She realized she was babbling and concentrated on setting out the best rose-patterned teapot, with the matching cups and saucers. The china had been her wedding gift from her father.
“That’s a bit grand for the kitchen, isn’t it?” asked Rab, nodding at the cup she’d set before him.
Livvy felt a rush of mortification. “Oh, how stupid of me. Of course we’ll go into the sitting room. We have visitors so seldom—”
“Nonsense.” Rab settled back in his chair. “I won’t have you stand on ceremony for me, Livvy. This is a comfort I don’t often enjoy at home, and I’d much rather be treated as a friend than as a guest.”
Livvy doubted he ever set foot in the kitchen at Benvulin—nor did his wife, except to give instructions to the cook—but she acquiesced. She spooned still-warm fruit preserve into a dish and topped it with a ladle of cream from the jug. When she had set the dish before Rab, she sank into the chair opposite and watched him with anticipation.
“Don’t tell me you’re not joining me?”
“I’ve been tasting all day,” she told him, although the
truth was, she didn’t want to waste a moment of this visit in eating when she could be listening, and talking, and storing up the conversation to remember later. “I’m afraid I’ll turn blue if I have one more berry.” Realizing she’d forgotten the oatcakes, she jumped up again and fetched a plate of the crispy, triangular cakes, then poured the tea.
“Livvy, sit,” he commanded her, laughing. “You remind me of a whirling dervish.”
She complied, folding her hands primly in her lap. “All right, then, I’ll be a proper hostess. How are things at Benvulin, Mr. Brodie? And Margaret, is she well?”
“Margaret’s taken the children to London for a month.
Her uncle has a house there, and she thought the children needed civilizing.”
“And your sister?”
“Helen’s managing admirably, as usual. She keeps me in line.” He spooned berries and cream into his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment as he savored the combination. “Nectar of the gods,” he pronounced, with a grin.
“Och, get away with ye, Rab Brodie,” said Livvy, more flattered than she would admit.
Sobering, he said, “Seriously, Livvy, how are you getting on? Are you and Will managing on your own?”
“Will’s been remarkable. Charles would have been so proud. But . . .” For the first time since Charles’s death, she gave in to the temptation to speak freely. “But I know this isn’t what Will wanted. It’s a good life, but Will’s had his choice made for him, and so early . . . We could hire a manager for the distillery, so that he could go to school in Edinburgh, but he won’t hear of it.”
“He could do worse. There are not many men who have everything they want, Livvy.” Rab gazed at her directly until she looked away, uncomfortable.
“If Charles hadn’t had the foresight to steer clear of Pattison’s,” Rab continued, making blue-purple swirls in the cream with his spoon, “you might have lost everything.”
Livvy saw lines of strain in his face that she hadn’t noticed before. Leaning forward, she touched his hand.
“I’ve heard rumors . . . about Benvulin . . . Is it really that bad?”
He shrugged, his expression suddenly bleak. “We’ll manage, somehow. Margaret’s trying to raise some money from her uncle—not that she cares about the distillery, but she’ll not let her social status go so easily. At least it’s been a good summer; we’ll have barley to spare if we can stay in production.”
Livvy took a breath. “Rab, if there’s anything we can do . . .”
“Duncan!” Hazel came straight to him and he en-folded her in a hug. She clung to him, burying her face against his chest. Her dark curls just brushed his chin, and compared with Gemma’s, her frame felt delicate under his hands. He had never before thought of her as fragile.
“Have you spoken to Tim?” Hazel asked as she let him go. “Gemma said you saw Holly— How is she?”
“What shall I answer first
?” he said with a smile, wanting to reassure her. “No, I haven’t talked to Tim today, and yes, I saw Holly, and she was full of mischief as usual.” Beyond Hazel, he saw Pascal glance at Heather in silent question, and Heather shrug in reply. Just how much did they have riding on Hazel’s response to Donald’s bequest? he wondered.
Before he could speculate further, the door to the hall swung open and a gangly young man came hurriedly into
the kitchen. Kincaid surmised that he must be John Innes’s younger brother, Martin, although he could see no resemblance.
“It’s that policeman,” the young man said. “He’s here again.”
There was an instant’s pause in the room, as if a film had frozen at a single frame. Then John turned back to the cooker, saying, a bit too loudly, “I suppose I’d better put the kettle on again.” Louise dropped the bough she’d been trimming into the sink and reached for a towel.
Heather moved a little closer to Pascal’s chair.
Only Hazel still stood without moving. “He won’t—
He can’t take me in again, can he?” she whispered, her face pale.
“I shouldn’t think so.” Kincaid gave her shoulder a squeeze and urged her towards the stool he had vacated.
“Gemma must be talking to him now.”
Then he heard voices from the hall, and Gemma came into the kitchen, followed by a solid, graying man in a rumpled suit, and a tall, thin man with a cadaverous face.
The shorter man had an unmistakable air of authority.
If he was going to pull rank, Kincaid thought, he had better do it now. He stepped forward, hand extended.
“Chief Inspector Ross? My name’s Kincaid. Superintendent, Scotland Yard.” Someone in the room inhaled sharply, as if surprised at this news, but he couldn’t be sure of the source.
As Ross gave him an assessing glance and a perfunc-tory handshake, Kincaid felt his usefulness being weighed, an unusual sensation. “If I can be of any help . . . ,” he offered, and Ross made an indecipherable grumbling noise in his throat.
“And why exactly are you here, Superintendent?” Ross asked, casting a look in Gemma’s direction.
“Gemma—Inspector James—and I are personal friends of Mrs. Cavendish.”
“So you came to lend your support? Verra thoughtful of you,” Ross said with only a slight grimace. It seemed he had decided to err on the side of caution. “But it’s actually not Mrs. Cavendish I’ve come to see,” he continued. “I’ve a wee matter to discuss with Mr. Innes.
Sergeant”—he nodded at the tall man—“if ye’d be so good.”
The other detective stepped forward, and Kincaid saw that he carried a folder. Ross took it from him and, clearing a space on the work island, laid the contents out before John Innes, large, glossy, color photos of a shotgun.
“Is this your gun, Mr. Innes?”
“Oh, Christ.” John Innes touched an unsteady finger to the top photograph. “I— It looks like it, yes. The scroll-work is fairly distinctive. But how— Where—”
“We found it in the river, fifty yards or so downstream from the body. It’s possible the current dragged it along the bottom.”
“No fingerprints, I suppose?” Kincaid asked, forgetting his role as observer in his interest.
“No, just a few wee smudges.”
“Had the gun been wiped before being submerged?”
“It’s difficult to say, Mr. Kincaid.” Ross gave him a quelling glance. “But we can be sure that the gun used to kill Donald Brodie came from this house—”
“You can’t be certain,” interrupted Gemma. “There’s no way to get an absolute ballistics match on a shotgun—”
“Inspector James.” Ross scowled at her. “I find it verra unlikely that this gun just happened to end up in the river at the same time Donald Brodie was shot with a different small-bore gun.” He turned back to John. “Mr. Innes, you’ll need to come into the station to make a formal
identification. You’ll also need to do a much better job of accounting for your time on Sunday morning.”
John stared at him blankly. “But I’ve told you. I went to buy eggs—”
“You didn’t arrive at the farm shop until seven o’clock, after the police had been called to the scene, and yet, according to your wife, you left home some time before Inspector James discovered the body.”
“No!” Louise took a step towards John. “I said I wasn’t sure of the time. I didn’t look at the clock—”
“How could ye not see the clock, Mrs. Innes?” Ross looked pointedly at the large-faced kitchen clock mounted on the wall above the table. “Especially when your business depends on keeping a schedule in the mornings?”
“Don’t ye badger her,” said John, his fists clenching.
“It’s nothing to do with Louise. I took a wee walk along Loch an Eilean, if ye must know. There’s no crime in that.”
“Then why didn’t ye see fit to mention it?” Ross asked.
“I didna think anything of it.” John appeared to be struggling for nonchalance. Louise was staring at him, her delicate brows lifted in surprise. “I often go there when I’ve an errand at the estate shop,” John added.
“Did anyone see you?”
“I didna notice. Wait— There was a couple walking their dog, an Alsatian.”
“That’s very helpful of you, Mr. Innes,” said Ross, with scathing sarcasm. “I’m sure we’ll have no trouble verifying that. In the meantime, we’ve requested a warrant to have our forensics team go over your car—a Land Rover, isn’t it? But if you were to demonstrate your cooperation by turning it over voluntarily, it would make things easier for everyone concerned.”
As John glanced at him in mute appeal, Kincaid began to realize just how awkward a position he and Gemma had got themselves into. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded at John. Ross would have the car searched re-gardless, and John would do himself no good by trying to obstruct it.
“All right,” said John, with a show of bravado. “Go ahead. I’ve nothing to hide.”
“Good. That’s verra sensible of you.” Ross looked more weary than pleased. “Now, why don’t ye come with us to the station, and we’ll send a constable along to take charge of the car.”
“Wait.” Louise stepped forward. “I want a word with my husband, Chief Inspector.”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Innes, I’d rather you didna do that until he’s amended his statement. If you have something different to tell us, I’d suggest you do it now.”
Louise hesitated, glancing at John, then back at Ross.
“No. I— It was nothing.”
Sergeant Munro gathered the photos together, then stepped back, gesturing at John to precede him.
As John reached the door, he called back, “The soup—
Louise, you’ll see to the soup?”
“Soup?” Louise wailed as the door swung shut. “How can he think of soup when—”
A babble of voices broke out as everyone began to comment, drowning her words. Kincaid put a hand on her arm and guided her into a quieter corner of the room.
“Louise,” he said softly, “do you know what John was doing yesterday morning—other than not walking around Loch an Eilean, whatever that is.”
“It’s a local scenic spot, near the farm shop. John’s never mentioned walking there.” She looked baffled.
“I’ve no idea where he could have been—I didn’t realize,
until the chief inspector said, that he was away for so long.” Frowning, she added hesitantly, “But there have been other times lately when he’s disappeared without telling me, or been gone a good bit longer than an errand required.” She looked up at Kincaid, color suffusing her fair skin. “And once or twice, I’ve awakened in the night and found him gone. I thought— But it can’t have anything to do with Donald.”
Kincaid was trying to think of some way to reassure her, a difficult proposition, as he had no idea what John Innes had been getting up to, when he realized Gemma h
ad followed the detectives and John Innes from the room.
“Louise, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to catch Gemma up.
We’ll talk later, I promise.”
He dashed through the house, and as he burst out the front door, he found his suspicions confirmed. John was safely tucked into the unmarked car with Sergeant Munro, and Gemma was standing in the drive, arguing with the chief inspector.
As Kincaid came up to them, he heard her say, “You can’t rule out the possibility that someone outside the house had access to the gun—or that the gun was taken for another reason.”
Ross seemed to be making a monumental effort to keep his temper in check. “And what reason would that be?”
“What if someone wanted to cast suspicion on John, or on the household in general?”
“Who?” Ross barked.
“I don’t know,” countered Gemma, without the least sign of being intimidated. “But you can’t ignore Alison Grant and Callum MacGillivray. They both had motive, and neither had an alibi. And what about Tim Cavendish?”
Ross shook his head in disbelief. “Do ye want your friend’s husband to be guilty of murder, lassie?”
“No, of course not!” said Gemma, sounding less sure of herself. She turned to Kincaid, as if for confirmation.
“I just want—”
“Ye canna protect them all, lass. You must see that.
Someone fired that shotgun into Donald Brodie’s chest, and the odds are that it was someone in this house. Ye canna hide from the fact. Why don’t ye take Mrs.
Cavendish and go back to London? Ye’ll be weel out of it.”
“I—”
Whatever Gemma had meant to say was cut off by the ringing of Kincaid’s phone. “Sorry,” he said, turning away as he slipped the phone from his belt. It was about time Doug Cullen rang him back.
But it was not Cullen, and as Kincaid listened, his surroundings faded until he was aware of nothing but the cold dread squeezing his chest.
“No,” he said at last. “No. Don’t do anything yet. Let me make a few calls. I’ll ring you back.”
As he hung up, he felt the feather brush of Gemma’s fingers against his arm. “Is it Tim?” she asked, clearly alarmed by his tone. “What’s happened? Has he—”
Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep dk&gj-9 Page 25